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[alloftheimagines]

joel miller | don't let me drown

masterlist | taglist | ko-fi

words: 2.4k

warnings: drowning, hurt/comfort, angst, lil bit of nude cuddling for warmth reasons but nothing steamy, strong language, inspired by ep six but i changed it up so the bridge is unsteady for the purposes of *drama*. hint towards age-gap with reader in their thirties. they/them pronouns. no y/n.

synopsis: in which the reader falls into the river of death, and it's joel's job to save you and find shelter. featuring ellie. not requested!

You used to think snow was pretty. Magical, even. Now, you only think it’s a bitch to travel through, especially on foot with the harsh mountain winds blowing off the river.

Of course, you can’t complain because the fourteen-year-old and fifty-six-year-old aren’t, and you’re probably supposed to be fitter than the two of them put together. But inside… fuck. You’re exhausted, freezing, and desperate to get to your next destination so you can sleep on something other than ice and mud. 

When the bridge comes into view, relief washes through you. If you can get away from the open water, maybe the winds won’t be so biting and you’ll finally be able to feel your cheeks again. You puff out a visible breath and glance at Joel, who is both pale and rosy-cheeked from the cold. Ellie follows behind, watchful as ever. You can’t imagine what it must be like for her, trekking so far from where she began. Seeing so much. It’s been rough on all of you, but you’ve made it through together. Whatever comes next should be a breeze. 

“Keep a lookout,” Joel warns, poising his handgun and nodding at you to do the same. You’ve been warned that nothing good can be found by the river, and it’s left an unsettling silence between you since you started your journey. 

You dip your head, preparing your own gun as Ellie does the same. But if anything is here, you don’t see it — not on this side of the bridge or the other. It’s a rickety old thing, but if it gets you across… it’ll do. 

“C’mon,” he grunts. The bridge creaks beneath your feet, and you follow Joel’s footsteps to avoid any weak spots. Until gunshots sound somewhere in the distance. You all jump, but it’s you who loses your footing as a chunk of rotten wood disappears beneath your feet. Before you can find something to grab onto, you’re falling, screaming, clutching thin air. Joel yells your name with a fear you haven’t heard in a while, but his voice is lost as the rushing water swallows you up.

Freezing. So cold it makes you burn. The river turns your world grey and endless, as though you’re floating in a void. You thrash, trying to kick up to the surface, but the shock is jolting through you, making you numb, and you can’t remember how to use your limbs.

You cough and gulp down an unbearable amount of water, and that’s when you know. There’s no air, no way of making your lungs work. They just keep burning, squeezing for something that no longer exists. Your vision goes blurry and then disappears completely. 

***

Joel watches it in slow motion. The splintering bridge. The fall. The ripple in the river as it chews you up and doesn’t spit you out. He doesn’t realise he’s screaming your name, doesn’t realise he’s even running, until he reaches the other side of the bridge. 

“Stay there!” he orders Ellie with a warning finger, fear ricocheting through his voice, through the trees. You’re gone is all he can think. You’re gone, and he can’t fucking do this without you. 

His knees ache as he half-sprints, half-slips down the embankment, kicking snow into the river. After shucking off his shotgun and placing it down, he takes off his jacket in a moment of clarity, knowing you’re going to need something warm. And then he’s plunging into the river, cursing at its low temperature. His teeth chatter as he shouts your name, searching for any sign in the steadily flowing water. But there’s nothing. He dives under when he gets closer to the bridge, skin becoming ice as he searches the murky depths. 

He has to come up for air twice before he finds you sinking to the riverbed. He’s never moved so fast, snatching you up in both arms and pulling you to the surface. You’re deadweight in his arms, and panic lances through him when he finds you’re eyes closed. 

He calls your name again, urgency sharpening his words as he pulls you to the embankment. Despite his orders, Ellie waits there, eyes wide and afraid. He doesn’t have time to scold her. He’s too busy carrying you out, water pooling at his feet as he staggers to solid ground and lays you down. 

“Baby?” He shakes you, droplets falling from his face and onto yours as he kneels over you. “Come on. Come on, baby.” 

He presses an ear to your chest: finds no sign of breathing. 

“Shit.” He begins compressions then, counting to thirty before giving you mouth to mouth. Your lips are ice cold, and so are his, his knuckles reddening as he presses the heel of his hand down again and again and again. “Come on. Come on. Breathe.”

“Joel,” Ellie whispers, terror in her voice. 

He squeezes his eyes closed, unable to face what it means. What might be happening. He isn’t losing you today. Not any day. “Come on. Come back to me. Come back to me, darlin’.”

Your breath gutters, and instinct has him rolling you onto your side as you cough up more water than any person should be able to. 

“Fuck,” he’s saying, rubbing warmth into your shoulders. “Ellie, grab my coat.”

She does, and he wraps it around your quivering body before pulling you close. “I got you,” he’s whispering. “I got you, darlin’. I'm here." 

More coughs leave you, and he brushes your hair off your forehead to look for any sign of injury. Your lips are blue, and it terrifies him. Cold water shock can kill, and the way you went under… Shit, it’s a miracle you’re here, upright. 

You’re shivering so violently that he knows the worst isn’t over. Hypothermia. Pneumonia. Those are just some of the things he’ll have to watch for. He can’t take you anywhere like this, can’t protect Ellie or you, but you can’t stay here either. You need to warm up. You both do. 

“We need to find shelter. Somewhere to light a fire and get warm.” 

“I saw some rock overhangs deeper in the woods,” Ellie said. 

“Can you grab the bags?”

“Yeah.” She slips a backpack on each shoulder and then props Joel’s shotgun under her arm. Not ideal, but he can’t think about that now either. Not when you’re barely opening your eyes. 

He breathes your name and then: “Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

A faint nod. 

“Good. That's good. We're gonna get you warm.” He pulls you into his chest, hooking an arm under your knee and the other around your back. You sink into his warmth, but you’re so limp that it terrifies him as he carries you up the embankment, following Ellie’s lead. 

Sure enough, she guides you both to a deep overhang beneath snow-topped crags, and he dips his head to fit in the low space. He places you against the wall, already unravelling the bed rolls.

“Get a fire going,” he says. He’s certain that he had a few matches left last time he checked, and Ellie rifles through his bag before producing them. With shaky hands, she gathers a pile of sticks and surrounds them by rocks just like he taught her before lighting the match and letting it spread. 

The twigs are damp and produce a lot of smoke, but sure enough, an amber glow lights the dark shelter a moment later.

“That’s it. Good,” he whispers. 

Ellie glances at your hunched form warily. You’re so pale, so cold you’re practically convulsing. “Are they gonna be okay?”

“Have to be,” Joel mutters. He slips off your sopping wet coat and sweater, and Ellie turns away as he gets rid of the rest. 

“You still with me?” he asks you.

You hum in response, folding into yourself in your nudity. 

“Here.” Covering her eyes, Ellie hands him a spare long-sleeved shirt and a pair of sweats from her own pack, luckily from Bill’s stash of adult clothes. 

“Thanks,” he replies, urging your arms up so he can slip on the shirt. It’s an uncomfortable ordeal with your clammy skin, but he needs you warm. Now. Even when you groan, skin no doubt stinging painfully. “I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

He has to pull you up for the sweatpants, and then he’s rolling thick thermal socks onto your feet and tucking you into blankets and bedrolls. “How’s that? Feel warmer?”

You shake your head, and he helps you shuffle closer to the fire. 

“Now?”

A nod that has him relieved. He can’t help but place a kiss on your damp forehead, realising too late that he’s cold and shivering too. He only has another flannel in his backpack, though, and he can survive until he’s at least gotten you warm. Protecting you from his damp clothes using the bedroll, he wraps his arms around you to keep in the heat. 

“Gave me a damn heart attack,” he mumbles into your hair, squeezing his eyes closed to chase away the darkness creeping in. The thought of losing you. All the other scenarios where you didn’t end up here with him after the fall. He should have been smarter. Shouldn’t have taken you across that damn bridge.

The ghost of a smile crosses your flame-lit face. “Sorry." And then: "You’re… cold too,” you rasp between shivers. “Get in here.” 

He glances at Ellie. No way in hell is he going to strip off with her here. As though understanding, she raises her brows and shifts away. “I’m going to go find out if bears really do shit in the woods.”

“Don’t go away,” he orders. “Just… give us a couple minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” She disappears, and her crunching footfalls outside keep his concern at bay. 

His concern for her, at least. Your face still lacks colour, your breaths sounding watery and wrong even now. He grinds his teeth, reluctant to pull away from you for even a minute. But if he dries off, he can give you his body heat, so he quickly tears off his clothes and replaces them with the one dry shirt he owns. He doesn’t bother buttoning it up, instead crawling into the bedroll with you and enveloping you in an unyielding hold. You lean against him, eyelids drooping but shivers finally beginning to ease. 

He begins to warm up after a few minutes and can only hope you are too. When he notices your eyes closed, he stiffens. “You still with me, darlin?”

“Think so,” you murmur, your cool hands travelling across his bare chest. He tries not to flinch as he directs them up to his chest. His mouth. He kisses your knuckles before cupping his own hands around yours and blowing. Then, he rubs, generating friction. 

“Keep talking to me,” he pleads.

“‘Bout what?”

“Anything.” Anything, as long as you don’t leave me. As long as you stay. “What was your favourite book growing up?”

You were barely fifteen when the pandemic hit all those years ago, but you smile as you remember that old bookshelf your dad put together full of worn paperbacks. “You don’t read, Joel. You wouldn’t know even if I told you.”

“So tell me about it.” He’s still using his hands, pushing feeling back into your body bit by bit. 

“I’m okay,” you whisper finally. “I’m okay, Joel. I’m gonna be okay.”

“I know that.” But he won’t stop, won’t give up, even when your cheeks turn pink once more. God, he’s missed the way you glow like that, the way it looks brighter in the snow. 

You take a ragged breath. “I liked Gulliver’s Travels.”

“Yeah? Who’s that by?”

“Joel…” Your eyes flutter shut. “Please. I’m tired. I’m warm. I’m okay.”

But he can’t trust it after he’s just put breath back into your lungs; can’t trust it to stay there. He holds you tighter, placing a gentle, terrified kiss into your hair, even if he’ll never admit that he is terrified. That he can’t breathe if you’re not breathing. He realised that the moment he jumped into the river without caring if it got him killed too. 

You’re all he has to hold onto, and he could never let you drown.

“I just need… I need you to keep talking to me for a little longer, baby. Just until I know you’re okay,” he says.

“Okay.” So you tell him about your favourite book, drifting in and out of the conversation. Soon, you stop shivering against him and the bedroll warms with two sets of body heat, just as he’d hoped. The fire keeps up until Ellie finally comes back to refuel it with more sticks, offering Joel a smirk that he returns with a gentle glare. You barely seem to notice, still muttering. 

“Sounds like a great story,” he says finally. “I think Sarah had that one.”

“Yeah.” You smile, cheeks swelling this time as you nestle into his chest. But then you cough, and he frowns. God, is this what it’s gonna be like now? One cough’ll leave him frozen with fear?

“I can read you guys a great book!” Ellie volunteers, and of course pulls out her pages of puns. 

Joel groans. You chuckle, and his heart warms at the sound. 

“Tell me the one with the penguins again,” you ask.

Ellie grins and flips through the pages, and you get a million more cheesy puns that make you laugh until you can no longer hold your head up. You’re certain Joel’s bare chest ripples with stifled amusement at some points. 

“Joel?” you ask as Ellie turns the page. 

“Yeah.”

“I’m so tired.”

Another wave of dread. He masks it clearly, examining your features. You look and feel warm, and you sound like you. If you need the rest, he can’t keep asking you not to take it for his own selfish reasons. For his own pathetic fear.

Finally, he surrenders. “Okay, darlin’. Get some sleep. We all need it.”

“Night,” Ellie says, getting comfortable in her sleeping bag.

Your eyes shut instantly and don’t open again, but your chest rises and falls smoothly against your interlocked hands. He listens to it as the shelter quietens, the fire getting lower. He listens all night just to make sure you’re still breathing. When light returns the next morning, he finds Ellie has done just the same, wide awake and unwilling to tear her gaze away from the two of you. 

“They’re okay, right?” she asks. 

Joel can only hope that it’s the truth when he says, “Yeah. They’re okay.”

“Good.” She nestles into her makeshift pillow — her backpack. “You’re a real grouch when they’re not around.”

He rolls his eyes, tempted to point out that he is always a grouch, though Ellie’s right. He needs you. He will always need you. 

And god, he hopes he never comes close to losing you like that again.

[cressidagrey]

The Starlight Princess - Chapter 5

Summary: 

There is a Pool of Starlight in the Spring Court. A piece of the Night Court that has no business being in the land of Eternal Spring. So how did it come to be?

Or: How the Spymaster of the Night Court starts hearing a voice, realises that no, he is not insane after all, frees a princess, kills a High Lord…and finds his mate all at the same time.

Warnings: Definitely NSFW

She screamed. 

And into the world, she poured all her pain and her anger and her fury, her magic lashing out to the world that had taken so much from her. That had kept her prisoner for centuries and now threatened to take him from her. 

Seren wasn’t sure what she was doing, she only knew that the only thing she wanted was vengeance. 

Vengeance. Death. She wanted him dead. 

And she did that. 

Azriel plunged the knife and Seren was the one who pointed him in the right direction. 

The wards broke. The curse shattered. Her magic exploded.  

For just one single moment she felt like she was being flayed alive. 

And then…then she was back. Back into her body that she hadn’t felt in centuries. Back to having arms and legs and hands and feet. 

Back to feeling cold mud underneath her knees, the wind on her skin. 

She looked up, her eyes wide…and then she stared at him. 

She felt something inside her snap.

Seren had no idea what it was. She didn’t understand what was happening, couldn’t understand what was happening as it felt like the magic in her body swirled…

She didn’t understand what was happening. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. 

The only thing…the only thing that she knew was that he was hers. 

Hers. 

She had never in her life felt anything like that. She had never in her life felt anything like him. 

The only thing in her mind that mattered at that moment was he…he mattered. 

He mattered because he was hers. 

Mate.

Mate. 

Her mate. Hers. Hers and hers alone. Her mate. 

It was there. In her brain. 

And it was the truth. She could feel that in every fibre of her being. Mate. He was her mate. Her mate. 

Mate. 

Her eyes met his. 

Mine. Mine. Mine. 

She covered her body with her own, unable to think, unable to do anything but cling to him…

Her mind reached out, without her permission, unable to even recognise about the dangers she put both of them in as she threw herself against the comfort of his mind with everything she had. 

She needed…she needed…

The rhythm of his mind that she knew better than her own…the feeling of it under her mental touch, the love, the power it projected…it was the only home she needed. 

And so she blanketed it with her own, wanting to cradle it in safety, needing to feel it, needing to…

*Home. Safety. Protection,* he seemingly chanted. And while she agreed, she needed him first. She fit her mouth over his with a growl, needing him to touch her, needing his attention on her like she needed air to breathe. 

She tasted his blood and the salty and iron taste soothed something inside her. 

One hand cupped the back of her head and she shuddered, leaning her forward against his, breathing in cedar and mist and something that was irrevocably him. 

Mate. Mate. Mate. 

He kept a tight grip on him, even when she could feel the magic swirl, grabbed her and they hit the stone floor in a house. 

Not that it mattered. 

Nothing mattered, but him. 

She straddled him, the need rising to a fever pitch, her nails scoring against his warm skin, stretched over rock-hard muscles, and she pushed away the leather falling off his shoulders in rags, the fabric disintegrating under her fingertips. 

Her lips pressed against his again, her tongue tangling with his as she needed to have him bare underneath her. Now. 

She needed him. She needed him as close to her as she possibly could, her body nearly aching, heat curling low in her belly, burning her from the inside out. 

Her instincts were screaming at her, to take and fuck and claim and have him. 

She needed him. She needed him. 

*Seren.* Her name in his mind only fanned the flames, only made her fingernails score against his skin, his skin slick with blood and sweat and she didn’t care. 

He pulled back from the kiss and she growled, staring at him. “Seren, wait.”

“Why?” It was a guttural sound ripped from her throat. Wait? Wait for what? Why should they wait? 

If she was going to wait, she would die. 

She couldn’t wait. 

She attacked his throat instead, nipping the delicate skin there with her sharp teeth, tasting salt and sweat and Azriel and wanting, needing more. Her hands slid over his torso and she could feel him shudder underneath him, could feel the arousal thrumming on his side of the bond…she bit back a smile. 

 *I need you,* she cooed at him. Hers. She needed him. She needed him. 

She could feel his mind, could feel him hover in indecision, could feel him get ready to push her off but she clung to him even tighter. *Please, Azriel.* 

Desperation bled through her, as she shifted…and the flames built into an inferno, as she could feel him notch against her there, even with layers of clothing separating him…She could feel him, rock hard and ready for her, ready for her taking. 

Her instincts shot into overdrive. *Big. Strong. Will give me strong children,* something inside her purred, pure undiluted need rushing into the cradle of her thighs, her body growing slick and warm in seconds, a throbbing pain making itself a home there. Empty. She was so empty. 

She needed…

That’s how far she came. 

He twisted them, her body suddenly buried underneath him, before he flipped her over, and dragged her hips up into the air until she was propped up on her knees. 

A thin, needy whine escaped her at his manhandling, the arousal suddenly at an even worse fever pitch than it had been before, one broad, scarred hand, shoving her head down, her hands squabbling for purchase against the rough stone. 

She fought against him, but she had no chance. Absolutely none, against the pure muscle mass and bulk off him as he leaned over her and pinned her to the floor, one hand grasping her hair, and twisting it around his hand like a rope, yanking her head to the side, his teeth against her neck. 

She could see him, could see the dark eyes, the snarl on his face as he buried her body underneath his, her heart thumping inside her chest, like a rabbit caught in the snare of an apex predator. 

Seren wasn’t scared. That didn’t even cross her mind. 

He growled, the sound feral, a warning.

She whimpered in response, her thighs growing slick with her wetness. 

Azriel’s nostrils flared and she knew the moment he caught her arousal. 

“Mine,” he snarled at her, magic enveloping them once again, her whole body trembling… enveloping the

And just like that she was at his mercy, her heart pounding in his chest as suddenly he was bare, the thick line of his cock dragging against her cunt, her whole body trembling at the shocking touch, her breath catching in her throat.  

His other hand, the one that was not buried in her hair, slid over her hip…pressing his fingers between her thighs, finding that needy, throbbing bud there that was driving her to the brink of insanity. She couldn’t help but jerk as he circled it, a whine escaping her. 

She was caught between the insistent press of his cock, still sliding slowly against her, never entering her, and the touch of his fingers that were…

He clucked his tongue at her as she tried to get away from him, the hand in her hair pulling her back sharply. *You’ll take what I give you,* he snapped in her mind, the order like a whip crack and she had no choice but to submit. 

Not that she wanted to. a part of her mind was purring in response, more than pleased by him taking control. 

*Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate will take care of me,* her mind purred, her trembling only intensifying. 

She whimpered, pushing back against him, his fingers having ceased their slow circled

*I will. I will take care of you. What does my mate need?* he purred into her mind. *Do you need my cock?*

Yes. Yes. Yes. Maybe that would finally help against the incessant emptiness that was gaping inside her, maybe then she would no longer feel quite as…

He pulled back and that was all the warning, she would get as he plunged inside her, ripping apart her maidenhead with one deep stroke. Her back bowed, a scream escaped her, at the pure size of him, the width and length that was forced inside her with brutal pressure. 

Her walls fluttered helplessly against him, straining and failing.

She tried to shift away, and bucked her hips against his, as everything hovered over the knife's edge of being too much, whimpering pitifully. 

He kept her pinned underneath him, so easily it would probably been amusing under any other circumstances. Panic clawed up into her chest, but as she could feel a low growl rumbling from his throat…He forced her body to adjust, to submit, and suddenly something inside her relaxed. 

Her body grew lax, no longer fighting him. 

But something…something inside her slid into place… something inside her relaxed at the biting heat and pressure and pain and pleasure that this brought her…something inside her slotted right where it should, the bond between them flexing and shifting…

*Such a good little mate, princess,* he purred into her mind and she wanted nothing more than to hear that every day for the rest of her life. 

Her instincts purred, satisfaction turning languid…like a cat stretching out in front of a fireplace.

Her thoughts grew hazy, heat pooling low inside her belly as her cunt clenched around him, against the sheer size of him…pinned into place between him and the floor. She wriggled, but she didn’t really want to escape his grip…just wanted to see if she could move…and she couldn't. 

Desire pulsed through her at that, at how helpless she truly was in the face of his strength…how heavy and big her mate was as he pinned her to the floor, surrounded her…utterly and completely. 

“Mine,” he growled against her throat and she felt his teeth prick against her skin. 

“Yours,” she agreed, the words coming out of her mouth in a soft whine, just as he went back to circle that nub begging for attention…

He pulled back slightly and snapped his hips forward, making her gasp. She was quite sure that he was going to bruise her, and she couldn’t fucking care less. Seren could hardly draw breath to scream, her nails scratching against the stone floor as he fucked her hard and mercilessly. It was almost too much to bear. 

Almost. 

But she revelled in it. She loved every fucking second of it, every second of gasping for breath, her body aching, climbing towards that peak that she was barreling towards too. 

This was…this was more than simply taking pleasure from each other, this was a claiming. 

And she gave each other over to him with every fibre of her being. 

“Mine,” he snarled once again, his teeth snapping closed against her neck and she arched into that sweet pain, as she choked out an affirmative, a high-pitched cry escaping her mouth, as he picked up the pace. 

He was ravaging her. 

“My mate. Mine.”

Hard punishing thrusts, until finally, her body hit that point where…that point everything went white surrounded her, a wordless high-pitched scream on her lips. 

He didn’t stop. 

She didn’t stop either. Her body started clenching around his again and again and again, and she wasn’t sure when one climax ended or another began. Peak after Peal, rolling into each other, again and again, until it was one constant cresting wave that destroyed every last bit of her sanity.  

She was a prisoner to the pleasure he gave her, every thrust of his giving her another peak or maybe just lengthening that one until her body violently shook in his grasp. 

Her mind reached out on its own accord, cracking open, every bit of pleasure he was giving her, pouring out of her and into him and into the world, sharing it, making it stronger….

Two, three thrusts later, he came with a roar. There was no other word for it. 

His fingers imprinted on her skin with the force of his touch, bruising her and she sobbed with pleasure as she could feel his pleasure pouring all over her, the molten heat that he poured deep inside her as his cock twitched. 

She was utterly surrounded by him, inside and out, his scent covering her. 

He collapsed on top of hers, and she could feel that ravaging need deep within her subside slightly. 

For just a moment, she only existed, catching her breath, her mind blissedly empty as the only thing she felt was Azriel’s weight on top of her, the mating bond thrumming between them into one golden bond. 

Seren was safe. Seren was home. 

And then suddenly, Azriel’s feelings poured all over her, shock, horror, an absolutely ridiculous amount of self-loathing, fear and…

“Gods, I am so sorry, Seren,” he choked out as he lifted off her and she managed to crack open one eye, not understanding what he had now. 

“Hm?“ She couldn’t even manage to build a complete sentence. To blissed out. 

Too…pleased. 

“Seren,” Azriel’s hands fluttered around her, not daring to touch and she managed to push up on a pair of shaking arms, her body still thrumming with aftershocks, to catch his hands. 

*What’s wrong? Why are you sorry?* she demanded. What was...

“What’s wrong?” Azriel asked her incredulously. “I fucked you like some kind of animal! I bit you!”

“Yeah, and you don’t hear me complain,” Seren shot back, somehow managing to sit up, flinging a blob of mud from her shoulder down onto the floor. She really wasn’t going to complain. Not when she had loved every fucking second of this. 

“I can smell your blood,” Azriel choked out and she stared, watching the self-hatred that made himself a home on his face. 

*Azriel,* she said pointedly, pushing her mind against his, pushing into his mind, showing him exactly how it had felt…the pleasure he had wrung from her. How much she had loved. 

*I am so sorry,* he whispered into her mind and she somehow managed to drape herself half over his lap, pressing herself against his body. 

*You don’t need to apologise. There is nothing that you did wrong. But if you need to hear it: I’ll forgive you,* she whispered into his brain. Quite frankly, their first kiss had been her nearly biting off his tongue, so…maybe this wasn’t quite the first time she had expected but that didn’t mean that she didn’t enjoy it. 

*This was your first time,* Azriel realised weakly. 

*And it was perfect,* she cut him off before he could start it up again. *Though I could use a bath…I do not enjoy being covered in mud.*

He bit out a laugh at that, weak and thin and still lifted her into his arms like she weighed nothing. She was quite certain that they trailed mud and blood all over this house as she tipped her head back against his chest, feeling his heartbeat underneath her touch. 

*Where are we?* she asked idly, taking in the comfortable furnishing of wooden furniture and thick carpets over the rough stone floor. It was a far cry from the luxurious appointed House of Wind where she had grown up. Or even the Moonstone Palace on top of the Hewn City. 

It was…home. 

She quite liked it. 

*My house in Velaris,* Azriel answered as he pushed open the door to the bathing chamber. His home? 

He had lived in the House of Wind before. Since when did he have that house? 

But that question went unanswered, as Seren blinked twice at the absolute massive pool that doubled as a bathtub. 

*Makes it easier to wash my wings,* he admitted unashamedly and she grinned as he carefully put her down, dragging him in with her. 

Not just his wings. Her wings too. 

He indulged her, as she pressed a soft kiss against his mouth, stepping into the steaming water behind her as the pool filled magically. He cradled her face, soft and sweet and languid as the pool filled with warm water and she could feel the mud washing away from her 

*You deserved it to be courted like a princess,* he still thought weakly at her as she cupped the water in her hands and gently started to wash him, taking in the sluggishly bleeding scratches on his chest as she cleaned them carefully. She was sure they would scar, disrupting the Illyrian tattoos that marked his skin with scars gained for her. 

*Well, I have never turned down a gift,* she quipped, making him bark out a burst of laughter. *You can just make it up to me.* She suggested brightly. *You can be as sickening sweet and doting as you want after we have cleaned up. I am prepared to endure your thorough attentions.* 

[azrielsdove]

Petals and Pain: Tamlin x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Suggestive, Longgggg

The halls were dark, quiet, and cold. A stark contrast to the last time you stepped foot in this manor. You crept through the ruins, remembering how the grand place had looked before. It had been fifty-odd years since you last came here, since you last saw your oldest friend.

Everything had changed since then.

You had left Prythian on what was supposed to be a month trip to the other territories. You were to go both as a diplomat and as a tourist. Tamlin had wanted to try to better the Court with what you learned there, a task you so willingly took. You had bid him farewell and set off, excited to see what the world had to offer.

You didn’t know it would be the last time you saw him.

He sent a letter the moment Amarantha showed her evil hand, bidding you stay put. Every instinct in you screamed to run home, but you knew you could be of more help if you stayed away. Perhaps you could seek out assistance from one of the territories.

Your heart ached for the Spring Court all those years. Your travels brought you beauty, sure, yet it all paled in comparison to your home. You longed for the manor, its large windows and warm sunshine. You wished to walk through the gardens, so full of magic and peace. Above it all you missed Tamlin. The two of you had met long ago, when you were both not more than babes. Your parents were high up in the Court, trusted advisors to the High Lord. Often you were brought along as their pride and joy, their perfect little pawn. Talks of a betrothal to you and one of the High Lords sons began as you grew, your parents vying for the eldest. They knew he had the most chance of being the next High Lord. The goal was to get you in the highest position of power possible.

Your friendship with Tamlin grew as you did. He was pushed to the side more often than not, the youngest brother with no hope of ever being High Lord. Your parents were unhappy that he was the one you chose to befriend, but they couldn’t keep you from seeing him. Not without potentially upsetting his father. No, that wouldn’t do for their plan.

Until the slaughter of the entire family occurred. Your parents were unlucky enough to have been there at the time of the attack, murdered alongside Tamlins. Too quickly the manor went from a busy, full, lively place to just the two of you. Tamlin begged you to stay after that, insisting that he didn’t want to be alone. You couldn’t deny that you felt the same and gladly moved into the manor. He appointed you emissary, setting you as the first member of his court. Not long after Lucien showed up and turned your duo into a rather happy trio. You and Lucien worked together to keep the Spring Court in good favor with the other Courts.

You wondered where Lucien was now. What exactly had happened here, besides what you got out of Tamlins last broken letter. You continued further into the manor, peering into each room as you passed. There was no sign of life anywhere. You weren’t even sure if Tamlin was still here. You stuck a hand in your pocket, finger running over the edge of the letter that brought you here.

Spring has fallen.

It is all my fault.

The threat has gone.

Short, and not nearly enough information. You had raced back to Prythian as quickly as you could, trying to imagine what had happened.

Though nothing prepared you for this.

“Tamlin?” You called out softly, unsure if danger lurked nearby. A chill flew through the air, sending shivers down your back. A noise from a few rooms down the hall startled you, eyes darting towards it. You moved hesitantly towards the door, noting the dim light showing from underneath it. Slowly you pushed it open, once again calling out his name. You looked into the room, heart sinking at the sight.

You had found Tamlin.

From where he sat you could see his hair was matted, covered in mud and leaves. His once smart attire was torn and dirtied, hanging loosely off his much too thin frame. You could see his skin was pale, scratches covering most of it. “Tam?” You asked, voice shaky. He turned slowly to you and your hand flew to cover your mouth. His eyes were dark, sunk deep into his head. He looked as close to death as you could get while still being alive. “Oh Tam.” You dropped to your knees in front of him, gently wrapping your hands around his. You stared deep into those haunted eyes, heart breaking. “Let me help you.”

He gave no response, just continued to stare at you in that dead sort of way. You began to doubt there was anything of your friend left. You quickly busied yourself with all the healing remedies you brought from your travels. You weren’t certain what sort of state Tamlin or the Spring Court would be in when you arrived, so you brought as many fit into your bags. A good thing too, for several of these were desperately needed. You gently poured a few different vials into his mouth, watching carefully to make sure they took. You wanted to heal his body and mind as much as you could, in hopes that he could explain what had all happened. You administered one final draught for the night before gently leading your friend to lay in front of the damp fireplace. “Sleep should kick in soon, will you lay here for me?” You asked, laying down the cloak you wore as a sort of sad attempt at a bed. Tamlin laid on it with no comment, the horrid blank stare still on his face. You waited until he was asleep to go scrounge around for some wood, leading to a rather pitiful fire in the great stone fireplace. At least it was better than nothing.

You settled down in the least damaged chair you could find, watching Tamlin. Your mind was racing with questions. You were completely lost on how your once witty and charming friend had been reduced to this husk of a male. And where was Lucien? You were struck with a chilling thought, one that you didn’t wish to dwell on. You shook your head, shooing it away. Lucien had to be alive, something just must have come up. There was a perfectly logical reason for why he wasn’t here, and why the Spring Court lay in ruin. You just had to wait for Tamlin to wake and you could get some answers.

***

It was days before the High Lords eyes opened once more. You spent your time forcing water and various medicinal mixtures down his throat, exploring what was left of the manor when you felt up to it. Your heart ached at seeing what was once your beautiful home in such disrepair. It shattered completely when you made your way to your old rooms and found that they were the only place untouched. Dusty, yes, but otherwise just the same as you had left them. You had quickly brought Tamlin to them after your discovery, setting him up in your grand four poster bed. A reminder of a life that feels so long ago now.

It was soon after that Tamlin came to. He still looked close to death, but there was a minuscule brightness to his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He murmured your name, a hand reaching out for yours. You grasped it tightly, tears pricking at the back of yours eyes. “Tam,” you whispered, “what happened?”

He gave a sad smile, shaking his head. “It was all my fault, truly. Everyone left. I let them all down. I allowed war to come to these lands, I allowed terrible things to happen.” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “All in the name of love. Love. What do I even know of it?”

You were confused, and a tad bit hurt at the mention of this so-called love. “Tell me from the beginning.”

And so he did.

He told you of what Amarantha had done, how she had tricked the Courts. How she vied for his hand and when he denied her she cursed all of Spring. He told you how she cut out Lucien’s eye, wincing as he did. He talked about the rules of his curse, how the only way out was to get a mortal to fall for him.

He spoke of Feyre, the love he had mentioned before. You could feel the pain in his voice as he did, as he explained how he tried to save her. “I was ready to sacrifice my entire court, just so she would be safe. A fool I was. A selfish, horrid fool.” He told you how they were all taken Under the Mountain, how Feyre came to try to save him. What she suffered in the months down there. How he didn’t know what to do, besides send Lucien to try to help her.

He talked about Rhysand, who you remembered all too well. He explained how the other High Lord assisted Feyre Under the Mountain, how Tamlin had thought it all a nasty trick. His voice broke as he recalled Amarantha killing her, but Rhysand and the other High Lords worked together to bring her back.

You had no words, shocked at the amount of respect they all had for this girl. Truly, you couldn’t help but be in awe of her yourself.

Tamlin continued, telling you how they were supposed to wed. How Rhysand had crashed the wedding, whisking Feyre away. He told you how Lucien and him thought Rhysand was nothing but evil, mind controlling Feyre to hate them. “Of course, she had every right to hate me. I didn’t know how to treat her after Under the Mountain. I allowed her suffering.” You squeezed his hand reassuringly, urging him to continue.

On he went, explaining that Rhysand and the Night Court were never truly evil, that there is a goodness there. He spoke of the war with Hybern, of what he had done to Feyres sisters. He told you how Feyre had turned the court against him, but it was his own actions that lead them to believe her.

He talked about Lucien, how he had fled with Feyre in the end. “I couldn’t even keep one of my oldest friends. I have done irreparable damage to everyone I cared about. It is good you were away, otherwise you would’ve been hurt too.” His gaze was faraway, eyes shining with untold pain.

You sat in silence for long moments, processing everything he had told you. Lucien had left him. That was no small fact, that what Tamlin had done was bad to have driven him away. Yet as look at the male in front of you, you struggle to see that he is truly evil.

“I believe your heart was in the right place, however your actions were a bit extreme,” you said slowly, careful with your words.

Tamlin laughed. “Just a bit?” You looked up at him, his eyes shining bright as he smiled at you. For just a moment you could see the old him in his face, the strong High Lord you once knew.

“Okay, perhaps a lot. I do not see why that should mean you must live like this now. It is not too late to make amends to your Court, and to Lucien. I am home now, Tam. Let me help rebuild our home.” And you, you thought, looking over his sickly state once more.

He nodded, agreeing. “Yes, yes. You always know what to do. For now, I will rest. I tire too easily these days.” His eyes were closed before he finished speaking, exhaustion taking over once more.

You sat in the quiet room for a while longer, still holding his hand. Your questions were answered, but in their place were a million more. For the first time you began to doubt if the Spring Court and its High Lord were truly fixable.

***

You spent the following days cleaning up what damage you could from the manor while Tamlin regained his strength. You took notice of how most of the destruction seemed caused by a rather large animal, piecing together what must have happened. What sort of a state had he been in to destroy his home in such a way? You had paused your questioning for now, focusing on his healing first. You did find where Lucien now resides and sent him a letter as quick as you could. You weren’t entirely sure what had all happened, but you hoped he would return once more. If not for Tamlin, then for you.

You were busy cleaning in the grand entry when a rather cold chuckle came from behind you. You turned quickly, holding your mop out like a weapon.

“Oh relax, it is only me,” a silky voice said, purple eyes glittering. You frowned.

“Rhysand.”

He placed his hand dramatically over his heart at your cool tone, feigning being stabbed. “Ouch. How long has it been since we last spoke, then? Welcome back to this side of the world. Noticed I didn’t see you in the war.”

You rolled your eyes, setting your mop down. “There could never be enough time in between our meetings. I wasn’t a part of the war, as I was unaware it was happening. The last I heard was the day Amarantha played her nasty trick, and I was told to remain away.”

“Lucky you. Away on your travels, galavanting around while the rest of us suffered.” Rhysand scowled at you, eyes narrowed. “You seem not any worse off for it.”

You crossed your arms tightly in front of you, anger flooding your body. “I did only as my High Lord commanded.”

Rhysand scoffed. “Some High Lord he is. Do you not see the state of your beloved Court? Do you truly believe an innocent male allowed ruin to befall your home like this?”

You took a step closer, ever defensive of your old friend and home. “What I have found is a hurting male, trapped all alone in a nightmare of his own creation. I have heard his regrets and his helplessness. I came back to find my home a dark shadow of itself, my High Lord, my friend, not more than a shell of who he was.” You looked Rhysand up and down. “I have found you, the male who won it all. You have your mate, Rhysand. You have your grand Court, your faithful family. I’ve heard you even have a perfect little son. And yet here you stand, coming to do what, may I ask? Taunt Tamlin? Kick him some more while he’s down?” Your fists clenched, anger tight in your chest. “I admit I do not know all that has transpired in my absence, but I know enough to say what you’re doing is wrong. I do not argue that he has hurt you, has hurt your mate, but to what end must he suffer? Will you not be happy until his heart has ceased beating? What more can he give you?”

Rhysand stood as still as death, eyes studying you carefully. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “You show a devotion I do not often see. If you ever come to understand there’s nothing for you here, i’d be pleased to see you in Night Court black. As I said so many years ago, Tamlin will never give you what you want.” He was gone in a dramatic swirl of darkness, nothing but a grandiose show of power. You frowned deeper, ever unsettled by the High Lord. He had always been condescending to you, deciding that you were worth hating just for being close to Tamlin.

As I said so many years ago, Tamlin will never give you what you want. You scoffed as the words played again in your head, picking your mop back up. Rhysand had convinced himself long ago that you only stayed close to Tamlin in hopes of being his bride. You’d laughed in his face the first time he said this, completely taken aback by such an accusation. You can admit a part of you would not have been unhappy with such an arrangement, but you had your position in Court on your own. Rhysand never saw you as more than a lovesick puppy that followed Tamlins every move.

When you returned to Tamlin you mentioned the meeting rather briefly, not wishing to upset him any further.

“Rhysand was here?” He asked sharply, eyes scanning you as though for injury. “Did he hurt you? What did he want?”

You sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking at him. “He did not do anything, Tam. I assume he came to make sure you were still miserable. He wasn’t very pleased to find me instead.” A teasing smile danced across your face, an attempt to lighten the situation.

It didn’t work. Tamlin frowned deeply, clearly upset that this happened. “He comes every now and again to remind me i’m worthless and alone. He laughed himself silly when he saw how sickly i’d become last time.”

You forced your anger down, not trusting yourself to speak. While you understood why Rhysand would be so full of hate for Tamlin, there has to be a limit before it becomes just pointless cruelty. You took a deep breath, looking intently at your friend. “Whatever he has said to you is irrelevant now. You are healing, as is this Court. That is all that matters. Do not dwell on the events of the past, not now.” You reached over and grabbed the warm tea you had made, filling his cup with it. “Now drink, and rest. I gather soon you’ll be up to a walk around the grounds.”

***

Tamlins healing came slowly, and not without challenge. The first day he got out onto the desolate gardens surrounding the manor he fell into a darkness deeper than before, pained at seeing what his home had become. The physical healing was only part of the battle, the healing of his mind was what truly ailed him. You had brought him back to bed, forcing him to eat and rest. Once you were certain he was down for the night you made your way back outside, sitting on the cracked grand steps leading up to the entry.

And you cried.

This task was more than you expected. Tamlin was in worse shape than you ever imagined, the Court was nothing more than a few dead plants. You had no idea where to go from here, how else to aid in his healing. Even when he was healed, how were you going to go about healing the Court? Bringing the fae home? You’d heard how it had fallen, the poison Feyre had spewed, the ways in which some of what she had said rang true. You knew how Tamlin put his faith in the wrong beings, how his focus on her lead to his destruction. This was beginning to feel like all too much on you, but you refused to give up on him.

Someone spoke your name softly.

You shot up from the steps, eyes narrowing as you took in your surroundings. Your heart stopped when you realized who was standing in front of you.

“L-Lucien?”

His name was enough to have him running up to you, wrapping you tight in his arms. You sunk into his embrace, tears taking over with a new force. You allowed yourself to let out all you had been holding back, safe in the arms of one of your closest friends. Lucien held you close, body shaking with his own emotion. The two of you stood that way until your eyes were dry. When you finally pulled back enough to look up into his face your heart ached. One hand came up to gently touch the scarring left by Amarantha, anger and pain in both of you. “I’m so sorry I left.”

Lucien shook his head vigorously. “None of that. I stood by Tamlin when he decided you should stay away. I do not regret that choice for a moment.” He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, giving you one last squeeze before letting you go. “How is he?”

You sighed deeply. “He’s bad. I am starting to lose hope.” You were ashamed to speak the words out loud.

Lucien reached out and grabbed ahold of your hand. “Take me to him?”

You nodded, leading him through the desolate manor. You heard his sharp intake of breath as he took in the destruction, even with your pitiful attempts at fixing it. You paused outside of your rooms, looking up to Lucien. “He has not told me all that transpired between you, however he has told me enough. I am sorry for the pain you have suffered at his hand. The male you are about to see is but a shell of the one you once knew. If it’s too much I do not expect you to stay.”

Lucien squeezed your hand reassuringly. “At the end of it all, Tamlin was one of my greatest friends. And you are worth more than any pain he has bestowed upon me. I do not wish to see either of you suffer anymore than you already have.”

You gave him a watery smile and pushed open the doors. You felt his hand go slack as he took in the sight of Tamlin tucked into your bed, how sickly he still looked. You stayed close to the doors as Lucien approached him, allowing him to process what he was seeing. “Oh, Tam,” he whispered, a hand running across his face. “What have we done?” He stood there for a while, looking over his old friend. You went to him when you noticed the gentle shake of his shoulders, tears falling slowly down his cheeks.

“Come,” you whispered, wrapping an arm around him. “He will not wake until well into the morning. I’ll make you something warm to drink and you can rest until then.” You led Lucien down to the kitchens, fixing him up a cup of tea. He sat in silence while you did, staring blankly at the wall.

“I should not have left him in my anger,” he finally spoke, looking up as you handed him the cup. “I was so hurt by how he had acted, but I was not innocent in all that happened. Even when I disagreed with his actions I still followed him, up until the end. I’ve allowed him to fall into this state.” You knelt down in front of him, wrapping your hands around his.

“You must not think like that. We all have our own guilts and pain, but we must come back together now. Everything has changed and yet so much is the same. I have missed you, Lucien. I have missed the both of you more than I can say.” You looked down at your hands around his, taking a deep breath. “We need to come up with a plan to help him, to save our Court. Otherwise it will remain dead for eternity.”

***

Weeks went by. Lucien stayed and helped you, the two of you fixing up your home. Tamlin had improved greatly in the physical sense, but his mind was still riddled in guilt. Your pain at seeing him struggle had slowly turned into anger. “What else can we do, Lucien? Do you expect me to sit and wait decades more for him to move on?” You seethed, pacing back and forth in front of the grand fireplace. The two of you spent most nights in the newly refurbished study, the favorite of the rooms you’ve redone. The estate had been mostly repaired to its former glory, aside from the missing staff and High Lord.

“You know how long it can take. You saw the state he was in. I know it is frustrating to continue waiting but what else do you propose we do?” Lucien was as exhausted as you were, but his own guilt at letting Tamlin fall this far kept him slightly more amicable. You paused your pacing, turning sharply to look at him.

“I’m going to tell him off. We have let him deal with everything in private as much as we can. He needs a wake up call, and so help me I will do it.” You made your way from the room before Lucien could stop you. You knew you should calm down before you get to Tamlin’s rooms, finished only days ago. Your hands were clenched tightly into fists at your sides as you stormed through the manor, trying to decide what to say. All you knew was that you were angry and tired of watching your dearest friend lose himself.

You reached his doors rather quickly, shoving them open without a second thought. They clattered against the walls, alerting Tamlin to your presence. He looked over at you curiously, eyes scanning over you. “Has something happened?” He asked, sitting up in his bed. You crossed your arms tight in front of you.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Something has happened.” You watched his expression change slightly at the pure rage in your voice, as if he knew what you were going to say. “You. You, Tamlin. I am sick and tired of watching you wallow in self pity. I understand, you were hurt. You are ashamed of how you acted in your own rage. But how long must this go on? I am home, Tam. I am here, for you. Lucien and I have repaired this estate and you have done nothing but sit in this godforsaken bed and pout!” You couldn’t help the increased volume in your voice, all your hidden frustration bursting free from you. “I want you to get up. I want you to get out of this bed, put some damned clothes on, and come to work. Do you understand?” You stared him down, breathing slightly heavy.

Something strange flickered through his eyes, an emotion you had never seen in him. His voice was deathly cold when he responded. “Are you making demands of your High Lord?”

An exasperated sigh rolled off your lips. “At this point I’m more High Lord than you are.” You knew that was cruel, a direct attack to his already hurt pride. The rational part of your mind was screaming for you to calm down, to take a step back. But your anger was winning. “I came here to help you, Tamlin. Have I not done so? Have I not devoted my life to yours?”

His scoff cut you off. “No one forced you to do that,” he spat out, leaning back against his headboard. “You did not have to come back here. You shouldn’t have come back here.”

You rolled your eyes. “This is my home. You are my home! Don’t you get it, Tam? It has always been you!” The anger rushed out of your body at your confession, a sudden lightheadedness coming over you. “It was always you,” you whispered out, a hand coming to rest on your forehead. The strength left your body, your legs failing to hold you up. The floor was coming up fast, blessedly fast. You hoped you would hit it hard enough to forget this moment, your embarrassing confession.

Then you stopped. Strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you back up. One stayed tightly around your waist while the other cupped your chin, forcing you to look into the perfect green of Tamlin’s eyes. “Say it again,” he whispered, breath ghosting over your lips.

“It is you. You are my home,” you murmured, brain foggy at his proximity. In all the decades of loving him, you had never been caught in a moment like this.

Tamlin took a deep breath before moving a millimeter closer. “How long?” He asked, each syllable causing his lips to brush against yours.

“Since we were children. My father pushed for me to marry one of your brothers, but I never held any interest in them. My heart has always called out for you.” Your body was on fire, every slight brush of his lips against yours a lightning strike under your skin. “I waited. I waited for you to choose me at Calanmai.” You felt his nails dig slightly into your waist at that, a shuddering breath running through him. “I waited for you to seek a wife once you were more comfortable as High Lord. I waited and waited. Then you sent me away.”

The hand under your chin moved to hold your face, thumb running gently over your cheek. “I sent you away,” he began, voice heavy, “because it was getting too hard to focus with you around. With the constant need running through my veins.” His hand dropped to the back of your neck, squeezing ever so gently. “Every Calanmai my body sang for yours. It took insurmountable control to not drag you in that cave with me each year.” You couldn’t help the noise that came from you at that. Something in Tamlin snapped, his pupils blown wide before pressing his lips fully against yours.

The kiss was harsh, unleashing decades of pent up desire. You cried out when he bit your lip, canines sharp. The taste of your blood on his tongue was positively sinful, making you feel a way you never had before. His lips moved from yours, running down your neck before his teeth sunk in to your shoulder. You moaned his name loudly, throwing your head back in a silent plea for more. Tamlin growled, the arm around your waist moving to slide down between your thighs. His fingers teased the waistband of your pants, your skin burning in the wake of his touch. You had half a mind to grab his hand and force it where you needed him the most, when Lucien decided to make his presence known.

“I see we kissed and made up?” He cooed, a smirk on his face as he leaned against the doorframe. Tamlin turned sharply to him, elongated nails and teeth on full display.

“Leave. Now.”

***

One year later

The Spring Court was alive once more. In fact, it was more beautiful than it had ever been. The flowers bloomed bright and big, their pleasant perfume filling the lands. The grass was the richest shade of green, the trees sang in the wind, and the air ran fresh. It was a paradise. You were admiring the peonies in the garden when two arms wrapped around your waist, tucking you close. You leaned into Tamlin’s hold, a content sigh escaping you.

“How are the flowers today, my love?” He asked, pressing a kiss behind your ear.

“They are perfect,” you said with a smile, resting your hands over his. You looked down at the glittering emerald set in gold on your finger, a matching golden band circling his own. “How is my husband today?”

“Mmm,” he groaned, pressing more kisses down your neck. “Greatly improved now that I have you here. The other Courts are being rather obtuse about answering our letters.” You turned in his arms, resting your hands upon his chest.

“Do you wish for me to deal with them again? You know they rather like me,” you teased, playing with the fabric of his shirt. Your husband rolled his eyes, leaning down to kiss you sweetly.

“They do seem to prefer you, High Lady.” You smiled at the title, a name you were still getting used to. You caught his lips with yours once more, threading one hand up through his hair. He sighed into your mouth, pulling you tighter against him. You lead the kiss, allowing his mind to grow muddled under your touch. You tugged on some strands of his hair, relishing in the guttural sound he made before pulling away from him and out of his grasp.

“Come on, High Lord. Let’s go convince the other Courts that a Spring ball is an excellent idea, planned by their very favorite High Lady.”

***

Ahhhh I LOVE this one. I hope you all do too! This took me agessss to write, but I am ever so thankful for your patience with me. <3

Note: If you do not like Tamlin, that is fine, but do not come here to argue. Just scroll on <3

[anto-pops]

The Serpent's Paramour - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: For the past five years, you've been traversing the Highlands in pursuit of ancient magic sites to master the all-consuming power from the repository. In the midst of your travels, you find yourself forced into an uneasy alliance with none other than Sebastian Sallow. He wants your help, but you want absolutely nothing to do with him.

At first, that is.

While the two of you learn to coexist in the same space again, you’re left wondering if you truly will be able to aid one another, or if your past mistakes will finally come to head after all these years and ultimately lead to your long awaited downfall.

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: 18+. aged up characters, canon-typical violence, kidnapping

Chapter 1 can also be found here on Ao3

You were getting really tired of running for your life. 

During your fifth-year turning tail and booking it was often heavily warranted, especially because it was usually being done as a result of you waking up hordes of Inferi, or stealing important artifacts from dark wizards that would then be out for blood. You liked to think you had grown out of that habit, but tonight was proving to be something of a trip down memory lane. 

You were being chased. Again. 

Tucking your knees to your chest, you ducked down and rolled through mud at the same time a Bombarda curse blew up a chunk of the tree ahead of you. It was a close call, but you could hardly stop to survey the extent of the damage when you could still hear the thugs behind you giving chase. 

“You daft idiots, grab her!” 

Another spell struck the ground where you’d landed moments before, but you were already on the move– dipping and weaving in a bid to dodge the attacks that were fired blindly at your back. It made no sense; you had never been intercepted at an ancient magic site before, and as far as you were concerned, there was no reason for anyone to take interest in a dilapidated ruin. Aside from using the crumbling fortress as a makeshift base, no Ashwinders or poachers had ever been lying in wait in what was otherwise deemed an unremarkable location. 

They had been this time, though. To make matters worse, they were looking for you specifically. 

Your name had been like a battle cry from their lips as you’d exited the rundown site, and you hadn’t bothered to stick around to find out whatever the hell it was they wanted with you. If you weren’t so tired and weary, you would have apparated yourself to safety in a heartbeat, but splinching yourself as a result of your carelessness wasn’t exactly at the top of your to-do list. So, you had bolted straight for the edge of the forest, doing your best to avoid colliding with the low hanging branches that scratched at your cheeks and ripped at your cloak. 

There was more yelling from behind you, only this time it sounded distinctly farther away. Chancing a look over your shoulder, you discovered that there was now ample distance between you and the goons chasing you, and you pivoted on your heels to head north for the river that separated the Clagmar Coast from Cragcroftshire. If you could reach the water, you would have a better chance of getting away and concealing your tracks in the process. 

At least, you hoped you would.

Lungs aching, you pushed yourself harder, your arms pumping at your sides as you lept over a fallen log in your path, and though you stumbled a bit upon landing, you remained upright and pressed on. Another spell whizzed past your head– the heat from the Confringo curse nearly singing your matted hair– but you ignored it and focused wholly on running. It felt like an eternity had passed when you finally reached the colossal ravine, immediately trying to formulate a plan that would result in you on the other side with your pursuers left behind. There was no bridge to repair, no loose boulders to form into a levitating staircase, nothing. Panic began to fester in your mind for a heartbeat before you steeled your nerves and banished the feeling entirely. Hysteria wouldn’t help you right now– it never had. 

“There– up ahead! Move your asses, dammit,” came the same voice from before. You turned to watch as a handful of masked assailants slid down the muddy embankment roughly fifty feet from you, and that sight alone spurred you into action. 

Your wand was ripped from the holster on your thigh, and you channeled every bit of magic in your body into it as you aimed for the largest tree across the daunting trench in front of you. The Accio charm wrapped around the top of the monstrous trunk, and with every ounce of strength you possessed, you pulled. It seemed impossible at first, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and the foreign power from the repository surged to life to give you the assistance you gravely needed. There was a deafening crack as the wood began to splinter and give way under your ministrations, muting the onslaught of footsteps that grew nearer and nearer. With one final pull your efforts were rewarded, and the massive evergreen tipped towards you slowly before gravity caught up to it, sending it plummeting towards where you stood. 

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? It was a philosophical question– one that you had never thought about much before– but you had always assumed that with no one around, there would never be any way to know. Presently there were multiple people around, and as it turned out, a falling tree did make a sound. 

As you dove out of the way, the pine covered top of the tree arched past where you had been standing, stretching over the shrinking space between you and the encroaching strangers behind you. Most of them saw the gargantuan tree heading straight for them and jumped out of the way, their shrill screams echoing throughout the forest and bringing a small smile to your face. A few others weren’t so lucky, and you watched as the peaked top of the tree swallowed them whole and buried them beneath a heavy thicket of pine needles. 

Seizing your opportunity, you ran for the makeshift bridge and hauled yourself on top of the rough trunk, shoving and kicking at the spindly branches that stood in your way as you practically clawed your way through to the other side of the ravine. You didn’t dare look back, keeping your eyes trained ahead as you focused on maintaining your footing and not getting thrown off balance by your satchel. 

It looked like a hurricane had torn through the earth when you finally emerged at the base of the tree. You hopped down and landed in the deep, root-riddled crater that had previously held the evergreen upright before running to the side to gauge where your attackers were. Most were still gathering their bearings while others attempted to drag their comrades out from under the suffocating weight of the branches. You hardly spared their survival a second thought as you pointed your wand at the center of the tree and cast, “Confringo!” 

The flames grew rapidly and without mercy, frantic calls of “hurry” and “get them out of there” reaching your ears as you spun towards the forest and disappeared into the treeline. There was no knowing how much time you had bought yourself, but you weren’t about to squander any of it for a second. 

You ran, and you did not look back. 

***

One would assume that after two years of living in abandoned hovels and scrounging up scraps to eat with your bare hands, you’d be used to being cold, wet, and miserable. Hell, you had learned more about yourself since leaving Hogwarts than you’d ever thought possible, including just how resilient and resourceful you could be. Rain storms, stale bread, and a lack of clean water had never deterred you for long, and through all the trials and tribulations you found yourself facing, you always managed to pull through. 

Tonight, however, you allowed yourself to be sullen. 

The torrential downpour you’d been caught up in somehow managed to slip through the canopy of trees overhead, and as a result, you were encased in a cold, wet, dreary darkness. It had been two hours of trudging through mud and frigid temperatures, and by now you were caked in a thick layer of grime that you desperately wanted to rid yourself of. Charming away the mess was pointless– it wouldn’t be long before you were covered in muck once again– and you’d learned long ago that using magic while in the middle of a void forest was a bad idea, especially when you were trying to remain undetected. 

After the events from earlier in the day, you had decided to head straight for the next site marked on your map to make camp and settle down for the night. However, you were still a day away from reaching the location, no thanks to the dark wizards that had chased you in the opposite direction. Your stubbornness and desire to reach your destination is why you currently found yourself on the outskirts of civilization, trying and failing to fend off the elements to get the journey over with, but the bone-deep chill that wracked your body was beginning to weaken your resolve. 

You were exhausted. 

Thunder rumbled overhead, long and loud amidst the sound of raindrops pelting against the dirt, and with a disappointed sigh, you made up your mind. If memory served you correctly, the town of Bainburgh was roughly a two mile walk west of the forest. Your paranoia told you it was too risky to set foot in a legitimate establishment, but your numb limbs and wet boots squashed your fears before they could come to head. Staying outside for the entire night would likely leave you dead, and there were few other options to choose from. 

So, you marched. It took roughly forty minutes to traverse the jagged, rocky landscape in the dark, slowed down by the stray roots that stuck out of the ground and worked to trip you in your haste. By the time you made it into town, you were soaked to the bone and shivering violently enough that you were certain passersby could hear. The tavern was helpfully the largest building at the end of the road, and you headed straight for it without sparing any of the town’s denizens a second glance. 

The warmth that greeted you as soon as you entered was beyond welcoming, and you tugged the door shut behind you before beelining straight for the firepit in the middle of the room. Your hands were so numb that you practically had to submerge them in the flames to feel any semblance of reprieve, and a few onlookers cast wary glances your way. Between the mud that coated your lower half and the water that dripped from every fiber of your clothing, you realized you had to look like a walking disaster, and that sobering thought had you tucking your hands under your armpits as you hurried to the bar at the back of the room. 

The older gentleman wiping down the counter turned to face you, his aged face showing obvious alarm and concern when he caught sight of you. “Merlin’s beard girl, you look like you’ve been dragged straight through hell.” 

You flashed him a bashful smile, though you were certain it looked like more of a grimace. “You could say that. You wouldn’t happen to have any rooms available for the night, would you?” 

With practiced efficiency, he tossed the rag he’d been holding over his shoulder and shuffled over to the cabinet at the edge of the bar, opening the squeaky glass panel that housed the keys for the rentable rooms. “Ordinarily the answer would be no, but that damned storm blowing through has business movin’ slow. I’ve got two rooms left, one with a bath and the other without.” 

Your heart soared as you hastily replied, “The one with the bath, please.” Without missing a beat, you snatched your weighty coin purse from your belt and dropped it on the wooden surface. The barkeeper raised his white, bushy brows in silent surprise as he tentatively picked up the drawstring sac, plucking ten gold pieces from within before handing it back to you. The bronze key he deposited in front of you had a wooden tag dangling from the end that read ‘13’, and for the first time in nearly two weeks you found yourself genuinely smiling as your fist closed around the cool metal. 

“Up the stairs and on your left,” he instructed you. “Kitchen is open for another hour if you’re tryin’ to grab a bite before bed, but I’d wager you’re more interested in the runnin’ water.” The way his eyes fell to your soiled clothing didn’t escape you. You almost felt bad for tracking all the mud and water through the lobby.

Twenty minutes later, you had a warm loaf of bread and a small wedge of cheese tucked away in your bag as you ascended the rickety staircase. The decor within the aged tavern was modest, save for the silver plaques that adorned each door with their respective room numbers. Finding your own was a non-issue, and as soon as you were inside the sanctity of the rented space, you let loose a breath that you’d seemingly been holding since setting foot into town. Now wasn’t the time to let your guard down, but you weren’t about to turn your nose up at clean linens and running water. 

Moving quietly, you stripped down to your undergarments and tossed your ruined clothing in the corner of the bathroom, then cranked the tub’s faucet to the highest setting and left it to fill. The bread from the kitchen had cooled some, but it hardly made a difference to you as you ripped off a piece and ate it with the cheese you’d purchased. Fresh food was a rarity for you these days, and you savored every bite as you paced the length of the room. With your hunger sated and your looming bath just around the corner, you allowed yourself to think back to the last few weeks, and you pondered just why dark wizards were looking for you.

Understandably, the whole situation reminded you of your fifth-year. Suddenly you were fifteen again, being hounded and hunted by Ranrok and Rookwood alike for simply existing. At that time they had wanted something from you; your abilities, your information, and most prudent of all, your silence. You’d known too much back then, but those times had passed, and both Ranrok and Rookwood were now dead– at your hands, no less. 

So why would anyone be looking for you? Who were they to you? What did they want? 

It wouldn’t surprise you in the slightest to discover that you had more enemies lurking in the shadows. The stunts you’d pulled and the things you’d gotten away with back then were bound to catch up with you, but you hated not knowing. The whole reason you’d left Hogwarts after graduation without so much as a word to anyone was precisely because you didn’t want your whereabouts known. The line between friend and foe had started to blur towards the end, though you acknowledged that it was mostly your fault.

You hadn’t turned Sebastian in, but you also hadn’t moved to stop Ominis from doing so. 

With him imprisoned in Azkaban and Ominis reeling from the decision, it was no wonder the two of you had drifted apart in the years that followed. Anne’s curse worsening had only exacerbated Ominis’ feelings, and you’d graciously stayed out of his way anytime you saw him around school. Natty had never fully recovered from Harlow’s use of the Cruciatus curse on her, and your guilt had in turn driven you further away from her. Poppy was the only person you’d stayed in touch with for the remainder of your academic life, but she was too good a person to drag down with your… issues. You’d ultimately been the one to cut contact with her following your seventh-year, and while you’d felt bad about it at first, you knew it was for the best. 

After tonight, that decision had proven to be the right one. If you really were being tracked, were any of your former friends targets for information? Did this impromptu, wild goose chase have anything to do with your volatile abilities from the repository? Had you unwittingly put them in harm's way simply because they knew you? 

The bread in your mouth had gone soft, and you shook the pointless thoughts from your mind as you finished off your mediocre dinner and made for the bathroom. The warmth from the water was divine and single-handedly chased away any lingering doubts about holing up in a public place for the night. For just this once, you would gladly trade sleeping in the cold, wet dirt for the pending restlessness and paranoia that was bound to greet you, and greet you it did. 

After climbing under the itchy but clean blankets, you stared wide eyed up at the ceiling for what felt like hours. Every squeak of a floorboard, every booming laugh that echoed up the stairs, every shadow that darted past your window, all had your heart racing. Even after checking twice that the two points of entry were indeed firmly locked, your nerves wouldn’t steady. Your skin crawled with unease at the prospect of being blindsided in an unfamiliar place, and at one point you even began pacing the length of the tiny room just to tire yourself out. 

Eventually, you came to a grinding halt at the foot of the bed, your hands curling into fists as you sucked down a slow, deep breath. “You’re fine,” you murmured to yourself. “You’re fine. It’s okay, you’re safe, you’re fine.” 

Maybe if you repeated it enough times you would start to believe it. 

The second time you crawled beneath the prickly sheets your brain was still running in overdrive, but you were far less fidgety than before. You had no clue how you managed it, but eventually your eyes drifted shut– and even if it ended up being a fitful bout of sleep, you would be grateful for the few hours of shut eye you managed to acquire. 

Gratitude went right out the window, however, when you were startled awake by a whispered, “Petrificus totalus.” 

Your body locked up– stiff and unable to move an inch below the scratchy covers– and before you even had the chance to glance in the direction of the disembodied voice, they whispered a different sort of charm. 

One that made your world go dark.

[ink-through-her-veins]

Arthur stumbles upon the dragon purely by happenstance, but by gods is the beast a chatty thing. It goes on and on about destiny, Albion, peace, and Arthur’s favorite part how the once and future king (himself) and his fated other half (Emrys) are two halves of the same coin, and everything will become clear when they realize this. Then the beast tells Arthur that Emrys not only has magic, but is magic, and Arthur’s head begins spinning—not with fairy tale romance where he gets swept off his feet as he’d been imagining moments before—but how anyone could have magic and not be evil.

‘Merlin could do it,’ he thinks wistfully, his unrequited crush upon his manservant rearing its ugly head even as he contemplates his soulmate.

He’s pulled from his daydream by said crush ambling clumsily into the cavern, gaping wildly, and then blurting out, “I can explain!”

The dragon laughs. “I already have, Emrys.”

And Arthur’s head starts spinning again. He pushes himself off the ground, takes a single step toward Merlin, and pulls himself back as a landslide of realization clobbers him like a thousand stones. “You knew?”

Merlin looks completely broken when he says, “I didn’t want anything to change between us.” I didn’t want you to have to choose between me or your father.

Arthur’s heart aches. Tears burn behind his eyes. “Of course,” he bites out, but all he can think, is what kind of man can’t be loved by his own destiny? What kind of monster must he be?

Things do change. Merlin’s stiffer. Arthur’s quieter. The dragon beneath the castle becomes one of Arthur’s closest confidants even if it speaks in riddles and leaves Arthur’s clothes smelling so strongly of smoke even his father notices.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispers one night as the smell of Kilgarrah’s sulfurous smoke fills his nostrils as he prepares Arthur for bed. He misses the smell of Arthur’s sweat, and the combination of leather and grease that clings to his armor. He misses the way Arthur used to look at him, joke with him, befriend him before he knew about the magic. “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

I’m sorry I’m me, Arthur thinks as he silently raises his arms to let Merlin drop a sleep shirt over his head. He only grunts in response.

Months pass, and as the ground thaws so do Merlin and Arthur, because though he may speak as clearly as a mud puddle Kilgarrah isn’t wrong: one cannot truly hate that which makes it whole. Arthur clings to Kilgarrah’s promises. One day. One day. Hopefully one day soon.

And the day comes in late summer when Merlin’s nearly skewered by a bandit while he and Arthur are on a hunt. Arthur’s checking him obsessively for any signs that the blood on him is actually his, while Merlin swats at his hands insisting he’s fine.

“Why wouldn’t you use your magic!?” Arthur screeches shoving Merlin’s hands out of the way so he can look over every inch of him.

“So I could be burnt upon a pyre? No thanks.” Merlin manages to push himself free of Arthur and stalk away.

“We’re meant to marry one day. We’re two sides of a coin, soulmates. Do you truly think me so monstrous?”

Merlin’s eyes are big as eggs. “What? Married? Soulmates?”

“What do you think Kilgarrah meant?”

“He’s an overgrown lizard!” Merlin shouts suddenly feeling too warm and too confined despite the mild weather and endless amounts of fresh air. “That…He…Is that what two sides of the same coin means?” He’s pacing the meadow, ignoring the dead bandits scattered in the tall grass. “I’m sorry, Arthur, I am. I…I don’t think you’re a monster, and I’m sorry you have to choose between your father and I. I’m—“

Arthur sees something then in the way Merlin tugs at his hair, eyes full of concern when they swing toward Arthur. Fools, Kilgarrah had called them, and fools they absolutely were.

“There’s no choice,” Arthur murmurs, sidling up to Merlin to take his hand. “It’s you. It was you before I knew of our fate and your gifts, and it’ll be you no matter what stands in the way.”

[nerdanel01]

Death

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 1.5k+ wc | SFW Possibly as a result of the massive breach in the Veil to the south, the Necropolis is more dangerous than ever. When Agnes is wounded while on patrol, Emmrich is forced to take drastic measures to protect her. EXCERPT: Impossible not to feel it, then. Emmrich’s magic, coursing through her body. Emmrich’s hands, firm on her chest, pushing her spirit back into her flesh before it got too far away—pushing air into her lungs, pushing life back into her veins. 

Agnes tried to speak, but her throat was so dry she had to swallow and try again. “Was I dead?”

9:42 Dragon

High heat of summer in the west, the rashvine-in-snow just beginning to bloom—ladybugs and fireflies seeking refuge from the sun in the cool pockets of the flower’s petals. Agnes, plenty cool herself, her skirt soaked through with mud to her waist, sang an invented song under her breath, her tiny hands sculpting the mud around her into taller and taller spires. Maman towering above her, driving into the fertile earth the wooden stakes she had sharpened herself, gently girding the dahlias against them for support. Young, loved, and protected. Still wrapped in the romantic fiction mother had woven to shield her from an uglier truth: that her father had loved her mother; that he was a kind and gentle man, employed in the stable of a neighboring estate. 

“Ma chère,” her mother called her. Agnes looked up. But the noontide sun was directly overhead, silhouetting her mother’s sunhat, obscuring her face in shadow. “You are being called.”

Agnes only felt it when her mother called attention to it: a strange nagging, an unwelcome plucking feeling in the center of her chest. 

“Agnes! Agnes Gallatus!”

Who was shouting after her so rudely, when she was having such fun with her Maman? A childish, resentful pucker on her face, she cast her eyes downwards in the direction of the voice. The mud beneath her had vanished, and Agnes found she was hovering above a narrow, vaulted chamber, flanked on either side by high columns of quartz, carved in the image of skeletons holding the roof aloft. A figure was hunched over on the stone tile below her, a tempest of powerful magic crackling in the air around them. 

‘Emmrich…?’

The moment Agnes recognized him, the plucking feeling in her chest swelled and snapped.

Someone’s hands pressed too firm against her chest. 

Violent gasp of breath. 

Agnes wrenched herself upright, heaving, fighting the oxygen-starved ache in her muscles. Blinking the darkness from her vision, her eyes rolled wildly around the room as she fought for air. When her heart began to beat anew, pounding madly, the last ebb of adrenaline washed over and through her. Something was terribly, terribly wrong—

“Agnes, thank the Maker! No, dear, don’t fight it, relax, lie back down…”

Emmrich’s hand was firm on her shoulder, supporting her as she lowered herself back onto the cold Necropolis floor. His other hand bunched his leather overcoat behind her head, a makeshift cushion to pillow it against the tile. 

But Agnes could not relax. Pain wracked every inch of her body, and she could not shake an overwhelming sense of impending danger and doom. Emmrich’s words were reassuring, but his tone was anything but—she was not sure she had ever heard him sound so uncertain, or so frightened. He looked absolutely wretched, perspiration dripping down his face, his expression lined with grief and determination in equal measure. A phosphorescent flame was fading fast from his eyes, but Agnes caught it, nevertheless.

‘Oh.’

Impossible not to feel it, then. Emmrich’s magic, coursing through her body. Emmrich’s hands, firm on her chest, pushing her spirit back into her flesh before it got too far away—pushing air into her lungs, pushing life back into her veins. 

Agnes tried to speak, but her throat was so dry she had to swallow and try again. “Was I dead?” The words came out as a hoarse, thin rattle. An almost spiritual look of relief washed over Emmrich’s face when he heard her voice.

“You are alive now. That is all that matters. Keep breathing, you should begin to feel better in just a few minutes…”

Alive now. Implying quite strongly there had been a period—Agnes could not say how long—that she had not been alive. She struggled through the fog of pain to recall what exactly had happened.

The ride down into the Necropolis in the morning… she remembered that. That was how every day started, now, after all. No more weeks-long research expeditions among the crypts and tombs. Ever since the Breach had opened in the south months ago, the disturbances within the Necropolis had grown too frequent and too great for such a risk. All of the Watchers were now deployed in shifts, with the express and sole purpose of policing the halls. There had always been a risk of encountering demons in the Necropolis, but lately, the peril had multiplied.

And then, it all came back to her in flashes: the pride demon they had found prowling among the tableaus of the dead, and the fight that ensued. The demon’s lightning that had shattered her barrier and struck her square in the chest, stopping her heart. The world growing dark, the demon’s fist raised to strike her down for good. Emmrich’s shout, the glow of his eyes, the crackle of magic tingling in the air as he seized possession of his thrall.

The forceful push of Alfred’s bony hands, flinging her down and out of the way of the pride demon’s strike.

‘Oh, no.’

“Emmrich… I’m so, so sorry.”

Emmrich looked at her quizzically. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Agnes.”

“But Alfred…”

She turned her eyes pointedly to the pile of splintered bone and dust just a few feet away: all that remained of the thrall after the pride demon had struck it down, his pitiful, characteristic wailing silenced forever.

“...you had been working on him for years. Emmrich, you must be devastated.”

Emmrich’s face tightened, eyes narrowing, brows knitting together. The muscle in the corner of his jaw gave a little jump. “You cannot be serious,” he said, shaking his head. His gaze had never left her face; he had not so much as glanced at Alfred’s paltry, decimated remains. In fact he looked concerned, as though he was suddenly doubting how thoroughly he had reanimated her, for her to think such an absurd thought. “Agnes, Alfred was a project. A beloved project, to be sure, but a project nonetheless. I can begin again. Begin better, this time.”

Then Emmrich leaned over her, lifting his hands to frame her face. His palms were so warm against her skin, his thumb so gentle as it traced the plains of her cheekbones… his gaze so impossibly tender and wounded. 

“But you… if I lose you, I cannot get you back.” 

There was a terrible crack in his voice, as though he was close to tears. Agnes did not know if she wanted more to embrace him, or to sink through the floor and disappear entirely. She was so moved at how deeply he cared. She was so mortified at how her incompetence (she should have seen the lightning coming, should have reinforced her barrier before it hit) had caused him such pain and fear.

An unsteady exhale shook him. The glow had left Emmrich’s eyes entirely, now, and they were wholly brown, wholly warm, wholly honest with her.

“You are more precious to me than any experiment.” He spoke in a low whisper, as if he was afraid that if he spoke at a greater volume, he would not be able to hold himself together. “I would not trade you for one hundred, one thousand Alfreds.”

And then, Agnes saw it: how much it had taken out of him to restore her; the way it had aged him. For in all the time she had known him, Emmrich’s hair had always been dark: now, it was streaked through with white and grey—not entirely salt and pepper, yet, but markedly lighter than it had been.

He must have noticed she was staring at him. “What is it?”

‘You nearly killed yourself trying to save me.’ “You’ve lost a bit of color.”

“Oh,” Emmrich said, indifferently, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “Have I?”

“It looks good,” Agnes told him, forcing a thin smile. “Elegant. Distinguished.”

Emmrich laughed low in disbelief. “You flatter me. I look more like an old man than ever, now, I am sure.” He lifted his other hand from her face and stretched, joints cracking as he did so; Agnes repressed the urge to catch it, to hold it fast against her face. “I certainly feel like an old man after that effort. Agnes, I dearly want to get you back to the other Watchers as soon as possible—you should visit the infirmary, just to be safe—but, forgive me, I need to rest first, just for a moment.”

Slowly, wincing as he did so, Emmrich lowered himself to the filthy floor next to her, a little cloud of dust kicking up when the back of his head came to rest at last on the tile. Emmrich was not quite as draconian in his need for order as Agnes, but he liked to keep things clean; he must have been truly exhausted, then, if he felt the need to lie down in the dirt to recover his strength. His eyes slipped closed, and his breathing slowed. Agnes thought he might drift off to sleep.

“Thank you,” she said, interrupting him before he could. “For saving my life.”

Emmrich’s upper lip gave a small twitch, then his bottom lip began to tremble. Even with his eyes closed, he looked so terribly upset. Without opening them to look at her, his hand quested across the dusty tile floor until it found her own, and closed tightly around it.

“For a moment,” he confessed, “you were entirely beyond my grasp, beyond my ability to reach. I was not sure I would be able to bring you back to me. You have no idea…” his voice trailed off and he squeezed her hand. “How good it feels, now. How reassuring. To feel you, to hear you, warm and breathing next to me.”

At that, Agnes was thankful Emmrich’s eyes were closed. She could not control the emotions raging across her face; could not imagine how deeply they betrayed her, with all Emmrich’s words pirouetting through her head. How he had called her precious, held her face, was still holding her hand. This sweetness, this intimacy–she had always longed for it. Still longed for it. But each breath she took still felt like knives cutting into her lungs; a reminder with each inhale of how close they had come to losing one another for good. 

How lucky she was! To have Emmrich’s love in any capacity. For if there had been any lingering doubt in her mind that he did, indeed, love her, it was now banished. That he did not, perhaps, love her in the way that she truly desired, did not make her cherish that love any less. 

And all she wanted to do, more than hold his hand or touch his face in return, was reassure him. To remain warm, alive, and breathing beside him, for as long as she possibly could. 

“It’s alright now, Emmrich,” Agnes said, and squeezed his hand back. “Rest as long as you need. I’ll keep watch until you’re ready."

[breannasfluff]

For the hug prompts [ OPEN ]: Legend & Wild. Legend being the Sender please. 💞

Today sucks. It’s cold and rainy–only not cold enough to be snowing. Just enough to make everything perpetually damp. Wild’s socks are never going to dry out at this rate, even in the slate. His scars ache, making his left side seize up. 

Legend is in the same boat. He’s been walking slower, joining Wild in the back of the group instead of the middle. The way he favors each step says his joints are aching. What a pair they make; old and broken down before the ripe age of 20.

By the time Time calls for a stop, Wild is ready to lie in the mud and never move again. The thought of setting up bedding, even inside the dry cave, is exhausting.

Rather than wait for someone to start a fire, Legend pulls out a fire rod and channels magic to get it roaring to life. Then he dumps his bags in the corner and digs out a bottle, holding it up and wiggling it at Wild. Fire chuchu jelly.

Wild rocks forward, then back on his heels. He wants the relief it would bring, but he should help set up camp–

Legend opens his arms and gives him puppy dog eyes to rival Wolfie on the best day. Any hesitancy is swept away as he gratefully goes into the hug.

“You help me,” Legend whispers, “And I'll help you get your back, okay?”

Wild nods and relaxes into Legend’s grip. They’ll take care of each other.

[firerose18991]

Prince! Itadori x Black femReader prt 2

Info: fluff, adventure, multi part fic

Written with black curvy/chubby readers in mind but all are welcome

Wrd cnt: 1.69k

Prt 1

As you and Yuji contemplated your impending fates a commotion was building outside the tent.

“FIRE!” A booming voice whipped through the camp.

You jumped up from the stool you sat on, the smoke was already starting to fill the air in the tent.

“Grab your shirt.” You called to him, and pulled him out by his wrist.

When you reached the outside of the white tent, now sullied from the ashen air beginning to coat all of the camp, you saw the chaos. You spotted the head nurse directing a trailer from the camp on the barren hill down into the lush forest beneath.

“Nurse! What's happening?” You ran up, Yuji in tow.

“The Barbarians! They're storming the camp!”. She ran up to take Yuji's other hand. “You need to flee and meet with your army. We can't protect you here.”

“But the camp is neutral, are they killing their own people?” Yuji resisted the nurses' pulls towards the escape route, though it mostly looked like her tugging a brick wall.

“If they have a target like you they would've lost those men anyway. Most of them are the ones you injured in your battle.” Yuji was taken aback.

Since he'd been injured only sparse battles have occurred which only lasted a few hours at most. He was the target of the Barbarians all along. With the line of succession open his territory would be vulnerable. Nevertheless he wasn't going to hide like a coward among the sick and injured. He finally had the time to put his shirt back on. It hung loosely around his muscular frame.

“Do you know where my sword and steed are being held?” He turned to you.

His kind amber eyes still held their warmth but focused on you to give an answer urgently.

“You can't possibly-” the head nurse started.

“The stables are by the edge of camp, close to the lake.” You pointed the way and he bolted off.

“(Y/N)!” the Nurse yelled at you as he ran off. “He’s in no condition-”

“If anyone is going to keep the encampment safe it will be him. Let’s focus on setting up a place for triage further in the forest. After all this everyone will need it.”

You helped usher the remaining patients down the slippery hills of the forest to a natural basin near another river outlet closer to Yuji’s kingdom. The screams of those fighting over the ashes of the old campsite echoed to where you had found yourselves. Your heart ached thinking of Yuji fighting, maybe being heavily outnumbered and you wondered if you’d done the right thing by sending him off.

You busied yourself by the end of the first day purifying drinking water and gathering ingredients for healing potions. Some of the patients had sustained burns and you had to quickly find natural remedies in a forest you had barely gotten to know. Others worked on using their magic to create temporary rock and mud huts for patients. When you’d found just about all you could make sense of in the forest’s herbs you headed back and sat on the river bank. The fight raged on even into the night. That gave you some hope the Yuji was still out there fighting. Enough to get you through the next day.

In the morning you were the first up. Catching fish in the river and pounding wild nuts and berries into edible porridge. You’d made a large fire to cook and were careful to cast a smoke concealment spell. The head nurse woke up to you using a giant stick to stir the massive amount of porridge and fish roasting on the sides. You looked like you’d thoroughly lost your mind.

But the smell drew everyone from their huts and away from their miserable night rest. Once everyone had eaten their fill patient daily care was still at the forefront. You directed your fellow nurses to plants with antiseptic properties whose leaves could be used as bandages for the time being and crafted potions with yesterday’s work. And in the night you repeated the same as the morning. You’d brought all the nurses up to speed and everyone fell into their roles once again. The battle could still be heard. When particularly devastating attacks occurred you’d see mass flocks of birds scattering overhead to escape the atrocities. But as long as it continued your people would remain.

The third day was uneventful and fatiguing for all at the camp. In their down time a lot of the nurses watched you pace back and forth working like someone had lit you on fire. The head nurse had to pry you off a tree you’d attempted to climb to get more leaves. But in your sleep deprived state you missed a foothold and fell down. She coaxed you into a mud hut to get some rest which is where you stayed even through dinner. At some point you’d managed to fall asleep and woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of crickets and fire crackling. For a moment you allowed yourself to take in the natural ambiance before you shot up from the ground. The fighting had ended.

“Oh gods.” you whispered to yourself as you clumsily pushed your fatigued body off the ground and out of the hut.

You stumbled out to the haunting forest. The battle was done but you couldn't be sure who won. Part of you nearly began to mourn Yuji until you were startled from your thoughts by the sound of sloshing mud and leaves drawing closer from the forest. You clasped your hand to your face and hid around the corner of the hut, if need be you would wake the others and try quietly to get away.

As the heavy steps grew closer you began to make out the figure of a lone man. The moonlight only illuminated him in slivers at a time. Once it brushed upon his bloodied face and you saw the pink hair peakout through dried blood you stepped out from your hiding spot.

“Yuji” you gasped, stepping toward the bush he was slowly making his way over. His head was bowed from exhaustion. It was a miracle he made it to your camp with his injuries. You caught him just as he tripped out into the basin front. A small part of you wanted to be mad at him for taking on such a foolhardy battle, the other was mad at yourself for letting him. But that was all overshadowed by the immense joy you felt from him having returned in one piece.

You looked up as you heard more zombie-like steps creeping through the forest towards you. You hugged Yuji's now sleeping form against yourself, not sure of what you could do. Soon soldiers wearing the crest of the Itadori kingdom began emerging from the forest. Each as bloodied and bruised as their prince. You finally placed yuji down gently when you saw commander Nobara stumble through with the last set of soldiers. You caught her as well and placed her down gently before going to get the other healers of your clan.

Everyone worked through the night to pull the soldiers through. With healers stretched thin the head nurse walked over to you wordlessly and handed you a wand. Something only the most recognized and talented of your clan get the honor of wielding. You quietly rejoiced as you walked over to the remaining horde of soldiers that needed attending to.

When dawn broke the streaks of blood from soldiers marching to their last salvation were illuminated. The camp was lively with those who’d only endured extreme exhaustion and doctors rushing to care for those in more critical cases. Once you took care of your most critical patients you whisked through the camp looking for Yuji, the head nurse had decided to take him under her care as he wasn’t at 100% to begin with. As you approached her tent you heard hushed voices.

“Excuse me.” You spoke softly before entering the tent. You looked around to see Yuji sitting in bed, some dried blood still stained his skin. And the head nurse brewing a pain reliever. “Sorry I just came to see how he was doing.” You were hoarse from exhaustion.

“Glad I'm not the only one who looks like hell.” He smiled, thoroughly wrapped in plant fiber bandages and propped on pillows.

“The leader of your enemy has been defeated, but some of his men still remain at this camp. It is not our place to get involved in these matters.” The head nurse spoke to both of you.

“I completely understand, I would never ask your people to compromise their values for my sake. I believe a short prison sentence after they've healed will be enough to satisfy me.” He really sounded like he'd been on the throne his whole life.

“Yes well that may take a while”

“After dealing with my own injuries I've learned to be patient.” Yuji's grin turned into a wince.

The head nurse shooed his hand that instinctively went to his injury and used her wand to lessen the pain.

“(Y/N) the medicine.” She nodded to you.

You made your way over to her work station and waved the supplementary wand that still hadn't been taken away over the pot to complete the medicine. It glowed like gold in the dingy wooden pot. You brought it over to where Yuji was fighting a coughing fit, for fear of displacing his ribs. Once he got some of the medicine down he wearily settled back into the pillows.

“Hopefully this time I leave him in your care he'll make a full recovery.” She winked and left the tent to the two of you.

<<<prev

[frostironfudge]

Keep My Secret - (Bucky x Reader x Steve)

Summary: The search for Bucky and Steve is shrouded in darkness, will you find the light and the loves of your lives?

my entry for @the-slumberparty 's week one i spy challenge, i had the theme isolation and setting fairy tale and this is what i came up with, hope you enjoy it! ‘Leather cuffs’ and ‘bouquet of flowers’ were also prompts.

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: dark setting, allusions to future dub-con (none explicitly described or stated), isolation, kidnapping, dark magical elements, dark character and one soft dark character (i'm not saying who is who because i don't want to give it away), allusions to torture, wounds mentioned, mind control, power dynamics, dark fae magic.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader x Steve Rogers

Main Masterlist || AO3

The scent of rain soaked mud slowly clambers up the endless walls. You do remember the word for it, the grogginess around your mind isn’t clearing. Otherwise you’re sure you would know. 

A rumble in the distance followed by a louder boom. You hear a cough followed by a groan. The presence is familiar. The darkened room seldom aids your half mast gaze. 

Dull aches finally register along your temple and cheekbone. When your fingers reach out the remembrance sets in, leather cuffs. Binds that tie you to this fate. Another groan, your head lols towards it. You whimper as you recognise him despite the state of his body. 

“B-bucky?” You call out, his head snaps up, then he groans yet again. 

Bucky shakes off the pain, enhanced vision allowing him to trace you across the circular room. Strands of his now long hair fall back. Months. Months spent locked in this tower. Months since he was gone and asked you not to follow. 

His brows furrow, there was something different today in the tower and it wasn’t the petrichor. Cobwebs still decorated the ceilings, dust settled in around objects. The table with familiar tools is the only clean surface, and there lay coated in the softest of dew drops—bougainvillaeas. Tied with a leather string. Bucky’s eyes find you again. The flowers held meaning to you. Currently the bouquet symbolises you. 

“Malyshka (baby).” 

You look back at him from the floor. The flash of lightning outside illuminates him. Blue eyes full of worry, crimson coats his skin. It felt as if eons since you heard the endearment from his lips. 

“What have they done?” You beg to know, “Bucky, where have you been? I, I—,”

“Malyshka, I told you not to follow me.” He sighs, on his knees making his way towards you. The chain tugs on his arm when he attempts to touch your face. 

“You were gone, you promised and you were gone. Just like he did. I had to find you. We’ll get out.” You assure him, you had a plan, you had the tracker. Sam would find the two of you. “Then we’ll find him, we will all return home.”

“Malyshka, we are—,”

The door opens, cutting off Bucky’s reply. 

Fresh flame torches carried in by the soldiers in black and red replace the burnt out ones on the walls. The stone illuminated with an orange glow. The flames flicker as the only window allows wind into the room. They leave the door open. 

A larger figure walks in, a mask covering his face, a mane of dark hair surrounds him. 

“Did you like my present?” he questions, the voice carries an echo of foreign familiarity, his large palm moving to cradle Bucky’s head, fisting in his hair. Bucky’s jaw clenched. 

“Hmm, this hair suits you better. A reminder of glorious days.” The man hums. 

“I have no need for presents.” Bucky spits out and the man tsks. 

“The gift of flowers was for her, you need to be more appreciative. I remember you being more affectionate.” The man sighs, fingers running through Bucky’s hair, almost intimate. Your brows furrow. The brunette turns his head away away, then a slap echoes through the room, “Be respectful, Soldat.” 

Bucky spits out the iron laced saliva pooling in his mouth. 

You look at the flowers, one of your lesser known favourites. Only two people knew the meaning the flowers held for you. 

Your eyes widen at the HYDRA symbol on the man’s back. He turns to you. The mask hides his identity and unease pools in your stomach as you stare at the void blackened eyes of the mask. 

“Tell me then,” the man squats before you, gripping your chin harshly, you cry out as his gloved fingers dig into the cut along your jaw, “I asked you a question, did you not like flowers, mo chridhe (my heart)?” 

Bucky closes his eyes as your accusing gaze meets him, then back to the masked man. The dark laughter echoes around the room and cracks your heart into pieces. 

He squishes your cheeks together, your tears pool over his fingers, trailing down the glove to his wrist. 

“Ste-Steve?” You ask, he shakes his head, taking off his mask. The beard on him familiar, his hair longer, indicating the time of him being gone. However the blue eyes you fell in love with and saw your future in are now surrounded by a thin ring of silver. 

The lips belong to Steve but the smile is no longer warm, it only sends a cold chill through you. 

“B-bucky, what—,” You sputter, Steve’s grip tightens. 

“Are you going to tell her, baby?” He quirks a brow, lazily looking back at Bucky. 

Bucky’s shoulders shake, lips trembling. He meets your eyes with tear stained cheeks. 

“He isn’t, he isn’t our Steve.” 

Your widened eyes move back to him, no, it can’t be, Steve is, Steve is supposed to, what has HYDRA done to him?

“Oh mo chridhe, your shared Steve’s long gone, but fret not. I will make sure the two of you are cared for, like my own sweet little pets. I remember everything your Stevie did and had done to him by the two of you. Mmm, wrapped around me, wrapped around Bucky. You are quite the sight.” He smirks, eyes alight with a mirth you cannot find yourself in this bleak tower. 

“Who are you?” You question as he releases you, “you aren’t Steve, Bucky, this isn’t, no. Please we have to fight him! We have to find Steve!” You plead. 

Steve shifts, you then see it, Bucky’s missing arm. How had you not noticed? You look around the tower. Flashes pass through your mind, the forest, the mist, and the torn wings. The sobbing man. Pleading for help. 

The flash of blonde and blue. The call of help from brunette and azure.

You gave the hunched over man in pain your name. 

“Why, I’m Steve Rogers of course. He’s James Barnes and you are Y/N Y/L/N. You should never give the fae your name but shh, my little play things,” Steve cups your head and Bucky’s, “Those little soldiers outside know me as Hydra Supreme. So let's keep this little secret between us three. Hmm?” He raises a brow, then chuckles at your hurt expressions, eyes crinkling and reminding you so much of your Steve. 

“Oh cmon, you look at me as if I killed your little Stevie. Maybe I did, but I will make you forget, I’ll let you rule, well atleast beneath me.” He leans closer, lips brushing against Bucky’s chapped lips and then your busted one, he licks the stray traces of blood humming, “What do you say then my pets?” 

“If you think for one second we’re going to agree with you you second rate, fucking asshole—,” Bucky’s eyes glow silver, his words cut off, “I want to rule under you, Sire.” 

“Please, not Bucky, please, don’t we, Steve, please we—we will rule under you, Sire.” Your words aren’t your own, you watch on as Steve smiles pleased with the two of you. 

“Such good pets, I will allow the two of you to feel pleasure tonight but after I’ve had my fill. It’s going to be a long night.” He turns away, releasing the glamour from Bucky. 

Bucky blinks, the silver disappearing for a moment from his eyes. He stares down at his arms, both flesh and metal and then at you with your eyes gleaming silver. 

“Steve.” He says in warning, “She doesn’t deserve this, please reconsider. I know we wanted her all to ourselves but I can’t strip her of her will.” 

The blond clicks his tongue, eyes narrowed at his lover, “I do not appreciate you disregarding every single bit of my sacrifice for you two, James. Do not force me to stoop low for you too.” He turns walking towards the table, picking up the flowers. 

“You already have,” Bucky shakes his head, gently cradling your face, your eyes vacant, “I’m so sorry, Malyshka.” 

Steve’s jaw clenches, anger coursing through his veins. The flowers fall to the floor, stems broken, petals scattered. Bucky turns, reaching for the gun in his holster. 

“You shouldn’t have given me your name, James Barnes. You little humans, your love shall be your undoing.” Steve waves a hand, Bucky lands on his knees. 

Dust rising around the two of you, gleaming collars forming around your and Bucky’s necks, chains attached and held in Steve’s palm. 

“Now, crawl to your king, my pets.” His menacing smile widens as you both fall on all fours.

-x-

[horsentale]

Natural Horse Care: What Is It and Why It Matters

NATURAL HORSE CARE WHAT IS IT AND WHY IT MATTERS Explore & learn about the principals of natural horse care and the benefits of using all natural topical equine products. #horsentale #topicalequineproducts #naturalhorsecare #equine #horse

[watatsumiis]

Patching You Up series (Capitano Edition)

(looks at all the other series I want/need to write more for)

(looks away)

(starts writing a new one)

Content: Capitano helps out a mildly injured reader! Gender neutral, injury is scraped knees and hands from tripping over. Light mentions of wounds, blood, etc. Reader is described as physically smaller than Capitano simply because he's a bear of a man. Reader and Capitano have an established relationship (can be read as platonic, romantic or anything in between!)

Capitano warned you, he really did. He'd informed you that the ground outside was slippery, that you should be careful and not run, but you simply couldn't help yourself upon spotting something that piqued your interest a few paces off the path.

Now, here you are, reeling as you recover from the shock of having slipped over. The pain hasn't quite begun to set in just yet, but you can see the rough scrapes and mud on your arms and legs already, and your clothing is wet from half-melted snow mush.

Capitano sighs - it's less of an annoyed sigh, and more of a pitying one. He's too kind to remind you that he told you so, and instead just walks up behind you. "Are you alright?" His voice is deep and slow, and rasps out of his helmet like slivers of wood being carved off of a branch.

"I...I..." you trail off as the pain suddenly seems to hit you all at once and you sit back on your haunches, looking down at your hands, beading with bright red blood. "I fell." You tell him in a soft voice, as if he hadn't just seen you tumble over.

Capitano makes a soft tutting noise, walking around beside you and extending his arm out, tilting his head to the side in a silent question of whether you'd like his help or not.

You reach out for him, and he's there within moments, wrapping his big, broad arms around you as he helps you up. You choke back a noise of pain as you stand and your scraped knees ache in protest, the scraped sensation feeling as if it's burning you.

To your surprise, Capitano doesn't stop once you're steady on your feet. Instead, he scoops you up, holding you bridal-style up against his chest. You shy away slightly to prevent his hard plate armour from touching your wounds and cradle your hands close to your chest.

Capitano adjusts his grip on you until you're as comfortable as possible, then turns a slow circle, observing your surroundings. When he sets off once more, it is most certainly not in the direction that you came from.

"Where are we...?" You trail off, blinking slowly up at Capitano, though you can't make out any features through the pitch darkness under his mask.

"Hunters cabin." He explains simply, and you can feel his voice reverberating in his chest.

The steady pace he walks at is soothing and repetitive, giving you something to focus on other than the pain you're in. The snow crunches beneath Capitano's heavy feet in a rather satisfying way.

It doesn't take you long to arrive at the cabin - it seems like it was once indeed someone's hunting cabin, but had since been repurposed for the Fatui to use on field operations. The door is unlocked, and Capitano lets himself in, ducking down slightly to get through the door.

The cabin is quaint and cosy, though it seems like it's been a while since anyone stayed here. Capitano sets you down on a rickety wooden seat by the small, round dining table (haphazardly adorned with a dusty, checker-patterned cloth), lighting some lanterns with flickers of some kind of pyro-magic infused device as he scrounges around for what he's looking for.

There's not really much for you to do except watch him as he bustles about, surprisingly quiet for such a large, heavily armoured man. You can feel the pain in your hands and knees throbbing, but force yourself to keep up a brave face.

By the time Capitano returns, he has a few items in hand. You open your mouth to ask a question, but the man before you is already tending to your wounds before you can get the words out.

He's shockingly gentle and careful, attentive to detail despite his thick gloves. He cleans up your hands first, applying antiseptic and bandaging them with a sort of tenderness that you rarely recall having seen in him before.

Capitano kneels down in front of you, then looks up and waits silently for your affirmative nod before rolling up your trouser legs to patch up your grazed knees - the sideways tilt to his head is almost reminiscent of a sad puppy.

"There." He hums, once the last bandage is secured around your right knee. Though it still stings, it feels better knowing your injuries are clean, and there's something about the careful attentivess he displayed when looking after you that makes you feel warm inside.

"What are we gonna do now?" You ask him, dreading his answer a little.

Capitano straightens up to his full height (so tall his head almost brushes the roof of the rather little cabin), gaze lingering on your for a few moments before he looks around the cabin slowly.

"I..." He reaches up to brush back a tightly coiled lock of his pitch black hair. "Suppose it wouldn't hurt to... Stay a while." He concedes, gaze travelling over to the food rations sitting in the small kitchenette before finally landing on you once again.

You feel small and exposed sitting here while Capitano pins you with his invisible gaze, but the gradual slope of his shoulders tells you that he's relaxing, which isn't something you often see him do. "Stay there." He tells you, his voice a little softer than usual. "I'll go see if there's any firewood."

Please don't repost, copy, plagiarise or otherwise steal my writing!!

[unhingedsquidtm]

The Eyes of the Wolf

 When Lavellan goes on a mission to follow Solas' trail, she finds a

       statue of Fen'Harel and leaves a prayer.

See the art here.

          · · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Elusive. They'd call the Dread Wolf a cunning trickster, a liar, something to be feared... but the word that Lavellan found herself repeating in the quiet dark of night would be 'Elusive'. It was all she could do to think about the different paths she hadn't taken yet. Who needed counting sheep when figuring out how to save the one she loved from himself was enough to occupy her mind.

It was almost always like he knew where she would be, each and every time. There would be a lead, she'd go to follow it, but it would slip out of her grasp moments before she could find another clue. Informants disappearing, places of interest ransacked before she could get there, trails that would grow cold before she ever knew they were warm. 

Trekking through the Emerald Graves for their latest search, the Inquisitor found herself devoid of her bright attitude. It was already chalking up to be a bad week—they had to find something this time, anything. Solas was out there still, and whether or not he knew it, he needed help. It had been a year since she'd seen him last, and her promise still held true.

He had knelt before her, placed his hand upon her cheek and kissed her, all while saving her life. 

All while breaking her heart.

It seemed almost ironic, the way that the path she and her agents had been taking led her to a familiar sight. There, amidst the trees, lay a single, solitary statue of a white wolf. What was once a beautifully pristine coat, freshly washed from a recent storm, now lay under a sheet of dust and withering leaves. The base of it was coated in a spatter of mud and dirt, with no real disturbance save for the offering bowl.

Stepping closer to it, Lavellan could see that the bowl was not empty. In fact, in it lay a few strips of rotting meat and a few bones. A spark of pure red rage surged through her, erupting in barely-contained static around her fingers. Her staff flared once, twice, and she shook her head. With a flash of white, she sent a wall of pure force toward the display, sending the bowl cascading off the base. Her anger got the better of her, and she cried out, planting the staff directly into the sullen ground beneath her. Her healing magic rooted itself into the earth, snaking into roots and rejuvenating the withered clearing around her. 

The inquisitor wasn't all that certain as to how long she'd knelt there, crying out in frustration, anger, sorrow... all she knew was that once she was done, the statue was tangled with vines of wisteria, almost like a protective embrace. Nature preserving the wolf's honor.

She felt a stocky hand upon her shoulder and heard Varric's words of comfort, but could not process them. With a slow nod, she stood once more and stepped up to the statue. Resting the staff against her other shoulder, she reached for the vine and picked a weave of flowers off. 

"I don't know if you ever felt these," she whispered, eyes trailing up to the gaze she couldn't quite meet anymore. "These prayers. These... offerings. I don't even know if you care about them. You've probably got too much on your hands as it is."

It was only when the drops met the back of her hand that she realized she'd been crying. She wiped the tears away and placed the flower gently upon the base, giving the wolf an offering it deserved. Her hand pressed firmly against the white coat as she spoke, "I don't know if these ever reach you somehow, but if they do... if you can hear this..."

Please come home.

The elf shut her eyes a moment, taking a breath to steady the searing ache in her chest. When she opened her eyes again, that momentary weakness was locked up behind them. She stood taller once more, hair whipping around her in the breeze as she raised her chin up high. "Of course you can't. You're just a fucking statue."

Grinding her jaw, she turned on her heel and marched off, her agents and her friend in tow.

Of course, it would have been easier to get a sign from him, a word, a whisper—anything.

A whole lot easier if she knew that the wolf had indeed been watching.

That he had never even stopped.

[ghostwise]

in the gardens of Thay 3.2k words, Astarion/Durge cw: blood drinking, non-consensual illithid powers, bhaalspawn, bard durge In exchange for a taste of her blood, Astarion finds himself unexpectedly recruited for a part in Aya's charade.

Shadowheart pressed her hands over Aya’s head, smoothing down her dark curls with a rush of blue healing magic. For a moment the glow of the spell held fast—then it dissipated quickly, like rainwater on parched earth.

“It would be easier,” she said ruefully, “if we knew what happened to you.”

“It’s no great mystery, Shadowheart,” the bard murmured, her sulphur-yellow eyes closing. “You don’t cheat death and come away without some wounds to show for it.”

“But your wounds from the crash are healed.” There was a tinge of frustration to the cleric’s voice as she regarded the stubbornly broken head of her companion. “Your amnesia should be resolving by now. Unless it wasn’t caused by your wounds to begin with.”

A shadow fell across camp suddenly, as clouds drifted in front of the sun. Astarion blinked and waited for the warmth to return, and it did, moments later. He was still wholly unused to it.

“I’m open to any theories,” Aya said, a small smile curling her lips.

Shadowheart sighed and ran her hands through Aya’s brown locks of hair.

The Sharran was getting rather familiar, Astarion noted. Ironic, considering the cold image she tried so hard to project, but anyone could see that their resident amnesiac had become Shadowheart’s favorite project. One she doted on quite attentively, at that.

“There’s all sorts of magic that could cause it,” Shadowheart mused. “I think if the root were physical, it would already be resolved. And the druids know about physical ailments better than most, yet they too have been unable to help…”

“That doesn’t necessarily point to a magical cause. I could simply be mad.”

“You’re too lucid,” Shadowheart said, not even entertaining the notion.

Astarion bit back a laugh.

He could not truly tell if Aya was being manipulative, but he had to commend her either way. Shadowheart was a powerful ally to have.

Come to think of it, that was exactly what he needed: allies. More than these tenuous traveling bonds, he needed someone on his side. Especially if he planned on sticking around, which he very much did.

Mad or sane, Aya said nothing.

She only turned her yellow gaze towards him, inscrutable as ever.

.

Shadowheart did not understand madness. But Astarion fancied he did.

Madness was terrible and transient. You could be mad and make a life for yourself all the same, and blend in with the muck of the day to day, with some effort. He’d felt a little mad himself when he’d first awoken after the crash. He’d felt it when he was starving and when he was alone, too.

He was quite himself now, and for that he was grateful.

But it was enough to know that those things lurked within him still, cohabiting with that wretched tadpole and liable to exert their influence over him with the right trigger: hunger, pain, fear, grief. Such things were not uncommon these days. Tragedy could befall anyone, at any time, in an instant. The little tiefling bard was a stark reminder of this.

But if only he’d managed to lap up some of her blood before it’d congealed in the mud…!

Meanwhile Aya did not yet remember anything with the exception of her songs, and perhaps this too was a type of madness. She remembered more songs every day, and had lately spent hours plucking away at her lute, singing in her gravelly voice.

“I courted a lass in the gardens of Thay,

Her voice was honey sweet

And we hand in hand spent many a day

In happiness’ blinding reach.”

Her voice crooned softly in the night. Astarion heard it from his bedroll where he lay, awake and uncomfortable, trying to ignore the ache of hunger in his limbs.

He longed to hunt. But it was nearing midnight, and when she started like this she could go on for hours.

“I slaughtered my love in the gardens of Thay,

Her blood was a symphony

And her soft hands could not allay

All of my fury and grief.”

He weighed his options. Once they set off for the goblin camp, there was no telling when or how he would feed. Could he steal a few sips of goblin blood without anyone noticing? Unlikely, as everyone would be on high alert. This could be his last chance.

Outside his tent, Aya’s voice dipped softly, swooning through the night.

“An unsent letter in the gardens of Thay

The delicate writing reads:

‘My beloved I’ll never betray.

Your wicked bribes you may keep.’”

“Ooh, a drama,” he muttered under his breath. For a moment he nearly hoped she was done but the playing and singing resumed in yet another encore. He stifled a groan.

The songs were largely about people encountering the unexpected. Betrayed lovers, gold that vanished as quickly as it was acquired, curses and prophecies going awry. Many of the songs had a morbid slant to the verse. He did not recognize any of them.

He willed her to go to sleep, but of course, she did not. By the time everyone else was awake, Aya had not slept a wink. Nor, for that matter, had he.

And he was still hungry.

A vampire’s hunger was a terrible thing. It sat not in the belly, but in the heart, and it bled over every single part of him.

“Sleep well last night?” he asked Aya that morning, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Like a dove,” she hummed.

A liar, too. What in the Nine Hells did that even mean?

Astarion frowned. He’d have to deal with this sooner rather than later.

.

It wound up being sooner.

The goblin camp was a veritable assault on all his senses: noise and grime and screams. The scent of smoke and blood pervaded the ransacked temple, and he hadn’t eaten in days. Aya had been up every single night, singing with her lute, leaving him no chance to steal away. Nonetheless, she exhibited none of the fatigue she should; instead, she’d carved a path through the cultists like they were butter and she a hot blade.

There was something more to the amnesiac bard, that was certain. This was not the first time she’d killed. The sight of her reveling in their enemies’ deaths was enough to make him very thankful they were on the same side.

That night, when it was finally safe to make camp, and when everyone had fallen into a heavy slumber, he crept towards her bedroll.

His hunger made it hard to think. He’d hoped not to feed on an ally, but he knew what happened when he was deprived of a meal too long.

Surely she was as exhausted as he, if not more, after her little rampage. She wouldn’t stir, if he was careful. If he only took a mouthful… he could make a small cut with his blade, to disguise the bite.

Too hungry to quell his instincts, he leaned in.

Then a calloused hand was at his chest, pinching the fabric in a vice-grip.

It startled him. He jolted away, but couldn’t move; he was stuck. Caught.

“Shit,” he uttered.

Aya was looking up at him, breathing fast, and something in her gaze made him wonder if she was awake at all.

“No- no, it’s not what it looks like,” he said, anxious as her grip tightened. She’d clutched a handful of his shirt and twisted it in her hand with shocking ease, holding him still and off-balance.

“I swear! I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just- needed-” The word tumbled out, surprising and honest. “Blood.”

Aya blinked slowly. Still keeping a firm grip on him, she scooted over on her bedroll and sat up.

“Of course,” she said slowly, her voice thick with slumber. “I’m beginning to understand now. How long since you killed someone in cold blood?” Her lips stretched back, forming a half-smile. “Since Alfira?”

“What?” Astarion yanked himself loose at last—or she released him—and he fell backwards. “No! I’ve never killed anyone. Well. Not for food.”

He looked at her, suspicion flooding his mind along with the deep-seated instinct to appease her. Why bring up Alfira now? He’d never gotten the impression that he was a suspect. He chose his words carefully.

“I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds—whatever I can get. Alfira’s murder was senseless, without rhyme or reason… as you, no doubt, recall.”

There was just a hint of a challenge in his words, and he held onto this challenge resolutely, meeting Aya’s steady gaze with his own.

It was a mistake. He felt something at the edge of his mind—then in the very midst of him. He sucked in a gasp of air as Aya delved further.

“What’s this-?” He looked away as if by doing so he could flee from it. “What’s happening?”

He was being mined for truth.

He’d seen her do this before, without a single care. Seen her bend others to her whims without mercy. He felt a jolt of fear at the idea that he might suffer a similar fate.

His memories were shuffled through like one would flip through the pages of a dull book. Then it was over as quickly as it began.

“You’re being truthful,” Aya muttered. “But don’t act so virtuous. You feed on vermin because you have been forced to. Not out of some noble attempt at morality.”

“I…”

The weight of what had just transpired settled on him, and he realized what she must’ve seen, what she now knew. When he looked at her again he found her alert, inquisitive, albeit tired, with a deep-seated darkness around her eyes.

And there was pity in those eyes. Vile and unwelcome, yet, malleable.

“Yes,” he admitted, gritting his teeth and ignoring the frantic spasms of his starving heart. “Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So… you can see why I’m slow to trust you.”

He paused, and thought of the fresh link Aya had just forged between their minds. It was a two-way street, if that was how she wanted to play it. So, somewhat desperate, he gave a push back along the same bridge.

“But I do trust you,” he continued firmly. “And you can trust me.”

“Uh-uh,” Aya said, tapping at her head. “Out.”

“Oh, you started it!”

“No, you started it,” she snapped. “When you tried to feed on me in my sleep.”

The tug of war between their thoughts left him nauseous. “Fine!” Astarion wrinkled his nose and aimed a short-lived glare at her. “I propose a deal, then: No more tadpole powers from you, and no more attempts from me to feed on you. Cross my heart, hope to die, pinky promise and so on-”

“Deal,” Aya said evenly, and with the cadence of someone who surely was crossing her fingers behind her back.

But for now it would do. The uninvited link vanished.

She reclined on her bedroll, and Astarion nearly sighed in relief.

“I’m so glad,” he said, attempting to recapture some of his composure. He should have tried to make a meal of Wyll instead… but it was too late now. He aimed an amicable smile at her. “I trust this can remain, er, our little secret?”

Aya gave a steely nod.

“Thank you,” Astarion sighed. “Thank you ever so much. Well! That being settled, I suppose I should go find a rat to gnaw on or something…”

“Oh, please,” Aya scoffed. “There’s hardly any need for that. I’m right here.”

Astarion frowned. He watched her for a moment, but her meaning became no clearer for it.

“Come again?”

“You’re not well, Astarion,” Aya said quietly. “I could sense it, even before I touched your thoughts. If you can’t fight you’ll just drag us down. So… have your damn meal.”

“You’re… offering?”

“I’m offering.” Aya raised a brow. “Do try to contain your excitement. And take only what you need—not a drop more.”

“Of course,” Astarion said, still in disbelief. “I shall be gentle as a babe.”

He perched himself carefully beside her and felt along her neck. Anatomy varied from person to person; he needed to bite just the right spot, or he’d risk her bleeding out. Aya regarded these preparations with an air of amusement.

When he was ready, he pierced her sweat-tinged skin with his fangs. He was met with a bloom of salt, copper, and beneath that, something he couldn’t name.

Now came the graceless part. Not wanting to waste a drop, he angled his head and clamped around the wound, and drank slowly, but deeply. As the blood settled within him it ushered away his pain, filled him with strength… it made him realize he’d been hungry for months, years, decades.

He was already sated, but the sudden high made it hard to even consider depriving himself of a few more mouthfuls of her blood.

It was like being submerged in a hot bath. It was like a chorus compared to a single voice. There was a presence in it, an awe-inspiring shiver, almost reverent, as if it were not just he and Aya in the tent.

But who else was there, in Aya’s blood?

And should it be such a surprise how different it was from that of the animals he’d subsisted on all his undeath? Not that he had any real point of reference. As he searched the sensation, he felt that there was a message in the red. A message for him, he realized in shock, twitching a little and feeling a thick droplet slide out of his mouth. Aya’s distant voice singing a wordless dirge, and a deeper voice singing with her.

Oh, if he had just a little more, he could understand…

Aya pried him off like a tick, her hand clamped around his gullet.

“Greedy,” she slurred.

He snapped back to lucidity with embarrassing quickness. “Ah,” he said, a stupid syllable mouthed around the last drops of blood he’d taken. He tried to coax his mind back from incoherence, refocusing on her with ease. “Of course. I was just- swept up in the moment.”

He glowed. How wonderful. Was this what Cazador had deprived him of all those centuries? The other spawn would surely simmer with envy and hate if they knew how good blood could taste, how beautiful an afterlife could be; powerful, uninhibited and unstarved. He grinned, flexing his fingers. He felt awareness and keen insight from the very top of his white curls to the very earth below.

Aya, blessed blood, let out a giggle.

“Oooh,” she intoned. “Bit stronger than what you’re used to, huh?”

“Just a bit,” he admitted. “But it worked! I feel good. Strong. Happy.”

She smiled, pressing a rag to the wound to stifle its bleeding. “How nice,” she said in perfect monotone. “Alright. Fuck off now, please and thanks. I must clean up and get back to my perverse dreams.”

Astarion nodded slowly. He’d already pushed his luck and succeeded; no need to push further. As he withdrew from her tent, he glanced over his shoulder, driven to seek some sort of sentimental closure, to counter her rather abrupt dismissal.

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

.

The next day, Aya was unsteady as a newborn fawn.

Thankfully the bulk of the fighting was behind them. As the others ventured forth to pick off the stragglers of the goblin horde, Shadowheart stayed behind to tend to her project.

Astarion pushed down an uneasy rush of feeling when their return from the field found Shadowheart and Aya waiting. There was no mistaking that look—the cleric glowered at him, and from behind her, Aya watched him silently.

“A vampire,” Shadowheart said.

Astarion pursed his lips and looked at Aya, who shrugged with a meager smile.

“That explains the pallor,” Shadowheart continued. “Though it doesn’t explain what you were thinking, feeding off the weakest in our number. Do you think I’m throwing healing magic at her for fun for you to be sapping her strength like this, night after night?”

“What-?” Astarion stammered, but he could recognize an ambush when he walked into one.

“A vampire among us?” Lae’zel asked.

“Aya has been hiding her wounds. She succeeded until this morning. Apparently she’d lost too much blood,” Shadowheart explained.

As if on cue, Aya tugged the collar of her shirt down. At the very least, Astarion could pride himself on doing a tidy job. Two symmetrical little bite wounds were visible on her neck, perfectly placed and not unseemly at all.

Lae’zel recoiled from the sight. “Tsk’va!”

“Hunting with vampires!” Wyll exclaimed. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Settle down, everyone, please,” Aya said.

Astarion waited, half-annoyed and half-curious. What was she playing at? Her lie hung tenuously in the air, recognized by no one but he and she. But she was a performer. So he let her perform.

“He trusted me with his secret, and perhaps we should have told everyone sooner, yes… but I saw no harm in letting him feed from me, just a little. Just until he was no longer starving.”

Appealing to their compassion, she turned with her hands outstretched and her eyes wide with feeling.

“He’s been dedicating himself to hunting animal blood as much as possible, to keep from hurting anyone. Should he suffer for what he is? I didn’t believe so. Hopefully neither do you. He fed on me at the grove, and again, the night Alfira…” Her words trailed off, pained.

��So it couldn’t have been him that killed her,” Wyll concluded, watching the display with interest.

The charade clicked in Astarion’s mind.

“Whatever the case, should I wake with so much as a drop of blood on my neck, I will end him,” Lae’zel said.

“Fair enough!” Aya quipped. Before Astarion knew it, she was at his side, one hand gracefully alighting on his shoulder. “You needn’t worry about that. Right, my friend?”

“Right.” Astarion looked at her. Her smile twitched slightly, coaxing him to continue. “And I am terribly sorry for all this?” he added, and Aya squeezed his shoulder gently.

That seemed to do the trick.

As the others walked away to process this new revelation, Astarion set a hand over Aya’s, keeping her close. In the vacuum of truth she had created, it was easy to walk her away from camp, just enough to have a private exchange.

He looked at her, noting the self-satisfied look in her eyes.

“So. That was fun. But tell me something: Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why did you kill Alfira?”

She let out a woozy chuckle. “Not sure. She annoyed me. I think that must be why.”

“I see.” Astarion mulled it over. “That does sound pretty reasonable, actually. But I can do my own lying, you know. You could have… clued me in a little?”

“And you would have played along?” Aya tilted her head, exposing, for a moment, the sinewed shape of neck. Her eyes shone with interest. “Full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Against his better judgment, he laughed.

“I could say much the same for you. Stick around and you’ll see just how surprising I can be.”

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 5: Human Weapon (Hyrule)

Ao3

CW for vomiting, blood and injury, and references to captivity

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

Hyrule runs.

The ground is slick and slippery beneath his feet. Mud splashes up, sullying his boots and trousers. Rain pelts his head, burning his eyes, blurring his vision, sticking his clothing to his skin. It draws at the blood that seeps from his wounds, diluting it, trying to wash it away.

But no sooner has it managed, more bubbles up. It oozes out of him, constant, traitorous. A danger to everyone and everything he has fought so hard to protect.

He slips and falls, sprawling in the chilled mud with a grunt of pain and surprise. He only allows himself a moment to lie there, panting, trying to ignore the scream of his aching body. And then he’s up again, tearing past trees and through shrubbery, ears ringing with the eerie laughter that echoes around him. 

“Come here, little hero. We won’t hurt you.” 

“Where’s that cursed brat? Doesn’t he know how vital he is to the plan?”

“Hurry! He can’t have gotten far!”

Another burst of paper and magic. They are growing closer. Hyrule pushes his legs to go faster. 

His breath comes in ragged half-sobs that scream through his throat. Panic slices at his very soul. The ground itself seems to rise and roll beneath his feet. The sight of it reminds him of the Wind’s Great Sea during a thunderstorm — all furious, churning foam and gray-green waves that leap up to the sky. 

The sky still weeps and the trees bend beneath the weight of its grief. It courses into his eyes, turns his hair sopping, runs into his mouth and nose. Even the river is overwhelmed by it. It begins to breach its banks, belching filthy water into Hyrule’s boots.

He stumbles once more, feet flying out behind him, carried by the treacherous tides of the forest. His knees hit the ground and agony streaks up his thigh. He bites down hard on his lip to keep from screaming. 

They can’t hear him, they can’t catch him again.  

Desperately, Hyrule reaches for his magic, dragging it through his veins. It screeches in agony as it follows his call. There is so much within him, waiting to be let loose, begging to be. It has been building these past days, caged behind a wall he cannot tear down. But all that comes is a strained trickle, hardly enough to heal his wounds.

If anything, the attempt makes matters worse. The cuff on his left wrist sears into his skin, fiery and fierce. Even the rain cannot wash away the scene of burnt flesh. 

With a choked cry, he retreats. His power slides from his grasp, as slippery as a serpent and as helpless as a mouse caught in a trap.  Pitching sideways, he retches. Blood and bile splatter into the puddles that he has collapsed into. 

More laughter. The sound of it turns his stomach more than any pain.

“I hear you, little hero. You can’t hide forever.”

Come on. Hyrule grits his teeth, rising on trembling limbs. He is so, so tired. But now is not the time to stop.

If his brothers were here, perhaps, he could afford to rest for a moment. They are halfway across Hyrule, however. He cannot even be certain that they’ve noticed his absence yet.

He coughs up another mouthful of blood. Crimson-tinged fingertips slip in the mud. The very environment battles against him. The greenery surrounding him swims and swirls sickeningly. Cackles echo from all sides.

Get up. Fight. Don’t ever let them catch you.

He manages to get his legs beneath him, groaning at the exertion it takes to do so. And then he’s up again, stumbling forward as the soil moves in reverse. He struggles to remain conscious; struggles to stay alert to his surroundings even as they blur into blobs of subdued color.  

A sudden burst of red erupts before his eyes. The deadly shink of unsheathed metal pierces his ears. 

“Going somewhere?” A Yiga assassin croons.

Hyrule scrambles backward, terror turning his extremities numb. But several more assassins explode into existence. They surround him and close in, windcleavers and vicious sickles gleaming in the eerie grayish-green light.

“I don’t know why you’re running,” one of them hisses, cocking his head. The white of his mask is almost translucent from the torrential downpour. If Hyrule squints, he can see the outline of his features – a large nose, wide eyes, and a mouth framed by thin lips. Human. Natural. But in this moment, they hardly look so. 

“Don’t you want to help us?”

Another throws back her head as she laughs. “It’s such a noble thing, isn’t it? To give your life for the Demon King.”

Hyrule sends them all the most severe glare he can muster.

“I won’t,” he grits out and his voice is hardly audible over the thundering rain and his pounding heart. “I won’t let you use me. I won’t…won’t let you bring him back.”

More cackling, cruel and harsh. He hates the sound of it with every bone in his body. 

“Oh, little hero – ”

One of the assassins steps closer. Through his mask, Hyrule can see that he is grinning.

“ –  what made you think you have a choice?”

His weapon howls like the wind it commands, as he raises it high above his head. The other Yiga back away, giving room for the blow that will incapacitate the hero once more.

They’ll drag him back once he’s unconscious, no doubt. He won’t even need to wake up for the ritual. All they need, after all, is his blood. 

He tries to evade, slipping and sliding in the slop. But the sword comes down faster than he can run. A blast of wind hits him, sharp as a dagger in his ribs. And the world goes upside down.

He hits the ground with a splash, lungs heaving for the breath that has been stolen from them, limbs spread-eagled and oddly shaped. There is a fire in his chest, flames in his veins. His muscles feel as though claws of iron have clamped around them, turning them tight and leaden.

But he tries anyway, to move, to fight. Desperate, he reaches inside and draws at his magic once more.

Please, he begs as it screeches and screams, held back by his bonds, help me.

He only needs one spell to take them all out. Just one.

And still, his magic struggles against him. Still, the cuff sears into him, branding its raised edges into his pale skin.  

Cackles swell around him. Shapes bob around, harsh crimson against a blurred backdrop of green. Hands pull him up, as he chokes, blood bubbling from limp lips.

He’s slipping, he realizes, dully, in the part of his mind still capable of thought, and with him, his magic. 

They’re going to win. They’re going to bring Ganondorf back from the dead so he can raze Hyrule, so he can bathe the world to darkness.

Hyrule blinks, slowly, lazily. 

They can’t win. He won’t…

The world explodes. His eyes drag closed. His magic cries out, gives one last buck, and breaks free from his clawing fingers. Someone screams his name. 

And darkness claims him.

[zaceouiswriting]

Fairy Prince - Hearts of Leviathans - Ch.21

Character: Sky x male reader, Riven x male reader, Brandon x male reader

Universe: Somewhere in Winx Club/Saga

Warnings: PTSD, Blood, Gore, Hallucination

When I wake up, my whole body aches, but my mood immediately improves when I see the inside of my large tent, the one my soldiers insisted I get and keep. It was truly heartwarming, especially for my commander and him, who was third in the chain of command, as they were the leaders of those who insisted that I would sleep better than the rest. Even though the commander was already in his mid-twenties, we three got along well; we were a force on the battlefield and had been the thrill of the camp. Even after I ended his life, the commander stood by my side and followed me blindly, as if I hadn't snatched away the closest friend either of us had.

Remembering him makes my head start to spin. My vision gets blurry again, but why? I try desperately to shake the image of his smiling face, covered in dirt, mud, and the greenish blood of our enemies, out of my mind, but it always has been the most beautiful; it could never be forgotten. He was always handsome, but when did he smile? Man. He could light up an entire room with his warm, kind, and welcoming smile alone. His upper left fang-like tooth was crooked because of an accident he had when we were children. As he was saying goodbye to me, he banged his head against the side of a temple. He landed on his butt with a loud thud, like the lovable fool he was. To my surprise, though, he smiled broadly at me as if nothing had happened after I rushed to his side. It never stopped him from smiling, even if it wasn't as perfect as it used to be. But he was. I always knew I would become a great king if he were by my side. And then I killed him. It was the only time I used my fairy magic on the battlefield, and I sealed it after I returned to my senses.

Loud laughter suddenly pulls me out of my memories. It reminds me that even though the war had happened, everything else seemed to have been only a dream. Never would one of my siblings bully the others, nor would my grandfather treat me with such hostility. He loves me, after all. It would surely never occur to him to marry me off to a man I only met once. I chuckle to myself, realizing that my endless sleepless nights have finally gotten the best of me.

I turn around, look into the inner tent, and put my feet on the ground. When I look down, I'm surprised to see that I'm already wearing my armor. Was I really so tired that I fell asleep in it? It wouldn't be the first time. I once slept pressed against a wall during a siege.

The armor doesn't bother me much, even though it feels odd. I stand up and slowly walk towards the exit. I hear some of my soldiers speaking of me with the utmost respect until someone warns them that I'm coming. I smile even wider and try to suppress my emotions to look like the stern "Soldier Prince" I've been nicknamed for my achievements on the battlefield.

When I open the tent, everything becomes eerily quiet. The air is stuffy. It doesn't offer the freshness anyone would expect from the outside. I look around, confused. No torches or magical lights were swirling around. The place is shrouded in darkness—not so bad that I can't see anything, but close to it. I can't see anyone nearby. Did I only imagine people talking outside my tent?

But I'm cautious. How could I not be? Activated magic swirls in my left hand. I'm ready to pulverize anyone who tries to sneak up on me, which is the only reason for no lights to be on at this hour. 

I reflexively press myself against a tent on the other side of mine when I hear footsteps seemingly out of nowhere. I slowly approach its corner, trying to calm my pounding heart, which almost prevents me from hearing the footsteps that stop just around the same corner. I hold my breath and close my eyes to gather my resolve.

With the tingling of magic in my fingers and an explosion spell on my tongue, I'm ready. I turn the corner and prepare to cast the spell, but nothing comes as I see who it is. “Dario?” I ask, confused, tilting my head. He smiles at me suspiciously.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asks in a voice I couldn't recognize. "Shouldn't you be exhausted?"

Strangely, he doesn't step forward to touch my forehead like he normally would due to his parental instinct. But at that moment, I didn't care, it was just nice to see him.

The scene before me changes suddenly. I am no longer standing in my military camp but in the hallway of an old building, through which magic flows like the living fluid that flows through my veins. But in front of me is the same Dario I have always known. Tall, blond, and with similarly wavy hair, only this time it's blond like the sun instead of matte. Just above his left eyebrow is a small scar from a sword he got in training camp—a story he likes to tell. But he looks pale; his eyes are sunken. Fearing for his health, I touch his cheek. 

A rough, hard hand grabs mine and rips it away from him as if I had a contagious disease.

"Don't you fucking touch me!" he screams through gritted teeth, his eyes gleaming with deep hatred. I'm so stunned that I can feel burning tears in the corners of my eyes, but he takes another step closer. "You murderer!"

Suddenly, I'm back in the military camp where I woke up. The smell coming from it is damp and decaying.

I feel my eyes widen, and simultaneously, two large hands grab my neck, squeezing it. Somehow I can't move, almost as if Dario has broken something inside me. Is it because he's finally telling me the truth, something he'd always refused to do?

I can't breathe properly and can only stand there, staring into his hate-filled eyes. His face shifts slightly, some of his skin peeling away until only his flesh and muscles are visible. His eyes, which had previously shimmered blue, turned milky.

"I should have killed you when I had the chance!" he screams at me, bringing me to tears. I can't understand why this is happening.

"I'm sorry," I murmur. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-" I pant heavily, desperately trying to get more air into my lungs. To keep repeating my mantra is the only way I can hope to atone. Nothing else is going through my mind.

Just as my vision begins to blur, my surroundings change again. I'm back in the strange building. The pressure around my neck suddenly vanishes. As my lungs fill with air again, I can't help but silently thank Behemoth, the Leviathan of stone, soil, and loyalty. 

When I look up at Dorian again, I don't see him, but instead, someone I can't give a name to right now. His hair shimmers golden like an eternal crown, framing his face with its medium length. The haircut looks unnatural on him, but I couldn't comment further about it at this late hour.

I look around and sigh with relief. Even though my head hurts, I hope this is reality; otherwise, I don't think my mind would cope.

I let my gaze fall on the stranger again. Fear courses through my veins as I stand in the camp again, a faint flickering light—torches swaying in the wind—illuminating the place.

Behind Dario, in lines, stand all those soldiers who died directly or indirectly at my hands. When I see all of their faces, my heart starts beating so hard that my whole body starts shaking, making it impossible for me to hear the surely hateful words that all of those in front of me are certainly directing toward me.

Honestly? I'm glad I couldn't hear them. I can already feel tears in the corners of my eyes again, but this time I won't be able to hold them back.

Before I know it, I'm on the ground, tears freely streaming down my face. Why is this happening to me? Why can't these ghosts finally go to sleep? Some of these faces have haunted me for years. I have cried for them and apologized at their graves. I even admitted my mistakes and repented to their families. So why do they still hate me?

"Please," I plead through tears as most of my body stops listening. "Please!" I scream because the ghosts don't disappear. "Please go; please stop haunting me!" My screams shake my body; they are certainly louder than I would like. Looking up, I see Dario standing motionless, as if my pain is none of his business.

I couldn't hear his answer, but the glint in his milky, dead eyes said more than a thousand words. My head hangs as I continue to cry, begging him to let go.

“Let a murderer go?” I suddenly hear his snippy answer, closer than I ever wanted to hear his voice again.

"Yes," I whisper back. "I killed you," I admit again. "I killed hundreds, if not thousands, of our men in battles, okay? I never wished for their blood to stain my hands, but it happened. But why must you torture me?" I have no idea where the sudden strength came from, but it disappears as soon as I catch his gaze again.

The hatred in Dario's eyes, which I didn't think could get any stronger, did just that. He has reared up again, surely ready to kill me right then and there. But I don't want my life to end so soon, even after everything I've done. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around his right leg, pulling myself completely around it and begging him to let me live while I continue to cry like never before.

It even seems to have worked, as nothing painful happens. But all my hopes are dashed when I suddenly feel an ominous presence.

“I’m not the one you should be afraid of!”

I don't even look at Dario after he utters these words, but instead, I turn my head to look past him. There, deep in the crowd, I see him; his body is destroyed, with holes as big as flowerpots from which blood flows incessantly.

"No," I hear myself murmuring, my tears have disappeared as if they had never been there. "No!" Fear overwhelms me. That can't be! He would never be this cruel to me.

Still, he slowly crawls towards me, leaving a trail of the blood I spilled behind him. His face twists into something ugly. Still, I can see the beauty hidden from the naked eye. As he opens his mouth, nothing comes out but a gurgling scream as he picks up speed. In a state of pure fear, I let go of Dario's leg and tried to crawl away as fast as I could. I keep looking over my shoulder as I get closer to my tent, hoping I will be safe there.

But before I can even get close to the tent, he has already caught up with me. One of his dislocated hands grabs my foot, freezing me in the same fear that tried to save me a second ago. His lips are curved downward, almost as if he wanted to show me how much he hates me for what I did to him.

He grips my leg even tighter and starts crawling on top of me, covering me in his red and black blood. With his head next to mine, he says something to me. But before I can comprehend it, my mind completely breaks.

"No!" A scream so loud that even the dead disappear escapes my lips. Unconsciously, I hold the sound for a minute or so, eyes closed. At least, that's how it felt. As I stop and open my eyes, I feel more exhausted than I've ever felt before. The mutilated piece that he is still lying over me, holding my gaze as if to help me understand something. But just a moment later, he had disappeared along with the camp, leaving me in the hallway of an unknown building. In front of me stands the same golden-haired boy, but in the distance, I see him looking as if I had never killed him.

I hear the guy before me say something, but my full attention is on the other figure at the end of the dark hallway. As he smiles, I find my thoughts drifting. I can feel my head hit the floor once before the darkness engulfs me again.

[Masterlist]