#Why had his adoptive mother forsaken him!?

[bet-on-me-13]

Johnny 13 is the Black Racer

I like the idea that Danny would promote many of old rouges to higher positions once he became King, and this one seemed obvious to me

(I looked it up and apparently the Black Racer uses Ski's, not a motorcycle like I had thought he did. Either way, it works)

Johnny is promoted to be a representation of the Concept of Death. He uses a Motorcycle, and has Shadow make him look more intimidating when he is on the Job.

When Johnny complains to Danny that he isn't fast enough to catch any Speedsters, he has Ellie (the Speedforce) give him some of her Power so he can catch them.

So now Johnny 13 is the Black Flash.

Idk what to do with this, but I liked the idea too much to let it just go unsaid.

Thoughts?

[wolfboypaws]

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.: 🆉🅴🅽🅸🆃🅷 :･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:

𖤐 Male ִ ࣪𖤐 He / It ִ ࣪𖤐 Alpha of the Galaxy ִ ࣪𖤐 Malicious ִ ࣪𖤐

♦️ Ever since he was a pup, Zenith knew he was special. Everywhere he went, disaster followed -the lone survivor of his litter, the killer of his mother, the witness of many murders, accidents, massacres, and disasters, the destroyer of his birth pack -surely, they must be a reason why death followed him so lovingly.

♦️ Zenith was adopted into the Star Signs after he was orphaned, raised by the alphas, Orion and Eclipse, and alongside their own daughters, Albedos and Syzygy. Many considered him a bad omen -as catastrophes began to wreck havoc amongst his new pack, he was called a Hellhound, a curse.

♦️ Zenith grew up trying to prove himself. He was never forgiven for the crime of being born. He never understood himself or why bad things happened to everyone he loved and himself. Until one night, he discovered the truth -it ran in his blood. His blood, fermented by the king of hell himself.

♦️ That's why he had survived everything, despite everything. He was the son of the devil, abandoned on earth as punishment for his forsaken mother, who Zenith had killed. Upon discovery, Zenith initially wanted to take revenge on all those who had wronged him, who had told him he was nothing when he was truly something. but upon further thought, it would be way cooler to be the king of hell himself, so let's do that instead.

♦️ It's pretty easy. All he has to do is kill the devil.

𖤐 Father: The King of Hell | 𖤐 Mother: the Damned, forgotten. | 𖤐 Siblings: ill-fated puppies | 𖤐 Adoptive Parents: Orion, Eclipse | 𖤐 Adoptive Sisters: Albedos, Syzygy, Artemis | 𖤐 Adoptive brother: Apollo | 𖤐 Mate: Nadir | 𖤐 Bloodless Brother: Ridan | 𖤐 Nieces & Nephews: Helios, Truth, Prophecy

Goals

Pair bond with Nadir

Have one children that he narratively does not murder

Give him one more red gene (currently he only has red agouti i want him to be More Red)

Background that has some type of moon in it

Canine teeth necklace

Owl talon necklace

scarrrrs

claw extensions

[artoislove]

I was never one to think I deserved happiness of any kind. Years of self deprecation, no esteem, and just a feeling of emptiness. I grew up with an overactive imagination that twisted and tortured me, still does to this day.

I treaded thru my early twenties trying to destroy any of the remaining brain cells that might let me feel anything. Those years are no lost to me. I stumbled, fell, plummeted and then some. I found myself alone after being cast aside in a city I did not know with not a friend in sight. I found solace in dark corners with others who were empty like me. I muddled thru day by day, as time passed technology connected me to my now husband. Who at the time I felt was impossible for anyone to care for me let alone this love nonsense. I was in a dire situation and saw a way out. To this day I still don’t know if it was purely for love or just a survival technique but my life moved forward. We got married hap-hazardly enough which didn’t mater to me as I never thought I was going to be wanted for anything other than a fling here or there.

Time passed, the feelings and battles within my own psyche did not. In addition, the years of assault on my body had me pay a toll, I would not be a natural mother. Again something I never could have dreamed of ever having, so it wasn’t a full loss upon learning the details and diagnosis.

Why would anyone ever want to bring life into such a bleak black world, eventually I began the process of adopting from the us foster system. It seemed a simple and noble quest to go on. It tested me beyond measure. When the gavel final hit the block I was officially a mother of two girls 8 and 10 who had been thru hells I could never understand. I thought it would provide me purpose and a goal and finally a dream to strive for. Eight months later, I received a call that my eldest daughter had terminal cancer. In that moment every small thread I had tried to construct burned to dark ash and a side of myself I had long held behind a wall cracked. Six months of going thru motions before she slipped away.

This was six years ago, I had been able to barely hold on and keep a front for my youngest. I stumbled upon this show, it gave a picture and story to my mental state. Following the second season I began to look into this crazy critical role world. Then during one session I heard something that ripped thru the strained remains of the wall. “I’m okay”, it’s the automated response I’ve used for as long as I can remember.

When I saw his face deliver the line, I saw that it was an automated response for him as a human not a character. I see it as an invitation to go thru that door. I found the playlist of the characters and percival’s burned me, attacking memories I’d long hidden. I then read the most beautiful thing I’ve ever found on this gods forsaken web. It was a simple truthful declaration of the struggles of mental health. I’m terrified of all of this consuming me or it being buried and be a seething husk of a person that I have to present to the world.

[bladebloodied]

this is a placeholder until i set up a proper carrd bc i'll need a new account and that's more than i can be bothered with now etc but the basics are here

born kelantir sunblade, the second child, her mother was a priest, her father was a spellbreaker and part of the royal guard. her mother abandoned them when she was still a child, and kelantir remembers very little of her (she never knew why her mother left).

she had an older brother, keritose. her father raised them alone. eventually, her brother became a spellbreaker like their dad - leading her to follow on his footsteps eventually.

at the time of the fall, she was in silvermoon. her father died protecting the king, being promptly brought back as scourge. kelantir couldn't fight him, and survived only because her brother protected her

she wanted to join kael's expedition to northrend for revenge, but keritose made her promise to stay in quel'thalas, just as he promised to come back. he didn't, though, and ended up turned into a death knight (she only learned that during wrath timeline)

she volunteered to join the blood knights soon after their formation, being part of the second generation. liadrin mentored her herself - and they ended up developing a close, sister-like relationship.

she didn't like torturing a naaru but she endured it. when liadrin saw the error of their ways, she readily followed in trying to make amends for what they had done.

kelantir ended up having some difficulty with having a sincere bond with the light, at first. but eventually she managed.

from high ranking blood knight kelantir ended up being placed above the order itself, and being more generally part of silvermoon's defenses, answering directly to the ranger-general. she respects liadrin as her superior still, in spite of that.

when garrosh summoned the horse's forces for the siege on theramore, she led the blood elf forces. important to note she, as well as her soldiers, had no idea what garrosh really planned. the sunreavers involved with garrosh were not under her command.

she almost clashes with garrosh and his loyal minions a couple times. eventually, confronting garrosh when he's talking shit about thrall, he hit her (Garrosh whirled on the blood elf, striking her hard across the face. There was an angry murmur and a slight surge of the crowd. At once, Garrosh had Gorehowl in his hands, and the Kor’kron had swords and maces in theirs. “Your warchief is merciful,” Garrosh snarled. “You live, so that you may obey me, blood elf!”). wrong blog but lor'themar upon hearing how garrosh treated his people and the commander he sent would be ready to throw hands

she's also in the meetings with baine and vol'jin and other representatives from other races that happen during this time, and she's very vocally against garrosh, even when baine is still defending no one wants talk about insurrection

she also respects thrall a lot

when the mana bomb thing happens, she is horrified. she's the type that would have shed bitter tears in realization of what they were going to be forced to watch. she was also not present in the horde celebrations that followed, and the only reason she didn't pick up what was left of her men and went back to silvermoon is because garrosh forbid everyone from leaving durotar and she wouldn't risk more of her people by defying him openly.

she never made it back because the kor'kron had her killed but as usual I have a verse where she lives so

she has A Temper, but she is capable of managing it and following orders as required. she's also super friendly and helpful and sees herself and her people as genuinely part of the horde - not just there because it's convenient

she's friendly towards all other races, and more sympathetic towards the undead than most. her brother is still her brother, to her, but she has forsaken friends and such. she's very chill about it.

changed her last name to bloodblade like many other blood knights changed their names. her brother adopted the name change after they reunited

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

Secret’s Out

Father of Mine – Part 1 and Part 2

Bruce was looking at his emails when Y/N arrived at the table.

She was breathing heavily and her hair was a bit messy, just further proving she had rushed to get there.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she huffed embarrassingly. “My shoot ran over and every one was moving so slowly.”

Bruce smiled. “Y/N. Relax.”

Then he stood up to greet her with a kiss on the cheek.

The two of them hadn’t seen each other in over a month. Y/N had been traveling for work constantly. And between the vigilante life and Wayne Enterprises, Bruce was running on 2 hours of sleep on the daily.

“I need a drink,” Y/N finally sighed after she got situated.

As if on cue, their waitress dropped Y/N’s favorite drink in front of her.

Y/N eyed Bruce with surprise.

He just shrugged.

Sometimes Y/N forgot how much her father noticed literally everything.

“Thank you,” she told the waitress.

“You’re overworking yourself,” Bruce said with a disapproving look.

She rolled her eyes. “Really? You’re not one to talk, Bruce.”

“You deserve a vacation. I’ll pay for it. Pick wherever you want. Bring Jason. Or some friends.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Bruce…”

It was a warning.

From the very start of their unconventional father-daughter relationship, Y/N had made it clear that she could not be bought. And Bruce spoiling her made her extremely uncomfortable. Even now, she still tried to at least split restaurant checks with him. Bruce always won those battles though.

“I’ll take a vacation when you do,” she finally countered.

That sure shut him up.

“Hey, I actually brought you something,” Y/N changed the subject as she reached for her bag.

A moment later, she lightly placed a manila folder onto the table.

Bruce’s brow furrowed as he reached for it.

As soon as he opened it, he froze.

“I had to clean out some stuff and put things into storage,” Y/N explained. “I found all my mom’s photos. I figured I could make copies of some childhood photos for you.”

Bruce’s silence made Y/N nervous.

“If you don’t want them, that’s totally fine.” She started to reach for the folder out of Bruce’s grip with awkward embarrassment. “It was stupid–”

But Bruce quickly pulled the folder closer to him and stopped her from taking the photos from him.

“Thank you,” he announced.

It made Y/N quickly sit back in her chair, caught off guard by his sincere reaction and how he’d immediately become protective of the photos.

Bruce awkwardly cleared his throat. “Thank you, Y/N.”

He repeated to make sure she understood how thankful he truly was. And Y/N suspected the throat clearing was to hide his emotions.

Now she watched as Bruce slowly went through every picture. He took in every detail with a soft smile.

These weren’t just photos. These were all of Y/N’s memories that Bruce missed, that he could never get back. And he was savoring all of them.

Then Bruce paused and was fully smiling now.

“What?” Y/N asked.

She didn’t know why all of this made her so nervous.

Bruce didn’t say anything as he lifted a photo and flipped it to show her.

It wasn’t from her childhood.

It was a black and white photo of Jason. A candid from when he had escorted her around the slums of Gotham for her most recent gallery show.

After months of thinking about it, Y/N finally had decided she wanted to frame it and hang it somewhere in her apartment. 

Y/N’s jaw dropped with embarrassment and she ripped it from his hands.

“I was developing some photos at the same time as I was making the copies. Must’ve gotten mixed up in those,” Y/N explained too quickly, unable to meet Bruce’s gaze.

It made Bruce happy to know that Y/N didn’t have the same inability to love someone and let people in like he did. It was a relief that she didn’t isolate herself from it like he had. If her mother was still alive, Bruce would thank her for it. But if Y/N’s mother were alive, he would’ve never known about Y/N in the first place.

Their entire dinner was spent with Bruce looking at the old photos. He had at least two questions for each one. Some of them Y/N didn’t remember being taken. But most of them came with stories or a loving memory.

Y/N talked for most of the meal. But that’s exactly what Bruce wanted.

Furthermore, Bruce had nothing of value to update her on. Batman business had consumed his life as of lately, and he had made a promise to never involve Y/N in any of it. And Jason seemed to be on the same page when it came to his other life as Red Hood. 

Both men seemed determined to keep her safe and away from it all. 

Two hours later, Bruce was paying the check and helping Y/N into her coat.

“I’ll give you a ride home,” he muttered as they started walking out.

Y/N had learned by now to give up on those small battles. Jason was the same way when it came to making sure she got home safely.

As they made their way to the exit, Y/N caught a few stares from other patrons who were still eating.

“Do you ever get used to it?” She asked her father in a low voice.

“Get used to what?” He asked, genuinely unaware of what she was getting at.

“People gawking at you.”

Bruce glanced around and unintentionally glared at anyone who was staring at Y/N.

“It’s good that I’m seen in public…for obvious reason,” he hinted in a quiet voice, obviously talking about needing the cover to continue his life as a masked vigilante.

Once they were outside, Alfred was already waiting at the curb with the Rolls-Royce. He greeted Y/N with a hug and a kiss to her cheek before opening the door for her and Bruce.

When they got to Y/N’s apartment building, she said her goodbyes to Alfred. And Bruce walked Y/N all the way up to her door.

Even though Y/N insisted it was overkill and she could get up the stairs on her own just fine, Bruce had seen too many terrible things in this forsaken city. He could think of thousands of things that could happen to Y/N between the car and her front door.

Once Y/N realized that Bruce’s paranoia came from experience, she stopped trying to stop his chivalry and overprotective ways. She finally understood that Bruce had seen things that would prevent her from ever sleeping again. So if walking Y/N to her door gave him a little peace of mind, she wasn’t going to take that away from him.

Y/N turned to Bruce when they reached her door. “Thanks again for dinner.”

“Of course. I’m glad we could spend some time together. Thank you again for the photos.”

Y/N didn’t realize that Bruce was about to hang every single one around Wayne Manor. 

She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and a hug. “Get home safe.”

——————

Y/N woke up wrapped strong arms, her body overheating slightly.

When she had come home from dinner last night, Jason had already left for patrol.

He hadn’t woken her up when he got back home, just proving how exhausted Y/N had been these past few weeks.

But it was the continuous buzzing vibrations of her phone that woke her up. When she brightened the screen, she saw that she had dozens of text messages and three missed called from Bruce.

“What the fuck,” Y/N whispered as she started opening them.

But they were all about the same thing.

Everyone had sent her similar articles from various gossip websites or news outlets.

BRUCE WAYNE’S NEW GIRLFRIEND IS FAMOUS PHOTOGRAPHER Y/F/N Y/L/N

BRUCE WAYNE’S FLAVOR OF THE WEEK

IS Y/F/N Y/L/N USING THE PRINCE OF GOTHAM TO FURTHER HER CAREER?

All of the headlines were joined with photos of Bruce and Y/N having dinner last night. Apparently other customers at the restaurant had snuck photos of Bruce greeting her with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Y/N could see how it would be misinterpreted as romantic and not familial or platonic. But it still made her sick to see the photos twisted in such a way.

Then there were paparazzi photos of them getting in a car together. Of course there were none of Bruce dropping her off and them going their separate ways. That would be just too convenient for the two of them. 

Y/N’s stomach dropped with panic.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” she gasped without realizing it.

Jason immediately woke up. “What is it?”

Y/N ignored him and called Bruce.

“I’m handling it,” was how Bruce answered her call.

“Handling it? How exactly?” She challenged. “We can deny the rumors all we want. But everyone is going to keep tabs on us now, and they’re going to see us together again.”

Jason grabbed his own phone.

One of his brothers must’ve sent him a similar article because he rubbed his face in annoyance, finally understanding the situation. 

Nothing like your girlfriend being rumored to have a relationship with her father, who was also your mentor and adoptive father. 

“Y/N, it will blow over. It always does,” Bruce tried to calm her down.

“So what happens when I get photographed with Jason? Huh? They’re going to just say I’m cheating on both of you with each other or some fucked up shit like that.”

Bruce was silent, because they both knew she was right.

Y/N glanced at Jason, who was already waiting for her gaze.

She took in a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Maybe we should…Maybe we should just tell the truth.”

“You’ve never wanted that, Y/N.” Bruce tried to argue.

And he was right.

Y/N was terrified of being associated with the Wayne family. People would start believing she secretly built her career off of nepotism that no one was aware of. She also didn’t want that type of attention from the media and the upperclass of Gotham.

“I don’t think we have any other choice,” Y/N finally answered.

Jason reached for thigh and gripped it, trying to offer her some sort of comfort.

“Y/N, are you sure about this?” Bruce asked slowly.

“No. Not at all. But I’d rather not have the public think I’m dating my biological father.”

“OK,” Bruce sighed. “I’ll talk to my publicist today.”

“OK.” She bit her lip before adding. “Just…tell them the whole story.”

“Y/N, if you’re worried how it will make me look, don’t.”

“But I am worried about it, Bruce. They’re going to drag you for being an absent father. And none of that is true. They’re not gonna understand.”

“I’ll call you later with an update,” he told her softly before hanging up.

Y/N tossed her phone to the foot of the bed in frustration.

Jason watched as she buried her face in her hands.

“You OK?” He asked as he rubbed her back.

“No,” she answered honestly.

“Come here.” Jason pulled her into his chest.

There was no fight from her as he cuddled her tightly.

“This is a fucking nightmare,” she groaned into his shoulder.

“I know. But maybe it’s for the best,” he tried to reason with her.

“And what happens when they catch wind that I’m dating my father’s adoptive son? Huh?”

“We’re not actually related, Y/N.”

She pulled her face back so she could glare at him. “Yeah! We know that! But you do understand that people are going to see it that way, right? Like we’re gonna look like some fucked up incestual couple to them.”

“I don’t really care,” Jason finally told her.

“You don’t care?” She scoffed.

“No,” his answer and confidence didn’t waver. “I don’t give a fuck what people say about us, Y/N. If exposing the truth means we don’t have to think twice about going to events or even just going out to dinner, then I’m all for it. I’m sick of hiding our relationship.”

Y/N blinked. She never considered that their subtle relationship bothered him in any way. She was always a strangely private person, so it felt normal to her. But clearly Jason had been wanting to be a bit more public with their relationship.

“What if this changes everything?” Y/N whispered, not meeting his eyes.

Jason smirked at that and gripped her chin, lifting it up so she would look at him. “Some paparazzi and trash tabloids aren’t going to change how I feel about you, Y/N.”

Y/N laughed lightly at that.

“Maybe we should leave Gotham for a bit,” she offered. “Bruce won’t shut up about paying for a vacation for us.”

Jason nodded. “I think that sounds like a good idea. You’ve needed a break for awhile now.”

“Well…where do you wanna go?” Y/N asked.

“Doesn’t matter to me. As long as you’re there.”

She rolled her eyes and hit Jason in the face with a pillow. “God, you really are a sap.”

Y/N appreciated Jason always being able to make her feel better and feel supported. 

But even he couldn’t stop her from wondering...

What would life be like as a Wayne?

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

Father of Mine – Bonus Content

[natedogx15]

Masterpost (old)

My Stories

The Forsaken ladybug

The story I made to practice writing angst.

Nathanial Moore is the biological son of Titan. One of the world's greatest superheroes and a founding member of the Legion of Global Guards. You would think that would mean he'd be having a great life with him and all his superpowered adopted siblings, despite having no powers. Well, you'd be wrong. Because of the constant neglect for his siblings, Nathanial decided enough was enough and took the scholarship abroad to Paris. There he gets a dream come true as the Parisian Hero, Rouge Duke.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Rouge Duke Costume

Kamen Rider Deku

A Kamen Rider and My Hero Academia crossover.

In a world of heroes and villains, where superpowers were an everyday quirk. One villain had managed to devise a way to give others more abilities without needing a specific power to do so. Those who wield this power are known as Nomus. This achievement has pushed the heroes back. That is until a scientist by the name of Hisashi Midoriya figured out a similar process to give others the power to match the Nomus.

Join the Kamen Riders as they fight against the forces of evil. Can they defeat the ones that created the Nomus? Or will they fail and leave humanity in a state of chaos?

Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Miraculous Descendent

My Miraculous Ladybug rewrite story.

Marinette Cheng-Dupain is the daughter of Sabine Cheng and the mayor of Paris Tom Dupain's stepdaughter. For her sixteenth birthday, her mother gave her a family heirloom. It's a puzzle box that no one in the family has been able to solve.

However, she manages to find a way to open a secret compartment within the puzzle box, giving her a set of ladybug-themed earrings. Now she finds herself becoming a ladybug-themed heroine who has to stop those wielding similar pieces of magic jewelry known as Miraculous.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Miraculous Descendent Outline

Sabrina in Miraculous Descendent

Ladybug’s Power In Miraculous Descendent

Nathanial Moore/Dupain (My oc)

Marinette’s New Ladybug Outfit

- Winter Seams

- Sunny Seams

My AUs

Buffbug Au (Miraculous Ladybug)

Buffbug Au

Buffbug Au: Chameleon

Brawling Tiger Au

Brawling Tiger Au

Alix’s Costume

Lady Noir and the Zodiac Three

Lady Noir and the Zodiac Three

My Prompts

Miraculous Ladybug

A Different Type Of Kwami Swap 

Multiple Power Au 

Descendent Of The Wizard 

The Mighty Ladybugs

The Lady The Knight and The Fairy

Star Vs The Forces Of Evil x Miraculous Ladybug

A Different Type Of Rival AU

The Train Feathers Of A Wounded Peacock

False Miraculous AU

A Chameleon’s Appearance

Anti-Villain Adrien

Miraculous Modifications

Antagonist Alya

Pacifist Ladybug

Volatile Black Cat

Miraculous vs Calamity

Anti-Hero Butterfly Wielder

Power Rangers: Guardians Of The Miracle

A Different Type Of Peacock Adrien

One Hero, Multiple Personas

Ladybug vs Butterfly, A Battle Between Blooms and Akumas

Rivaling Schools, Dupont vs Lupin

Code Digicle

Paradoxical Miraculous

The Story Of A “Evil” Kwami And Wielder

A Hero Before The Miraculous

From Bestfriend To Nemesis

The Order Of Aggressors

Gamer + Goat Miraculous

A Ninja First And Miraculous User Second

Chosen To Protect The Universe

An Artificial Miraculous Journey

Going Against Your Hero

The Third Party Monarch

Miraculous Ladybug Weapons

Redemption Is A Tricky Road

Yang vs Miraculous, Search For Yin

A Descendent Forsaken By Their Ancestor

Totally Miraculous

The Earthly Protectors

A Quantic Problem

Miraculous Inc.

An Actor and Actress Playing Their Parts

Miraculous Team’s Yugioh Decks

My Hero Academia

Sibling Prompt 

Isekai’d As A Quirk

My Hero Academia Justice League

My Discussions

Miraculous Ladybug

Adrien: Be Myself

Artificial Miraculous: Peacock Version

Artificial Miraculous: Technology Version

Why Is Marinette Continuously In Miss Bustier’s Class

Cataclysming An Akumatized Person

Character’s Ages

Adrien Genderswap AU

Adrien Cataclysming A Person

Mind Control In Miraculous Ladybug

Okay, Cat Blanc Just Got So Much Worst For Me

Nathalie And Marinette Comparison

Syren vs Cat Blanc, Marinette Keeping Secrets vs Adrien Keeping Secrets

Adrien Giving Up The Black Cat

Adrien After Hawkmoth’s Defeat

Adrien’s Feather Allergy

Ephemeral, The Black Cat Needed Not Chat Noir

Adrien Sharing Traits with Lila and Chloe

Why Adrien Has Been Moved From Partner To Temporary Hero/Sidekick Status

Kuro Neko, Adrien Has The Potential But Doesn’t Use It

Adrien and Excelling, A Missed Opportunity

So What Was The Point Of The Anti-Akuma Charms

A New Look At Adrien In Desperada

Queen Bee Wont Return But What About Queen Wasp?

Why Does Hawkmoth Never Go For The Lucky Charm

Question About The Umbrella Scene Salt

How I Feel About Adrien Salt Takes

Kwami, Miraculous, and Guardians

I Honestly Feel Bad For Adrien Now

What The Heck Was With Qilin

Miraculous Ladybug’s Build Up Problem

A New Look At The Fallen Hero Trope And Adrien

How Miraculous Ladybug Could Have Introduced A Second Miracle Box

The Rooster and Goat Miraculous Powers

My Thoughts On Penalteam

Where Were The Mummies Gonna Come From?

Emilie’s Secret Mastermind

Why Is There Tom and Sabine Salt

My Thoughts On The Season Four Finale

Chloe Possibly As The New Hawkmoth

Marinette Mistaking Adrien’s Identity vs Adrien Mistaking Ladybug’s Identity

Adrien In Season Five

Adrien’s Behavior If There Were More Heroes At The Start

Adrien Character, A Dynamic or Static Character

The Miraculous Team’s Wins

I Do Not Know How To Feel Right Now

Adrien’s Problems Being Said But Not Changed

Pokemon

The Route I Kind Of Wish Pokemon Anime Went With

Chip and Dale

Actor’s Struggles Post Show

Monkie Kid

Lady Bone Demon’s Last Chills

Kamen Rider

Original Kamen Riders

Kamen Rider Glitch

Kamen Rider Paradigm (Also includes a plot for the story I’m working on using them.)

Random Things

Miraculous Ladybug

Roaar = Princess Luna

What Miraculous Best Represents You

Original Miraculous) 1 2

Using Said Original Miraculous For Yourself

Plot Hole Discovery In Season One Episode Bubbler

Alternate Name For Amoks and/or Sentimonsters

Ancient Animal-Themed Miraculous

My New Power For The Snake

Marinette and The Ten of Wands

Kamen Rider

Top 10 Kamen Riders I’d Want To Be

Pokemon

Fuecoco’s Evolution Line

My Favorite Pokémon Of Each Type and Team

[vrisrezis]

The reader invite the matsus to hang out with their friends, who are more of a family to the reader than their actual blood family, anyway theyre so chaotic that somehow the matsu end up the responsible one (the reader can either be the matsus s/o or crush, your choice really)

Osomatsu would be excited to spend time with the people you consider your own family, family means a lot to this man so he feels honored! However, the fact this family is chaotic enough that he’s actually responsible? Horrific, your friends and him are getting into some crazy shit together before he decides to actually be responsible. He actually likes being around your friends, it makes him happy that they’re so fucking stupid and chaotic and makes him feel like he kinda belongs. But he finds himself yelling at them when they’re being too much for once.

Karamatsu is happy to meet your friends, especially upon finding out they’re like family to you. He’s certainly surprised by how chaotic they are, and he’s relatively good at being responsible believe it or not. Your boyfriend however is not smart enough to come to the idea that taking them to public areas is probably a bad idea lmao. But now he doesn’t feel the need to act cooler than usual around these friends of yours, he will definitely not be judged by them.

Choromatsu was happy to meet your friend, even if he’s not the most outgoing guy at there he of course loves meeting people that are important to you. He just didn’t think they’d be so crazy. He is always yelling at them for doing something chaotic, and they’ve already adopted him as their mother friend that they so desperately needed in this god forsaken friend group. They love him, he’s great. You’re glad they accept your boyfriend, even if it’s just because he’s responsible.

Ichimatsu hates the idea of meeting new people, especially a lot. However, he knew this was important to you and that these people were like family so he decided to just suck it up. He immediately regrets his decision when he sees how fucking insane they are, and he has to hold in his anger for a lot of it. Undoubtedly the responsible one and usually wouldn’t care enough to take that roll if it weren’t for the fact they’re so much worse than his brothers and he just feels like he has to be.

Jyushimatsu was overjoyed to meet these people, and it’s safe to say he was pretty chaotic along with them. However, even he had his limits and knew when enough was enough. He eventually had to be a little more responsible, which led to him constantly telling them to knock it off and that enough was enough, at first having that usual smile on his face but growing more serious if they didn’t listen. They think he’s pretty fun though regardless.

Todomatsu was always excited to meet more people, he was a little disappointed you didn’t tell him about these friends sooner, especially upon finding out how close you were to everyone. However he’d soon understand why you wanted to keep this from him. These guys were beyond just being a handful. He constantly had to snap at them for doing something dumb, but it at least made him feel better about his brothers and felt less embarrassed of them..

[hysterialevi]

Hjarta | Prologue

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Next chapter

NORWAY, 857 AD

THE COAST OF RYGJAFYLKE

“We are all bound by the threads of fate,” the clan’s seeress once told Eivor. “Any attempt to deviate from the path will simply be met with what was always destined to be. It is who we are. It is what we must accept. Even the gods are not free from this truth.”

And yet, Eivor couldn’t help but question her.

As he stood on the shore, watching the ocean’s foamy waves slowly pull back and forth into the sea, he wondered if this was truly what the gods intended.

Did the gods really deem it necessary for his father to die? Did they see a use in killing his mother? What could they have gained from tearing a child away from his parents?

The völva of their clan, Ingrida, always insisted that the Nornir had a set path for everyone in this world, and yet... Eivor felt more out of place than ever before.

Bjornheimr wasn’t his home. Arngeir wasn’t his father. Randvi and Thora weren’t his sisters. This wasn’t where he belonged.

His home lay beyond the icy mountains that towered over the distant horizon, buried underneath a tombstone of ash and rubble. His family awaited him in the forsaken depths of Helheim, and remained entangled in the jaws of Nidhogg the serpent.

But despite his parents’ demise, it seemed that the gods had a different plan for Eivor himself. When the rest of his clan fell to Kjotve’s axe, Thora rescued him from the flames. Like a savior sent by the divines, she whisked him away on a horse and brought him to safety, making him the sole survivor of that night’s attack.

He was still here for a reason -- his miraculous recovery was enough to proof that -- but he just didn’t know why.

He only wished the gods would tell him.

“Why did you let Kjotve kill you, father?” Eivor whispered, gazing down at the worn axe in his hands as flakes of snow fluttered onto its cold surface. “We are warriors. We are destined for Valhalla; you said it yourself. So why did you do it...?”

The boy’s grip tightened in anger, and he brought his eyes to the ocean in front of him.

“...You left me.” He muttered, his tone sharp with betrayal. “You died as a coward, and you left me alone. You went against everything you taught me, and let go of your honor when you should’ve been defending it.”

Eivor took one last glance at the axe, preparing to raise it in the air. “...Well, as far as I’m concerned, your axe can join you in Hel.”

Throwing his arm forward, the boy hurled the weapon into the restless embrace of the sea and let out a frustrated shout, only to be interrupted when someone suddenly grabbed his wrist.

He whirled his head towards the intruder with a quick jolt and glared at them in bewilderment, confused as to who would be all the way out here with him.

When his eyes landed on their face though, it all made sense.

“Ulfar...?” Eivor murmured in surprise. He wiggled his arm, attempting to break free. “Let me go...!”

The man only strengthened his hold more, trying to calm the boy down.

“Easy, little drengr.” Ulfar soothed, his voice straining with effort. “You are hurting. But this is not something you want to forget.”

Eivor tore his wrist from the man’s grip and turned away from him, ignoring his previous statement.

Ulfar was a close friend of Arngeir’s and served their clan as both a raider and advisor, resulting in a rather paternal relationship between him and the jarl’s children. He originally roamed Norway’s waters as a Jomsviking, but finally dropped the lifestyle when he fell in love with a woman from their clan.

He bore the look of a weathered warrior, and displayed many scars across his body. One of the man’s eyes had been rendered blind due to a deep sword wound that carved through his brow-bone, and half of his head was bald thanks to a severe burn whose marks still remained branded in his flesh. 

Overall, he was a stoic man weighed down by the burdens of many regrets, but not one to distance himself from compassion.

Eivor only wished he would’ve stayed in Bjornheimr.

“What are you doing here?” The boy asked sharply. “I thought you were at the longhouse with Arngeir.”

“I was,” Ulfar confirmed, “but then your father asked me to find you. He had a feeling you’d be out here, considering it’s... well...”

Eivor already knew what he was going to say. “...The anniversary of my parents’ deaths.”

Ulfar crossed his arms, letting out a sigh. “Everyone mourns in different ways, but your father is not at fault for what happened that night, Eivor. He did what he did because he loved you.”

“He died without honor.” The boy argued.

“Yes,” Ulfar conceded, “because in the end, you were more important to him than anything Valhalla could’ve offered. When you find someone you love, you will understand.”

The man gently grabbed Eivor’s hand and pushed the axe closer to his chest, holding it firmly over the boy’s heart. 

“Do not abandon him, or his memory. You wish to reclaim the honor your father lost? Then you must fight for it.”

Eivor furrowed his brow. “But how? I can’t kill Kjotve. He would only send me to join my family if we fought.”

“Justice like this is not born overnight, Eivor. You must prepare. You must train. You must never lose sight of what matters. If you can manage to do that, then perhaps someday, the Nornir will bless you with a second encounter. Until then, all we can do is wait.”

The boy wasn’t satisfied. “But he needs to die now. He’s already killed so many people. Why not go after him before he can kill more?”

Ulfar knelt on the ground and gripped Eivor’s shoulders, looking him in the eye. “I share your pain, Eivor. Believe me, I do. I want nothing more than to see Kjotve’s head on a pike after what he did to Linnea... but any attempt to kill him now would only end in disaster. We must bide our time, and we must never let our grief overpower us. Do you understand?”

Eivor picked up on the man’s tone. “...You sound like you’ve done this before.”

Ulfar’s expression sank with remorse. “...I have. I betrayed many people who were close to me in the name of vengeance when I was younger, including my own father. I was banished from my clan as a result, and ended up in Bjornheimr after years of wandering as a stray.” He paused for a moment. “...Trust me, the sacrifice isn’t worth it. You cannot allow yourself to fall prey to these thoughts. It will only worsen the storm.”

Eivor was silent in response, but it was clear to Ulfar that he had calmed down somewhat. A sense of heartache still lingered in the boy’s eyes, but he seemed to be relieved of his aggressiveness from before.

Ulfar stood up from the ground and brought his attention to Bjornheimr, gazing at the fortified village from a distance as the day slowly began to come to an end.

“Come,” he instructed, patting Eivor on the back. “Your father awaits.”

But the boy stayed in place. Despite Ulfar’s insistence to return home, he remained tangled in the countless thoughts that plagued his mind and continued to stare out into the ocean, seemingly getting lost in its ethereal embrace.

“...Eivor?” Ulfar said, beckoning him with a wave. “Come along, boy. The darkness is settling in.”

The child dismissed his commands and simply looked down at the axe, posing one final question before taking his leave.

“Ulfar?” Eivor asked. “If you had a second chance to save Linnea from Kjotve, would you take it?”

The man thought the answer was rather obvious. “Of course. ”

“And if Kjotve asked you lay down your arms like he did my father... would you do it?”

Ulfar fell silent for a second, playing out the scenario in his head. “...I would.”

That only seemed to confuse Eivor more. “Then what makes Valhalla so special? Why spend your life trying to earn a place at the gods’ side if you’re willing to give it up for a human?”

The man hesitated, admittedly at a loss for words. “I... I don’t know, Eivor. That is a question you’ll have to ask Ingrida. I can only tell you how I feel.”

Ulfar stepped closer to Eivor, guiding the boy away from the shoreline. “Come, little cub. We can discuss this later. Let’s get you home first.”

Eivor sighed in defeat, finally deciding to put the matter to rest for now. He didn’t quite understand the meaning behind Ulfar’s words, or why Arngeir insisted on letting more time pass before launching another assault on Kjotve’s people, but he assumed everything would fall into place eventually.

If the stories Ingrida spoke of held any merit to them, then it must’ve meant that the Nornir planned all this from the start. There must’ve been a reason as to why the gods were keeping Kjotve beyond their reach, and denying Bjornheimr any justice for now.

Perhaps it was because they were waiting for Eivor to grow up. He wasn’t much use in a fight in his current state, but with enough training, he imagined he would join his brothers and sisters on the battlefield someday. He would finally have the chance to personally go after Kjotve himself, and take him down for good.

He just prayed that the gods would allow him to deliver the killing blow.

“Alright.” Eivor said quietly. “Let’s go home.”

Ulfar gave the boy an encouraging pat on the shoulder and gently pushed him ahead, guiding him back to the village. 

“Keep your head up, drengr. We are not broken yet.”

~~~~~~~~~~

13 YEARS LATER

BJORNHEIMR

Light.

That was all she could see.

As Synin soared across the wintry meadows surrounding Bjornheimr’s spiked walls, she saw naught but radiant beams of light seeping through the bare trees, dotting the ground with golden blots.

A gentle breeze kissed the ebony feathers rippling on her wings as she brought herself higher in the sky, and in the whistling howl that filled her ears, she heard her owner’s voice calling out to her, beckoning her to the ground.

In one swift movement, Synin angled her body downwards and began gliding towards the lively village, leading her through an abundance of new obstacles. Everywhere around her, men and women of all ages strolled through Bjornheimr’s dirt paths, conversing amongst themselves about recent events.

They were drinking, flyting, playing dice, firing up furnaces, tickling lutes -- and in the midst of all the bustle sat the Wolf-Kissed himself, quietly spending his morning atop a snow-covered hill.

He was currently sitting on a bench with his back leaning against a boulder as he sharpened an axe, repeatedly dragging a stone along the edge of its blade. There wasn’t a care in the world occupying his thoughts at the moment, and considering the agenda for the day, the viking imagined it would be short-lived.

“Synin,” Eivor said with a smile upon noticing her in the sky. “There you are. Find something to eat?”

His companion flew closer to the ground, perching herself on a nearby shrine.

“Good.” He remarked. “You’ll need your energy for today. Apparently, there’s going to be a ‘special’ guest arriving this morning. There’s been lots of preparation involved. I have no idea who it is, though.”

Eivor stood up from the bench and slid his axe back into its handle, strolling up to Synin.

“Just promise me you’ll be on your best behavior, alright? I don’t want to see anyone getting pecked like when Leif came to visit us.”

A second voice joined the scene, diverting Eivor’s attention away from his bird.

“Eivor, who are you talking to?”

The man glanced over his shoulder, only to find himself in the company of his older sister.

“Thora.” Eivor greeted, casually walking up to her. 

Thora was a rather built woman whose flesh was decorated with many tattoos, and had the gaze of a hawk. She had a head of long dark hair that had been braided into a simple ponytail, and was dressed in a traditional outfit consisting of armor and fur.

What really caught Eivor’s attention though, was the irritated expression on her face. 

He chuckled in a lighthearted manner, gesturing to her scowl. “You look happy today.”

The woman let out a sigh. “Well, I’m not. Things have been stressful beyond belief. I’ve been hunting with Eirik all morning preparing for this feast that father wants to hold, and I’ve been trying to find Randvi before King Styrbjorn arrives.”

That took Eivor by surprise. “Wait, King Styrbjorn is the guest father was talking about? But the wedding is a fortnight away.”

“Father wants to give Randvi and her betrothed some time to get acquainted before the marriage takes place,” Thora explained. “He’s also hoping that our clans can become familiar with one another.”

A scoff escaped her lips. “Imagine only being ‘acquainted’ with your future husband. What a joke.”

Eivor picked up on her mood. “I take it you don’t approve of Randvi’s betrothed.”

Thora shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t like him. I don’t know him. Our families are complete strangers, and yet, father expects me to entrust this man with the safety of our own sister. It’s preposterous.”

“Who is her betrothed, anyway?”

“A man named Sigurd,” Thora answered. “According to Ulfar, he’s a man of great ambition and battle-prowess. Others might find that appealing, but in my experience, those are the ones who prove to be the most dangerous. I’m not sure I trust him just yet.”

Eivor let out a laugh. “I’m not sure you trust anyone, Thora.”

“And for good reason. But... I was hoping you could do me a favor, Eivor.”

That piqued his interest. “What’s on your mind?”

Thora stepped towards him, gesturing to the village behind them. “Could you help me find Randvi? She’s supposed to join father at the docks soon, and I’m too busy helping Eirik prepare for this feast. I could really use an extra pair of hands, and I’d rather not keep King Styrbjorn waiting.”

Eivor gave her a quick nod. “Of course. I’ll start asking around.”

His sister sighed in relief. “Thank you, bróðir. I owe you one.” Thora turned on her heel and began making her way down the hill, only to stop in her tracks when a sudden thought crossed her mind.

“Hey, Eivor? If the opportunity arises... could you speak with Sigurd face-to-face? There’s a very small chance he’ll show his true colors around father or Randvi, and I’d sleep better at night if I knew exactly what kind of person we were dealing with.”

The man shrugged. “Why can’t you talk to him?”

“Because you’re the one who’s always been good at reading people. If you see nothing wrong with him, then I’ll know he can be trusted.”

Eivor decided to go along with the plan. “Very well. I don’t see why not.”

“Thank you. I trust your judgement. Let me know what you think of him once you’ve been introduced. I hope that you’ll bring me good news. Otherwise, I don’t fancy the idea of handing Randvi over to someone who could potentially harm her.”

Eivor took on a more serious tone, joining his sister as she descended down the trail.

“We wouldn’t allow it.”

Thora smirked, walking proudly alongside her sibling. “No, we wouldn’t.”

[kannra21]

@owishi Asdfghjkhgfds I want to write sum HCs rn! 😆✨✨

~o0o~

After a successful photoshoot the MCPTF duo took for a detective magazine, Haru bashfuly thanked the camera crew for their work and started to gather his belongings. After a couple of seconds he didn't see Daisuke moving much from his spot at the studio backdrop so he decided to check on him.

Daisuke was still standing there, petting a beautiful cat on his shoulders. He was smiling for the first time in a long time and Haru couldn't help himself but to tease him a little.

"You have a soft spot for kittens, huh Kambe?" "Huh?" "You love animals don't you?" "Don't get the wrong idea. Just because I helped that little boy with a dog back the-" "I get it, no need to get so self-defensive." Haru approached the two and pet the cat as well. Daisuke continued "We had a family cat back in the days but she died from a kidney failure." "I'm sorry to hear that." "Pedigree cats are always difficult to maintain."

He then approached the studio producer and asked "What's the name?" while pointing at the purring ball of fluff. "Oh the name's Kumo-" "No, I meant the name of the breed." "It's a Maine Coon my good sir."

Daisuke took his phone, dialed a number and a lovely lady could be heard on the opposite line "Yes, Daisuke-sama?" "Suzue, do we have all the predispositions that satisfy the adoption of a cat?" "I mean yes but we can't charge a butler to take responsibility for everything. Consider chipping, regular visits to the vet, special shampoos, nail clippers, toothbrushes, specialized treats, eye drops, litter box, toys, climbing frames, there are many factors which need to be taken care of Daisuke-sama. Besides, it's been such a long tim-" "Alright"

Daisuke ended the phone call with a dissatisfied sigh before asking quietly "How much?" to which Haru needed to interfere. "Didn't Suzue-san just tell you not to take a cat home?" and Daisuke gave him an annoyed side-glance "I'll figure something out."

When he arrived to the mansion in his Bentley Continental GT, he glanced at the backseat to address the feline comfortably lying in the fancy pet carrier. "You better not make a sound, understood?" to which the cat just purred in satisfaction. Daisuke felt so silly at this moment, like a little boy hiding a broken vase from his mother.

When he was about to enter the mansion, he accidentally walked on Suzue typing something on her tablet. She looked up and was delighted to see Daisuke coming home safe and sound. Daisuke stood at the doors, one side of his body peering from the corner while the other with a cat was hidden behind the wall. "Welcome back Daisuke-sama, the crack-open naengmyeon is already served on the table, you can take your seat." "Actually, I was planning on doing something else beforehand. Would you please excuse me for a moment?" "Of course." Suzue turned around and waited for him in the dining room. And although Daisuke was very good at keeping his serious demeanor, Suzue still noticed that something was off, with the tone of his voice for instance. It was very faint but Suzue was able to recognize things like this since she knew him so well. Still, she decided not to question him about it.

Daisuke entered his room and laid the pet carrier on the floor. Opening the zipper, the cat jumped out and rolled cozily on his bed. Daisuke held his phone and took a picture. He decided that he couldn't leave it by itself so he went downstairs to the storeroom where he took a litter box and filled it with old newspapers just in case.

After that he joined Suzue for lunch, they talked about Daisuke's photoshoot and Suzue's data she collected on certain people regarding a case. Daisuke told her that the magazine will be published in three weeks or so and Suzue was so happy she promised that she'll be the first costumer to buy it. Daisuke smiled more around Suzue after he let go of his past and threw his father into the jail. Now that all the bad things are behind him, he can finally indulge in his life and pay more attention to Suzue to whom he has yet to make up for all she has done for him over the years. He's thinking about marrying her soon.

While they were eating and pleasantly chatting, a high pitched "mrow" could be heard from the upper floor.

"What was that?" Daisuke let out a dry cough and said "My apologies. It seems that I needed to take a thicker coat before leaving for an appointment." "But.. you always pay attention to things like this." "It's true, but today I was a little late, had other things to do." "Don't overwork yourself, you need to think about your health." "Seems like you need to take better care of me.", he said with a smirk plastered on his lips to which Suzue just laughed and replied "You're so spoiled." and he scooted closer to her whispering "But I like it better when you do it.", and almost kissed her before the two heard a soft thud coming from the above.

"Excuse me for a moment, I need to check what's happening up there. Will be right back.", maybe the moment was ruined but he kissed her forehead nonetheless and went upstairs, leaving her full-hearted and all mushy inside. Her mind was so hazed from the thought of Daisuke kissing her forehead and almost kissing her lips that she didn't register the cause of his concern.

When he arrived to his room he had things to behold; scattered papers and documents all over the floor and the ashtray he typically used after his "adventurous nights with Suzue" was lying on the ground right next to the nightstand. The cat was sitting on his working table licking her paw as if nothing of this concerned her in the slightest. Daisuke sighed in disappointment and put her back in her "baby jail". She already gave him such a hard time but he couldn't be angry with her, she was his baby (yes he already considered himself a dad for god's sake).

Since they already finished with their meals, Suzue went back to her tech room to finish her work and Daisuke took the opportunity to place some meat and water on small plates and bring it to his naughty little friend.

The cat calmed down instantly after she ate and went straight to sleep. Daisuke couldn't believe his own eyes, the audacity, the sheer amount of spoilage this creature showed was unreal. It reminded him so much of himself and he smiled a little. He really missed having a cat.

After he cleaned up and finished his other tasks, he laid on the bed next to her and pet her soft white fur, making her purr louder and snuggle up beside him. Daisuke knows that Suzue is not stupid and that she'll eventually catch up on him sneaking behind her back to give Furry Elise treats (yes her name is Furry Elise, "Für Elise" might be one of Beethoven’s best-known piano pieces and Daisuke knows how to play it too).

And it actually happened that same night. Daisuke was about to fill her small plate with more meat when he met Suzue in the kitchen and she asked him what he was doing. He instantly gave up because it would be so blatantly obvious and incredibly stupid of him to say that he was trying out a new weight-losing tip when no one in this god-forsaken world ate raw chicken.

So he took her to his room and showed her Furry Elise. And although the cat purred really loudly upon seeing them, Suzue wasn't happy about it. In fact, she looked really disappointed and Daisuke needed to apologize. He explained her how it happened and how he wished to have a pet after a really long time. He thought she liked cats as well and therefore concluded that it wouldn't be such a big deal to adopt this cute little feline she loved so much, but apparently it was, so he asked her one more time why she was so reluctant to the whole idea of owning a cat again.

Suzue now shredded a couple of tears and Daisuke was seriously alarmed upon seeing her like this so he carefully cupped her with his hand behind her back and hugged her, asking why she was crying all of a sudden.

"It's just.. I don't want to go though this all over again." "What are you talking about?" "You see, my parents died, your parent died, our previous cat died so soon. I'm living in fear every day and asking myself if something's going to happen to you as well, that's why I'm so excessively worrying about you. And everything I need right now is another sweet creature that I love so much leaving us again. I don't think I'd be able to handle it anymore."

"Suzue.. I never thought..", Daisuke kissed her head and felt a big amount of guilt dawning on him. He was so selfish for only thinking about what made him happy without considering Suzue's emotions. But then he reclaimed his mind and tried to concentrate on saying the right thing. Hopefully he can make her feel better again.

"Suzue, my dear, you shouldn't limit yourself to things that make you happy. It's not healthy. You see, none of us is eternal; neither you, nor me, nor this kitten down there looking at you with so much love in her eyes. But for that very reason that none of us is eternal, we should dedicate our time to one another and make most of it. So please don't deny yourself or your feelings. Instead of dwelling on the sad things, we should concentrate more on our time spent together and be happy, okay?"

Even Daisuke didn't know how he managed to word it this nicely but he did and he realized that both of them were crying by now. They shared a passionate kiss but got interrupted by a small furball rubbing on their feet like it wanted to share a hug as well and Suzue smiled through tears.

She squatted and carefully took the cat in her hands. "What's her name?" "Furry Elise." Suzue now needed to laugh so much and she hadn't even recovered from her previous emotional outburst.

"I love it, you're really good at this.. it's.. the song you used to play for me all the time before you went studying overseas."

He looked at her with so much love and adoration at this exact moment.

"Know what? I think I'm falling for you all over again, Mr. Millionaire." Daisuke swore, his heart was full that night and no money could ever compare to this feeling.

@daisuzuship @innovativestruggles @narcopharmacist @unholysoggytea @riaymei @ieatcrumbs @cow-goes-oof @matchabucks @bluegleeful @levi-is-heicho @kakooshi @kokorokai @darknessrxse @fluffyyagiza @geniusmeemee @sungmnnnn @koalarin @alstroemerie @petiamaximoff38 @hellohellokookie @marialenikiforov

It's daisuzu stuff so I hope you enjoy. If you want me to delete your tag you're free to tell me. 👍

[bewarethelivingwra]

01 - Awakening - Jiselle (2844)

Awakening – Jiselle

The bundle on the back of her sister's horse, as undead as she was, was unsettling, but it helped to further add more to the reasons for joining them. Paege Ravenswood-Gladwynn, Jiselle's eldest sister, turned to her after gently securing the sheet-wrapped bundle that was Jiselle's adopted sister – and what had been her adopted mother's last living child – Paege's bright blue eyes practically burning into Jiselle's emerald green ones.

“Let us know as soon as you can,” she said, looking about to make sure no one was watching her speak to Jiselle's cloaked form, lest they look too closely and see what she was, and take her choice from her. Jiselle nodded, black curls bouncing beneath the hood. She watched Paege mount her horse and take off northwest, leaving Jiselle with the company Paege had wanted her to speak to.

He was tall, this Forsaken mage named Landry, dressed in deep blue that contrasted against long, blue hair that was neatly trimmed just beneath his shoulders. His face was weathered, but she could see a handsomeness there that had to have carried over from life. He was also tall, almost impossibly so to her, even though Jiselle was considered average. He looked about then took her hand, leading her away from the farmlands and the fray that continued as the “mass recruitment” went on. Jiselle tried not to think about it too deeply.

His gait was swift, as would be anyone's who was both so tall and tireless, and Jiselle jogged to keep up, certain he'd more likely lose his arm before he'd pull off hers. She hoped none who were...recruiting...from the remaining human farms that were scattered about Alterac looked to see this Forsaken dragging another figure along behind him, but it seemed they were focused, uninterested in what was going on with the few that meandered about off-project. They went through the woods, Jiselle clinging with her free hand to the cloak that covered her, twisting this way and that to avoid brambles and branches that didn't affect her chaperone.

“I grew up south of here,” she finally said, likely too soft to be heard, just trying to make conversation out of the silence. She was certain he didn't hear her, until they arrived at a clearing and paused, breaking out of the treeline to confront...a burned down ruin. Jiselle looked at it with confusion, risking pushing back her hood and shaking out her hair before looking up.

“And I grew up here,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft for the imposing figure he cut. She blinked up at him, having the sneaking suspicion he had been a parent in his former life. Her father wasn't as gentle sounding, not in the least, but her adopted one, as briefly as she knew of him, was. Jiselle looked at the ruin.

“Sorry about the house,” she said, gauging from the chimney that remained that this was what they looked at. He chuckled dryly.

“Don't be. We did that, to cement the end of it all,” he said. He took a deep breath, leading her closer, but much more slowly than their frantic trek through the woods. She followed behind, wondering just how much more she'd hear. She saw the overgrown remains of vegetable plots, a clothesline that had snapped and hung rotting from two different poles, canted at angles in the ground. The only thing that stood was the chimney and an outhouse, which she had to stifle a giggle at, it looked so out of place in such a somber, neglected scene.

He moved toward what was likely an outdoor firepit, if the circle of rocks that remained was any indication, and sat on a felled log that made for a seat. She joined him, sitting on another, noting two remained empty. A family of four. Tiny compared to hers of six, both times over. He rested his arms on his knees, slim, gloved hands dangling between them. The silence stretched on and she began to wonder why Paege sent her with him. He didn't have the air of a necromancer, but frankly, Jiselle had learned the last few weeks her gauge of character could be skewed easily. He glanced over at her, golden eyes blinking. Finally, he chuckled.

“No necromancer,” he said, and she nearly jumped. Had she spoken that out loud? How rude was it to just assume every undead she came across was able to create more in such a way. He shook his head, tapping his temple with a gloved finger. “Mage trick. It's strong by proximity. Though, to be honest, you have a windowpane face like your sister Gianara.”

Jiselle relaxed, laughing. “I hope you're not insulted. It wasn't my intention.”

“Of course not,” he said, looking over the firepit, long unused. “Paege wanted me to speak to you because I am one who chose this,” he said, gesturing to himself before resting his arms as before. “For good reason, I think. Just as you have.”

“You...chose to die and be raised?” Jiselle asked, one black brow arching in curiosity. Paege did have a method to her madness, it would seem. He nodded.

“I have a twin sister,” he said, chuckling after. “You...would be amused to see her. She's smaller than even you are,” he added. His gaze turned southwest with a small nod, as if he could see through the trees, over what looked like an overgrown dirt road, to the destination far off. “We were brought up to be trained in Dalaran, but not accepted, due to our father's reputation,” he said. Jiselle warmed up to him quickly hearing this, knowing her own father's issues. She just nodded, trying not to look too excited at the idea of bonding over terrible parenting. “My sister and I ended up moving there from there, staying with a...friend of ours,” he said. She smiled a bit, wondering what that particular story was, but she knew better than to interrupt. “When Dalaran fell, she was the first to go, and be raised. The useful, the more intact after the attack, were. Being twins, I felt her death acutely even from within the city, and I threw myself into the fray suicidally, in an attempt to stay close to her, to protect her in this life as I had in the previous,” he said, looking over at her.

“I see why Paege wanted me to speak to you, then.”

“You have a unique opportunity,” he said. “To choose. Do you return to Stormwind, bearer of further bad news, to whatever awaits you there, or...do you join your family. Most of it,” he said. Jiselle swallowed, her turn to stare at the missing fire, wishing it alight for something to get lost in. She couldn't bear to tell Dahlia she no longer had any children breathing, except her. She would feel worthless. Her life would be pretty much forfeit for wanting to make everything up to her. And then there was Cary. She bristled. He hadn't even waited for her to be gone a full week it seemed before he was back in the Lamb, easily falling into whatever spell Demi wove about him. She shook her head to clear it.

Could she give up all living entailed? She had spent so long feeling like an outsider, no matter how hard Dahlia worked to keep her from feeling so. Could she spend...well, forever, reconnected with her sisters? She looked at Landry.

“Will it...hurt?” she asked. He laughed.

“For you, no,” he said, turning towards her. “I think I know of the most...painless way to go about things.” And as he explained it, she nodded, following his plan to the letter. He took her hand, teleporting her to a gloomier setting than even the burned-down home. The sky seemed to be set at permanent dusk, but with an odd, greenish hue that was further unsettling. The trees near them were at least living, but evergreen, which Jiselle believed must be incredibly hard to kill if they survived this climate. The grass beneath them was sparse, giving way to rocky soil beneath. He held up a finger and excused himself a moment, teleporting out just as fast as he had teleported them in, leaving her staring around at her surroundings, rubbing her arms against the chill beneath her cloak. It was terrifyingly quiet, leaving her to expect something to jump out at any moment, and there it would be, decision made. Landry returned rather quickly, dropping a bundle onto the ground she recognized as a tent, and another bag.

“Best I can really do around here,” he said, moving quickly to set up the tent. She jumped in to help, but he waved her off, chatting as he worked. “We are in a place just north of an area called Deathknell. It would be the place your sister, Gianara, was raised when she was...found,” he said, unable to find less distasteful words. Jiselle shuddered. “I don't intend to kill you myself for raising, but have it be a more...quiet...situation,” he said, looking up at her after he pounded in the final tent stake and rose. A passable shelter. “I find that sort of thing unsavory anyway,” he said, looking over at her. “I would rather you go in quiet, without pain, without knowing its coming,” he said. “The less chaotic the death, often the calmer the raising, and you strike me as the calm sort in most situations,” he added, that winning smile returning. She returned it.

“You'd be right,” she said, looking down as he went for the bag, handing it to her.

“A few days' provisions,” he said. “I'll return after a few to see if you are still here, make sure you're all right if so.”

“If I'm still here,” she said, looking at the tent and shaking her head. She glanced up. “Not going to tell me how?” He shook his head in turn.

“No. You already know it will be coming, but I don't want you panicking over every little thing,” he said. “Whatever the end, it'll be pleasant enough.” He went then to gather rocks and sticks, bringing them back. “Don't keep a fire going at all times. We aren't terribly far from Deathknell, and while our people don't tend to have the best sense of smell, a campfire carries and is distinctive. Not to mention the smoke.” She nodded, taking a seat on the grass near the fire as he got it started. Not with flint and tinder, but a simple spell. She widened her eyes.

“That's handy,” she said, and he laughed.

“Very,” He leaned down to pat her shoulder amicably enough. “I will see you in a few days. Just stay near here, no wandering, or you'll meet your end in a worse way.”

Jiselle never wished for books more in her life, left to think too much on her decision, trying to keep from changing her mind as she filled the endless hours with too many thoughts of both of her old lives, and then sleep, where she got to dream of them as well. She woke the next morning to the opening of her tent flap. Jiselle gasped, pulling her legs up close to herself as she scooted toward the back of the tent, only to get a better look at who peered in and have her usual curiosity take over. How she'd lived this long without a proper full reaction to fear, or instinct to defend herself, she had no idea.

“You are the one I sensed,” she heard in a gentle, oddly thick voice, originating from a kind, fuzzy face. She had seen races before that were unusual, surrounded by gnomes and Draenei and Worgen as she was in Stormwind, but this was different. Her golden brown eyes were kind, almost matching the ruddier shade of her fur that mixed with white in an interesting pattern on her face.

“Who are you?” she asked, blinking back at her, and the oddly bear-like person laughed, backing up.

“A friendly face who was...intrigued to sense friendly magic nearby,” she said, holding the flap open. Jiselle dug out her cloak to throw over what she wore to bed the night before, barely able to ward off the perpetual dusk chill of the area, and crawled out to join her. She got the fire going once more, taking something out of a basket that took a moment for Jiselle to recognize in her sleepy haze – a teapot.

“Oh Light, I've not had tea in weeks,” Jiselle said, sitting cross-legged by the fire and thrusting her hands out toward the flames. The bear-person laughed, doing what looked like complicated alchemy in the teapot before adding water and rigging it over the flames to boil.

“Your people have tea in their big stone cities?” she asked, sitting beside, but not very close, to Jiselle, likely sensing her nerves. Jiselle nodded.

“My adopted mother likes it better than coffee, and I think it rubbed off on me,” she admitted, looking over at the ornate ceramic pot that she worried would explode, so close to the flame.

“Tea is...very traditional for my people,” she said. Jiselle had a million questions, but they were answered well before she got to them, the woman, who called herself a Pandaren, explaining she was in the area looking for people here who would work well training alongside her kind.

“How do you decide that?” she asked, and the Pandaren woman reached over, taking one of Jiselle's hands, and looking at the back. She had some markings to her knuckles still, from her last bouts. It was as if she didn't even need to speak it. Jiselle looked over at her.

“The book...” she said quietly, closing her eyes then and taking a deep breath, the green energy she used so infrequently, that she had learned how to channel from the book, snaking over her arm to where their hands joined, then up toward the Pandaren woman's elbow.

“Book...hm,” she said, the look of shock plain on her face when Jiselle opened her eyes. She nodded. Taking her hand back, the Pandaren woman pulled the teapot from the fire, pouring two of the smallest, oddly-shaped cups full. No handles. Jiselle was grateful for that, honestly, the tiny cup warming her chilled hands. Was she to die of cold then be raised? she wondered.

The Pandaren woman spoke on and on as Jiselle savored her tea, oddly floral scented yet not as strong in taste, mild and warming and...relaxing. As if she would have a better chance at sleep now than she had with her fitful sleep overnight. She found herself hearing the woman's words in echo, then more like she was underwater, calling to her. Her breathing felt shallow, slow, but for some odd reason, she didn't panic, just glanced over at the Pandaren woman with confusion. Was she having some sort of a vision? Had she not awakened yet? Maybe she needed more sleep. She rose, intending to thank her for her company and crawl back into bed, and hit the grassy-rocky ground with a rather impressive thud, out cold before she even knew.

* * *

It didn't feel like grass anymore, just solid stone. Yet...she wasn't cold. Blinking her eyes open, Jiselle looked up at a stone structure above her and, thinking it couldn't be anything else, believed perhaps her getting drunk and fighting in the underground bouts had caught up to her and she was in the Stockade for some reason. She rubbed her eyes, realizing even that felt off, oddly-detached, and looked at her hands.

“I need more sun,” she mused, her voice also a bit off. Her dark brows knit together and she sat up stiffly, looking over to see not what she assumed would be iron gating and perhaps the view into another cell or something, but...a feminine figure, sitting cross-legged, dressed in leathers. Her elbows rested on her knees, her pale, uncovered hands laced together in front of her mouth as she stared ceaselessly with big, golden eyes. Almost round.

Jiselle rubbed her face again, and tried to focus, only hearing the sound of laughter when she was really small, back home with her blood family, struggling mightily to keep up with the only sister who would race her whenever she asked. She never even got close enough to grab a fistful of long, bannering black hair that trailed behind her. It came into focus then. She had seen Paege. Now she was seeing...

“Gia!” she practically screamed, her shy, older sister startling from her position. Gianara recovered quickly, smiling and crossing the room to embrace her. Jiselle noted she didn't feel the chill, looking about the room as she clung to her sister, the two of them alike once more, three of the four reunited by Jiselle's decision.

Gia ducked her head against Jiselle's shoulder as she squeezed her, her voice soft as she said, “Welcome home.”

[black-streak]

Waiting for the Worms - Is There Anybody Out There?

Part 3

I promise this is the last horrifically depressing part in a row. Part four will lighten up a touch (though other parts will get pretty dark again)

All warnings from previous chapters should be kept in mind. I'm not going easy on us here.

Broken Hearts Club: @northernbluetongue @thethirdwheelfriend @shizukiryuu @theatreandcomicfreak @michellemagic @karategirl119 @moonlightstar64 @my-name-is-michell @mystery-5-5 @zalladane @queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm @wuvpancakes @dorkus-minimus @jardimazul @allthebooksandcrannies @g-arya @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @persephonescat @mycupisbroken @luciferge @18-fandoms-unite-08 @dawnwave16 @alwaysreblogneverpost @kris-pines04 @mysteriouslyswimmingfan-blo-blog @weird-pale-blonde-person @you-will-never-know-how-i-think @kokotaru @naclychilli @slytherinhquinn @clumsy-owl-4178 @ladybug-182 @darkthunder1589 @evil-elf16 @dast218 @lysslovsanime @emilytopaz @naoryllis @iloontjeboontje @thepeacetea @danielslilangel @finallyaniguana @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff @vixen-uchiha @yuulxd @bleeding-heart-romantic @magic-inthe-stars @st0rmy-w1th1n

~---~

When Marinette came to, she didn't. 

She couldn't open her eyes or move her hand. 

She couldn't move anything.

She tried to recall the last thing before this stillness. The Joker? Yes, the Joker had been beating Jason, or rather her, in Jason's body. She remembered pain and choking and fighting for control with Jason as a steel bar repeatedly slammed into her. She remembered falling asleep with Batman's rescue in mind. She remembered warmth everywhere and then nothing. 

That must be it then. She was still Jason, as she had planned and probably couldn't move due to the recovery process.

With that in mind, she slipped away.

...

When she came to again, she still didn't.

Did she fall into a coma? That would explain the inability to even twitch. To open her (his) eyes after what surely had to be long enough. Now that she thought of it, she couldn't feel anything either. Not her(his?) eyelids, or fingers, or legs, or chest. Was this what a coma felt like? Or were the doses on the medication too high? Had she messed up so severely as to be paralyzed?

Fear and anxiety pricked at the edge of her mind, but she pushed it down. She needed more rest. Just to rest a while longer and it would all be fine. She'd wake up from this coma and recover and swap back to her original body, leaving Jason his healthy one. And so she slipped once more.

…

How long has she been out? Why won't she wake up? Nothing made sense anymore.

Her(...his?) body still remained unresponsive and unfeeling. The nerves were disconnected from her conscious and all was still.

She had read once that coma patients could hear things still. She heard nothing. That they could feel some things, even a brush through their hair. She felt nothing. That they could taste and smell the antiseptic in the air. She wasn't breathing.

She wasn't breathing and this body she was connected to but not had no pulse.

If there was a mental equivalent to hyperventilating, this would be it. Either way, as her distress rose, she found herself drifting back into the unknown.

…

Marinette was dead. Or at least Jason's old body that she was stuck in was. Of that, she was sure.

She couldn't help but wonder how long her spirit could live inside a hollowed out corpse. She hoped it wasn't forever. How long had it been, anyways? 

Hours? Days? Weeks? More?

She couldn't say.

Maybe she should just disappear again. Was the place of drifting the afterlife? Who knew. She didn't.

…

She wanted to scream, to sob, to break down into a mess of tears and snot and gasping half breaths and she couldn't and it wasn't fair!

Jason didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve this. No one should be made to suffer like this. This endless loop of depression and loneliness and inability to express anything. 

She thought she had her emotions on lock before death came for her and yet nothing would ever compare to this deep seeded, absolute need to force everything out, to express her every despair put into the open and be so utterly helpless and incapable to do so.

She wanted to rip at her own skin, to claw at her eyes, to tear into herself physically in any way she could, if just to feel again. Feel anything at all, even if it was the pain of that god forsaken crowbar in her throat again or the engulfing burn of the explosion after the fact. She'd take all the pain in the world if it meant she could feel again. Even for just a second.

Please?

Anything?

No?

Okay...

…

Was This the afterlife? When you died, did you just lay completely devoid of movement, spirit restless for the rest of time?

Maybe this was it for her. Maybe she would just stay here forever to ponder the life she lost. Forever waiting for the next slip into oblivion only to come to and stay here in this contemplative silence again. If so, she hoped Jason never died in her body. Became immortal and avoided this endless torture.

The thought hit her that she died in another's body and that the universe may lash out at her for her defiance. Jason remained living while against fate's wishes and she was to blame. So it crafted her a personal hell in the form of her soulmate's old form. The one she clung to so desperately moments before their demise.

If she was awake and alert in his dead body, what did that mean for the technically dead boy stuck in her living body? Did she condemn them both in her stubbornness?

She set her mind to determining all the possible outcomes of that possibility. She had plenty of time anyways.

…

Their funeral must have been nice. Adoptive son of billionaire, Bruce Wayne. She imagines it to be a grand affair. Everyone who's anyone, paying their respects to Bruce's kid.

Or maybe just a quiet morning; Alfred, Bruce, maybe Richard if he felt bad enough, all gathered around a grave in the family plot. Mourning together. Would the service be open or closed casket? Probably closed to hide the truth of what killed them.

Surely as Batman, Bruce had told the JL of his departure. Perhaps the heroes had given their condolences or shown up on their own to say goodbye to one of their own. Considering the encounters Jason and her had with them in the past, she doubted it, but it was a nice thought.

She imagines their coffin is beautiful. A gorgeous mahogany or cherry wood. Gold clasps and locks, the inner lining velvety soft and plush to cradle the body. She almost wants to feel the texture below their fingertips, but sends thanks to the mercy of not feeling the confinement of the enclosed space instead.

…

She was alive! She could breathe and move, if barely, but that was okay, because she's alive. Everything would be fine even if it wasn't good because she could escape this damnable hell and leave this grave finally. 

She would hunt down Jason and throw her arms around him and never let go. She'd never tell him about her time down here, it didn't matter. All he needed to know was that she was alive and okay and so was he and everything would be better now. She promised, she just needed to get out of here first. 

If she could sob in relief she would, because by some miracle she was alive.

…

She wasn't. She was delusional and dead.

...

Counting to a thousand doesn't take nearly as long as you think. Neither does counting down. Luckily she fades again before she can start a third time.

…

She's still sort of alive in here in her own way. And that was her living body out there. If she really tried, could she switch them back? Could she go back to living and return his dead body to him? Would he be delivered to a better afterlife once she appeased the universe?

No. No! What was wrong with her? She died for him for a reason. He deserved a better life. He had been through so damn much and deserved the reprieve away from Gotham. And no matter what, she would never choose to let him die. She would suffer in here for a millenia if it meant he was safe and happy. Even if it was without her. She felt betrayed by her own mind's musings. 

That wasn't necessarily a new feeling.

…

She'd never see her parents again. Never hug them, never take in the warmth and strong scent of yeast and chocolate from her father and honeyed herbs from her mother.

Never wake up to Tikki snuggled into the pillow beside her, encouraging smiles and guiding words always at the tip of her tongue.

Never hold Chloe through her tears or fight by her side again. Finish the dress she was making her or Juleka. Help the shyer one come into her modeling career or guide her as a new miraculous holder. Guide the team.

Never become a designer or own a pet or get married or have children. 

It was more than that though. She'd never train in the Batcave again or fight by his side or sit in the library window at the manor or sit in the calming aura of Alfred. Never see the one person who could always tell when they swapped. Alfred had become a second father to her. She missed helping him cook or clean up. Missed asking for his opinion and making little inside jokes about the others. 

She'd never get to meet Jason.

…

She felt different. She felt wrong and confused and unsure and-

She felt…

She felt..

She felt?

Immense pain and overwhelming stiffness, but she felt!

Now. Now just to move. Please move. Let this not be another hallucination of her mind. Please? If she could move than she was alive, right?

A hand, their hand, twitched and shuddered and eventually dragged up their side. Up to their eye, the good one if she remembers correctly. She digs at the corners until eventually it squints open a touch. Pitch black.

Okay, that's not surprising. Probably another delusion, but she might as well see it through. She pushes her hand up through the dark until she meets wood. Soft wood. Barely there and slightly bowing beneath the weight of what she assumed was the earth above her. What, did they bury her in a plywood box? 

Their chest shook almost in a jittery up/down dance and air wheezed between their teeth. She didn't dare believe it was real. She lifted the other hand and pushed with both, feeling it move beneath their fingers. The one arm was still broken and hurt immensely but she pushed anyway. The pain, real or not, felt amazing. She brought a leg up to push as well.

Lowering all their limbs, she took a false breath of stale air and made her decision. Attempt to escape until she came too again, if only for the entertainment of it. At least it was something new.

She brought their legs into her chest as best she could in the surprisingly roomy coffin and kicked up with all the strength she could manage. A splinter formed under foot and sparked a manic sort of determination.

She kicked and kicked at the splinter until dirt was raining down around her in the dark space and then she kicked some more. It felt amazing on her skin: the dirt pushing down, the ache in her chest, the throbbing in her throat of splintered bone, the wood pushing down against her feet, tearing at them. And then the world collapsed down onto her.

In the wonderful pressure and choking hold of Earth, she tore at the soil, dragging herself up further and further, feeling it shift across their skin in glorious relief. Please never let this delusion end.

And then, then! Light. Blinding, all encompassing light came into view and she was on ground. Not under it, but above it, laying on it, letting the wondrous light bathe her in its heated gaze. She choked out dirt and coughed and wanted to cry out in joy but no sound would come out of their bone dry body. No tears would spring from depleted eye sockets. 

Eventually sight came back in a blurry daze of nonsense until the abandoned graveyard came into view. Turning, she saw a barely there grave marker and couldn't help but think her imagination cruel.

Pushing for more, she stood on wobbly, tattered feet and walked. Out of the tiny, forgotten field and into even more abandoned streets. She wasn't sure where her mind took her, but she kept walking in what looked like an early morning sunrise. She walked for what could've been hours, the sting and ache and tearing in their body spurring her on in a strangely gleeful manner. 

Eventually she stopped in front of a hospital. The sun had moved and faceless people had started appearing at a distance as time moved on in her thoughts. She liked this pain but… maybe she should seek help? Maybe her brain was searching for something to make it better. Mentally shrugging and then perking at the feel of their real shoulders following suit, she wandered into the ER. 

As people suddenly swarmed her, asking questions she couldn't process and grabbing her arms to drag her onto a gurney, reality kicked in harsh and fast.

She was actually alive. Everything was real and they could see and feel her and she could feel them too! Their body was alive and here. This was real.

And as relief swept into her veins and she collapsed down into the bed they provided, she felt such amazing peace that she didn't even notice as she fell asleep and straight into a coma. 

...

When sounds filtered in around her and she smelt the antiseptic and felt the tubes running through their body but still couldn't move or see. She screamed and cried and sobbed in her mind for the loss, their body horrifically failing to follow suit once again. Why couldn't this torture ever end?

[lovinlikeloki]

The Lone Wolf

Masterlist // 05

Warnings: Swearing

Word Count: 4.2k

I was in my wolf form when my cage was being opened, I looked to the twins' cells, Wanda nodded to me ever so subtly, flickered her hands slightly and I knew. It was time. The guard opened the barred door and I took my chance, I dug my claws into his chest, he began bleeding and I pushed harshly past him. I turned back to my human form and knocked him over the head hard enough to knock him out.

I took the keys to the twins' cells from his unconscious body and swung them around my left index finger. I smiled to the twins and they smiled back.

"So..." I smirked at them, "Who wants to escape from some science Nazis?"

I shoved the key into the lock of Wanda's cell and turned it, opening the door and she smiled at me, she ruffled my hair as she left the cell and we moved onto my beloved's cell. I put the key in and turned it impatiently, wanting to see him free. When the door opened he spared no time running over to me and engulfing me in his arms.

"I knew you could do it mi prințesa," he said into my hair and I pulled back from the hug.

(My princess)

"Of course, mo chroí, have I ever failed you yet?" I quirked an eyebrow at him.

(My heart)

"Enough," Wanda interrupted his answer, "You'll have time for all that when we are gone."

"She makes a point, a stór," I looked in my love's eyes before turning away.

(Darling)

"Wanda, you got the cameras in here, you have to do that before every room we enter, even then they probably know that we're escaping. Piet, I need you to get me a gun, as quick as you can, without getting caught. I'm busting us out of here and I don't care how many people's blood I spill as long as we get out alive," I order, I may be younger than them, but our escape was mostly my plan and they don't have any less respect for me because of my slight age difference.

"Got it," they replied before doing as asked. Wanda fucked with the camera in the next room and we took down the guards, Pietro picked up a gun and threw it to me, I caught it and felt the adrenaline coursing through my veins as I fiddled with the trigger.

I nodded to them and we began moving through the base. We made quick work of the guards that tried to capture us, a bullet shot here, some telekinetic intervention there, all in all it there didn't seem to be any problems.

We made it to the back exit and began leaving. That was when it happened. When we failed. When we were split up. We were running as fast as we could, leaving the god forsaken place when I turned around, just for a second, and saw Wanda missing.

"Mo ghrá, I said, "Where's Wanda?"

Pietro looked behind him and saw her gone as well, "I will find her," he told me before giving me a kiss on my forehead.

"Be quick," I told him, "Be safe. Come back to me."

"Always, malen'kaya Volchitsa."

And with that he turned and ran back to find his sister while I kept running away.

I jolt awake, sitting up and gasping for air, eyes wide. It was just a nightmare... no, not a nightmare, a memory. That day was the last I saw of them. The last I saw of him. I didn't even get to say a real goodbye. Now he's gone.

My panting and shaking awakens Wanda, she sits up slowly before taking my hands in hers. She smiles sadly at me as tears stream down my face.

"Este în regulă draga mea, ești bine, totul este în regulă," she comforts me.

(It's okay my dear, you're okay, everything's fine)

"Níl sé, níl gach rud i gceart. Tá achan rud ag titim as a chéile arís. Ní thig liom thú a fhágáil. Fuair duine againn bás an uair deirneach," I sob to her.

(It's not, everything's not okay. Everything's falling apart again. I can't leave you. One of us died last time)

"Nu, nu este. Ultima data a fost diferită. De data aceasta vom rămâne în legătură. Mi voi fi niciodată mai mult decât un telefon depart."

(No, it's not. Last time was different. This time we will stay in touch. I will never be more than a phone call away)

Phone call. Phone call. My mind sobers as I realise what must've happened back home and I haven't even taken the time for a phone call.

"I- I have to go," I say, slipping out of my mother tongue and into English, stepping out of bed and grabbing my phone.

"Where are you-" I cut Wanda off.

"I need to make a phone call."

"Fianna, it's late."

"I have to."

With that I leave the room, I don't know where to go and so I just kinda linger in the hallway, pacing back and forth. I unlock my phone and go to my contacts, I scroll until I hit it, 'Eo' it's my contact for Eoghan. It's not what I would want my father figure's number as, but I try to keep it professional so...

I hit call and wait as the phone rings. Once. Twice. And on the third he picks up. I let out a breath as he greets me.

"Hello? Fianna? Are you okay?" he asks me.

"Ye-yeah I am," I say before biting the drawstring of my hoodie, "That's a lie. I'm, I'm not okay Eoghan," I confess to him.

"Talk t' me. What's wrong?"

"I uh, I had a nightmare," I tell him, shoving my spare hand into the pocket of the hoodie.

"Okay, nightmare," he repeats and I can practically see him nodding in understanding, "Do you want to talk about it Fi, or do you just want someone to talk to?"

I shake my head, knowing he can't see it, "Talk to someone. I actually called you to, um, to apologise. I know that you probably got dragged into my mess and I wanna make sure that you and Orlaith and the rest of you are doing alright."

There's a slight hesitation before Eoghan speaks again, "What are you talking about?"

"I mean when the feds showed up... right after I busted out of the Raft," I say slowly, confused by his confusion.

"No one showed up here Mactíre," Eoghan assures me, slipping in my merc name. "I haven't a clue what you're on about. What do ye mean busted out?"

"Okay, look, when Wanda called me I was gonna fight a couple of her friends, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well basically it all went down in this airport runway. To be honest with ye there was like twelve of us all together and it looked more like a scrap between a few chavs in a Tesco car park than a fricken civil war between the Avengers."

"Okay," Eoghan laughs at that, which was my intention, because he won't be laughing in a second.

"Basically there was this thing called the Sokovia Accords, it basically bans the Avengers from fighting without their ma and da, a bunch of governments, saying they can. Mister America and his old bestie broke that rule and so they became criminals, I and some others helped and that made us all criminals."

"Heh, I'm sorry, what the fuck?" Eoghan asks in a slightly higher octave than usual, yeah, he's pissed at me.

"Yeah... and so we were sent to this superhero jail that was in the middle of the fuckin' ocean. After a couple o' days Stars and Stripes teamed up with some Emo Hello Kitty looking fella and the freakin' Black Widow to bust us out. We're staying in Wakanda right now."

"Okay... let me get this straight," Eoghan says, exasperatedly. "You, and some of America's little mascots, fought the other half of America's mascots. Then you were thrown into a jail cruise ship-"

"It wasn't quite that luxurious Eo, I had a shock collar on," I interrupt with a deadpan tone.

"You fucking what?! Let me continue, you were thrown into a submarine jail, with a shock collar on. Couple o' days later you get broken out of said submarine jail. And now you're staying in a third world country?" Eoghan questions, clearly regretting emotionally adopting me. I don't blame him either, I'm a real problem child.

"I- technically yes. But I'm not coming home is the main point here."

"Why? Why not? Fianna this place is your home, we're you family."

"You are," I agree, fiddling with the zipper of my hoodie nervously. "But if I show up back home then word will get out where I am. I don't want to endanger my family and their jobs. Trust me. Besides, I have a place to stay."

"Where? Where the hell are you staying that would be safer than here?"

"Listen, I hate it as much as you do... probably more. I'm going to New York to stay with... Stark," I sigh, stopping my fiddling.

"Stark? Why would you do that?" Eoghan asks incredulously.

"Because it'll keep us all safe. Me away from that floating ocean pokey and the feds away from you. Trust me, it's for the best."

"But Fianna, you hate him. What about what he did? Don't you remember the pain it caused you? The pain that you caused? Mactíre," he says dangerously.

"Eoghan," I say in a low voice, laced with anger, "Don't go there. I don't want to do this, but it's for the best, if it were up to me I'd be going home... or Madripoor."

"Jesus Christ," he whispers, "Right, well you'll stay in touch, that's for sure. And you'll call Orlaith in the morning, she's worried about you... Tommy too."

I perk up at that, "Tommy? How is he? Is he okay? Have they done anything to him? I swear I'll kill them if they touched a hair on his head," I fire question after question.

"Tommy's fine, he just wants to know how you are, what you're doing etc. They haven't done anything to him, not that I know of at least. Look, I'll get Orlaith to call you in the morning, she'll have Tommy with her and you can talk to them both, okay? It's getting late."

I sigh and look to the ground, "Alright, I have to go back to sleep anyways."

"Oíche mhaith, m'iníon. Go mbeadh aisling aláinn agat."

(Goodnight, my daughter. Have sweet dreams.)

"Oíche mhaith daidí, go raibh míle maith agat."

(Goodnight dad, thanks a million.)

And with that I hang up. My eyes fog over with tears and I simply let them fall. I've been crying a lot more lately; I feel like a fricken crybaby. A lot of emotions have been stirring up and I hate it, I hate the weakness that's overcoming me. I can't let myself feel so deeply, especially negatively... not after last time.

I go back into the bedroom and get into bed. I hug myself and shrink into the hoodie as best I can. It used to be Eoghan's, this hoodie, he gave it to me when I first moved into St. Marie's. I barely had anything and he just gave me the hoodie, it's definitely not perfect, it has burns around the cuffs and the zipper always gets a bit stuck halfway up, but I wouldn't give it up for anything. It's like a safety blanket for me, it makes me think of him and feel safe. After a few minutes I eventually drift off to sleep.

° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ ° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆°

I stayed in the bedroom most of the morning, on my phone messaging a tumblr mutual. Her URL is FriendlessGhost17, mine is Coilean07. We met last year, round abouts when a week into me living at St. Marie's. She lives in NYC and so it might be a good idea to talk to her in case we end up running into each other. We've facetimed and called many times but we've never actually met in person.

I say my goodbyes and sigh. Life just sucks a lot at the moment, but what can I say? That's what happens when you go down the road of off-the-books illegal experimentation, I guess.

I hear a knock on the door, "Come in," I say, not looking up from my scrolling.

"You gonna join the land of the livin' today?" I look up and see Sam, arms crossed, leaning in the doorway.

"Uh, yeah, I just- I was messaging a friend," I tell him.

"Nothing revealing though, right?" he raises an eyebrow.

"Of course not," I dismiss, "I'm not an amateur. I told her I was with my sister but have to leave her again. I don't always tell the truth, but I'm always honest. It's a fine line to walk but a good loophole to have."

Sam ventures further into the room, "So you're good at what you do, that's reassuring... I think. Look I know this isn't gonna be fun for you, staying with Stark, but sometimes that's just how it is, that's how life is."

"Not gonna be fun? You really don't know me, do you?" I laugh humourlessly.

"No, no I don't," Sam admits, shaking his head and sitting on the edge of the bed next to me.

"Well, essentially Stark has hurt everyone I love and, I can hold a grudge like nobody's business. It's not just gonna be 'not fun' it's gonna feel like a betrayal. But I don't wanna focus on that, I wanna enjoy my time before I go to that stuck-up, narcissistic ass."

Sam smiles for a second, "You know, Steve would be disappointed if he heard that kinda language out of you."

I raise an eyebrow, "He was in the army and from the 40s, I'm sure he has no room to talk. I bet people make assumptions and he just doesn't dispute them. I bet his birthday isn't even the fourth of July, someone assumed it was and now he lives in fear of anyone finding his birth certificate."

Sam laughed out loud at that and I had to join him, I've been on tumblr long enough to have to many thoughts about America's favourite boy scout. Sam and I talk for a while, about Steve, about Wanda, I even get some stories about his old days in the army. He tells me about the missions he flew and I learn more about his wings. Then he tells me how he met Steve and Natasha.

"So he, he lapped you how many times?" I ask incredulously.

"Thirteen. He lapped me thirteen times! And he kept saying 'on your left' to like warn me he was lapping me, like it felt like he was doing it on purpose," Sam scowls.

"He probably was, I mean I read about him a bit in school and apparently he was always a little shit, he just got away with it since he was a stick and had like every illness to ever exist in the 30s," I tell him.

"Maybe," Sam says, "But yeah, that's how we met. And then a few days later he shows up at my house with Natasha and tells me 'everyone we know is tryna kill us' like no hellos, no 'how are you's, just straight to the point."

"And you just let them in?" I cock an eyebrow.

"Well yeah, Captain America shows up at your door, what are you not gonna let him in?"

"It would make a pretty funny story don't you think? 'Captain America and Black Widow showed up at my house and I turned them down.' I think that'd be hilarious. But naw, I'd let them in surely."

Then there's a vibration from my phone. I look at the screen as it lights up and see that Orlaith sent me a snap.

I look back up to continue the conversation with Sam but he shakes his head.

"You can talk to your friends, don't worry. I just talked your ear off for the last hour or so, you can get back to your friend now," he tells me.

I smile at him softly, "Thanks Sam. And this talk was good, by the way, you didn't talk my ear off. You distracted me and I appreciate it."

He gets off the bed and turns to me, "That used to be my job you know, helping other Vets with PTSD. I thought you'd prefer to be distracted than reminded of what's happening and so I just catered to that rather than pushing you."

"Really Sam, thank you. But now I gotta have a difficult conversation about what's happening so... I guess I can't put it off any longer," I sigh.

"Good luck, Fianna, you can do this," Sam tells me before leaving and closing the door.

I open the message from Orlaith.

I find Orlaith's number in my contact list and hit call.

It only takes one ring and she picks up, "Hiiii, how did it go?"

"It went good Orlaith," I tell her, a smile already on my face from hearing her voice. "And I got to see Wands again which has done me wonders, really."

"That's great to hear, oh and you're on speaker," Orlaith tells me.

"Hey Fi," I hear Tommy's voice and I nearly start crying.

"Mo dearthair bheag Tommy, ta sé ar dóigh le do guth a cloisteáil arís. Cad é mar atá tú, coiléan bheag?" I ask, slipping into my first language after hearing my baby brother's voice for the first time in a couple weeks.

(My little brother Tommy, how amazing it is to hear your voice again. How are you, little pup?"

"Táim I gceart, Mactíre," he mocks, "Agus an miste leat gan ag cuir sin orm? Ní páiste mé níos mó!"

(I'm fine, Mactíre. And do you mind not calling me that? I'm not a kid anymore!)

"Ach is páiste thú dom. Bheul, ar a laghad is dearthair bheag s'agam thú. Má chuireann sé isteach ort an méid sin, stadfaidh mé."

(But you're a kid to me. Well, you're my little brother at least. If it annoys you that much I'll stop.)

"Hey! Is grá liom go bhfuil sibh in ann labhairt le chéile ach tá mise anseo fostaaa!" Orlaith butts in.

(Hey! I love that you're able to talk but I'm here toooo!)

"Ceart go leor, sionnach," Tommy says, "Cad é ar mhaith leat a labhairt faoi?"

(Fine, Fox. What would you like to talk about?)

"First of all, that nickname is so old, like first year old. And that was like four years ago. Anyway, let's start with where your big sis is? Huh, how about that?" Orlaith begins, slipping back into English.

"Well... I may or may not be in the palace of Wakanda," I reveal. I can trust them, they won't tell.

"You're where?" Tommy questions.

"Wakanda."

"Get de fuck!" he exclaims.

"I'm not messing Tom. And I'm not staying here much longer either."

"You're coming back home again?" Orlaith asks.

"Not- not exactly, Orls," I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to figure out a way to tell them, to tell Tommy that I'm not coming home. "I'm going to New York, I'm going to New York, a thaisce, and I have to stay with Stark."

(Love {term of endearment})

"With- With Stark as in Tony Stark?" Orlaith asks.

"As in the one who you despise with a burning passion?" Tommy adds on.

"Yeah, that's, that would be him," I sigh.

"How are you- How will he survive that?" Tommy asks.

"Why do you have to go to that cunt?" Orlaith questions at the same time.

"Orlaith!" I hear Eoghan scolding her in the background, they must be at St. Marie's.

"Sorry Eoghan, sorry Tommy," Orlaith apologises.

"Hey Eoghan," I say into the phone.

"Hey Fia, I'm just making sure these two got through de ye. I still think ye should be here, but never mind me, keep yer chin up, I'll talk de ye later," he tells me, his parental feelings slipping through the professional mask he tries to wear.

"Of course Eo, we'll talk later," I reassure.

"I have de leave now, Liam's looking another pint," he tells me.

"Bye Eoghannnn," I sing.

"Goodbye Fianna."

"Well, back to our conversation," Tommy says, "Why are you going de Stark of all people?"

"Essentially I might have accidentally made myself an international criminal when helping Wands," I say, my voice raising octaves as I speak.

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the wee donkey they rode in on. How did ye manage that Fianna?" Tommy asks incredulously.

"Tomás Ronan McConnell!" I reprimand. "What have I tol' you about blasphemy?"

"Not to," he grumbles.

"Exactly, so would you like to rephrase that?" I raise an eyebrow and I know he can feel it through the phone.

"How did you manage de be a criminal helping your sister?" he rephrases the question.

I smile at Tommy calling Wanda my sister, he might never have met her but he still considers her my sister, and even his in a way.

"Look, it was just a job gone wrong. It's not even... it's not my choice, I have de go t' Stark because he can protect me from the Feds. But... I won't be with him for long," I lie. I don't want to lie, but I need to protect them, if they think I'm coming back then they won't take it so hard.

"Right, well ye better get back soon okay? I miss my bitch of a big sister!" Tommy tells me and tears prick my eyes.

"Yeah, yeah I'll be back soon," I nod, tears falling as I keep my voice steady, "And when I get back we're spending the whole day together, I don't care what Erin and Shéa have to say about it."

"All three of us," Orlaith adds, "And we're gonna have the best time, right? We'll go to The Amusements and we'll go de the cinema and we'll go to Foyleside and just spend the whole day together.

"We will," the tears falling with ease but I keep my voice level, "God, I can't wait to see you two again. When I get back yous'll be sick of me, clinging de yous like a wane."

There's a beat of silence as we think about that day... the day that won't come for a long time. Not that they know that. It still hurts though; I miss my brother and my best friend. But no more tears, I wipe them away and clear my throat.

"We have to go," Orlaith says guiltily. "Mam is looking me back in ten minutes and Tommy needs to get back before they realise how long he's been gone."

"Okay, okay," I inhale sharply "Slán Tommy, slán Orlaith. Is grá liom sibh béirt le mo chroí iomlán. Feicfidh mé sibh gan mhoill, yeah?"

"Slán Fianna, is grá liom thú. Feicfidh mé thú níos moille," Orlaith says.

"Slán Fianna, chonaic mé thú níos moille. Is grá liom thú," Tommy says and I laugh a little.

"Bye," I say and I hang up.

I hear a knock at the door and wipe my tears quickly, erasing any evidence of my crying. I tell them to come in and it's Bucky. We haven't really spoken much, between not knowing each other and wanting to stay close to the ones we're leaving we haven't had the time to bond, I guess.

"Hey," he says timidly, staying in the doorway.

"Hey," I reply, just as timid.

"The others are discussing their plans, I think everyone's moving out tomorrow," he informs me.

"Okay, thanks for letting me know," I say, putting my phone in my hoodie pocket before standing and making my way to leave the room.

[lia-jones]

Growing Together - Chapter Twelve - Father Material

The last injection was one of the worst Victor had had so far. He felt feverish, his stomach churning, angry, revolting against itself. But he knew what would happen should he vomit, so he did his best to keep whatever gunk they gave him that morning inside him.

This time they put them all together in a room, a lady coming in now and then to check their temperatures. He noticed a small boy, probably four or five years old, weeping in the corner of the room. He hadn’t seen any of these kids before, this was obviously their first week there, but they already knew better than to comfort the small boy.

The boy tossed and turned, hands rubbing his tummy, occasionally moaning in pain. Victor immediately understood what was wrong. The injection was making him want to go too.

“Don’t do it here. If you do, they will hurt you.” He whispered to the kid, but his voice was so strained and low from his own suffering that he wasn’t sure if the kid was able to hear it.

And sure enough, a few minutes later, the kid turned to the wall sobbing loudly, his grey sweatpants wet with a brown stain, the room suddenly filled with a putrid smell. Something inside Victor snapped. In seconds he lost all sense of self-preservation, and before he noticed, he was by the kid’s side, stroking his back.

“It’s ok, it won’t be so bad.” He tried to console the kid. “They’ll probably go easy on you because you’re small.”

“What do we have here?” Came the guard, poking the boy with his stun baton to tease him.

The boy’s sobs only grew louder, as he shook in fear. Probably not his first encounter with that baton.

“He didn’t do it on purpose.” Victor intervened. “He’s sick and scared. Please don’t hurt him.”

“Oh but you see, I turned it on already.” He touched Victor’s nose with his baton, the blue light in the tip looking ominous. “What should I do with it?”

Before Victor could answer, the guard hit him right in the gut with his stick, tasing him. Immediately he lost all the strength he had left in his body and dropped on the floor, the contents of his stomach leaving his body, gushing from his mouth and nose. Victor coughed, trying hard not to choke on his own vomit, as the guard chuckled, playfully patting him on the back.

“Look at you, so strong, trying to be a hero.” The guard teased him. “Everybody knows who you are. Mommy and Daddy aren’t coming to save you, maggot. Here, you are just an orphan, and your parents are as good as dead.”

Victor closed his eyes tightly, not wanting the guard to see him cry.

“And tonight, my little boy, me and my baton will pay you a visit.” Victor opened up his eyes to meet an evil grin. “We are having a little slumber party.”

The baton snapped again on his chest.

“Did you hear what I said?” He felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder. He found himself back in the orphanage’s Director’s office, and beside him was the woman he loved. He was safe.

“Yes, it’s taking too long.” He guessed. “Don’t worry, this is just a formality. We were already accepted as Owen’s adoptive parents.”

Right on cue, they heard the office’s door open.

“I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, we have a new child that is having a hard time adapting. I want to thank you for being here. I was very pleased to know you want to continue with Owen’s adoption.” The director shook our hands and took a seat in front of us. “However, I feel there is a need to discuss this a little further.”

“Why, what’s wrong?” Andrea fidgeted in her seat.

"Please understand that most of these children have arrived here due to very dire circumstances. Although he's only four, Owen is no exception. It's rare to see a child go through so much at such a young age."

“What do you mean?” Victor asked. Owen looked like a fairly happy child. At least, as happy as one can get living at an orphanage.

"Owen's mother took her own life, she hung herself on a pillar of their old house. The police told us that they found Owen, desperate, trying to pull his mother down. He was alone, his stepfather nowhere to be found. He also presented bruises all over his body. We believe he lived in a very toxic environment and was a victim of abuse." The director declared with a heavy voice.

“Oh my-” Andrea jumped from her seat, covering her mouth. Victor had no idea of what to say. No child should have to go through that.

“We inserted him in a foster family as soon as we could. Children are resilient at this age, and we believed that the sooner Owen was in a loving family, the faster he would move on from that horrible experience. But unfortunately, it didn’t go quite as we expected.” Miss Dillon sat straighter on her chair. “You see, Owen is a very bright child who has seen quite enough. Not many adults can deal with that. But my hope is with you, things will be different. You understand what trauma can do to a child.”

Andrea fidgeted on her chair nervously, remembering her trauma printed all over the tabloids.

“She means me.” Victor confessed, his poker face instinctively on.

Andrea looked at him with wide eyes, astonished with his confession.

“When I was rescued from the orphanage, Miss Dillon was there.” He explained. “She was the one that stayed with me until my father came to pick me up.”

Andrea’s jaw dropped and she remained silent, not knowing what to say.

“I still have nightmares of the atrocities I saw in that God-forsaken place.” The Director’s smile fell into a disgusted frown. “I can only imagine how hard it was for Victor to cope with it all.” She gave him a weak smile. “But now, it can serve as something good. Owen will finally have a family that can understand him and help him the way he needs.”

Victor nodded silently. She was right, but for him, it didn't feel good at all. There’s no measure to what he would have given not to have gone through that, or not to have Owen go through losing his only family in such a horrible way.

“Where do we sign?” He finally spoke. “And when is Owen coming home?”

“Well, we should give you some time to prepare a room-”

“It’s ready.” Victor and his wife spoke in unison.

“Then I guess there’s no point in delaying any further.” Miss Dillon got up from her chair. “You can pick him up next Saturday, after lunch.”

Back in the car, Andrea was silent. Victor didn’t need to ask why, he had blindsided her, by concealing the true nature of his relationship with that orphanage. Miss Dillon was one of the few good outcomes of that incident. Seeing children unprotected in such a manner, and subject to such horrifying actions, Miss Dillon had quit her practice as a child therapist and collected as much as she could from benefactors to open her own orphanage, with the solemn promise that if it depended on her, no child would be forsaken. When Victor saw her again, decades later, they were barely scraping by. He used his money and influence to help the orphanage and would make frequent donations to ensure it ran properly.

"I'm sorry.” He sighed. He had his reasons to keep her out of the loop, but this wasn’t fair on her either. Andrea was his wife, he was supposed to share everything with her. Even the things that were too painful to share.

“You don’t need to be.” She looked at him with earnest eyes, yet she didn’t smile.

“I do.” He looked away from her. “I should have told you right away, I-”

“Victor, when we first spoke about it you told me you hadn’t revealed the whole truth, because it was hard to.” She held his hand on the gearshift. “I understand why you didn't tell me about Miss Dillon at first. You didn’t deceive me. You were very clear it would be this way.”

“Why are you being so understanding?” He frowned. “I thought you’d be angry.”

“Ok, listen, I’m not going to say it doesn’t hurt a little that there are things about you that I don’t know.” Her voice was pained, and he looked at her again, worried. “But I also know this is hard on you. So, even if I don’t fully understand, I’ll support you.”

Victor took his wife’s hand lovingly.

“Thank you.” He smiled slightly. “I didn’t mean to upset you, it just didn’t seem relevant.”

“I’m more worried about Owen, honestly.” She leaned on her seat with a sigh. “He’s been through a lot.”

Victor had plenty in his heart to let out about that subject, but he chose silence instead, as he drove them to their home.

“Are you studying those again?” Andrea pointed to his books on the nightstand, as they were going to bed.

“There’s a last one that I didn’t finish.” Victor picked it up and showed it to his wife. “Knowledge is power.”

“We’ll be fine.” She sighed while she pulled the covers to enter the bed, by his side. “You don’t need to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.” He opened the book to the page marked by one of Andrea’s post-its. “I just like to be prepared.”

“Fair enough.” She turned off the light from her nightstand and crawled under the comforter. “I am going to go straight to sleep, I’m beat. Have fun with your books.” She turned to the other side.

“Where are you going?” He pulled her arm. “Come here. Rest your head on my chest.”

Andrea immediately turned to him, coming closer.

“That is much better, you’re warm.” She snuggled against him. “Are you sure you can read with me on you?”

“Wouldn’t I say so if I couldn’t?” He answered flatly, as he snaked his arm under her.

“Ok, ok, I’m here.” She defended herself, nuzzling his chest. “Grumpy.”

He kissed the top of her hair, his hand caressing her curls.

“Better?” He asked with a softer voice.

“So much better.” She looked up to him, and, understanding her cue, he pecked her lips. “Goodnight, handsome.”

“Goodnight, my light.” Victor turned to his book again.

Although it may seem a good idea to parents to give their children as many toys as they can have, even educational ones, they are depriving the child of the biggest satisfaction in life: to earn things. The very fact that they can earn something by working for it, e.g. by cleaning their room or setting the table, gives the child a sense of confidence and self-esteem that praise alone cannot provide.

“Do you think Owen has too many toys?” Victor frowned.

“Humm?” Andrea sighed sleepily.

“Nothing.” He pecked her head again, chuckling. “Go back to sleep.”

Victor closed his book, lost in thought. He had never considered that Owen could have too much and that it would hinder his development. He had had everything and that didn’t seem to affect him much. Victor never cared much about what he had. He liked the horses and some books his father gave him, but what Victor craved most from his parents wasn’t gifts. It was affection.

For some reason, his mind wandered to a particular moment in his childhood, when he found himself staring at the door of his father's study, wondering if he should knock.

“What do you need? Be quick.” His father spoke, not taking his eyes from some document he was reading.

Victor scraped the tip of his shoe on the carpet lightly.

“A child shouldn’t waste an adult's time.” His father reprimanded. “If it’s not important it can wait till dinner.”

It wouldn’t be important in his father’s eyes, but Victor knew his father would probably not be there for dinner.

“Do you know anything about the girl? And the other kids?” He asked in a weak voice. The nightmares wouldn’t let him sleep, maybe some information could ease his mind.

“What girl?” His father wrote a note on the document he was reading.

“The girl from the orphanage.” Victor tried again. “The one that saved my life.”

His father looked at him for the first time since he entered the study, his eyes full of contempt.

“You are never to speak about that day again, do you hear me? It upsets your mother.” His father turned again to the document. “And the girl you mention is dead. She didn’t survive.”

Victor’s heart broke with guilt. Mia was dead, trying to save him. Someone had died because of him. It was supposed to be him, not her. She was so little and fragile, and now she was dead. All because he was careless. This was all his fault. The walls of his father’s study spun, and Victor had to take a step back to steady himself.

“No, she can’t be.” Victor’s voice trembled, tears escaping his eyes. “She can’t be dead! You’re lying!”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Apart from his disgusted glance, his father seemed unaffected by his antics. “Lee men don’t cry. Now go make yourself useful and study. You need to be prepared for boarding school next week. Stop staining my carpet.”

He found himself back in his room, his loving wife still in his arms, but his heart was still in his father’s study, staining the carpet with tears. Pictures of his childhood flooded his brain, all those times he tried to please his father and he couldn’t, all those times he craved his father’s love, only to leave empty-handed. He held his wife tighter as she slept and inhaled deeply her perfume, trying to remind himself that he was a married man now, that he was happy, a far cry from the boy he once was. He was loved, and he had conquered the life that he used to fear.

He closed his eyes and felt her warmth, his fingers memorizing every detail of her skin and her curls, his ears mystified as she let out a sleepy sigh, thanking him for his love, and the memories faded away, one by one. However, the worry remained.

Some adults could be oblivious to the real responsibility of becoming a parent, but Victor wasn’t. Raising a child was an extremely important matter, especially for someone with Owen’s background, who had seen evil at such a tender age. Owen deserved the very best, and Andrea deserved the ideal husband and father by her side. But this wasn’t a business meeting, something that Victor could tackle with facts and figures alone. This particular task required feelings, and the knowledge of what it’s like to be in a family. Victor had a father and a mother, but he never had a family. He had progenitors, but not parents, not really. Well, he had his mother, but even so it was only for a short period of his life. His kidnappers had taken everything else away.

So how could he be a good father, if he didn’t have the faintest idea of how to be one? Even worse, what if he became his own father? He remembered how his father could be to his staff, he remembered how he acted, cold and dismissive, and it dawned on him that he was the same way. He remembered how his father’s employees looked at his father, with this blend of fear and respect, and wasn’t that exactly the way his staff looked at him? He blamed his father for so many things, but what if the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree? What if, even unwillingly, he would treat his son the same way?

Andrea had a good loving family, she didn’t have this problem. Her team loved her; they brought cookies on Fridays and had pizza together whenever Victor had a meeting and couldn’t pick her up for lunch. Andrea knew things like how to play hide and seek, and how to roast the perfect marshmallow with a candle, and what candies were the best. They went to the toy store and immediately she filled a basket with her childhood favorite things: some books, some playdoh, legos, and a slinky. She played with the slinky as they roamed through the store, Victor finding it insufferable, but that was his flaw, not hers. He did not understand what slinkies meant to a child; she did.

So what was his solution? The same as his father’s. The affection he didn’t know how to provide, Victor had compensated for in advance with toys, purchasing every educational toy he put his eyes on. As his father would, and had. Victor got everything he wanted, except for love. And he was doing the same thing already for his son. The thought disgusted him.

Victor left the bed carefully, trying not to wake Andrea up, going to Owen’s room. Although he had painted the walls of his son’s room himself, although he had decorated everything with the meticulous care of a loving father, all he could see now was ostentation, and it horrified him. Toys to fill the hole Victor would no doubt leave in his son’s heart. He couldn’t help but feel dirty. Not only was he being a lousy and lazy father, throwing money at everything, he was stunting his son’s development. That was despicable.

He started removing most of the toys from the shelves, leaving only the ones Andrea had picked. He would need to discuss it more thoroughly with Andrea later, but for now, he needed to make sure he wasn't doing anything wrong. He then looked at Owen's bookshelf, asking himself if all the books he had picked were age appropriate, even if on the cover it said so. Skimming through each one of them, Victor asked himself if stories of killing a wolf could lead to an adult that did not respect animals, or if reading about kissing a sleeping princess would teach Owen to love without consent. Soon he was surrounded by books and toys, frantically going through all of them, his mind reeling as he tried to discern the best options to keep.

His frenzy was interrupted by his wife's sleepy voice.

“What are you doing?” He turned to see her rubbing her eyes. "It's four AM.”

“Go back to bed, it’s cold.” He turned to her. “I just have to organize these, I will join you in a minute.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to do it in the morning. Come back to bed.” She came closer and held his hand, pulling him towards the door.

“I want to do it now!” He pulled away, grimacing as he observed his own reaction. “I just want to organize this, you don’t need to worry about me. I need to make sure everything is in order. Go back to bed.”

“Victor, Owen won’t care if his books are not alphabetically ordered.” Andrea looked at him with worry. He knew she meant well, but that only infuriated him more.

“Then what will he care about?!?” He felt himself snap again. “This is all I know how to do.” Holding a stuffed toy, he sat on the bed. “I’m terrible at everything else.”

Victor stared at the toy in his hands as he tried to keep himself in check. He hated when his feelings got the best of him, but he hated even more that he woke his wife up, and now she felt the need to comfort him. He abhorred being a nuisance.

Victor felt Andrea’s arms tighten their grip around his chest. He held her hands. They were cold.

“Do you want to catch a cold? You’re freezing.” He turned around, trying to pull her to his lap. “Come here, I’ll keep you warm.”

In a matter of seconds, Victor had successfully placed her in his lap, her arms resting on his shoulders, fingers running through his hair. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to talk.

“Are you going to tell me what’s upsetting you?” She pressed.

“I don’t know if I can do this.” He wouldn’t dare look her in the eye, shame consuming him.

“You want to quit?!?” Andrea jumped in his lap, alarmed.

“No, I don’t want to quit.” He was offended. “I would never do that, especially with something so important. What I mean to say is that I feel unprepared.”

“No parent is prepared, Victor.”

“Spare me the clichés, you know what I mean.” He snapped, exasperated. “You know my family, you know how my childhood was.” He hesitated for a second, sharing insecurities wasn’t his thing. But this was his wife. He had to be truthful. “What if I’m just like my father? What if I’m not cut out to be a father? Owen has been through so much already, he deserves good loving parents. What if I can’t be any of those things?”

“Nonsense.” She chuckled. “Of course you are lo-”

“You didn’t like me when we first met.” He interrupted her, defying her. “Not for a long time.”

“That was before I knew you.”

“You had all those nicknames for me.” He frowned at her. “King of Highhorseland. You called me a bully.”

"But now I know better. I know who you truly are, and I know I was mistaken."

“You are kind, you see the best in me.” He caressed her curls. “I have to admit sometimes I question if I really do have all those qualities you see in me.”

“Victor…”

“I’m not good at expressing feelings in a way most people understand. I can also be cold and dismissive. Most people find me unpleasant to be with. Do you think those are traits a good parent has? What if I can’t be loving and caring in the way Owen needs? All I know how to do is to organize and buy him things. Just like my father did.”

“Ok, let me just set something straight.” Andrea turned to him in all seriousness. “You are one of, if not the, most caring person I have ever met. You are upset and still all you could be concerned about a few moments ago was that I was getting cold, and here I am in your arms now.”

Victor’s gaze turned to the floor again. Again, she was seeing the best in him, ignoring all the blatant flaws he had. She held his face, making him look her in the eyes.

"You are nothing like your father. You will be an excellent father to Owen and you will be able to understand his needs even more than I will because you had those very same needs. You'll be able to relate in ways I can't possibly ." She came closer, her nose almost touching his. "Do you know why I also think you'll be extremely caring? Because parents that don't give a crap don't waste time late at night wondering if they will be good parents."

Victor lifted a hand to her face. That light she had in her eyes, that beautiful light that warmed him, that could dissolve any ice wall in a heartbeat, he wished he had it. That light could do miracles.

She got out of his lap, sitting close to the headboard.

“Come, lean on me.”

“It’s alright, you don’t need to do this.” He instantly refuted.

“Victor Lee, will you let me be a good wife and take care of my husband?” She pretended to scold him. “Come.”

“I’m too heavy, I will probably crush you.” Despite his protest, he obediently entered the comfort of her arms, his head leaning on her chest, but still worried. “Let me know if you have trouble breathing.”

“You are not as big as you think.” She teased, earning from him a chuckle.

He had to admit, being in her arms and listening to her heartbeat was amazingly comforting. Her fingers ran through his hair, calming and nurturing, and for a moment he forgot his anxiety, and just watched the sun start to rise through the window. When his mind was still, he finally listened to his heart. The love he felt for his family would make up for any lack of experience he would have. This was him treading uncharted territory, like so many times before in his life, but this time he wasn’t alone. Along with his heart was another heartbeat, sweet and steady, the one he was hearing now.

“Thank you.” He whispered shyly, expecting a teasing remark .

None came. When he looked up, he saw the love of his life sleeping soundly, her fingers still threaded in his hair. Victor could almost laugh at the sight. He should've known she would fall asleep.

Slowly and carefully so as not to wake her up, he gathered her in his arms and cradled her to bed. It was indeed pleasant to be taken care of, but he liked it so much better this way, protecting her.

Author’s note: If you liked it, don’t forget to share your thoughts with me! It always brings warmth to my heart! And my ASK box is open! I love talking and hearing from you, beautiful people! Lots of love!

[roman-writing]

you search the mountain (5/6)

Fandom: World of Warcraft

Pairing: Jaina Proudmore / Sylvanas Windrunner

Rating: M

Wordcount: 21,557

Summary: The borders of Kul Tiras are closed to all outsiders. Sylvanas, Banshee Queen, hopes to use the impending civil war in Boralus to her advantage, and thereby lure Kul Tiras to the side of the Horde. A Drust AU

Content Advisory: horror, blood, gore, typical Drustvar spooky deer shit

read it below the cut, or you can read it here on AO3

On the road to Watermill Hill, it began to snow. Sylvanas could smell it before it arrived. The sky grew heavy and grey. The first flakes dusted the shoulders of the troops. They cottoned onto buff coats and helms, onto cuirasses and the curve of pauldrons. The fields were blanketed, and the boughs of trees began to sag beneath the additional weight. Slowly, the land went quiet and white, until the stamp of feet and horse's hooves faded to a shadow of itself, until the mountains to the west were utterly shrouded from sight, until not even the heavy carts pulled by teams of oxen could churn together the snow and mud, so that the world seemed pall-wrapt. 

It was deep enough that it cast a strange spell over Drustvar, but not so deep that it deterred their march. The long line of troops headed ever northward. They had left behind a garrison at Barrowknoll, but only as few as they could spare. Most of the troops were all they would have for the winter ahead and the battles that awaited them. Yet even the thunderous march of an army faded beneath the weight of snow in the air and on the ground, until they walked, ghost-like, through the pale haze of the earth.

By the time they reached the river south of Fallhaven on the second day, the snow had lost all of its charm. More often than not, Sylvanas could hear the grumblings of soldiers as they pitched their tents at night. They would rub their gloved hands together and stamp their feet, cursing the temperature which lowered with every passing day. 

In her opinion, it was an improvement on the constant rain. But it would not last that way for long. Soon, the snow would freeze. The icy winds would come racing down from the glacial spine of Drustvar. The horses would starve first. The living would eat them. And then the oxen. And then -- well. That was a gruesome thought. They were far from that point yet. And if Jaina were to be believed, they would not want for food. 

The river between them and Fallhaven was broad and deep and brackish. It washed directly out to sea due east. Through the drift of snow, Sylvanas could make out the shape of canvas sheets. The masts of Ashvane merchant ships modified for war raked against the pale grey sky. There were five of them anchored in the river, choking any relief to Fallhaven by water. More ships still were stationed at Carver's Harbour, controlling the inlet to Fallhaven. Where once there had been a bridge on the westernmost end of the river, there now was nothing but smoke-blackened stumps poking out of the fast-flowing water. Without ships of their own, they would need to spend more time going all the way around to find a suitable fording spot west of their current position. 

Had this been summer, Sylvanas might have been tempted to order a bridge to be built. But summer was a distant memory, now. The city of Fallhaven itself wasn't much of a city to begin with. Its most prominent features were its belltower commanding the city square near the river, and the squat stone walls that surrounded the city's entire perimeter. It had been built with a siege in mind, commanding the river and surrounded by rolling farmland for miles around. It was the breadbasket of Drustvar. Normally, shipments of grain would sail out to the rest of Kul Tiras from the river, but the Ashvane fleet had made quick work of that. The only ground near enough to threaten it was a rise to the northeast, which Sylvanas could just make out over the top of the city if she stood up in her stirrups and craned her neck.

"It looks so peaceful, doesn't it?" Lucille said, seated on her own horse not far off. "One could almost be fooled into thinking it wasn't under siege."

"Mmm," said Sylvanas noncommittally. 

She guided her skeletal mount along the road, while Lucille rode beside her. To Sylvanas' left rode Velonara on a dark horse that looked almost exactly like Lucille's but for its white-socked legs. The three of them traveled midway along with the army, neither front and center, nor bringing up the rear. A group of Forsaken soldiers trailed after Sylvanas, whilst Kul Tiran guardsmen followed in Lucille's wake bearing the banners of House Waycrest, emblazoned with a grey falcon. 

"I can remember the first time I came to Fallhaven. I was only seven," Lucille continued blithely on. "Even then, Cyril White was in charge. A Proudmoore man through and through. He had just left a position in the Navy serving under Daelin, and my mother endorsed him as Lord Mayor of Fallhaven as a show of goodwill between our two Houses." Lucille sighed, shifting her reins between her hands. "How times change."

"Hmm," Sylvanas said again. 

Velonara remained completely silent. She rode with one leg swung idly over the saddle as though sitting half cross-legged. A small glass vial of varnish was balanced in the crook of her knee. In one hand she was wielding a small brush, which she dipped into the vial and then stroked along her fingernails to apply a careful coat of blood red paint. How she managed to not smear herself with the stuff while she rode a horse was a complete mystery. 

"Cyril's father's family are good sturdy yeoman stock," said Lucille. "Very popular with the demographic in this area. Primarily farmers, really. He made a good move by marrying into the White family, who are the local lords -- minor cousins of mine, in fact. Though more closely related to the Greys of Katherine's family, who hail further south in Fletcher's Hollow. Both of them share the same family motto, strangely enough. ‘Freely we serve.’" 

"Mmm." Sylvanas made a small gesture with her hand, a Ranger symbol to try to get Velonara's attention, but Velonara was too busy blowing on her nails to dry them. 

"So, of course, being rather politically ambitious himself, Cyril gave up his father's name and decided to adopt his mother's line for the titles and prestige. Though from what I understand he was a great success in the Navy through force of character alone. Titles tend these things, of course. One never goes beyond Captain without some sort of patronage." 

Ever since that night at Barrowknoll three days ago, Lucille had somehow gotten it into her head that she and Sylvanas were now close friends. This rather inconvenient liberty was only exacerbated by the fact that Katherine was cross with the whole lot of them, after discovering that both Lucille and Sylvanas had known about Jaina’s true identity without telling her. Where once Lucille would have ridden at Katherine’s side, now she haunted either Sylvanas or Jaina’s footsteps. After three days of unending lectures about Drustvar’s political families and constitutional climates, Sylvanas was just about ready to jump into the river. 

“Velonara,” Sylvanas turned to her Ranger. “Didn’t you say something about how the High Thornspeaker wished to speak with the Lord Admiral and Lady Waycrest?”

“Oh?” Lucille glanced over her shoulder, looking for Katherine. She had a sudden anxious air about her at the thought. 

Sylvanas nodded. “Yes. I distinctly remember it. I believe it had something to do with changes to land laws and ownership structures after the war.”

That certainly got Lucille’s attention. For all her nerves where the Lord Admiral was concerned, her expression hardened somewhat. She began tugging at the reins of her horse. “That sounds like it requires my attention. Excuse me. I will be back shortly.” 

Sylvanas waited until Lucille had ridden off, before she rounded on Velonara with a glare. “Why didn’t you save me?”

Velonara pretended not to have heard, and continued painstakingly painting her nails.  

“You are heartless,” Sylvanas accused in a complete deadpan tone. 

“Consider this your just reward, my Queen,” Velonara countered. She lifted her hand in front of her face to inspect her work, then lowered it back down to her thigh for another coat. “Now you know what I’ve had to deal with ever since you assigned me to watch her.” 

“I have learned the error of my ways. Have pity on me.” 

“Give it a few more days. She hasn’t even told you about her deepest darkest fears yet.”

“Which are?” 

“Being killed by her mother and raised to serve her in undeath. Which, I’ve been told, was a real threat at one point in time.”

“My my,” Sylvanas murmured, looking over her shoulder after Lucille. “It seems we have more in common with our dear Lady Waycrest than previously thought. What a horrifying concept.” 

Fortunately for them, Sylvanas had not been lying when she’d said that Jaina wanted to speak with Katherine and Lucille about land reforms. Lucille did not return for hours. As the army marched past the burned bridge, Sylvanas made a disgruntled noise. 

“This will add another three days to our trip,” she said. “What a nuisance.” 

Velonara had long since finished her nails, and was now looking utterly bored. “Don’t worry, my Queen. That just means there’s more time for Lady Waycrest to kindly regale us with local history. She’s a wonderfully thoughtful hostess like that.”

Sylvanas groaned. 

--

It was a long march around the river. Fallhaven faded into the distance, obscured by snow, until only the mountains to the west loomed. Sylvanas managed to elude Lucille for most of the day, slipping away when the army made camp to her own tent and staying there as night fell. The Forsaken kept the night watch, allowing the living to sleep. 

Sylvanas herself worked through to the morning. She did not bother with amenities in her tent apart from a foldable desk and a few chairs. She needed nothing else. When dawn began to inch over the horizon, grey and flecked with the promise of more snow, Nathanos entered her tent with a parcel of missives. Without comment, he crossed the space and handed them over. She took them, leaning back in her chair to begin perusing the latest reports. 

“Anything good?” she asked as she ran her thumb beneath the seal of a letter from Orgrimmar to break the red wax. 

“Second from the top,” Nathanos answered. 

She set the unread letter from Orgrimmar aside and turned over a small bit of folded up parchment. Unfurling the page, her eyes scanned the few lines hastily scrawled onto the note. With every sentence her eyebrows crept higher up her brow, and she sat a little straighter until she was resting her elbows upon the desk, reading avidly. 

“Well, well.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she set down the piece of parchment. “I must admit. I am impressed. Who would have thought our new Zandalari friends would be so efficient?” 

“I believe their Princess is rather keen to make an impression,” said Nathanos. 

“And she has succeeded.” 

Sylvanas tapped her finger against the parchment thoughtfully. The ships from Zandalar would be arriving at Fallhaven almost a week early. She laughed softly. “They might just beat us there, you know.”

“You always did prefer arriving to events fashionably late.”

A shadowy chuckle escaped her at that. “And they’re sure they weren’t spotted by Stormsong’s insurgents?” 

Nathanos nodded firmly. “Indeed. They are small force. Only five ships. And I understand they have a talented young shaman aboard one of them, who was able to shroud them in a fog as they sailed up the Sounds.” 

“I hope you have more good news for me,” she said, picking up the next letter.

Clearing his throat delicately, Nathanos gave a slight shake of his head. 

“Go on,” she ordered.

“As of last night the Ashvane forces have begun their assault of Watermill Hill.”

With a grunt, Sylvanas broke the seal of the next letter and began to unfold the parchment. Her eyes were already scanning the page. “As was expected,” she murmured. “I am amazed they did not begin sooner. I would have taken it a month ago.” 

“Not everyone has the resources or expertise you do, my Queen.”

“That much is clear.” She glanced at him over the top of the page. “Anything else?”

Nathanos shook his head. “No. Nothing of much interest. The usual. Trade deals. A Mak’gora was called in Orgrimmar to settle a border dispute between two parties.”

“Anyone whose death would be inconvenient for me?”

“No.”

“Good.” Sylvanas waved a dismissive hand at him, and with a bow he left.

--

The next few days passed without further incident. The army crossed the river at last, taking care not to freeze on the way, and marched back east towards Fallhaven until the city crept over the hills. The morning before they were set to arrive at Watermill Hill, both Anya and Nathanos entered Sylvanas’ tent this time, their expressions harried.

Sylvanas had her feet propped up on a corner of the desk. A light dusting of snow on Anya and Nathanos’ shoulders told her that it was already snowing again outside. Or perhaps it had never stopped, snow drifting lazily down straight through the night. She arched an eyebrow at the sight of them and said, “It is rare for the two of you to grace me with your company at the same time these days. Which means something’s wrong.”

“A new ship has arrived in Fallhaven’s river harbour,” Anya said.

Sylvanas waved her away. “That will be one of our Zandalari sloops scouting ahead of the others, I imagine.”

“No,” Anya said firmly, undeterred. “It is a Kul Tiran ship. Far bigger than a sloop. You would recognise it yourself, in fact.”

Scoffing, Sylvanas said, “I highly doubt that. You know I can’t spot the difference between naval vessels, Anya.” 

“You would remember this one, my Queen,” Nathanos said darkly. “We saw its ceremonial launch ourselves on the docks of Boralus.”

Sylvanas froze. Slowly, she lowered her feet to the ground. “Lady Ashvane’s ship is here? Right now?” 

“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you, yes.” 

Straightening in her seat, Sylvanas looked down at the detailed map of Fallhaven, all her copious scribbled notes of Windmill Hill, and the open ledger filled with rows and rows of supplies and troops and costs. Then abruptly she pushed back from the table and rose to her feet. “Have you seen Jaina this morning?” she asked Nathanos.

He shook his head. “Still in her tent, as far as I know. Unless she took a portal from the tent itself. I wouldn’t put it past her.” 

Somehow Sylvanas could not imagine Jaina fleeing from a battle. Especially not one like this. Jaina had not shied from battle at Barrowknoll, and Windmill Hill was supposed to be a skirmish. If Lady Ashvane’s ship was here though, that might have just changed. 

"Nathanos, find out exactly who is aboard that flagship," Sylvanas ordered, already ducking from her tent and striding in the direction of Jaina's tent with hasty steps.

"Using what?" Nathanos asked. 

"Your imagination, preferably," Sylvanas drawled. She did not slow down or look over her shoulder as she spoke. "Bribe someone. Kill someone. Impersonate someone. I don't care. Just get me eyes on that flagship."

When Nathanos and Anya started trailing after her, she gestured for them to be elsewhere. Nathanos frowned and Anya huffed, but they both did as they were told. He veered off, already heading towards the river. Sylvanas paid them no heed. 

There was no raven or sabre cat guarding Jaina’s tent. Sylvanas looked around for any sign of Arthur or Adalyn, but neither were to be seen. Slowly, she approached the tent’s entrance. Her fingers parted the heavy canvas flap, and she peered in. There was motion and darkness, but she could hear nothing within. The cloying taste of magic settled in the back of Sylvanas’ mouth, but it always tended to do that whenever Jaina was nearby. Dim lamplight did little to illuminate the tent’s interior, where outside the glare of the morning sun dazzled against the snow. Sylvanas squinted, but the contrast made spots appear in her sensitive vision. 

“You might as well come in,” Jaina’s voice said, sounding exasperated. “You’re letting out all the warm air.”

Stomping her boots free of snow first, Sylvanas ducked beneath the tent flap and entered. It was indeed far warmer inside than out, though she could see no brazier. A rune had been scorched into the ground at the centre of the tent, glowing faintly. Whether that was the source of heat, or simply a ward against prying ears, she did not know. 

Most of Jaina’s personal things had been packed up into a traveling trunk at the foot of her foldable cot. The bedding had been rolled up, revealing the wooden cot frame. Jaina herself was bent almost double on the far side of the tent. She stood peering into a tiny scratched mirror that was propped against a nightstand and a few books. Sylvanas blinked in surprise. In lieu of her usual druidic robes, Jaina was wearing dark high-waisted breeches and white stockings tucked in at the knee. Her boots were gone, and instead she wore shiny black shoes with gold buckles. A greatcoat and waistcoat were slung over a chair, leaving her in nothing else but her shirtsleeves and suspenders. The skull mask and staff were nowhere in sight.

She did not turn around when Sylvanas entered the tent. Instead, she continued to fiddle with a long strip of white cloth, which she was trying to wind around her neck to form a cravat. When the cravat refused to cooperate, she straightened slightly and swore vehemently under her breath, “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Ears quirked at a curious angle, Sylvanas wandered across the tent until she stood behind her. “I assume there’s a reason why you’re wearing this instead of your usual robes?” 

Grumbling, Jaina undid the messy cravat knot with jerky impatient movements. “It is part of the plan. My mother thinks I ought to be seen wearing the uniform instead of -- well, you know.” 

“The horrible deer skull, and some leaves you found on the forest floor?” 

“Yes, exactly.” 

Jaina started tugging up the stiff collar of her shirt once more, trying to get it to stay in the right position so she could try tying the cravat again. Impatiently, Sylvanas watched her struggle and fail to wrap the cloth around her neck properly, before she finally interrupted. “Do you need some help?” 

“No.”

Sylvanas lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

With a sigh, Jaina fully straightened and turned away from the mirror. “No,” she said again, this time holding out the fabric with a defeated expression. 

Eyes fixed on Jaina’s face, Sylvanas slowly reached out for the cravat. When Jaina had been angled away from her, she had not been able to get a good look at her. Now it was apparent that the clothing wasn’t the only thing to have changed. She had never seen Jaina wearing cosmetics before. They had been tastefully applied. Kohl lining her eyes, and rouge darkening her lips to a sinful shade of red. 

Smoothing out the length of silk between her hands, Sylvanas said, “You could have just asked your mother for help. I’m sure the Lord Admiral has worn enough cravats in her lifetime to know how to tie one.” 

Jaina’s brow furrowed in a thunderous scowl. “I would rather eat a rusty old horseshoe.” 

With a snort, Sylvanas said, “Lucille could have shown you, then.”

Jaina shifted her feet and her cheeks were tinged slightly pink with embarrassment. Finally she admitted sheepishly, “I thought I could figure it out on my own. I mean, how hard can it be?”

Giving her a pointed look, Sylvanas held up the long narrow length of silk and said, “Lean down for me.” 

Jaina did so without question, and Sylvanas began to wrap the cravat around her neck. She had to reach around Jaina, rising up onto her toes to be able to do so. 

“Why are you so tall?” Sylvanas grumbled under her breath as she moved Jaina’s braid out of the way.

“I think a better question is: how do you know how to tie a cravat?”

“I thought the answer to that was obvious.” Now that the ends of the cravat were doubly wrapped back around Jaina’s throat and hung down her chest, Sylvanas was able to sink back down to the flat of her feet to finish the job. She tugged lightly at the ends of the cravat to tighten it, and quipped, “All elves are snobs and slaves to fashion.” 

Jaina laughed softly. The corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She kept her head slightly bowed while Sylvanas straightened the upturned collar beneath the wide strip of fabric. “That makes sense,” Jaina said with faux solemnity. “Though I do wonder what that says about all the skulls and spikes you wear.” 

Sylvanas clucked her tongue in admonishment. “Skulls and spikes are all the rage in the major cities these days. Very chic. I wouldn’t expect a human from a backwater like Kul Tiras to understand.” 

“Of course. My mistake.” 

Sylvanas was far too concerned with the dimple that appeared when Jaina’s smile broadened. Her hands slowed in tying the cravat, and her fingers lingered against the warm skin of Jaina’s pulsepoint. The rope scar was a raised band of tissue looped around Jaina’s neck. Sylvanas pulled the cravat material a little higher to hide it from view. 

Jaina noticed. Her eyes flickered down to where Sylvanas’ hands rested beneath her chin, then up again to her face. ���Thank you,” she murmured. 

Sylvanas’ only answer was a hum. That heartbeat quickened, fluttering like a bird’s wings under her thumb. Jaina was watching her very closely, as though waiting for Sylvanas to speak. The air felt far too warm for a Kul Tiran winter.

Sylvanas bid her hands move again. Her fingers made quick work of the last knot. She took an extra few seconds to pull the knot a little tighter before lowering her hands. That seemed to break whatever spell had settled over them. The air did not feel quite so heavy when Sylvanas was no longer touching her. 

“I should really learn how to do this myself someday,” Jaina sighed, tugging at the knot so that it was arranged just so beneath her neck and loosening it in the process. “Since apparently I’m going to be wearing this outfit quite a lot.” 

“I would offer some instruction, but I am a terrible teacher. Never had the disposition for it.”

“Too used to giving orders instead?”

“Something like that, yes.” She swatted Jaina’s hand away, and scolded her softly, “Stop that.”

Jaina huffed in annoyance, but lowered her hands and allowed Sylvanas to fix the cravat and tighten it again. When Sylvanas stepped away, she reached for the waistcoat slung over a chair and handed it over. Jaina took it with a murmur of thanks, shrugging into it. Sylvanas had to tamp down the urge to move forward again and do up the row of small dark buttons. Instead, she clasped her hands firmly behind her back, watching Jaina button up the waistcoat and tuck the ends of the cravat away. 

Swinging the Admiralty greatcoat over her shoulders, Jaina next fixed a green sash into place before fussing with the wide sleeves of her coat. She tugged at them, rolling her broad shoulders beneath the fabric and muttering curses to herself about how it inhibited her movement. In this outfit, she looked uncomfortable. She also -- Sylvanas had to admit silently -- looked incredibly good. It was a far cry from her usual druidic rags. Instead, she appeared sleek and polished. Perhaps it was the unprecedented kohl lining her eyes. Perhaps it was the red lipstick that made her mouth appear brighter and more alive. Or perhaps Sylvanas really was just staring, now. 

Jaina glanced up with a worried frown. "Do I have something on my face?" she asked, and ducked her head to gaze at herself in the tiny mirror again. "I thought I'd done the makeup all right? I'm not very good at this. I think this eye is uneven. Does it look uneven to you?"

"No," Sylvanas said. "You look fine."

Still, Jaina took a finger and carefully tried to correct the dark kohl around her blind eye. She swore to herself again. "This would be a lot easier if I could see properly."

"If I tell you that you look very striking, will that convince you?"

Jaina straightened and turned. "That depends," she said. "Are you being honest? Or just kind?"

"When have you ever known me to do something purely out of kindness?"

"That's a fair point." 

"You look very striking," Sylvanas said, more firmly this time. "Apart from all the lint on your back."

Eyes widening, Jaina tried to peer over her own shoulder. "What? Where?"

"I am joking. Your outfit is faultless."

Jaina glowered. “You are an ass.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Sylvanas drawled. “And stop fiddling with the cravat. You’ll make it come undone.”

Jaina continued her fidgeting with the fabric wound tight around her neck. “It’s suffocating. I don’t like it.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Sylvanas broke off her next sarcastic remark. Her ears twitched, hearing approaching footsteps outside, and then a hand pushing aside the tent flap. 

"Am I interrupting something?" Katherine asked, her voice cool.

Immediately, the warmth in Jaina's gaze vanished, as though poured out onto the ground. She glanced over Sylvanas' shoulder at her mother, then turned back towards the mirror to straighten her lapels. "Nothing at all," Jaina said. "What do you need?"

Sylvanas was not bothered by cold weather -- apart from the unpleasant wet -- but it was very chilly in the tent all of a sudden. She took a step towards the tent entrance and murmured, "Excuse me. I will go and come back in just a -"

"No. Stay," Jaina said. Then she added a little more softly, "Please." 

She was caught. She could make some excuse to leave, but Jaina shot her an imploring look. And it was probably better if both Katherine and Jaina received the news. So with a sigh, Sylvanas stayed put. 

For a brief moment, Katherine hesitated at the entrance to the tent, before ducking beneath the flap and stepping fully inside. The bright morning light dimmed when the flap swung back down, enclosing them all in the tent. Katherine's pale gaze took inventory of Jaina's appearance, roving over the golden bands of rank at the sleeves of the greatcoat, and the shining tasselled epaulettes. Finally, she said, "I'm glad to see it fits well. Sylvanas is right. You look very good."

Jaina's reflection in the little mirror frowned, and she turned around to face her mother fully. "I sense a 'but' coming."

"But -" said Katherine gamely. "You are missing a few things. May I?”

Reaching into her pocket, Katherine pulled out what appeared to be braided cords made of thick gold threads. It took Sylvanas a moment to recognise them for what they were. Aiguillettes did not feature often in elven military uniforms, if at all. They were a uniquely human trimming.

Jaina hesitated, then gave a stiff nod of consent. Katherine limped closer, but paused when she stood before her daughter. She looked between the aiguillettes and her cane. Silently, Sylvanas reached out a hand.

“Thank you,” Katherine said, giving the cane to her. 

The chased silver falcon’s head retained traces of the warmth of Katherine’s hand. Sylvanas placed the tip of the cane onto the floor and leaned her weight upon it while she watched. Katherine worked quickly and efficiently, tying the complex braiding into place so that it hung from one of Jaina’s shoulders and was pinned with a silver anchor fastener right over the green sash. Jaina was absolutely still throughout the entire affair. She looked like a statue made flesh. A figure of Kul Tiran myth carved for public appreciation. 

Katherine stroked her thumb over the pin. "This belonged to your father," she said, then stepped back. "I thought you should have it." 

Something darkened across Jaina's face, then was gone again, like a cloud passing between the earth and the sun. "How thoughtful of you," she said, though she sounded less than thrilled at the idea. 

"Yes. Well." Katherine cleared her throat as though trying to clear the chilliness in the air. "More importantly, other people will remember it as such."

Jaina’s expression soured. "Of course, they will."

"I mean this as a favour."

"I'm sure you did."

"Enough with the act, my dear. We are all very tired of it."

"Act? What act?" Jaina smiled thinly. "This is very real."

To that Katherine had no reply. She and Jaina seemed to be having some sort of silent conversation featuring nothing but hard glares and unyielding stubbornness. Eventually however, Katherine relented with a sigh and held out a hand for her cane. Sylvanas gladly took this as a sign that the awkward moment was over, and handed it back to her. 

"Now, if only you walked like you didn't have a stick up your ass, you might be a bit more convincing in that outfit," Katherine said. 

Sylvanas had to bite back a snort of laughter. Jaina fumed quietly, and gave her a warning look. 

"She has a point, though," Sylvanas said in her own defense. 

"You try wearing this stupid outfit," Jaina growled. She was tugging hard at the cravat again. "I feel like I'm hog-tied and on my way to be butchered at market."

It finally dawned on Sylvanas, then. Why Jaina was so preoccupied with the cravat. Why she did not like having things tied tightly around her neck. How foolish of her to have not noticed before. Especially since she had just been touching the very scars on Jaina’s throat not a few minutes ago. 

It was one thing to hide the scars with a bit of loose fabric. It was quite another to emulate their making. 

Katherine sniffed. “You’re being overly dramatic. As always.”

Sylvanas’ coal-bright eyes darted to Katherine, then to Jaina. Neither of them were paying her any attention. They were too preoccupied with one another's presence, like two wild cats meeting in a dark alleyway. Not for the first time, Sylvanas wondered what exactly had transpired back at the Church in Barrowknoll. The two must have discussed a great deal of things, but that had clearly not included a full reveal of exactly how Jaina came to be in the position of High Thornspeaker. 

“I have worn my fair share of uncomfortable military outfits,” Sylvanas said before Jaina could fire back a retort at her mother. She carefully kept her tone smooth and light. “You get used to them. Eventually.” 

For a brief moment it seemed Jaina was still inclined to a fight, but she lowered her hand and left the cravat alone. “Yes,” she said, sounding tired now. “Yes, you’re right.” Then she shot Sylvanas a puzzled look. “Why did you come here, anyway?”

“I received news from one of my Rangers,” Sylvanas said delicately. 

“Good news, I should hope,” Katherine said. 

“That remains to be seen.” Hands clasped firmly behind her back, Sylvanas announced, “As of early this morning, Lady Ashvane’s flagship has arrived in the harbour.”

That certainly got their attention. They both glanced at her sharply, their movements and expressions terrifyingly identical. 

“The LAS Integrity?” Katherine asked as though she had misheard. “Here?” 

“Is it really a Lord Admiral’s Ship if she’s rebelling against the Admiralty? And with that kind of name?” Jaina asked. 

“Yes, we all appreciate the irony of the situation. Thank you, my dear,” Katherine said, her tone bordering on waspish. Then she said to Sylvanas, “Do we know if Priscilla is aboard the ship?” 

Sylvanas shrugged. “I cannot say for sure. But I intend to find out.” 

“She is,” said Jaina.

Both Sylvanas and Katherine blinked and turned to look at her. 

“How do you know?” Katherine asked.

“Did one of your druids fly over it already?” said Sylvanas.

But Jaina only shook her head. She reached over to the chair, where a pair of white gloves were neatly folded. One after the other she began to tug them into place, the last of her ensemble until she appeared every inch the Lord Admiral’s Heir. “No,” she said, pushing the finely stitched quirks more firmly between the webbing of her fingers. “I just know.” 

Katherine shot Sylvanas an exasperated glance, as though seeking some sort of solidarity. Sylvanas offered none, keeping her gaze fixed on Jaina. 

“Vagueness helps nobody,” Katherine said. “Especially not in times of war.”

Jaina’s only answer was a shrug. Garbed now in the full military dress of the Navy, she strode past them both and pushed open the flap of the tent. “Shall we begin the march? I want to reach Watermill Hill as soon as possible. I have a good feeling about today.”

“Again with the vagueness,” Katherine sighed, though she followed her daughter out without further question. 

Once outside, Sylvanas took her leave, making her way towards the cavalry and reserve units. Katherine and Jaina did not speculate on her absence. They had already discussed the plan the night before. They swept off in one direction already calling for their horses, and the march began anew. 

When Watermill Hill came into sight, Sylvanas perked up a bit in her stirrups for a better look. It was one thing to hear about something in reports, and quite another to see it in person. Where she had expected a meagre fortification, there stood a small castle in its stead atop a hill overlooking Fallhaven and commanding the surrounding terrain. The eponymous watermill was stationed with a small village nestled between the hill and the river. 

More importantly however was the Ashvane army attacking it. A large force was assailing the southwest gatehouse, trying to seize entry to the west bailey. From this distance Sylvanas could see the occasional tuft of gunpowder from either side, as they returned fire on one another. Hayles and his men had already run down a number of Ashvane scouting groups on their approach to Watermill Hill, but they could not catch all of them. The ascent to Watermill Hill was a narrow road that sloped up to the main gate. All around the rest of the hill, the earth was too steep to assail without building further groundworks. The Ashvanes had funneled themselves onto this road to assault the castle. By the time the combined forces arrived to pin their quarry against the castle, the Ashvanes had raised the call of harried trumpets and were attempting to reposition themselves. It was all far too late. In a matter of moments they would be surrounded and trapped like prey in a snare.

Had Sylvanas been alive, she would have felt the hunter’s itch under her skin. As it was, she tamped down the urge to kick her skeletal steed to a faster pace and shout commands for double time. Strictly speaking, this was not her fight. Jaina was supposed to be leading the charge. And indeed, Jaina, Katherine and Lucille were all riding at the fore of the main body in order to make a symbolic statement with their presence. Which left Sylvanas restlessly commanding the left flank and bringing up the rear of the procession. 

Seated high atop her horse, she frowned over the ranks, her gaze roving in search of a particular cluster of officers. From this position she could barely make out Jaina in her stiff Admiralty greatcoat. Sylvanas saw her white-gloved hands make a sharp gesture, the motion followed by the blaring of a horn. Immediately, the troops increased their pace, the stamp of their feet like a thunderous heartbeat through the snowy fields. 

“Finally,” Sylvanas grumbled under her breath. 

Beside her, Hayles glanced up from his conversation with Anya. “Something wrong, my Lady?”

Sylvanas answered with an irritable wave. “Your future Lord Admiral is rather slow on the uptake.”

He shot her a puzzled look beneath his helm, but made no further remark. Meanwhile, Anya’s ears tilted at a curious angle and she said, “I’m not so sure about that, my Queen. Two minutes too slow isn’t bad for someone without a few centuries of experience under her belt.”

“A lot can happen in two minutes,” Sylvanas said with a warning slant of her own ears that Anya would understand but which would have left Hayles even more bemused. 

Anya bowed in her saddle and murmured, “Of course.” Her words and tone were deferential, but everything else was mocking. 

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. “Anya, take a scouting party and bring me back the latest report on the walls,” she ordered. 

With another low bow, Anya did as commanded, leaving Hayles riding in uncomfortable silence at Sylvanas’ side. He made no attempt at small talk, which she appreciated. Nor did any of the other officers trailing in her wake, awaiting their commands. She craned her neck back to look up, spying a raven wheeling slowly overhead, its broad black wings a spot of black against a backdrop of white. A few minutes later, Arthur flapped down through the gentle sprinkling of snow, landing atop the bony neck of Sylvanas’ horse. 

“They’ve engaged the Ashvanes just now,” he reported, shuffling a bit on the exposed vertebrae in an attempt to find better purchase with his talons. 

Sylvanas nodded. “Good. And the Ashvane guns?”

“Still pointing to the castle. They couldn’t turn them around in time.” 

“You and your men are to be commended, Hayles,” Sylvanas said without looking in his direction. “The scouts you ran down could not give away our advance.” 

He shifted his weight in the saddle and knuckled his forehead beneath the flat brim of his helmet almost bashfully. Ever since their encounter with Captain Ashvane last week, when Sylvanas had lost her temper, he had been remarkably more docile when she presumed to give orders.

Some time later, Anya’s horse loped easily towards them. She pulled back on the reins, slowing to a trot, and then finally a stop before them. Her horse’s dark coat was spotted with snow. When it snorted and shook its head, small plumes of white steam trailed from its nostrils. 

“Anything?” Sylvanas asked.

But Anya shook her head even as she reached forward to pat her horse on its neck. “Nothing yet.” 

With a resigned sigh, Sylvanas leaned back in her saddle. “Then, we continue to wait.” 

Whereas Hayles and the others seemed perfectly content to do so, Sylvanas did not share in their leisure. They formed a separate little group a few paces away from her. Anya chatted easily with the others, joking about her latest conquests over cards the night previous with the group of officers. Sylvanas ignored them, keeping her eye upon the main body of their forces, watching the toil of a fight beginning. She did not begrudge Anya’s ease with the others. Far from it. Her orders had been for Anya to endear herself with the locals, to make herself a crux of information. And judging by the way a number of the officers laughed at one of Anya’s crude jokes, she was doing an excellent job of it.  

“Not like that,” Sylvanas muttered to herself as she watched Jaina’s movements from a distance. She made a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat and tightened her grip upon the reins. 

Arthur was preening himself, still perched on the neck of her horse. “Did Jaina do something wrong?” 

Mouth pursed to a thin line, Sylvanas shook her head. Jaina hadn’t done anything wrong. It just wasn’t exactly how Sylvanas would do it. She was not suited for sitting in the wings and watching. The last time Sylvanas had done this had been when her mother was Ranger General and given her young daughter a colonel’s command as a learning experience. 

The snow was deepening. As the afternoon dragged on, flurries of white drifted from the sky like flour through a sieve. Hayles’ cavalry and the infantry battalion of the left flank stamped their feet in an attempt to warm them. The soldiers huddled as close together as they dared without breaking ranks. Sargents rustled along the lines, keeping calm and order while they waited and watched the main force continue to fight. At least Sylvanas wasn’t alone in her restlessness. 

In the distance a rallying cry went up along the Ashvane ranks. Sylvanas straightened in her saddle, and she could hear Anya and the others do the same. She opened her mouth to give a command, but stopped and frowned in confusion. Rather than begin pushing against where Jaina’s combined troops had pinned them against the castle, the Ashvane’s right flank surged forward towards the eastern walls.

Rounding on Anya, Sylvanas snapped, "Get me vision on that area.” 

Anya tugged at the reins of her horse, but before she could urge her mount forward, Arthur said, "I got it! It'll be faster if I fly over."

With a flap of his wings, he flew off into the air. Sylvanas kept an eye on him for as long as she could, but he was soon lost through the veil of snowfall. Various other reports from scouting groups trickled in while she waited for his return, officers in drab Forsaken uniforms giving detailed accounts of the front lines’ actions. 

By the time Arthur returned, she had set her horse to pacing, her crimson gaze trying to pierce through the snow. The sunlight filtering through the clouds reflected across the blanketed ground. She had to blink away the blinding glare. She did not want to think of what this would be like if she had still been alive and her oversensitive eyesight had been exposed to the glare.

Arthur landed on her shoulder. "There's some Fallhaven soldiers caught outside the westernmost walls," he said. "They're fighting with the Ashvanes over a little door in the walls."

Sylvanas' eyes widened. "A sally port?" 

In reply Arthur shrugged his wings. 

Swearing under her breath, Sylvanas yanked on the reins. Her skeletal horse bounded forward. Snow was cast about by every heavy fall of its hooves. “All troops march to the western walls! Double time! I want us there post-haste!”

The group of officers went scurrying about in her wake. Flags were raised, standards waving signals to relay orders to the regiment, as well as to alert their allies of their actions. 

“How many did you see?” Sylvanas asked.

“A few thousand Ashvanes?” Arthur said uncertainly. “Far less Fallhaven soldiers, that’s for sure.” 

Hayles was urging his horse to catch up to her. 

“Screen our left flank!” Sylvanas said to him. “And if the enemy try to run, chase them down!”

“Yes, my Lady.” And with a salute, he began shouting orders to round up his men. 

She only pulled back on the reins and sat firmly in her saddle to stop her horse when she had reached the foremost ranks of Forsaken infantry. Anya shadowed her movements rather than stay with the cavalry; her bow was already drawn, expression wary as though expecting an attack on her queen at any moment despite the fact that the enemy was still a good distance away. For their part the Forsaken infantry seemed emboldened by Sylvanas’ presence. Their ranks bristled like a wall of spears and axes and ranks of muskets six deep. 

As they advanced, a few junior officers kept sending daunted glances in her direction. It seemed to get even worse when the cluster of higher ranking officers found her again and gathered to her side, waiting for any other orders she might give. 

When they drew closer to the enemy, a cavalry company broke away from the Ashvane flank. They rode forward, skirting around the hill further west. Already Sylvanas could see Hayles riding out to meet them, screening their flank and keeping the Ashvane cavalry at bay, allowing them to advance. Pistols fired, their shots muted across the snow and distance so that they sounded less like a volley and more like the patter of rain. Meanwhile the Ashvane infantry were caught. Most of them had turned to face the attack, but Sylvanas could still see skirmishing near the walls just behind them. 

Ahead of her, the first line of Forsaken infantry dropped to their stomachs, the second kneeling behind them, and the third remaining standing. All three aimed down the sights of their muskets, awaiting the command to fire. Officers roared out the order, and gunsmoke tinged the air a dirty grey. The three ranks shuffled back as quickly as possible, while the three behind them stepped forward to do the same. 

Slowly they advanced up the hill towards the enemy position, exchanging fire. If the Ashvanes had been better equipped and had a larger force, they might have been able to stave off the attack until they could retreat back to the safety of their main lines. But whatever they sought at the sally port was too valuable to give up so easily. They held their ground even as the Forsaken crept ever closer, close enough that the rows of pikemen could step forward and stab at one another. Blood sprayed across the snowy hillside. The Ashvanes’ red coats hid most of the gore, while the Forsaken bled black and sluggish. 

For every Undead that fell -- pinned by spears, or chopped at with axes, or shot -- three more Ashvanes fell before them. From her position near the front ranks, Sylvanas could see the fear on their faces as they realised exactly what kind of enemy they were facing. She heard panicked cries go up -- some nonsense about Drust ghouls -- and the enemy line began to falter. A musket ball went spinning past her, near enough that she could hear it whistle through the air, but she did not flinch. She could hear Arthur give a great squawk of protest and launch himself into the air with a hurried flap of wings. 

Well, if the Kul Tirans were squeamish about the Undead, she ought to give them a show to remember.

Kicking her horse forward and pulling her bow from her back, Sylvanas barked orders at the group of officers behind her. “Push forward! Drive them against the walls! And make it look rabid! The rest of you, with me!” 

A few of the humans appeared puzzled at these commands, but the Forsaken officers’ eyes glowed a keen and sickly gold. The orders swept quickly through the ranks, and the fighting reached frenzied heights. With a company of soldiers at her back, Sylvanas leapt from her horse and strode to the right flank to cut off the enemy’s route back to the west bailey, leaving only one retreat. Every arrow she fired into the enemy’s flank shrieked as it soared through the air, streaking with veins of black energy. When they struck into the sensitive exposed flesh of a neck or shoulder, tendrils of dark necrotic magic would lash along their bodies so that they fell, twitching and bloated as though they had been drowned in a fetid lake. 

It did not take long for the Ashvane line to break. They were outnumbered and pinned against the castle walls on a steep slope. Soon, they were routed and scrambling down the hill towards the snowy western fields, where Hayles and his cavalry would chase them down. Sylvanas fired a few shots after them, her arrows arcing through the air and finding their targets with deadly accuracy. Red-coated soldiers stumbled to their knees, choking on blood and falling into the bank of snow.  

“Anya, get your horse and join Captain Hayles. Take Arthur with you. He can help track down anyone who runs,” Sylvanas said. She did not need to look over her shoulder to know that Anya had been beside her through the thick of the fight, ensuring her safety. “If the Ashvanes even think about regrouping, kill them.” 

With a silent bow, Anya darted off through the snow in search of her horse near the base of the hill. Overhead a black speck in the sky soared after her. Sylvanas shouldered her bow and turned back towards the castle. Her soldiers had surrounded a group of grey-coated Fallhaven troops near the sally port while the Ashvanes fled. Her ears twitched when she heard raised human voices. Frowning, she rose up on her toes to see over the warren of tall Forsaken soldiers, but could only catch glimpses of steel and snow and grey stone walls. 

Rows of undead soldiers parted before her like a wave, making way for their Dark Lady as she walked towards the ruckus. A cohort of Fallhaven infantrymen held their rows of pikes at the ready, aiming down the sights of their muskets, ready to fire should any of the undead get too close. They were gathered round what appeared to be their leader, a greying man with a bushy mutton-chop beard and fierce pale eyes, who had one hand clenched around the handle of a gilded silver pistol and the other around the hilt of a fine sword. 

“Get that bloody door open, already!” he roared over his shoulder. His cocked hat was silver-trimmed and dark. When Sylvanas stepped forward from the ranks of the Forsaken, he pointed his pistol at her, his expression hard. “Not another step!” 

Lifting her hands to show she was unarmed, Sylvanas continued walking forward. “I mean you no harm. Are you the garrison commander?”

He pulled the trigger, firing a warning shot at her feet. A plume of snow burst up around her greaves and she froze. 

“I said -” he snarled, “- not another step.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I have just helped drive off your invaders,” Sylvanas said. She kept her hands up; it would be easier to reach for her bow and quiver if this turned messy.

Flinging aside his pistol, he held out his hand and an officer near him gave him another, which he again levelled at her. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’ve helped us. But I do know you lead an army of ghouls, and you yourself are no living creature.”

“Oh, good. You have eyes. I was beginning to wonder.”

With his thumb he cocked the pistol. She arched an unimpressed eyebrow at him, though her hands were ready to snatch up her bow. Before he could shoot her properly this time, the heavily fortified gate swung open behind him with a great groan, and four men stumbled out in its wake. “Lord Cyril!” one of them cried, “You must come to the battlements at once! The -!” 

“Quiet, lad!” he snapped, not once looking away from Sylvanas. 

Sylvanas’ hands lowered a fraction. “Lord Cyril, did you say? Cyril White?” 

“And what of it?” Cyril growled.

She remembered that name. She remembered Lucille’s local history lessons, and the utter boredom that had come with them. Finally she said, “I have come with your cousin. Perhaps you remember her?” 

His bushy brows furrowed in bemusement. “My cousin? What are you talking about -?” Suddenly his eyes widened. “Wait. You’re here with Kath?” 

“I am.”

The moment of hesitation vanished, followed by suspicion. “And why should I believe the Lord Admiral would be here? Let alone with the aid of -” He waved his pistol at her overall appearance with a disparaging look. “- someone like you.” 

Sylvanas’ mind raced. The fact that he still called Katherine ‘The Lord Admiral’ even after she had technically been deposed by Lord Stormsong was a good start at least. She thought back to every inane thing Lucille had told her about on the march north, trying to scrape together any information that might be useful. Cyril’s frown was deepening with every passing second, and she said quickly, “Freely we serve.” 

It was the first thing that she could think of, and it was just enough to give him pause. Cyril blinked at her, though he did not relax a whit. 

“If I tell you that she takes her tea with milk and no sugar, will you believe me?” Sylvanas said. “What about if I said she can beat anyone at a game of whist? Or that she enjoys needlework? Or that her grandfather used to tell her stories of the Old Bear that haunted the Crimson Forest?”

Cyril’s face screwed up in confusion, but his stance relaxed. Slowly, he lowered his flintlock. “Who the bloody hell are you?” 

Lowering her hands fully now, Sylvanas said, “I am a friend. And I am here to reinforce Watermill Hill, along with Lady Waycrest, the Lord Admiral, and the Lord Admiral’s Heir.”

“Heir?”

Behind him one of the soldiers who had burst through the sally port from before said, “That’s what we’re telling you, my Lord! It’s not Lady Waycrest leading the army!”

Momentary flummoxed, Cyril stood there without speaking or moving until with a shake of his head he sheathed his sword and tucked his flintlock away into his belt. “Get everyone inside!” he ordered his own men, then turned to Sylvanas. “What role would you play in all of this?”

“Let me and my soldiers in, and we will help you man the walls,” Sylvanas said, already giving a significant look to a nearby officer of her own, who bowed and trotted off to relay her orders.

Cyril looked less than pleased at the prospect of letting in her and the other undead. When he pursed his lips and scowled, the resemblance between him and Katherine was far more pronounced. “Very well,” he said, already turning and ducking through the sally port. 

The sally port was small enough that she had to duck as well to pass beneath it. Inside, the narrow stone corridors of the castle were a hive of activity. People rushed about, carrying munitions, carrying gunpowder and arrows, their arms filled with gauze for the medical wing or other supplies. Everyone had to press themselves against the walls to pass one another, soldiers hugging their weapons and shuffling sideways until they could reach the mustering grounds. 

Most took little notice of Sylvanas. A few puzzled frowns were cast in her direction. Her Forsaken infantry garnered more attention. Some people swore, startled, when they saw an undead soldier looming beside them. A fight nearly broke out somewhere behind her. Sylvanas heard shouting and people shoving one another, until a sergeant roared at them to cease the kerfuffle. She paid them no heed, trailing close on Cyril’s heels.

The castle mustering grounds were a small square of churned mud and snow. Cyril lengthened his stride and trotted up a set of narrow stairs leading to the nearest parapets. His sword clanked against his greaves. When they reached the top, it was a struggle to even get to the crenellated battlements. Archers and musketmen were clustered along the walls, firing from their positions down into the amassed Ashvanes at the gates. Every now and then a cannon would boom out, and bits of rock would be knocked loose from the walls while men crouched down and covered their heads, shrinking away from the blast. 

Cyril shoved his way to the front to get a good look at the battlefield below. “Where?” he demanded of the soldier that had opened the sally port and followed in Sylvanas’ wake. “Show me.”

Before the soldier could answer, Sylvanas pointed. “There.” 

Cyril squinted, shielding his eyes with the flat of his gloved hand. True enough, just behind the Waycrest lines rode Jaina beneath the standards of House Waycrest. Somewhere along the way, Katherine and Lucille had managed to procure a gold-tasseled, anchor-stamped standard of the Admiralty, which waved proudly beside the dull gray banners bearing the falcon of Drustvar. Even from this distance Jaina was impossible to miss, her pale braid a stark contrast to the dark wool of her greatcoat, surrounded by officers in their glittering finery, Katherine and Lucille riding behind her like personal guards. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Cyril muttered under his breath, slowly lowering his hand. 

Another boom of cannons crashed through the air. This time the massive iron-bound doors to the castle shook. Pieces of wood splintered and buckled beneath the concentrated barrage. 

Immediately Sylvanas turned and snapped at one of her Forsaken officers, “Get all of our reserve troops onto the mustering grounds and into formation! Prepare for a breach!” Then she turned her attention back to Cyril. “Do you have any cannons of your own?”

“We do, but we ran out of shot yesterday afternoon. We’re under-resourced, and we’ve already had to repel two attacks on Watermill. Everything else we have is in reserve in the city, should we have to fall back.” 

Swearing in Thalassian, she glanced over the parapets. The Ashvanes were scrambling to reload their cannons. Everything they had was facing the castle gates. They had already taken the bailey and set down planks to cross to the main motte. This castle was old. Its walls were flat and tall, neither sloped nor angled. It was not built to withstand more modern artillery fire. 

“They need to break through and take the keep to regain a defensible position, otherwise they’ve lost,” she said. 

Cyril nodded. “I will bring everyone I have to the mustering grounds. We will hold them off as long as we can.” 

Sylvanas reached over her shoulder and counted the number of remaining arrows in her quiver. “Bring me as many arrows as you can spare. I will stay on the battlements.” 

He barked an order at someone nearby, who scurried off to do just that. Then with one last parting glance in her direction, Cyril strode back down to the grounds to gather his men in the courtyard and wait for the worst. 

The soldiers along the walls gave her odd looks but said nothing to her as they continued to fire down into the mass of the enemy. Sylvanas drew back her bow and fired alongside them. Someone brought her another large quiver bristling with arrows, which she placed on the ground at her feet. When her own quiver ran out, she exchanged the two. The Ashvanes would return fire, and musket balls would go whizzing past her. She along with the soldiers beside her would duck behind the crenellation. Several of the others slipped in the snow gathered along the walkways, and they would scramble to press their backs against solid stone, holding their weapons over their heads in an attempt to protect themselves. Chips of stone would scatter from the old walls like shrapnel as the barrage peppered the battlements. 

Peeking carefully back over the walls, her hands were already drawing back on the bowstring, the fletching of a fresh arrow brushing against her fingers. Then she paused. She blinked through the glare of light against the snow, and tried to get a better look through the constant flurry drifting from the sky. 

New sails had appeared in the distance. A group of ships were sailing in formation towards Fallhaven.

“Who the fuck are they?” said a soldier beside her.

“No idea,” said another. “More Ashvanes, probably. Look at them red sails.” 

“Those aren’t Ashvanes,” Sylvanas said, startling them though she did not raise her voice. A dangerous fanged smile had spread across her face. “Those are mine.” 

A distant boom sounded out and a puff of smoke trailed through the air. The Zandalari ships were engaging the Ashvanes, going right for the throat and aiming for Integrity with a boldness that bordered on madness. The Kul Tirans may have been a seafaring people, but the Zandalari were just as formidable on the waves. And the Ashvanes were traders at heart. This was not the pride of the Great Fleet of Kul Tiras. These were merchant ships that just so happened to be outfitted with guns. 

Their only hope of winning relied on the fact that Lady Waycrest could muster no ships of her own in time to contend with them. They had not expected to test their mettle against battle-hardened Trollish warships. 

“Not a moment too soon, either,” Sylvanas muttered to herself. 

The soldiers beside her were watching avidly. A few of them gave whoops of excitement and slapped each other on the back, their grins fierce and broad. One of them even patted her on the shoulder in a comradely fashion. She slowly turned to fix him with an incredulous glare, and he snatched his hand back as though suddenly afraid she would bite it off. 

“Celebrate later!” she snapped at them. Rising to her feet, she shot another arrow down onto the invaders. “Keep firing!” 

Immediately they straightened their backs and leapt to do as they were told. The roar of cannons filled the air once more as the Ashvanes fired off another desperate barrage directly at the gate. Wood splintered and chunks of the door rained down with the snow. Ashvane soldiers thundered across their makeshift bridge, pushing and shoving at the gap that had been gouged into the iron-banded wood. Above them, Fallhaven troops manning the walls strained at the handles of enormous wrought-iron bowls heated over coals. They turned the bowls over, tipping their contents through slits in the stone at their feet and pouring hot oil onto the invaders. Below Sylvanas could hear a muted splash followed by hair-raising screams. 

A cry came from somewhere along the walls. “Damn your eyes! Are you blind? Lower the portcullis already!”

Two men sprinted for a windlass. They heaved their weight against the spokes of the crank, and the stones beneath them groaned and creaked as the mechanism began to slowly turn. The heavy portcullis shuddered in its place and crept lower. Then there was a grinding snapping sound, like that of a tree being felled, and the windlass turned no more. 

“It’s stuck!” one of them shouted.

Two more people raced over and began hauling on the spokes of the windlass, but the mechanism was as old and rusted as the castle itself. Below them, Sylvanas could hear the sounds of fighting breaking out in the courtyard. Leaning over the walls as far as she dared, Sylvanas peered down at the mouth of the gate. Red-coated soldiers boiled like an upended nest of ants, shoving at the gates, hacking with axes and swords to widen the breach and get inside as quickly as possible. Behind them, Jaina’s troops were breathing down their necks, trapping them into place.

Reaching over her shoulder, Sylvanas counted only three arrows left in the spare quiver that had been brought to her. Resolutely she shouldered her bow, squared her jaw and hauled herself up so that she crouched atop the crenellation. It felt all too familiar. Standing on the edge of a frozen keep, flecks of ice and snow drifting around her as she stared down the long steep drop. 

“Ma’am!” one of the nearby soldiers called out to her in a panic. “Ma’am, what are you doing? You are going to fall!” 

“Yes, soldier,” she said calmly without glancing over at him. “That is the point.” 

And she stepped off the ledge. 

The castle walls were not perfectly smooth and uniform. They were far too old for that. Bits of stone stuck out at odd ends, dislodged by time and the slow shifting of the earth beneath them. And somewhere along the way, the owners of this castle had repaired the arrowslits staggered along the walls, and they had done a poor job of it. Blocks of stone created little ledges like steps at various points. Nimbly, she dropped atop the nearest arrowslit. She did not stop to take a moment and steady herself before leaping to the next. One of her hands kept touching the wall, ready to cling to a bit of stone should she need to dodge any incoming fire. But none came. 

The Ashvanes were now so preoccupied with what was before them, they did not think to look up. Swiftly and silently, she picked her way to just above the gates, and then leapt down. She drew the bow from her back midair, and fired two shots onto the ground below. The arrows snapped with black necrotic energy and their impact was accompanied by a blast like cannon fire, flinging soldiers back. Landing with a lithe roll, Sylvanas did not stop. She continued towards the gate until she was between it and the portcullis which guarded the outer section of the wall. With the last arrow, she pointed her bow not at the incoming Ashvanes, but up. The arrow struck the mechanism that locked the portcullis into place, and blasted it into a mess of splinters and frayed rope. 

With a great clanging groan, the portcullis was released. It slammed down onto the ground, its spiked ends landing atop a row of red-coated soldiers and impaling them against the floor. A few of them were dead immediately. Others writhed, coughing up blood or pulling at their pinned limbs in a futile attempt to free themselves. Already the Ashvanes locked out were trying to move the portcullis, but it was a web of thick dark iron. They would need to batter it aside with more than just the strength of their arms and backs. 

Over a dozen soldiers were trapped between the gate and the portcullis with her. They turned, pointing their swords and flintlocks in Sylvanas’ direction. They formed a crescent shape, bearing down upon her, their faces hard. She was outnumbered and completely out of arrows. So, Sylvanas shrugged her bow back over her shoulder and reached for the only weapon she had left.

When she pulled the silver hunting knife from her boot, they laughed.

It took her less than two minutes to kill them all. Calmly, she tugged her knife free from the last one’s chest. It caught against a rib, and she had to yank. She took a moment to clean the blade on the dead man’s coat, bodies strewn on the ground around her in various states of disassembly. The men outside the portcullis that had watched the whole affair were staring at her in silent horror. Sylvanas ignored them and strode towards the half-broken gates. Without glancing back, she hauled herself through a fractured gap in the wood and into the courtyard on the other side. 

The moment she had climbed through, a staccato of shots fired in her direction. She felt the sting of one find its mark in her thigh. Gritting her teeth and hissing, Sylvanas raised her hands and shouted, “Cease fire! It’s me, you idiots! Cease fire!” 

A few yells echoed her command, and the volley stopped. With a vicious glower, she stalked forward, her stride completely unimpeded by the musketball now lodged in her femur. She could feel the cold sludge of her blood oozing down her leg. Soldiers were arrayed in various sections of the mustering grounds, her Forsaken guarding a ramp that led up the walls, but most of the human soldiers positioned along the walls to fire down into the enemy if they managed to break through. Those that had shot at her from the walls shrank back, cowed, when Sylvanas aimed a baleful glare in their direction. 

Cyril waved her over with his hat. When she approached his position, he eyed her over. “Are you quite all right?”

She waved his concern aside. “I am fine.”

“I could have sworn they hit you.” 

“They did,” she said. She would need to see the Apothecary again. What an absolute pain. “I have managed to buy us a bit of time, but not much.”

Jamming his hat back onto his head, Cyril nodded. “When they break through, we’ll be ready for them.” 

“I don’t suppose you have any more arrows, Lord Mayor?”

Rather than answer, Cyril reached behind him for a musket that was leaning against a crate along with a series of other firearms. He tossed the musket at her, and she snatched it from the air. Sylvanas wrinkled her nose at the weapon, but took it regardless. It was heavy and cumbersome, but she would have to make do.

“Place yourself where you like,” Cyril told her with a gesture towards the castle at large. “I’ll be staying here.” 

Sylvanas turned to walk away, but paused. “Why are you stationed here instead of a garrison commander?” she asked. 

Cyril had already pulled another flintlock from the pile behind him and was inspecting its sights. “She died. Last night, I’m told. So, I sallied forth from Fallhaven with a small force in the hopes that I could give Watermill a fighting chance. Thank the Tides you lot came when you did, otherwise we’d be buggered six ways to Tuesday.” 

With a grunt, Sylvanas strode off towards the nearest steps that would lead her to the wall-walk above. She made quick work of the stairs, the pain in her leg having faded to a dull ache by now. After a few curt questions and pointed fingers, she found the squad that had shot at her. 

“Gentlemen,” she murmured silkily when she drew up beside them. 

They shuffled their feet, their faces alternatively pale or flushed with a mixture of fear and apprehension. A few of them touched the brims of their hats. None of them wanted to meet her eye. 

“Which one of you shot me?” 

A series of nervous coughs and clearing of throats followed her question. Nobody said anything. Eventually, a young man was shoved forward, the others backing away as though he were a sheep placed upon a sacrificial altar to appease the wrath of some god. He clutched his musket like it was a buoy keeping him afloat in a storm. His hands shook so badly she thought he might drop the weapon. 

“Congratulations,” Sylvanas said blandly. “You are the only one here who can aim to save their life.” 

“M-Ma’am,” he mumbled, touching the brim of his hat and quailing under her scarlet gaze. 

“Do not shoot me again.”

“N-No, ma’am.” 

“And fetch me more muskets. As many as you can carry.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

There was a beat in which he did nothing.

“Now,” she hissed. 

He started at the dark and slithering echo of her voice. Kneeling down slowly, he placed his own musket at her feet like an offering. And then he scrambled away, sprinting off to bring her more. 

“The rest of you!” Sylvanas said, lifting her voice to be heard even though the squad was already hanging off her every word. “Get into formation! We are going to have a lesson in trigger discipline! If anyone fires without my command, I will have you flogged!”

There was very little chance that she could actually make good on that threat -- Lord Cyril was lenient letting her loose in Windmill Castle as it was -- but they certainly did not know that. Sylvanas spoke with the weight of centuries of military experience behind every syllable. A squad of only twelve men, most of whom looked like they had just come off the farm, did not have enough wherewithal to question her. Even the corporal, who was supposedly in charge of this squad, scurried to do as he was told.

There was a banging and crashing from the walls as the Ashvanes attempted to batter down the portcullis. The young man who had shot her returned, puffing up the stairs with his arms laden with muskets and extra bags of shot tied at his belt. He started arraying them all before her so that she could fire them in rapid succession, when the portcullis finally gave way with a squeal of warped metal and a clang that reverberated through the stone ground. 

Picking up a musket, Sylvanas shooed the young man away until he stood beside her, ready to hand her a firearm when she needed it. “Ready!” she yelled.

Everyone checked their weapons. A row of soldiers were kneeling on the wall-walk, while behind them another row stood to fire over their heads. The sounds of Ashvanes battering down the door to the courtyard grew louder. 

“Aim!” 

They shouldered their muskets. Their faces were pale but determined. In a snap of wood and iron, the gates caved inwards, and red-coated soldiers poured into the courtyard below them. Sylvanas waited until they were within range, carefully gauging the distance. 

“Fire!” 

The kick of the musket punched into Sylvanas’ shoulder, but her shot flew true as any arrow. A volley of musket fire showered the enemy, and a row of Ashvane soldiers staggered to the snowy ground. Puffs of smoke trailed from the long muzzles of the muskets into the air. Sylvanas roared out the order for them to rotate and reload, watching the squad’s actions carefully even as she cast aside her single-shot flintlock and reached for another. The young man passed on to her without question, taking the used musket and reloading it for her so that she could continue to shoot. For every one that a Fallhaven soldier fired, she fired three, her movements smooth and rapid.

The Ashvanes never made it further than the courtyard. The moment they set foot on the ramp, her Forsaken troops bore down upon them, shoving them back into the killing zone, where they were shot at from every angle. Red was painted in slops and sprays along the snow-strewn earth. Soldiers littered the ground, their corpses piling up with a blanket of white as snow continued to drift down from the sky. 

Overhead, a loud caw caught Sylvanas’ attention. She paused in swapping out her muskets, craning her neck to look up. The dark form of a raven flecked the sky, circling high above her and then careening off towards the gate. When she glanced down, the Ashvane soldiers had been driven to the point of exhaustion and were beginning to throw down their weapons and kneel in the snow. 

“Cease fire!” Sylvanas called out, and not a single trigger from her section of the walls was pulled further. All of the soldiers tucked their weapons against their sides, looking tired but elated. Some of them glanced in her direction as though seeking a pat on the head for their good behaviour. She rolled her eyes and drawled, “Yes. You can obey simple orders. Very good.” 

Despite her dry tone, they beamed. Shaking her head, Sylvanas turned her attention back to the courtyard.

Cyril and his men had begun the process of capturing the enemy soldiers and gathering their weapons so they could not pose a threat. A tired cheer went up throughout the castle at the sight of red-coated soldiers being lined up along the side of the courtyard to await their fate. Sylvanas did not join them. She was watching Cyril. A Fallhaven soldier had rushed up to him and was now making excited gestures towards the castle entrance. Cyril straightened his hat and said something she could not hear, before moving to stand in the centre of the courtyard and facing the entrance. 

The sound of a horn sang a single high note that shivered through the air. The cheers died down, and everyone turned to the castle entrance. At the fore of a procession through the gate rode Lucille and Katherine, and ahead of them both, like the centrepiece of a painting, was Jaina astride a white horse. Her coat was scuffed. There was a bloody tear in the sleeve from where a musket ball or sword had grazed her in the fray. A streak of blood rested high upon her cheek, as though a man had clawed at her as he died. She sat straight and tall and poised in the saddle. 

"Lord Mayor," Jaina said to Cyril, her voice carrying across the stone walls. She tugged back on the reins so that her horse stopped in the middle of the mustering grounds right before him. "I heard you were in a bit of trouble."

Cyril stared between Jaina and her mother, realisation dawning in his eyes. He nodded and replied, “Your arrival could not have been more perfect, Lady Proudmoore. You have my gratitude.”

She tilted her head to the side. Beneath her the white horse stamped its hoof and she rocked easily with the motion. “I hope I have more than that. Times are changing, Cyril, and we have much to discuss.”

Slowly, he swept his hat from his head and placed it over his heart. When he bowed, a hush fell across the mustering grounds and extended all across the walls where onlookers watched en masse. Cyril straightened, but kept his hat clasped over his chest and said firmly, “I am your servant, madam."

--

The castle interior was as damp and old as its exterior. As far as Sylvanas was concerned, Windmill Castle was a perfect reflection of the country itself. Sturdy. Defensible. Outdated and out of touch. By no means a jewel in anyone’s proverbial crown, but reliable nonetheless. 

After hours spent rounding up what remained of the Ashvane forces and getting the combined Waycrest and Horde soldiers settled, Cyril had led them to a side chamber that had turned into a command centre for the now deceased garrison commander of Windmill Castle. The hearth was cold and dark. A long wooden table was positioned in the centre of the room, strewn with maps and inkwells and quills and candlesticks dripping with hard pale wax. The walls were hung with moth-eaten tapestries that had seen better days and probably ought to be thrown into the tip, truth be told. Likely it would cost more to remove them than to simply leave them be. Whatever scenes they had once portrayed were long since faded from both sight and memory. 

Upon entering the room, Sylvanas had fully expected Jaina to cross over to the hearth and light it with a snap of her fingers. She did not. Instead, Jaina conversed in low tones with Cyril and her mother, while Sylvanas, Velonara and Lucille went over the latest figures from the field. Casualties. Injuries. Stock reports. 

“Hayles and Anya are still rounding up stragglers,” Sylvanas told them.

Lucille nodded, not at all surprised by this news. “Yes. Arthur told us.” 

Two soldiers trotted into the room. One carried an armful of ice-dusted firewood, which he dutifully began stacking in the hearth and coaxed a spark to life with flint and tinder from his pocket. The other was carrying a piece of parchment, which he gave to Jaina with a bow, as though offering her a great treasure. Sylvanas could hear Jaina’s murmur of thanks as she took the long unfurled scroll, and immediately set it on the table for later. 

Slowly the room began to warm, but a chill lingered along the stone walls and floors further away from the fireplace. The soldiers took their leave. Outside, the snow was coming down thick and fast now. If they had been delayed any further, their army would have been in serious trouble. Sylvanas would glance at the windows every so often and dwell on unpleasant memories of wintering with an army through unpleasant conditions. Their quiet conversation was broken up by the arrival of a few familiar faces. 

Nathanos was striding towards them. Behind him, flanked by two tall Trolls in gleaming golden finery as though they were an honour guard, was Lady Priscilla Ashvane. She was not bound in any way, but the Zandalari kept a careful eye on her movements, preventing any escape. Their hands rested against the pommels of their cutlasses with an ease that belied how carefully they were monitoring their captive. Lady Ashvane herself walked with her head held high. Her eyes glittered darkly. She wore nearly as much gold as the Zandalari, whose gilded tusks and various piercings gleamed in the lamp light. 

When they had reached the table, Nathanos bowed. “May I present, Lady Priscilla of House Ashvane, whose ship has been claimed as a prize by the Golden Fleet of Zandalar.” 

At the mention of the fate of Integrity, Priscilla’s lips pressed into a thin white line and her hands clenched at her sides in silent anger. Nathanos escorted her to a free seat at the table, pulling out the chair like a butler. Jaina, Katherine and the others watched her like hawks. Priscilla did not flounder beneath their gazes, shoulders back and head held high as though she were being escorted not to a chair but to a gallows. 

“How good of you to join us, Priscilla,” Katherine greeted coolly. “I trust your travels were uneventful?”

Priscilla gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Quite. Thank you.” 

Offering her a thin smile, Jaina gestured to the table and said to the others, “Shall we begin?” 

Meanwhile the Trolls stood aside, waiting. Rather than sit with the others, Sylvanas stepped forward to greet the Zandalari. “Which one of you fine gentlemen is the -?” She paused for a moment, thinking back about naval ranks and which one would apply here. Finally she said cautiously, “- brigadier?” 

The Troll to the left bowed deeply to her, before straightening to his full height once more. He was staggeringly tall like all of his kin. What she had previously thought to be an angular gold necklace across his partially bare chest was actually a series of detailed tattoos carved into skin the colour of a sea at storm. 

“Commodore Issoufu,” he said by way of introduction. “It is an honour to meet you in person, Warchief.” 

“I can say the same of you, Commodore,” she replied, offering him a small rare smile. “From what I’ve been told, you and your shaman are personally responsible for our victory on the river today. You are to be commended.” 

He shook his head, his own smile wide and revealing sharp teeth. “The crew of the Rhunok did the real work.”

“And you should all be proud. I shall remember you to Princess Talanji.” 

With another low bow, Issoufu clasped his hand over his heart then gently touched his forehead at the mention of his princess’ name. “May she live forever,” he murmured. “I would be most grateful, Warchief.” 

“Of course.” Sylvanas made a quick Ranger gesture with her fingers at Nathanos, who had returned to her side after Lady Ashvane was seated. When he answered with a silent nod of understanding, she then said to Issoufu, “You are to scout Carver’s Harbour, but do not engage the enemy. I doubt further action will be necessary. In the meantime, I will write to Dazar’alor of your valour. I hope it is not too much of an imposition for you to take Nathanos aboard one of your ships? He will be there to report back to me only, I assure you.” 

Issoufu laughed, the sound deep and short and booming. “No imposition at all. We will have plenty for him to do. There are no idle hands on my ships. I will put him to work.” 

She smirked, ignoring Nathanos’ flat glower in her direction. “Very good. You are dismissed.” 

He left, taking his men with him. Nathanos waited until the Trolls had gone before he growled, “Put me to work?” 

“I hear life at sea is very bracing. Good for the spirit. Besides, you heard the man.” She patted him on the shoulder. “There is always work to be done on a ship.” 

“He can hire enough sailors to sink a first rate with the prize money he’s getting from Integrity alone.” 

“And I am sure the good Commodore deserves every copper piece.” 

When Sylvanas had turned back to claim her seat at the table, conversation had already been struck up between the others. She sat down as quietly and unobtrusively as she could, content to watch events unfold from the sidelines for now. 

Jaina sat at the head of the table, with Katherine at her right and Lucille at her left. She had her hands clasped calmly over the page the soldier had brought to her earlier. Her hands were bare, her white gloves tucked into a pocket of her greatcoat. Somewhere along the way, she had found the time to rebraid her hair so that it did not look so messy as it had after the battle. The smear of blood had also been wiped away, though it did little to make her appear less foreboding. 

Priscilla sneered at her. "You can't honestly expect me to sign that."

Jaina's stare was unflinching. She tapped her clasped hands against the parchment. "I can. And I do."

"Why on earth would I even entertain the thought? This isn't over."

"In case you haven't noticed," Lucille said from her seat. "We captured your flagship. You are our prisoner."

"And I still have a dozen more ships at anchor in Carver's Harbour. Not to mention the hundreds of merchant vessels fueling the Kul Tiran economy." Priscilla folded her arms and sat back in her chair. "What do you have? A few ragtag Trollish frigates and a prayer. Fallhaven will starve before the winter ends, and the city will fold like a house of cards."

Jaina turned a questioning look to Cyril. He cleared his throat and nodded. "It's true. We barely have enough food to feed ourselves for the next four weeks. Damn Ashvanes burned the crops a few months ago right around harvest time. We're already tightening our belts as it is."

"That won't be a problem," said Katherine smoothly. She nodded towards Jaina. "We have a solution to that."

Cyril turned a curious gaze upon Jaina, who sat at the head of the table. In her fine waistcoat and her shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, she appeared every inch the Heir to the Admiralty. When everyone at the table gave her their full attention, she made an abortive motion with her hand, as though about to scratch her face only to think better of it. Her fingers closed into a fist and she placed it deliberately in her lap. 

She was, Sylvanas realised, trying not to tug at the cravat still tied tightly around her neck.

"Have you given shelter to the farmers in the area," Jaina asked.

Cyril nodded. "Of course," he said. "As many as could safely be housed in the city."

"Good. Bring as many of them as you can to the fields north of the city tomorrow morning."

Face screwing up in confusion, Cyril said, "Might I be so bold as to ask what for?"

"To harvest crops," Jaina answered in a very matter-of-fact tone.

Katherine appeared startled. She leaned closer to her daughter and lowered her voice to a hushed whisper, which Sylvanas' keen ears could still pick up across the table. "This isn't what we agreed."

"No," Jaina said firmly, not bothering to lower her voice at all. "It isn't. But it is what will happen nonetheless."

"We should bring them after you've -" Katherine made a fluttering gesture with her fingers, trying to hide the movement from Priscilla's keen eyes.

Jaina's expression was chilly. "Say it."

Blinking, Katherine leaned back in her seat. "What?"

"Say it," Jaina repeated, and now her words could have been carved from ice. "Say: 'after I have used magic to make the plants grow.'"

Lips pursed in a thin line, Katherine sat ramrod straight in her seat. In spite of her affected poise, her pale eyes darted to Cyril and Priscilla, then flicked back to Jaina. "We talked about this," she said her voice hushed and hurried, as though explaining something to an unruly child. "Kul Tiras has never had a Lord Admiral who was also able to use magic before."

"Magic is part of who I am. I will not hide it."

Before Katherine could retort, Sylvanas interrupted calmly, "She couldn't, even if she wanted to."

Now every pair of eyes swung towards her at the opposite end of the table. 

"What do you mean?" Katherine asked. "If she just didn't use it in front of people, then -"

But Sylvanas shook her head. "I do not think you quite understand. Most people might not notice, yes. However, others will only have to stand in her presence to know. Powerful magic users cannot hide what they are."

Katherine scoffed. "And I suppose you can sense her presence, or some such rubbish?"

"Yes." Sylvanas caught Jaina's gaze across the table and held it. "She reeks of arcane. Like a thunderstorm in summer. It is very distracting, truth be told."

Jaina appeared taken aback by the odd confession. On the other hand, Katherine wrinkled her nose -- more in distaste than in disbelief -- an expression that was shared by Lady Ashvane. 

"So, it's true. I thought Alfred was just spouting some Tidesage bollocks about the Drust, but he was right. You’re a witch." Priscilla shook her head and leaned an elbow heavily upon the armrest of her chair. She spoke to Katherine, now. "I thought we had finally rooted out this damned Drust infiltration when Meredith died, but now it has hooked it's claws into the Admiralty itself. You ought to be ashamed, Katherine."

Jaina's face darkened. Her eyes blazed. When she spoke her voice was wintry. “You have nothing, and you will sign this treaty or reap the consequences.” 

“You can’t hang me.”

“I don’t need to hang you to win.” 

An ugly look crossed Priscilla’s face, and she hissed, “I haven’t lost, yet. My people will ransom me back. I will buy the rest of your army. You have nothing.” 

Leaning back, Jaina drummed her fingers against the page. Her fingertips created a dull staccato rhythm against the solid wood. For a moment Sylvanas thought Katherine or Cyril might interject and take charge of the conversation, but then Jaina spoke, "It was obvious you could never attempt to invade western Drustvar until you had secured Fallhaven and the east. It would be too difficult to supply your army when the pass at Arom’s Stand was inaccessible during winter. To say nothing of what would have happened if your men had dared come into the Crimson Forest. From there it was only a matter of time. You have money, yes, but nothing else. You're not the Navy. I can break any siege with food. But most of all, I knew I could always depend on you being as untrusting as you are untrustworthy. So, of course, you came here personally. Because war is expensive. Because you believe your officers are incompetent fools. Because you wanted this over as quickly as possible. The moment you sailed to Drustvar, you lost. All I had to do was wait."

Silence fell over the room. Priscilla glared at her, but the effect was dampened by the way she darted her eyes towards Katherine and Sylvanas, as though weighing up her chances. 

Jaina cocked her head to the side, considering Priscilla with an unblinking gaze, as if looking right through her. Then, she reached out and slid the paper across the table closer towards Priscilla. "Sign it."

Priscilla's throat bobbed when she swallowed thickly. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, as though she were cornered. Slowly, she lifted the page and began to read it more closely. Her brows furrowed darkly as she scanned the lines of flowery script. By the time she reached the bottom, her cheeks were flushed with incredulous anger.

"You can't be serious," she snapped, though she did not push the treaty aside. "Severe munitions limitations on merchant vessels? Removing the press and running the Navy on volunteers alone? Giving Drust the ability to own land? And opening the borders to the likes of -?" She suddenly pointed towards Sylvanas and spluttered, "- her?"

Sylvanas bared her teeth in a smile, but remained silent.

Meanwhile Jaina said firmly, "The borders of Kul Tiras will open whether we like it or not. By force. By attrition. By choice. It will happen. All we can do is choose how."

Even Lucille and Katherine looked a bit uncomfortable at that declaration. No one at the table said anything to the contrary however. Cyril shifted in his seat but nodded with a small resigned shrug. 

Priscilla narrowed her eyes. “What else is there? Surely this can’t be everything?”

“No, you’re right. It isn’t.” Jaina’s face was a cold unwavering mask. “I want you to travel with me to Boralus as soon as this is all over. We will call a meeting of the Great Houses, and I want you to vote for me to become the next Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras.” 

“Any why would I do this?” 

“I can offer you incentives.” 

“Which are?”

"You will vote for me, and not only will I permit you to keep your life, you will keep your station, your name, your wealth -"

"But not my pride," Priscilla sneered.

"No," Jaina murmured. "Your pride belongs to me."

A log slipped in the hearth and the fire popped, casting a cascade of sparks onto the soot-blackened stones before it. Outside it was beginning to grow dark. Night came early to Drustvar in winter. Priscilla worried a corner of the parchment between her ringed-bright fingers. Then she sighed. Her shoulders slumped and she gestured for Jaina to pass her the quill. Wordlessly, Jaina slid the inkwell and quill towards her. The rest of the table seemed to hold its breath -- apart from Sylvanas and Nathanos -- as Priscilla scratched her signature onto the bottom of the document with an angry scribble. 

Jaina rose to her feet and pulled the document back towards herself. “Cyril,” she said, “Would you be so good as to witness this for us?” 

“Certainly, madam.” 

“Good.” 

She signed the document herself, then passed it to both her mother and Lucille in turn. Eventually it made its way into Cyril’s hands, and he checked that everything was in order before he picked up a quill and signed beneath all their names. 

As if not believing his own words, Cyril said, “I hereby witness that all present parties have sworn that this document shall be observed in good faith and without deceit, given by our hand, and so pass the Treaty of Windmill.”

“Jolly good,” Lucille said, sounding relieved. 

Priscilla was pinching the bridge of her nose. “I need a stiff drink. Or five.” 

--

By the time they rode into Boralus, the snow had faded and it was -- predictably -- raining. Sylvanas had almost grown accustomed to the rugged terrain of Drustvar, so that the countryside of Tiragarde Sound felt tame in comparison. Here there were no vast and wooded forests, no plains of dun and purple heath as far as the eye could see. Instead the snow-capped peaks dwindled on the horizon. 

People had stared and pointed when they had entered the capital. Word had quickly spread that Katherine, Lucille, and Priscilla had all entered the city together. There were confused murmurs at the sight of Jaina, speculation running wild. 

Meanwhile, Sylvanas, riding at the back of the procession, had her cowl drawn low over her head. She remained as inconspicuous as possible and garnered very little attention. No Forsaken or Tauren accompanied her, and she was trailed only by the three Rangers she had first brought with her to Kul Tiras. As soon the Treaty of Windmill had been signed, she had ordered her Horde troops to begin their travels back to Kalimdor. The last thing they needed was for Jaina to be seen riding into the city with the Horde at her back. 

Not yet, anyway. But that would come later. Sylvanas was greatly looking forward to seeing a Horde banner flying on the docks of Boralus. Or perhaps even from Proudmoore Keep. She hadn’t decided yet. 

Proudmoore Keep itself was as draughty and incommodious as ever. She could not tell who looked more uncomfortable being there: Jaina or Priscilla. It was a close match. Whereas Lucille and Katherine strode through the halls, chatting idly, Lady Ashvane grimaced at a butler who came to take her cloak. On the other hand, Jaina just looked like she was going to be ill. 

A steward was speaking in low courteous tones to Katherine, “Lord Stormsong arrived just before you, madam. I took the initiative of escorting him to the audience chamber.” 

“Very good, Bernard. Tell him we’ll be there shortly. And bring some tea while you’re at it.”

The steward bowed. “Right away.” 

Jaina’s face seemed to lose a bit more of its colour. “Lord Stormsong is already here?”

“Of course, my dear,” Katherine said, already striding off in the direction of the audience chamber. Every alternate footsteps clacked as her cane contacted the stone floors. “Alfred always was a stickler about being on time.” 

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Priscilla said, her lip curling just slightly. “For the leaders of the Great Houses to meet so you could rub your victory in our faces?”

Jaina scowled at her. “No.” 

“Well, if you’re getting cold feet, you could elect me Lord Admiral instead.” 

At that, Lucille said firmly, “Not to be crude, Priscilla, but I would rather vote for a shit-farmer from Dampwick.” 

Ahead of her, Katherine snorted in amusement. 

Jaina wrung out her braid while they walked, sending drops of water splattering to the floor. “I just thought I would have time to change into something dry.” 

“Welcome back to Boralus,” Sylvanas muttered under her breath.

Just outside of the audience chamber, Lord Stormsong stood flanked by two Tidepriests with their faces deeply cowled and their eyes blazing. The shadows seemed to cling to them, and the lanterns strung from their belts glowed with a faint blue light. Lord Stormsong himself was a tall man with dark eyes. His height was only accentuated by the mitre of office he wore. He clutched a scrolled staff in one hand and glowered as the group approached. 

A butler was trying to serve him tea, but he waved the man away irritably. “No, thank you,” he said.

“A cup for me, please,” Katherine said, drawing up to the butler and hooking her cane beneath her elbow so she could take the tea. “Hello again, Alfred. You’re looking as cunning as ever.” 

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Katherine,” he greeted. “I thought you’d died when I sunk your flag off the coast of Tol Dagor.”

Katherine sipped primly at her tea. “And give you the satisfaction of having killed me? Never.”

His only response was a sour grunt. 

Sylvanas watched this interaction from the sidelines with a muted kind of glee. She had spent the last few years enduring the politics of Orgrimmar, most of which involved a great deal of fisticuffs and beating of chests. This veiled cutting back and forth however, was far more similar to what she had grown up with back in Silvermoon. She almost felt a touch nostalgic. It was difficult to keep her expression neutral.

Alfred’s dark eyes moved to Lucille. “You look even younger than when I last saw you.” 

“And you’re just as insufferable as I remember,” Lucille said cheerfully. She held out her hand to the butler bearing a tea tray and said, “I think I need one of those too, if you please.” 

“Tides,” said Priscilla. “Can we just get this bloody thing over with?”

Alfred turned to her. “I don’t know what you mean. A meeting of the Great Houses has been called, and so I have come as summoned. But so far nobody has deigned to tell me why.” 

With a contemptuous sniff, Katherine said, “Don’t play dumb. It really doesn’t suit you.” 

Alfred opened his mouth, but stopped when Jaina cleared her throat to get everyone’s attention. All eyes swung towards her, and she straightened her shoulders somewhat. “I called the meeting.”

His eyes roved over her from head to toe. “And who are you?”

“That’s my daughter,” Katherine answered before Jaina could speak. “Perhaps you remember her. Though the last time you would have seen her, she was about yea high.” She held a hand up to her waist to indicate Jaina’s height as a child.

Some dark expression flickered across Alfred’s face. “The child you sent to be raised by those wood savages?”

Sylvanas could see Jaina’s jaw tighten, though she said nothing in reply. 

“The very same,” Katherine murmured into her cup of tea. “I’ve named her my Heir.” 

"If you really expect me to vote for a Drust witch, then -!"

"I don't," Jaina interrupted him. "In fact I fully expect for you to vote against me, and lose anyway. I have already secured a majority. You are only here as a courtesy."

His face went pale, then red, then an unpleasant shade of purple. He rounded on Lady Ashvane. "If you'd just listened to my proposal, then we never would have been in this situation."

Priscilla's lip curled, and she snapped, "Oh, go hang yourself, Alfred."

“Well,” said Lucille. “This is getting off to a wonderful start. Shall we go in?” 

“Please,” Katherine sighed, setting aside her finished cup and saucer onto the butler’s silver tray.

Two Proudmoore guardsmen flanking the large double doors to the audience chamber moved to push the doors open. The old hinges groaned beneath the weight. Still bickering, Priscilla, Alfred, Lucille and Katherine began walking inside. The Tidesages did not follow after their master, instead taking up residence in the shadows of a corner of the hallway to mutter amongst themselves quietly, their murmurs like the lap of waves against the shore.  

Jaina took a step after the others, then paused. She turned to Sylvanas and said, “I’m afraid outsiders are not permitted to watch the proceedings. You may wait outside if you wish.” 

“I think I would prefer to change into some dry clothes,” Sylvanas replied. 

“I am green with envy.” 

From inside the audience chamber, raised voices could be heard. Jaina winced. Sylvanas glanced over her shoulder to see what was going on. It appeared that Alfred and Priscilla were already getting into a heated argument, while Lucille was mournfully gazing into her empty cup of tea, and Katherine rubbed wearily at her brow. 

Jaina made a face, scrunching up her nose. “I’m going to be here a while. I don’t suppose you would make a distraction for me, so I can flee back to the Crimson Forest?” 

“And ruin all my hard work?” 

“You’re evil.” 

“You’re not the first person to tell me that.” Turning on her heel, Sylvanas gave a little wave over her shoulder. “Try not to have too much fun without me.” 

Behind her she could hear Jaina sigh.

-- 

The last time she had been in Proudmoore Keep, the butler had escorted her around with a leery glance at her weapons, as though she might attack its inhabitants. Now, warm quarters had been provided for her and her Rangers. They were a far cry from the sumptuous amenities of Silvermoon -- or even Dalaran, for that matter -- but they were some of the best Kul Tiras had to offer foreign dignitaries. 

Hours had passed. Night had washed over Boralus. And still the meeting of the Great Houses had not finished. Velonara was lounging on a couch with her feet up, filing her fingernails to be repainted. Anya sat at a table, practising sleight of hand tricks with coins and a well-worn deck of cards. Meanwhile, Nathanos paced before the fireplace. He would wear a ditch into the carpet before long. 

"You look troubled, Nathanos," Sylvanas remarked. Her fingers were laced behind her head, and she had her feet propped atop a cushioned footrest before a blazing hearth. For the first time in months, her clothes were completely dry. It felt like heaven.

"I wish I had your confidence," he said.

"You don't trust that they will open the borders to us?"

"All I know is that I have no idea what they are discussing in that chamber."

"Are you telling me you don't have spies in the room?" She tsked, tapping her tongue against the back of her teeth. "For shame."

"I tried," he growled, continuing to pace. "But there are two very powerful magic users inside. They don't want to be overheard."

“And they needn’t be.” When Nathanos opened his mouth to retort, she waved him away. “Relax. Or haven’t you realised yet?”

His pacing slowed. “Realise what?”

Sylvanas smiled, and her fangs glinted in the firelight. “We’ve won.” 

--

The ascension of the Lord Admiral's Heir demanded a ceremony before the citizenry of Boralus. Sylvanas kept out of the way during the preparations. Servants and guardsmen scurried about in Proudmoore livery, ordered to and fro by Katherine, who barked commands as though she were back on a flagship. Though she was not the only one to be kept busy. More than once, Sylvanas could spy Lucille fussing over decorations and ledgers. Apparently there was to be a large dinner at the Keep after the ceremony itself. More like a military ball than anything else. 

Lucille had even personally delivered an invitation written in her own flawless hand. Sylvanas had turned the cream-coloured cardstock over between her fingers before tossing it into the fireplace. She would have to attend, of course. It wouldn’t do to snub her new allies by not making her appearances. Especially not when everyone of name and worth in the city was going to be in attendance. 

If Lucille was put out by the way Sylvanas had discarded the invitation she did not show it. “There is a dress code,” she said. “Formal military, if you please.” 

In answer, Sylvanas gestured to her current armoured outfit. 

“Oh. Hmm.” Lucille reached out and touched one of the spikes on Sylvanas’ pauldron. “I don’t suppose you have anything a little less...er….lugubrious?” 

Sylvanas gave her a flat look and said, “No.” 

“Right. Of course. Would you mind if I sent over my tailor? She can whip something up for you in a jiffy. She is really very good, and I think a Kul Tiran tailcoat would look very fine on you indeed.” 

“No.” 

"But -!"

In the end, Sylvanas had to all but steer Lucille towards the door to get her out of her private quarters in the Keep. And to think that only just a few months ago Lucille had been too afraid of her to step foot in her personal space alone. 

“She’s right, you know,” Anya said from a chair by the hearth once Sylvanas had slammed the door shut behind Lucille. 

“About what?” 

“You would look good in a Kul Tiran tailcoat. And they’re very comfortable.”

“Not you, too, Anya.” 

Anya only shrugged. “Velonara made me get one with her.”

Aiming a glare at the two of them, Sylvanas said, “Wear what you like, but I shall be representing the Horde as Warchief.” 

At that, Velonara’s expression turned dubious. She shared a silent meaningful look with Anya, who shrugged and mouthed, “I tried.” 

“All right. I am leaving.” Sylvanas tugged the door back open and stalked out. 

It was a winding walk through the draughty halls of the Keep to reach Jaina’s personal quarters. A guard was stationed outside. He kept stealing nervous looks at the enormous bone and branch sabre cat that lounged just beside the door like a common house pet. Its tail twitched when Sylvanas strode forwards. 

Stopping before the door, Sylvanas spared Adalyn a glance before speaking to the guard. “Is she inside?”

The guard came to attention without needing to be prompted. “Lady Proudmoore is getting ready for the ceremony, ma’am. The Lord Admiral is with her.” 

“Oh?” Sylvanas’ ears cocked forward slightly. “I don’t hear any yelling.” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“Then they won’t mind if I intrude. Unless someone else objects?” Sylvanas said, looking at Adalyn again. 

The cat yawned broadly, revealing fangs that could shred her to pieces, and Adalyn lowered her head back down to her crossed paws for a snooze. 

Wordlessly, the guard opened the door for her, and Sylvanas walked inside. The door shut softly behind her. As the Lord Admiral’s Heir, Jaina’s personal apartments were sprawling with multiple rooms. The sitting room was empty, though there was evidence that people had recently inhabited it. A fire was crackling in the hearth. Two empty cups of tea sat atop a table beside a teapot. The spout still steamed faintly. A silver spoon was turned over so that it leaned against the saucer. The tip of a quill was balanced in its well, and ink was still glistening and fresh on a small piece of paper.

Sylvanas could hear the faint murmur of voices through one of the doors leading to another chamber. On silent feet, she approached, but did not push the door open immediately. She leaned against the wall beside it and listened. 

“...and whatever you do: don’t lift the sword above shoulder-height.”

“I know, mother. We’ve been over this a hundred times, now.” 

There was a momentary pause, before Katherine continued softly. “Yes. Of course.” The sound of rustling fabric followed, and then Katherine said, “Here. Let me.” 

“You don’t have to -”

“But I would like to. Please.” 

Jaina gave no verbal answer. The soft whisper of fabric returned, and then Katherine said, “You should have told me sooner.”

“I didn’t want to make that conversation at Barrowknoll any worse than it already was.” 

“All the same. I would’ve liked to have known about this.”

“It’s nothing.” 

“Jaina, you died.” 

“You don’t have to remind me. I was there. No, don’t. Stop. Please.” Jaina drew in a deep shuddering breath. “It’s in the past. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” 

A sigh, and then the sound of uneven footsteps. “Well, you certainly look the part of Lord Admiral, in any case.” 

“That’s all I have at the moment,” Jaina grumbled. “Appearances.” 

“You will learn.” 

“Hmm.” 

“You are not alone. The Admiralty is not without its resources. And you have me, as well.” The gentle tap of Katherine’s cane joined the fray, and her voice drifted as though she were walking about the room. “I may not have much time left in this world, but what time I do have is yours.” 

“Thank you,” Jaina said softly.

Katherine made a wordless scoffing noise. “Don’t thank me, my dear. It really is the least I can do.”

Jaina lowered her voice, and Sylvanas strained to hear it.

“I see,” Katherine said. Then, she said very clearly, “You may come in now, Warchief. I was just leaving.” 

Before Sylvanas could even touch the handle however, the door swung inwards and Katherine began limping through it. 

“Lord Admiral,” Sylvanas greeted.

“You won’t be able to call me that for much longer,” Katherine drawled without pausing. “Just ‘Kath’ will do. But never in public, if you please.” 

Sylvanas wasn’t sure she would ever call her that, regardless of whether they were in private or not. For her part, Katherine did not give her the opportunity to respond. She was already heading towards the main exit, leaning heavily on her cane with every step. Sylvanas watched her go until the door shut behind her. Then, she glanced into the room beyond. 

Jaina’s bedroom looked like any other bedroom in the Keep. There were no personal touches to it, as though she hardly spent any time here apart from what daily sleep her body required. The four-poster bed was ornately carved and canopied with green drapes. A trunk sat at the foot of the bed. A large wooden wardrobe was open, revealing a panoply of military clothes that could have belonged to any high-ranking Naval officer. 

Jaina herself stood before a narrow, full length, silver-backed mirror. She was tying a white silk cravat around her neck, except this time she was actually accomplishing the feat.

“The only good thing about being back here,” Jaina said while still studying the movement of her hands in the mirror, “is that I can ask a valet to teach me how to tie one of these wretched things.” 

“I see they’ve succeeded,” Sylvanas said. She stopped by the bed, crossing her arms and leaning her shoulder against one of the carved pillars. 

Jaina huffed with self-deprecating laughter. “Barely.” She continued fiddling with the cravat, tucking the ends away just so into her waistcoat. Her greatcoat was draped across the mattress beside Sylvanas alongside her gloves. "This all feels like it's moving so fast. Weren't we just fighting in Drustvar?"

"Three weeks ago."

"Like I said. Fast."

"Would you prefer to keep fighting?"

"Of course not." Jaina had finished with the cravat and now smoothed her hands down the front of her waistcoat. "I do wish I could vanish back to my little cabin, though. Life was simpler as the High Thornspeaker."

Sylvanas cocked her head to the side. “Is that a title you will retain?” 

“It is. Though I will be ceding many of my duties to the other Thornspeakers. I am not giving them up by becoming Lord Admiral. I am - I am ensuring their future.”

She sounded firm, like she was trying to convince herself. 

Without responding, Sylvanas continued to watch the way Jaina nervously fiddled with her clothing. Then she picked up the greatcoat from the bed and approached, holding the article of clothing up so that Jaina could slip her arms into it and shrug it into place over her shoulders. 

“Thank you,” Jaina said. She straightened the lapels of her greatcoat, but her hands slowed, and then stopped. For a long silent moment, she stared at her reflection in the long mirror, her face going strangely slack. 

When Jaina continued to stare and not speak, Sylvanas asked, “Is everything all right?” 

"I've - I’ve dreamed of this moment," she breathed.

"Really?" Sylvanas said dryly. "Because you certainly fought against it long enough."

"No. I mean: I've Dreamed of this moment."

It was only then that Sylvanas noticed the trembling in Jaina's fingers. Her shoulders were beginning to shake. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide, gazing at herself in horror. Her breaths grew rapid, turning into short sharp gasps.

Startled, Sylvanas reached out. The moment she touched Jaina's shoulder, the tension in the air went sharp as a whip and the mirror cracked. Jaina flinched. A long jagged line now ran down a section of the glass, exactly mirroring the scar down her cheek.

Shaking her head, unable to look away and slowly stumbling back a step, Jaina mumbled, "No, no, no, no, no -"

Sylvanas opened her mouth to speak, but froze when she caught sight of the mirror. Jaina’s reflection did not match. In the mirror, she still wore her Naval uniform, but there was a sword through her chest. She was bound and gagged, her face a bloodied mess, her eye gouged out, dangling by a rope from her neck. Sylvanas blinked, and the image was gone, replaced by a completely normal reflection once more. 

Beside her, Jaina was panting now. Her hands flew to her throat. She started tugging at the cravat, ripping it free and gasping as though struggling to breathe. Sylvanas tried to manoeuvre herself into Jaina's sight, stepping between her and the mirror so she could not look at herself again. Wary, she reached out and gently grasped Jaina’s shoulders.

“Listen to me,” she said, keeping her voice low and calm. “You are awake. You are alive and you are safe.”

Jaina flinched. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Sylvanas asked.

Immediately and fervently Jaina shook her head. She grabbed hold of Sylvanas’ arms as if afraid she might go anyway. 

“All right,” Sylvanas murmured. “I will stay.” 

Jaina’s breathing still came short and harsh and fast. Her fingers dug into Sylvanas’ forearms, clinging to her as though she were the only thing keeping her afloat. The cravat was a mess of silk hanging around her neck like a noose that had not yet been tightened, revealing the ropey scar tissue of her throat, bracketed by her high collar. 

After a few minutes where the only noise in the room was Jaina’s sharp gasps for breath, Sylvanas said idly, “You know, Lucille wants me to wear a tailcoat to this military ball you’re throwing tonight. She was very adamant, but I think I would rather die a fourth time than wear that drab. What do you think?” 

Jaina had hung her head, and now she lifted it to blink at Sylvanas in muddled confusion.

Sylvanas gave Jaina’s shoulders a comforting squeeze. “Shall we show them what it means to have real taste? You can wear the deer skull, and I, the foreign armour with spikes. We will be the scandal of the capital on your first day as Lord Admiral.”

At that Jaina gave a weak huff of laughter. She nodded, closing her eyes and trying to take a deeper breath. Her pulse was a rapid rhythm at her neck, fluttering beneath the skin, but her breathing began to slow. Finally she managed to say, “Keep talking.” 

“Now, that is an invitation you are going to regret.” 

Sylvanas spoke. She kept the topics inane and rambling. The latest news from Durotar. Some juicy outdated gossip about a few of the noble families at the old court of Silvermoon. A humorous war story about a lance corporal who was literally caught with his pants around his ankles during a night exercise. The last was a tale she had always reserved for dinner parties to make the more uptight people in the room laugh and relax. She hadn’t needed to employ it for years.

Jaina wasn’t smiling though. Over the last few minutes she had gotten her breathing under control. She swallowed thickly and rasped, "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can."

Jaina shook her head. She was staring down at their feet. "No. No, I'm going to be bad for Kul Tiras. These people deserve better than me. I can't. I'm not the right person."

"There is no other person,” Sylvanas insisted. "And you know what is bad for Kul Tiras? More conflict. More fighting. More death. You have already stopped that."

"I will make it worse again. I know I will. I've seen it."

"The ceremony is in just a few hours. They are waiting for you. They want you. They don't want someone else."

But Jaina's voice was watery and weak, like she was choking on the words. "I can't. I'm not - I'm not Derek. I'm not Tandred. I'm not good. Not like them."

"Look at me. Jaina."

When she did not respond, Sylvanas grasped Jaina's chin and nudged her face up so that she was forced to look at her. Jaina's cheeks were wet, her eyes red-rimmed and frightened. 

"No, you're not going to be good. You are going to be great," Sylvanas said vehemently. "I have seen it. Not in a dream. Damn the Dream. I have seen it here. In this life. The place where it matters. And I know it to be true."

Jaina was staring at her with wide eyes, utterly silent. It was only after she had finished speaking that Sylvanas realised she was cupping Jaina's face in both hands, tenderly stroking her thumb over one cheek. She tried to let go and step away, but Jaina slipped a hand to the back of her neck and tugged her gently forward. 

It was not at all the kiss Sylvanas had expected. Jaina’s mouth was soft and warm, and even a touch fearful. As though she wanted something to ground her, and this was the only thing she could think of doing.

Though Sylvanas would have been lying if she’d said she hadn’t thought of doing this before. Perhaps back at camp, or in that cosy cliffside cabin. When Jaina still did not know how to tie a cravat. When Jaina hadn’t been desperate and crying just moments ago.

Jaina broke the kiss but her hand remained on the back of Sylvanas’ neck. “I wish we hadn’t done that.”

“Why?” Sylvanas murmured. “Did you not want to?”

“No. I did.” They were still close enough that the words ghosted across Jaina’s mouth. Her eyes flickered down and she swayed forward. Sylvanas tilted her head to the side, but Jaina stopped before they could kiss again. Jaina bit at her own lower lip and said, “That’s what’s going to make this next part harder.” 

Moving her hands, Sylvanas smoothed down the lapels of Jaina’s greatcoat so that they rested flush against her collar. “I know I gave you some advice about your personal wants and the needs of your nation -”

Jaina chuckled weakly. “It was more of a speech, really.”

“A fantastic speech, I might add.”

“It was very poignant, if I recall,” Jaina agreed.

“I have had many years to practice. Just as you will.” Sylvanas could not justify keeping her hands on Jaina any longer -- her greatcoat was sharp and pristine -- but she let her touch linger nonetheless. “Kul Tiras cannot expect you to be a spinster.” 

“No. I imagine not. In fact, I think they’d want me to produce an Heir as quickly as possible.”

“I’m not sure I can help you there,” said Sylvanas dryly. 

Jaina’s answering laugh was exhausted. She shook her head. “Unfortunately for them, they’ll be waiting a good long while for anything like that.” 

Sylvanas toyed with a burnished button bearing a fouled anchor. “In which case, we are free to entertain ourselves in the meantime.” 

Jaina was watching her intently, as though trying to scour her face to memory. Her eyes dropped to Sylvanas’ mouth and fixed there. Her fingertips traced a hesitant line across the nape of Sylvanas’ neck. “I don’t think you’ll want me after I -” 

With a soft tug at the lapels of her greatcoat, Sylvanas brought their mouths together again. Jaina made a small noise into the kiss when Sylvanas lightly traced her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. Any hesitation vanished, and suddenly Jaina was gripping her close, one hand at Sylvanas’ hip, the other bunched in her long ashen hair. 

Sylvanas had to remind herself to take care, to not rumple Jaina’s outfit or her hair overly much. It was more difficult than it should have been. The slight brushes of Jaina’s skin against her fingertips burned like the noonday sun of her homeland, and the only thing Sylvanas could think of was wanting to reveal more of it, her hands already slipping beneath the greatcoat and settling on the warmth of Jaina’s sides. A heady sensation rushed sluggishly through her, and it took her a moment to give it a name -- it had been far too long since Sylvanas had felt desire like this. Years. Now, it prickled at the base of her spine, crawling up her back as Jaina held her closer. 

Slightly breathless, Jaina broke away. Her hand tightened for a moment and something flickered across her face. After a split second of hesitation however, Jaina stepped back, swallowing thickly. “I really ought to finish getting ready. Can we meet here after? We should talk." She gestured between the two of them. "About this. And other things."

Sylvanas nodded. "I will return here before the ball. We’ll talk."

--

A crowd was gathered on the main docks of the harbour. Banners of all the Great Houses swung in an icy breeze, most prominent among them the green flag bearing the anchor of the Admiralty. Citizens of every stripe huddled together, the gentry rubbing elbows with dockworkers and fullers from Dampwick Ward, finely clothed merchants and ash-streaked farriers, their leather belts draped with rasps and large pliers, fishermen and stevedores with the collars of their worn coats turned up against the chill. 

Sylvanas stood well in the back. She did not bother trying to get closer, preferring to remain out of sight, lingering in the shade of a shop awning, which had been abandoned by its owner in favour of watching the ceremony. A sleek frigate was anchored and lashed at the docks. The name ‘Restoration’ was emblazoned across its stern in gold. It was not, so Sylvanas had been informed, a flagship, but it was a perfectly serviceable first-rate. Which, of course, meant it was massive beyond compare, a veritable floating barracks filled to bursting with sailors, marines, and enough gunpowder and shot to blow away a small city. 

She did not take her eyes off the ship. Officers stood at attention in their glittering finery, while five figures were arrayed before them. Even had Sylvanas not known who they were, their silhouettes were impossible to misrepresent. Each of the leaders of the Great Houses and Jaina Proudmoore in the very middle of them all, like the focal point of an old painting.

This was not a ship blessing ceremony, but it felt exactly like the one Sylvanas had attended almost exactly a year ago in this very city. The only thing that was missing was the rain. For once, Boralus was merely overcast, pale watery sunlight shunting through a part in the clouds and illuminating the vast stretches of canvas sails. 

For all Jaina’s hesitation at the Keep, she stood straight-backed as a pillar now. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her pale hair stark against the dark fabric of her military greatcoat. Beside her, Katherine had a ceremonial sword buckled at her waist, and in a smooth motion she drew it, her gloved hand clenched around the wire-wrapt hilt. She passed the blade to Jaina, who took it without a word. When Jaina held the sword out before her, Lucille was the first to step forward. 

Lucille’s words were loud and clear, carrying across the docks as the onlookers watched in a silence broken only by the whistle of the wind and the creaking planks of the ship. “I, Lady Lucille Waycrest, head of House Waycrest, do truly and sincerely acknowledge, profess, testify, and declare in my conscience before the Tides and the world, that Jaina Proudmoore is the lawful and rightful Lord Admiral of the realm of Kul Tiras. I swear that I will well and truly serve the office of the Lord Admiral, and I will do right to all manner of people after the laws and usages of this realm, without fear or favour, affection or ill will. And I do make this recognition heartily, willingly, and truly, upon the Tides.”

After speaking she leaned down in a low bow and kissed the flat of the blade held before her. She stepped back, and Lord Stormsong stepped forward in her place. The same words and rituals were repeated by each of them, ending with Katherine.

Everyone on the docks seemed utterly rapt by this ceremony. Sylvanas tuned out the repetition after the second time they were said. She was too busy studying how striking a figure Jaina cut atop the stern of the ship. She was still thinking about resuming that kiss from earlier -- hopefully with less crying and self-loathing this time -- when she realised Jaina had pulled out a small folded piece of parchment and had started to give a speech.

“...a long road lies before us,” she was saying, her voice carrying too clearly across the chilly air. She must have been amplifying her words with a subtle spell. “And I know that I am not the leader you expected. And though you have had and will have many wiser and stronger Lord Admirals, you never had nor will you ever have one as grateful or as dedicated. There is nothing I hold in higher regard than the well-being of Kul Tiras and its people. Everything I do henceforth will be for you and you alone. This I swear.

“The times shift as the Tides, and in the shadow of adversity all we can hope to do is steer a course that sees us safe and victorious. Which is why, for my first act as Lord Admiral, I will ensure that this nation is a safe harbour for everyone.”

As Jaina continued to speak, Sylvanas could feel a satisfied smirk pull at the corner of her mouth. She did nothing to quell it. 

“Effective immediately as voted by the Great Houses, Kul Tiras will open its borders,” Jaina said. “No longer will we drown in our isolation beyond the waves, and instead we will become greater than we ever were alone. I have struck favourable deals with representatives abroad from both the Horde and the Alliance, which will make Kul Tiras a haven to all.”

It took a moment for that statement to register. Slowly, Sylvanas uncrossed her arms and stood straighter as she digested the words. The smile slipped from her face and she hissed, “What?” 

Jaina was still talking. She addressed the crowd, refusing to look in Sylvanas’ direction. With every word, the sensation of icy horror gripped at her stomach like a clenched fist. Standing there -- anger rising to rage, then to some ineffable emotion that sang in her jaws -- Sylvanas finally realised that she had been played. 

[ruensroad]

@renattasama​ wanted another continuation of the Dragon God AU, thank you! Prompt from this list here.

Prompt 23 | gentle head massages until the other is asleep | Wangxian

Lan Wangji wanted to believe he’d thought this all the way through, binding himself to a cursed Dragon God in marriage and giving up the rest of his life to do it. But the fact was, as the weeks slipped by and he grew more used to Wei Wuxian and the Wen Clan remnants who loved him, he began to see how greatly he’d miscalculated.

For one, the place wasn’t a place of death, but of life. It was teeming with laughter and family, a family determined to adopt him and love him if he would only let them.

For another, Wei Wuxian was not cruel, or a savage. He was kind, charming, and always smiling, even when his eyes were screaming and far away. He went out of his way to make Lan Wangji as comfortable as he could, made him things to make him happy, and even watched over him as he slept, the way he knew the Water Dragon watched over his brother.

Expecting someone cruel, his defenses stood no chance to that first disarming smile. Over and over again, Wei Wuxian tried. Tried, so very hard, to please him, make him happy. Gave him space when he wanted it and energetic, truly happy companionship otherwise. Lan Wangji had forsaken one family only to find another and his heart was very much not sure how to keep beating with had full it’d become.

Of course, there were plenty of shadows here, some things the stories had gotten right. Wei Wuxian was controlling a very dangerous magic, one that clearly had an affect on him. Most days, he complained of a headache. Some days, he retreated to a back cave and stayed there, not to be seen until dinner and only after the family doctor, Wen Qing, had gone to collect him.

He didn’t know why, but thinking of Wei Wuxian up there alone bothered him. After all, that was his husband, unconventional though this all was, and he was a man determined to do his duty, the best he could.

The problem was, he had no idea what he was supposed to do.

That day had been a day were Wei Wuxian had retreated, only showing at dinner. He was pale, withdrawn, but still found a smile for everyone, and it was deemed so normal that Lan Wangji was taken aback. Could they not see his husband’s suffering? Could they not help him?

That night, Wei Wuxian’s coiled serpent body circled the bed as Lan Wangji settled, as he did almost every night, but for once he was silent in the action. Usually he was humming a tune, or talking softly of this matter or that. The silence was unnerving, but still progress, given the first and second “cave days” had left Lan Wangji here alone.

He wished he was more like his brother, who could comfort with a single touch, or smile, or look. Lan Wangji tried to imagine what Lan Xichen would do in this moment, seeing his husband so in pain, but found nothing coming to mind. Perhaps, he could sing? Perhaps he could…

“You have the look of a man about to kill me,” Wei Wuxian said, and Lan Wangji realized he had been glaring at the space where the Dragon’s eye was for a few minutes now. His husband thankfully sounded amused, if tired, and that decided him.

“Wei Wuxian,” he murmured and pat his lap. “May I sing for you?”

Surprised, the Dragon blinked, but slowly set his massive chin on the mattress. Closer, but not where Lan Wangji wanted him. “I didn’t know you sang,” he said, something like awe in his voice, even as he squinted in the dark in obvious pain.

“Mn…” He pat his lap again. “Come, lay your head here.”

More surprise, which hurt him to see. Did no one show Wei Wuxian basic human kindness in this place? Did they truly fear to touch him when the curse was so strong?

Unafraid, he reached for his husband. “Please.”

Like that was all he’d needed to hear, Wei Wuxian shuffled closer, his head laying over his lap with a bit of hesitance, heavy and warm. His mane was tangled and Lan Wangji immediately set to work combing it through with his fingers, eliciting a low, grumbling purr from his husband. The sound was so strong it rattled down his spine, buzzing over his skin. He loved it immediately.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Wei Wuxian asked, uncertain, even though it had been Lan Wangji’s idea from the start.

Lan Wangji shushed him and felt his music fill his soul, the only answer needed now. “Listen to the lonely and disconsolate flue sound, wind chime rings in the endless night deep in the clouds…”

Slowly, Wei Wuxian relaxed, glowing red eyes dimming in exhaustion and growing hooded, and he gently nuzzled into Lan Wangji’s lap further, that purr only rolling along happier and happier. Lan Wangji sang softly and pet his mane, over every black scale, feeling their sharpness one way, but their smooth, silkiness the other as he traced under his eye.

“Wei Wuxian,” he murmured once the song came to a close, wondering if it had truly gotten the Dragon to sleep, but he got a low noise in response, then a soft chuckle.

“My name is Wei Ying,” his husband gave in return, hopeful and sweet. “My mother named me Wei Ying.”

It was a gift, Lan Wangji knew, and swallowed around a sudden lump that formed. “Lan Zhan,” he gifted back and watched the joy make Wei Wuxian’s eyes glow all the brighter.

“Lan Zhan,” he breathed, and it was music, poetry, the purest song to hear it said with so much reverence. “Lan Zhan, please. Sing it again?”

A tiny smile kissed his lips, hearing that plea, and he gently smoothed his hand down that snout to quiet him. “As many times as you wish, Wei Ying.”

[oikawasgarden]

[ MOTHER ] ━━━ YUNO

warnings: none 

(yuno adopted au!}

a/n: @aspergerhero requested this to me in one of my private messages of reader taking in yuno as a baby. so hope you all enjoy! sorry if it’s long.

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑. The moon high up in the sky as its enchanting light illuminated down the land. Stars filled the sky like snow-flakes in a blanket of a soothing black tranquility. 

The land was quiet. Almost too quiet for a certain woman’s liking.

Inside a noble residence, the young woman sat silently in a cozy dim lit room. The room’s window opened ajar with the night cold wind sweeping through the room. The single candle light adorning the woman’s defined features as her [eye color] orbs skimmed through the writings of a letter in disgust. 

The letter consists of another proposal from a stronghold family. Proposing a proposition of marrying the eldest daughter of the [last name] family, in order to produce an heir to both houses.

While other noblewomen would dream of getting married and settle down with their spouses, [name] was a rather independent woman. So she had no choice but to reject the offer, as much as how selfish it was. [name] only wanted to live alone, heck she would rather trap herself in a room for eternity than marry a snobby noble who only wanted her for their pleasures.

While crumbling the letter and throwing it somewhere across the room, her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the building’s entrance, following the sound of a faint wailing cry as the loud noise reverberated throughout the quiet night. 

[Name]’s eyes shot wide by the loud noise as she instantly hoisted herself up from her seat. Rushing over quickly to the entrance. Opening the door and looking down to see a young infant bundled in a blanket. Her face etched in confusion, scanning through the area only for her to see no one. 

She then looked back at the baby as she took him in her arms before bringing him inside the quiet residence. The loud creak of the wooden floors as she took one step at a time. 

While making it over her way to her room, [name] took a small glimpse of the infant. Her eyes seemed to softened by the now quiet baby in her arms. “It’s good to see that you’ve calmed down. Who on earth would leave a baby in such a place?” 

The infant only spewed a silent whimper, causing the [hair color] haired woman to smile at the infant’s response. 

How stupid she was. Talking to a baby as if it could speak to her. 

But that didn’t bother her, she was just lucky that even a newborn child could listen to her despite not understanding a single word. 

While [name] continued to speak to the infant, he stirred in his slumber, revealing a rather fancy writing of a stitched golden pattern on the baby’s clothing.

“Yuno?” The woman thought loudly, “Your name is Yuno?”

She then smiled, “I have a good feeling about you.”

 It’s been nearly six years since you’ve brought Yuno within the residence, and it was the time of the year for his 6th birthday! The time to spoil a child with all sorts of gifts and eat cake is what others may define birthdays. 

However, for this year's birthday, It was completely different or a better term for the nobles, an improper birthday wish per [name]’s plan. Visiting the forsaken realm, specifically Hage. A place way out of the sticks and the poorest known village of clover.

It bothered [name]’s family, much to their dismay but had no control over her, so they left her be and ignored her unfitting antics. Yuno on the other hand wasn’t bothered, in fact he enjoyed wandering around the town despite getting shy over the couple of people that would just randomly talk to him. So holding hand in hand with his foster mother was nice.

“Oh, Lady [name]! You’re here!” 

The said woman’s ears perked up to see an elderly man running towards her way. Only for the woman to smile at the priest’s presence.

“Father Orgi, it’s been so long!” The woman greeted, “How have you been?”

“I’ve been doing well thank you for asking!” The priest replied with a grin before slowly his switching attention to the young boy.

The priest hummed. “Now who might this be?”

“Oh, this is Yuno.” says the noblewoman, “It’s his birthday today so I thought roaming around Hage village would be nice. My family were against it at first but couldn’t do anything about it since Yuno agreed so willingly.”

Father Orgi smiled, “Rebellious as always I see. It makes me even wonder if you’re a noble or not.”

“Hey!”

The priest only laughed at the woman’s fuming expression before a wave of realization hit him. “Oh that’s right! One of the children in the church is about Yuno’s age would you like to meet him?”

You replied, “We’d love to.”

[name] and yuno then followed the old priest as he took the two inside a rather homely building of a church.

Father Orgi called out, “Asta!”

[name] scanned the whole area of the building and so far have seen no sign of a young child. 

“Where could he have gone....?”

Attempting to find the said boy, a sudden yelling from the back of the church interrupted the atmosphere. Scurrying to the back’s exit to see a young boy with tousled ash-blonde locks and common clothing doing push ups.

The boy chanted, “124.... 125... 126...!”

“Oi Asta!”

By the booming sound of father orgi, the said boy tumbled down on the solid ground with a thud as he glared back at the elder man. “Hey what’s the big deal! I was training here!”

 “We have visitors! Why don’t you welcome them first!”

The priest sighed, “I’m sorry for his behavior.”

“Now don’t be...” says the noblewoman.

The child then stood on his feet before straightening his postures. “Hey I’m Asta! It’s nice to meet you!” The boy bowed rather harshly in respect to the woman causing for her to giggle at the child. 

 “Yuno, why don’t you come and say hi.”

When the raven haired child greeted himself to Asta, the two instantly opened a conversation as if they knew each other for a long time. Seeing Yuno open himself more rather than showing his timidness brought a soft smile on [name]’s face. Like a proud mother watching her son interact with children his age.

“I have an idea! We should play as magic knights!” Asta thought excitedly. “What do you want to be? I’ll be the wizard king that’s for sure!’

“The wizard king?”

“Yeah!” replied the ash-blonde boy, “Ever since I heard the tale of him, I was planning to be the wizard king someday!”

“Eh!” Yuno gasped at the boy’s revelation. “So was that why you were doing those push ups earlier?”

“Yeah it’s my training! I can’t really use magic.... But I’ll get it as soon as I strengthen my body up!” Asta explained with a bold of confidence in his voice.

It was honestly shocking to Yuno how someone, who can’t even use magic and is a commoner nonetheless, dream big of something so impossible. He was often viewed as a timid and scared young boy. So looking at someones his age who’s determination burned the brightest among the ravaging flames...

He felt motivated.

.

.

.

While returning back to the [last name]’s manor, Yuno unexpectedly spoke up.

“Hey mom, can I ask you something...?”

[name] hummed, “What is it?”

Yuno hesitated for a moment before declaring with a timid yet bold voice, “I want to be the wizard king too! so... can you please train me?”

The woman was rather surprised by the child’s declaration as a soft loving smile made its way towards her features. “Of course, anything for you...”