#and lament the tragedy that is her

[nobodyfamousposts]

What if Chloe had lost her memories of her old life after making the wish in Chloe's Lament? If so, would she remotely be nicer given not being rich means her father has less reason to spoil her? Or would she still be mean anyway even with her memories gone, implying she may just be born evil?

Yes but also no? It's a bit complicated so please let me explain:

If Chloe's Lament didn't happen and Chloe was the Chloe of the reality in question, things would pretty much be the same way they are for her in the Lament. The difference would be how Chloe herself handles it since she's fully aware of her position in this life going in without any memories from an alternate self getting in the way.

Andre is still Andre. He is a pushover and loves his little girl. He WANTS to give her whatever she wants, so it's not that he has less reason to spoil her and more that he simply CAN'T, at least not to the extent she wants. Think to the setup in canon where he was able to buy Chloe a golden bracelet and a diamond-filled phone case, fire Roger when he upset Chloe, arrange the closure of an ice rink to build a gym for her, and shut down Clara's music video on her demand...but ended up in an outright panic when he told Chloe that he couldn't banish Marinette and her family from the city, something he legitimately could not do. Not for lack of wanting to. Just that he can't.

That's pretty much the position he'll be in here. He loves Chloe and he WANTS to give her her every desire, but he's not rich or powerful this go around and he has no weight to throw, no money to spend, no influence to use, and no status or backing to protect himself or Chloe from the repercussions of her antics.

But this ask isn't about him, I know. I'm just trying to give perspective here.

Andre would still spoil her...at least as much as he could. And you have to bear in mind that he is trying to make up Chloe's lack of a present mother while also running a functional and decently well off but not outstanding business. He would deny her things she wants because he can't give her everything she wants.

But the Chloe of this world would know that. And since she never had the wealth and power that Canon Chloe has, she wouldn't expect all the things that Canon Chloe did when waking up in her position.

This is actually what makes the primary difference. I have said before that it is fully possible for the characters who make the Wish to end up happy in their Lament, and while I'm sure many of you doubt me or think I only apply that to Marinette, I meant it for everyone.

See, the main thing that makes this a Lament isn't the position of the Chloe in this world but in how Chloe HANDLES it. Canon Chloe is going to try and handle it like Canon Chloe handles anything, and it's going to fail because her expectations are based in a setup that she cannot understand no longer applies and her go-to methods require resources and protections that she doesn't have here.

THIS Chloe is going to handle it differently. Her expectations are already more down to earth than Canon Chloe to begin with. And by the time the events of the story start, she's going in with the knowledge that she is on thin ice and some change needs to occur if she doesn't want to lose everything she has left.

Chloe by this point is the bastard child of "Style Queen Audrey" and is just as acknowledged by her as she was in canon if not less, so she's still dealing with abandonment issues while trying to endear herself to her mother however limitedly she can. She still has Adrien as a friend but knows that's hanging on by a thread as well (her friendship with him was mostly through Andre's friendship with Emilie and she's gone now, and Gabriel himself is not that impressed with her). She has Bustier's support and is still able to go to the school, but she's on probation with the administration watching her. And her father is working desperately to get her out of consequences for her previous behaviors. So if she messes up again, she's going to lose all of that.

So yes, in that sense, this Chloe is going to be "nicer". She has to be. She is trying to change her behavior in order to avoid a bad situation. To try being "kind" and "helpful" when she's still very much a selfish and angsty teenager who doesn't get why she should. "Nice" and "Good" are two different things, after all. Though that's not to say that she'll be very good at either.

This change in behavior is difficult for her. Change usually is. But practice makes perfect, right? So that's why Chloe starts trying to do things she normally wouldn't. Like helping her father in the bakery. Planning a box of goodies for her classmates to try and make peace for the next school year.

And yes, help out an old man on the street.

However, there's another aspect to consider here.

After all, in this universe, Chloe and Adrien are childhood friends. And Adrien and Marinette are childhood friends, too.

So wouldn't it stand to reason that Chloe and Marinette were also childhood friends as well?

...

...

IF I wrote this setup as its own story sans the Wish and Lament, we'd be dealing with a story of Chloe growing out of a negative mindset, addressing her inner fears that drive her actions, and improving her life and her relationships. All while dealing with the stress and responsibility of being a hero. And just the clash overall of the difference between who she is as Chloe vs who she is as the Ladybug Hero.

As Marinette in Canon pointed out, "Ladybug has made me a better Marinette. So, perhaps being Queen Bee will make her a better Chloé, too!"

That's what happens here.

Chloe KNOWS she's not a good person. She'd even convinced that a mistake was made when she was chosen. But being a hero lets her do good more easily under a mask where no one has preconceived feelings or expectations of her. It would be freeing in a way. And give her the positive reinforcement she needs.

But the biggest issue would be dealing with her toxic mindset and how it led to her situation and strained relationships. Which would be what the course of the story is meant to address. Chloe in this world doesn't understand what "healthy" or "healthy relationships" are anymore than Canon Chloe does. But she's getting a crash course in the matter while also receiving guidance courtesy of Tikki.

Ultimately, this Chloe would have more of a chance than Canon Chloe.

She wouldn't go into this looking to take advantage and cause harm the way that Canon Chloe did.

She would be a selfish teenager learning to be a little less self centered and a little more aware of her impact on others.

[finelythreadedsky]

there's such an incredible circular reasoning people use when talking about the 'three-actor rule' in greek tragedy. using the staging and casting as evidence for the rules of the tragic competition and the ruled of the tragic competition as evidence for the staging and casting. like, the limit of three actors was a fixed part of the contest and extras could not have any lines, and therefore the servant in the libation bearers does a quick change into pylades, proving that the limit of three actors was a fixed part of the contest and extras could not have any lines. OR, the convention of three actors was actually somewhat flexible and extras could occasionally have a few lines, and therefore the servant in the libation bearers and pylades are played by two different actors and the whole play has three full speaking actors plus one bit speaking actor, proving that the convention of three actors was actually somewhat flexible and extras could occasionally have a few lines.

[unspokenstydia]

LYDIA MARTIN And I've got a lot to pine about. I've got a lot to live without.

You don’t care about getting hurt. But you know how I’ll feel? I’ll be devastated. And if you die, I will literally go out of my freaking mind. You see, death doesn’t happen to you, Lydia. / Unbelievable���you have no idea what you are, do you? The wailing woman.

[balrogballs]

This was spurred by chatting with @hastyhobbit on another post but my genuine hill to die on is that the only film industry I would ever trust to do an adaptation of the Silmarillion is, in fact, Bollywood. Not the Indian cinema industry or regional film, but straight up million-dollar budget high-chaos Bollywood 🙏🏽

The sheer commitment to melodrama for melodrama’s sake, the utter camp, the ridiculously Noldorin aesthetics, jewel politics, domineering father figures, lamentations!

Like truly only Bollywood would be able to watch the first kinslaying and go, yeah, I can totally get why Maglor wrote the Noldolante about this. Let’s make it a dance number.

They’ll look at Elwing jumping off a cliff and turning into a fucking bird and put it against a piano-led backing track about motherhood. Elrond and Elros would be played by the same child and spend half their time giggling and running around in the background during the bloodiest scenes to add pathos.

The tagline to the film would be “family is the most important thing”. Huan the dog would be voiced by Boman Irani and make silly little scatological jokes to break up the tension. Celegorm will 100% be called some equivalent of “blondie”.

Beren and Luthien? God, they would BODY that storyline. The love songs. Catching her dancing in the forest. The extended 20 second zoom into Thingol’s furious face while the two of them cavort in the Swiss mountains would put Elrond’s “😡 she stays for you 😡” bit in Fellowship to SHAME.

Heist film + comedy + tragedy + romance + musica + period war drama all in one? Bollywood essentially has a PhD in that exact thing.

And if the Fëanorians do not do this then I do not want them:

the prosecution rests, your honour

[gingerteafairy]

����𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝑪𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

"Selfish, profane, or sinful—what does it matter? This passion consumes me, and I welcome it. She has my heart entirely, and she may do with it as she pleases. Haunt me if that is her wish. I ask only to feel her presence."

tags n warnings: smut/mdni. friedrich harding x reader, wife!fem!reader, obsession, ghost!reader, ghost sex, heavy angst, vampirism, language, death, blood, devotion, praise kink, fingering, oral, piv. word count: 5k

@ikkyfics thank you for making me post this and not hiding it on my virtual shelf, you deserve the world <3 masterlist

Friedrich Harding’s anguished cries tore through the air, echoing across the desolate countryside. The sound was primal, raw—a lament that seemed to pierce even the heavens. Strong hands gripped his arms, restraining him as he thrashed against them, desperate to reach the coffin that housed his beloved wife. His wife. The one who had once been his anchor in a chaotic world. But those who truly knew Friedrich understood a deeper truth—his devotion to her paled in comparison to his adoration for you. For you, he had defied every societal expectation, every unwritten rule. Now, his world lay shattered before him.

Despite the lingering fear of the plague that had claimed her, he yearned to hold her one last time, to press her lifeless form against his chest and plead for the impossible.

“Friedrich, stop this madness!” Sievers barked, his voice tinged with both command and desperation as he struggled to contain the grieving man. Harding’s fists swung wildly, his face twisted in despair. The crowd watched in stunned silence, their expressions a mixture of pity and disdain. Mothers shielded their children’s eyes from the spectacle, while fathers stood grim-faced, their silence betraying their discomfort. Children whispered questions to their parents, too young to grasp the depth of the tragedy unfolding before them.

“Release me! I command you to release me!” Friedrich roared, his voice a storm of grief, his blue eyes brimming with tears that fell freely down his face.

“Friedrich, enough!” Hutter pleaded, his grip tightening as he tried to restrain his friend. “This will not bring her back! You must—”

“No!” Harding’s voice cracked as he wrenched free from their grasp, his tear-streaked face contorted in anguish as he turned to Thomas. “She was everything, Thomas! Everything I had. God help me, what am I to do now? What is left of me? Damnation! Damnation upon this cruel fate!”

He collapsed to the ground, his body trembling as he crawled toward the coffin, his shaking hands reaching for the cold wood that separated him from her. But Thomas intervened, pulling him back into a firm embrace.

“Friedrich,” Thomas murmured, his voice soft yet insistent, “you must find strength. Look at me. Look at me.”

Thomas cupped Friedrich’s face, his hands rough and calloused, yet gentle as they held the face of a man utterly undone. The dark hollows under Harding’s eyes spoke of sleepless nights, of relentless grief that gnawed at his very soul.

“I can’t, Thomas,” Friedrich whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. “She was my life. How can I go on living when my heart is buried with her?”

“Friedrich,” Sievers began, stepping forward cautiously, “I did not know your wife well, but I am certain she would have wanted you to find happiness again. Life does not end here. One day, you may find love again—”

The doctor’s words were cut short by a vicious punch that sent him stumbling backward. In a flash, Friedrich was upon him, gripping his collar with a ferocity that belied his weakened state.

“Curse you, Sievers,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice trembling with fury. “How dare you speak of love to a man who no longer has a heart? Insolent doctor! You know nothing of my torment.”

Thomas and the others rushed forward, pulling Friedrich away as he sagged against them, his strength finally failing. His body, ravaged by exhaustion and starvation, could fight no longer.

By the time they returned to his estate, Friedrich was a shadow of himself. He sat in silence, his eyes empty, his face devoid of the fire that had once animated it. He stared into the void as though nothing in the world could reach him now. Even if the earth had split open before him, he would not have flinched. He was a man as dead as his wife, his soul entombed alongside hers.

"Promise me you'll be well," Thomas pleaded as he stepped down from the carriage, his voice wavering as he struggled to maintain his composure. His eyes, heavy with worry, searched his friend’s hollowed face. "Promise me you'll eat, care for yourself. Do not fade away, Friedrich."

Harding did not respond. He merely turned, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of his grief, and walked toward the door of his home. There was only one solace left to him—the fragile hope of seeing you in his dreams. To escape into a world where you were still alive: radiant, healthy, untouched by the horrors of the plague. There, you would be free, unburdened by the cruel fate that had stolen you away.

Later, cradling a glass of brandy in trembling hands, Friedrich lay upon his bed. The liquor did little to dull the sharp edges of his sorrow. His body shook with silent sobs as he closed his eyes, desperate to summon even the faintest memory of you—your touch, your voice, a fleeting whisper of your essence.

A scream tore through the silence.

He woke with a jolt, his sweat-soaked hair clinging to his brow, his breath hitching in panic. The room spun around him, and then he saw you.

You stood beside the bed, bathed in pale moonlight that streamed through the window. The white gown he had chosen for your burial clung to your form, pristine and ethereal. You were unblemished, untouched by disease, impossibly beautiful—more luminous than you had ever been in life. To him, you were divine, a vision too perfect to be real.

For a moment, he was paralyzed. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Fear and longing warred within him. If he moved, if he dared to reach for you, would you vanish? Was this some cruel trick of his shattered mind?

"My heart," you whispered, the words ghosting across the room.

Before he could react, you faded into the shadows, dissolving into the night as though you had never been there.

Friedrich collapsed onto the mattress, his body wracked with uncontrollable tremors. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as a guttural, muffled scream tore from his throat, buried into the pillow to escape the ears of the empty house. The pain was unbearable, clawing at his soul, leaving him raw and broken.

The next morning, he awoke to frantic knocking at the door. The sun was high, its rays spilling harshly through the curtains, though it brought no warmth to the bleakness inside him. Disheveled and barely able to stand, Friedrich stumbled toward the door.

Thomas stood there, his face pale and drawn, his eyes wide with dread.

"Friedrich. This is... it’s terrible," Thomas choked out, his voice trembling as his fingers combed through his disordered hair.

"What has happened, Thomas?" Friedrich demanded, though his voice was hoarse and distant, his mind still clouded by the haunting vision of you.

"Sievers," Thomas whispered, his hand instinctively covering his mouth as if to trap the horrifying words before they could escape.

"What about Sievers? Speak plainly!" Friedrich snapped, irritation flaring as the ache in his head throbbed from the brandy. "Thomas, what is it?"

Thomas hesitated, his voice low and filled with a grim finality. "Sievers is dead. He was found this morning... his chest torn open. His heart—" Thomas paused, his voice cracking. "His heart was removed."

The words struck Friedrich like a physical blow. He stumbled back, collapsing into the armchair behind him. His hands trembled as he pressed them to his temples. Memories of the night before flooded his mind, your whisper echoing like a ghostly refrain.

“My heart.”

It couldn’t be real. It was madness, surely. Yet the coincidence was too stark, too chilling to dismiss. His thoughts spiraled. Could it have been you? No. Impossible. And yet... Sievers had spoken of finding another, dared to suggest that love could replace the irreplaceable. Perhaps this was divine retribution—or something darker.

"Friedrich! Friedrich!" Thomas’s urgent voice pulled him from his reverie. The friend’s hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him gently as if to rouse him from the stupor.

Friedrich’s eyes cleared, a strange light igniting within them. He rose abruptly, pacing with a frenetic energy that had been absent for days.

"Call Von Franz," he muttered, his voice low but commanding.

"What?" Thomas blinked, taken aback by the unexpected request.

"Von Franz," Friedrich repeated, his tone sharper, almost desperate. "Summon him at once. That lunatic priest may know something—or I may be mad to even consider it. But summon him, Thomas!"

Without waiting for a reply, Friedrich strode toward his room, his steps hurried and unsteady. He needed to prepare. If there was even the faintest chance that Von Franz held the answers to this nightmare, Friedrich would face him. Hatred or no, he would endure anything to uncover the truth.

He stared at himself in the mirror, his hollow eyes scanning the face that no longer felt like his own. With deliberate precision, he splashed cold water on his face, the droplets clinging to his skin as if they could wash away his torment. A smile curled on his lips, unnatural, strained—then erupted into a jagged, manic laugh. His reflection in the mirror mocked him, a fractured visage of sanity, twisted by grief.

"Ah, my love," he murmured, his voice trembling as his fingers brushed the surface of the mirror, tracing a line over his own reflection. "You change me, even in death." His hand fell to his chest, clutching at the fabric of his coat as though he could rip his own heart out. "My heart… It belongs to you, always."

With newfound resolve, Friedrich shed his clothes, stepping into a bath as if it were a sacred rite. The water lapped at his skin, cleansing not only his body but the remnants of his despair. He emerged renewed, obsessed, his every movement deliberate as he trimmed his beard and dressed himself in his finest attire. His appearance was immaculate, a mirror of the man he had been on his wedding day.

When Von Franz arrived at the residence, the pastor, startled by Friedrich’s transformation, dropped his glass of wine. The shards scattered across the floor, but Von Franz’s gaze remained fixed on the man before him, his face pale as though he were staring at a ghost.

"By night, I sought him whom my soul loves," the pastor recited, his voice trembling with unease. "I sought him, but I found him not. I will rise now and go about the city, in the streets and in the squares; I will seek him whom my soul loves. I sought him, but I found him not."

The verses fell from Von Franz’s lips as if they were a prophecy, words carried by something beyond him. Friedrich stood still, each syllable piercing him like a dagger, his jaw tightening as the pastor's voice resonated deep within his chest.

"I must tell you something," Friedrich began, his voice low, commanding the attention of both Von Franz and Thomas. They moved cautiously toward the table where candles flickered, casting restless shadows in the dimly lit room. The once-bustling household was eerily quiet, the absence of servants amplifying the oppressive atmosphere.

Von Franz broke the silence, his voice a mix of awe and warning. "Your devotion echoes through eternity, Herr Friedrich." He studied the man before him, a shadow of the grieving figure from the day before, now alight with a dangerous fervor. "But it is selfish."

"Let it be," Friedrich replied sharply, striking the table with his fist before withdrawing his hand to retrieve a cigar from his coat. Lighting it with a flick of his lighter, he took a slow drag, the smoke curling around him as he spoke again. His tone softened, but his determination was unyielding. "Selfish, profane, or sinful—what does it matter? This passion consumes me, and I welcome it. She has my heart entirely, and she may do with it as she pleases. Haunt me if that is her wish. I ask only to feel her presence."

Von Franz’s voice grew urgent, his hands pressing against the table as though he could anchor himself to reality. "This is perilous, Herr Friedrich. You toy with forces beyond comprehension. Death is the final vow—'til death do you part.' To defy it…"

Friedrich interrupted with a bitter laugh, his eyes narrowing as he leaned back in his chair. "Something as absurd as death cannot separate me from my beloved." He exhaled a stream of smoke, his head tilting back as he closed his eyes. The faintest sensation brushed against his chest—soft, velvety, unmistakable. His breath hitched. "Ah, my love… Do you approve of my words?"

Von Franz stumbled backward, his wide eyes fixed on Friedrich as the air around him grew thick and heavy. He reached for Thomas, pulling the young man close as they both watched in horror.

“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine. Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee.” Your haunting voice tantalized Von Franz and Thoma’s ears, but delighted your beloved ones, hearing every word slipping from your icy and dry lips, rough against the warm soft cheek of him. 

From the shifting shadows, your form began to materialize. Von Franz’s voice faltered, barely audible. "Impressive…" he muttered, though his face betrayed the terror rising within him.

Thomas’s mouth fell open, his voice shaking. "This… this cannot be real."

His words trailed off as your ethereal hands appeared, their ghostly outline pressing gently against Friedrich’s chest. His head fell back further, his body convulsing with an eerie ecstasy.

Von Franz’s composure broke entirely. He yanked Thomas’s arm, dragging him toward the door. "We must leave. Now!" he hissed, his voice frantic. "If you wish to keep your heart beating in your chest, boy, then we must flee this place!"

Friedrich's grin turned wickedly amused as he closed the space between you intentionally this time. “Oh, my love. Be careful what you wish for.”

“I never play when it comes to what I want,” he muttered, swallowing hard as your fingers curled slightly into the fabric before reaching his arms. “And I want you, my muse.”

As he spoke, his eyes darkened, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face before he regained control. “You have something I've been searching for and found in you” he continued, as if sensing his sudden vulnerability. He placed his hand on your waist with a delicate yet firm grip, guiding you into a slow, intimate dance across the room. “Something to wish for. You made me feel something…”

His movements were measured and graceful, leading you effortlessly as if he already knew every step of the dance. “Something?”

“Passion.”

Your hand seemed to tremble. For the first time, you felt like your words ran away from your thoughts. Something unexpected in your movement as you gently lifted back up. “You're not sure of what you're saying, Friedrich. I don't…”

"If you don't want this," Friedrich cut, swallowing hard, navigating the labyrinth of his own courage, "then why does your body say otherwise?"

"I’ve learned not to trust what my body says," you replied, but your wrist didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned in, your fingers brushing the stray strands from his face with a tenderness that belied your words.

"Then listen to mine," Friedrich urged, stepping closer, pressing your hand against his chest. His heart raced beneath your touch, a frantic rhythm betraying the calm he tried to maintain.

There was something about Friedrich Harding—a tempestuous allure that made falling for him feel as deep as the ocean and as electrifying as the crackle of thunder before a storm.

His fingers lingered at the small of your back, pulling you closer to him, the heat of his touch sending an unspoken message straight to your heart. “You’re my wife, my woman, the only one I love. God spare me from my own sinful behavior through this sick pleasure.” 

“Would love be a pleasure?” you asked, your voice soft as your eyes locked with his. He studied your face for a moment before speaking.

“Perhaps the worst of them,” he admitted, turning his attention back to the fire’s flickering light. “I’ve avoided love at all costs since the last time I fell. And then you came along—wild, untamed, like the very flames in this hearth. I knew getting close to you wouldn’t end well for my… redemption.”

“Redemption?” you echoed.

“Indeed,” he murmured, leaning toward you, supported by his arm. “But it seems I’ve never learned to control myself when it comes to love. Lust, perhaps, but passion—grand, classic, all-consuming passion—never. You're my everything.” 

His voice, low and velvet-soft, broke the silence. "Make me yours again, my love.” he murmured, his lips grazing your ear. 

"You’d have the world at your feet... but I'm afraid I only offer darkness." Your voice came out faint, clinging to him, the warmth of his body anchoring you. 

"You don't have to offer anything but yourself," he replied, his voice trembling slightly, but full of resolve. "And I choose you.”

With his fierce determination, his hands tightened on your waist with a strong reverence, crushing you against him as he angled his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to tangle with your own. 

He poured every ounce of his feelings into that kiss, the way you had consumed his thoughts and dreams.

His hands roamed over your back, mapping out the curves and contours of your body in that gown, committing every dip and swell to memory. He slid one hand up to tangle in your hair, gripping the locks and tilting your head back to give him better access to the sensitive skin of your neck. 

His heart raced, pounding against his ribs like a drum as he lost himself in the taste and feel of you, the softness of your cold lips and the heat of his tongue.

“Touch me, Friedrich.” You whispered panting as your lungs felt the breathing of life again, curling your fingers on his neckline. “Feel my heart. Even when I'm dead, it beats for you. Strong and hard for I love you more than everything to overcome death itself.”

He pressed his hand against your chest, squeezing painfully the soft flesh on his palm, feeling the frantic pounding of your heart beneath his palm, the way it raced and leapt at his touch. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, a sudden, overwhelming emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

"God," he whispered, his voice breaking on a sob, "I love you too. I love you so much it hurts. You're everything to me, everything I've ever wanted and everything I know I don't deserve."

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours once more, his eyes squeezing shut as he fought to regain control over his emotions. He could feel the tears slipping down his cheeks, but he didn't care, not with your arms wrapped around him, holding him close.

“Make love with me, Friedrich.” you begged as the cold tears fell, cupping his strong face in your hands. “Take me the way only you know how. Make me feel alive, let your blood boil in my veins as you make me yours because I can't stand any other night without you, Friedrich.”

His heart leapt at your desperate plea, covering your hand with his own, turning his head to press a fervent kiss to her palm before tangling their fingers together. “I love you so much it feels like I can't breathe or sleep without you, I need you to survive.” 

He took your face in his hands and slightly pulled your hair back so his nose could longer on your neck, breathing in your essence that remained intact even among the light aroma of earth and ashes with the lilies placed with you in the coffin.

“You're my everything.” He shivered, sobbing, biting your flesh, sinking his teeth, leaving his strong mark, his saliva mixing with his tears that fell every time he realized that you were there with him. “Everything.”

He captured your lips in another searing kiss, hands sliding down to grip your thighs, hoisting you up and wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you towards the house, to the known love nest. 

He laid you down gently on the bed, his body covering yours, his hips nestled between your spread thighs. He looked down at you, taking in the sight of your locks splayed out across the mattress, skin glowing in the dim light of his bedroom.

Slowly, reverently, he slid his hands under the hem of your gown, pushing it up and over her head, tossing it carelessly to the side. He drank in the sight of you, his gaze roaming over the swell of her breasts, the hardened peaks of her nipples straining on the cold air of the night.

He leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the soft, sensitive skin, his tongue flicking out to taste you as he gripped on your breast as his anchor, pushing him back to reality, his thumbs brushing over the nipples, drawing a gasp from your lips.

“Please, Friedrich. I need you, I'm begging, please.” You sobbed, choking on your own passion as you desperately searched his face in your hand, nipping the bottom lip as you tied him with your thighs. 

"Then you shall have it, my queen," he whispered before closing the distance, his kiss deep and unyielding, as though sealing a pact written in the shadows of the room.

He held you tighter, his hand now resting firmly on your waist, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles. The words you had spoken hung between you, a weight neither of you could ignore. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, everything felt like it was balancing on the edge of a dangerous precipice.

He slid his hand up your thigh, cupping the heat of your sex. He groaned at the feel of you, already so wet and ready for him, his fingers slipping easily between your folds.

“How is it possible?” He demanded, light headed with the feeling of his beloved intimate again, he could search in all the places, he couldn't find the one who pleased him this way. 

“You're giving me life, Friedrich.” You whispered, arching your back at the travel your husband is. Loving, intense, belonging. 

He slid a finger inside you, then two, pumping them slowly, letting you adjust to the new-old sensation. “God, how I missed you.” he groaned, curling them just so, rubbing against that special spot deep inside that made you see stars. “Missed your touch, missed your laugh, your moans, your cunt. The way you moan my name, oh… everything, yeah, keep moaning for me. Please, darling. Say my name just once more, can you?”

“Oh, Friedrich.” You moaned, curling your toes as your heart beated and you felt your pleasure slip on his knuckles with your peak. 

He leaned down, pressing a soft, tender kiss to your stomach. He looked up at you, his blue eyes blazing with love and desire and a fierce, unbreakable connection. 

“Say you want me to claim you, to fill you, to make you a part of me in every way possible.” he demanded miserably, panting on your stomach, digging his fingers on your hips. “Say my name, tell me I'm not out of my senses and you are here with me. Say you need my sex deep as you crave life again as my seed overflows on your delicious inside.” 

“I want you, please. I want everything more than anything in this world or next. Fill me.” you whimpered, forking your hands on his locks, pressing him against you, grinding your arousal on his chest. 

He sighs, running his hands down your thighs, as well as his face that camped on your core, inhaling the essence and feeling an immense desire to cry at the touch of his tongue on your sensitive nerve, taking in every note of your taste.

He sank there, never wanting to leave, he just wanted to please you with his entire being, to adore you, swirling his tongue in the exact places you loved, because Friedrich knew you like the back of his hand, you were an open book to him, he deciphered all your secrets and dreams.

Everything you loved, his tongue in your canal, at the entrance, swirling on your clit and taking it all in to suck the little spot and leave a soft kiss.

“Frid, Frid, my love.” you called, sensing your approaching orgasm, you patted his head, his answers delayed by his fixation on your cunt. 

He swallowed the remaining taste, lifting his face lazily and meeting your eyes. “I love your taste.” he whispered, settling himself between your thighs, the hard, thick length of his cock pressing against your slit. “but I love being inside you even more.”

With that, he thrust forward, sheathing himself inside you. He groaned at the feel of your pussy so tight and perfect around him, it was made just for him, to wrap the way he wanted. 

Then, he began to move, his hips rocking against you in a steady, sensual rhythm, foreheads together to hear every moan, purr and whimper from you. He kept his thrusts slow and deep, wanting to savor every moment, every inch of you. 

His hands slid up your sides, cupping the soft, supple curves of your breasts, squeezing and kneading the flesh as he lost himself in the feel of you. He knew he would never get enough of this, of you, of the way you made him feel alive. 

“You're my life, darling.” He panted, deepening the sway of his hips, capturing your lips. “If it's necessary to be dead to be with you everyday like this, I'd sell my soul for just a moment. Take everything you need. Take everything from me.”

“As you wish, my love.” You whimpered, your moans becoming even higher as you craved your teeth on his neck on his pulsing point as a thin amount of blood flowed to your mouth. “Oh, God. You taste so good. Oh, fuck. You… Darling, uhmm…”

“Fuck, take it. Take more. Take every drop of me, love.” He begged, nuzzling his nose on your neck to mark you as you licked the remaining blood salty with his sweat. “Come on my cock while you suck me with your pretty cunt and your teeth. Take my soul.”

He could feel you starting to tremble, your body tensing and tightening as your climax approached. He doubled his efforts, his thrusts growing harder and faster, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he drove into you.

"Come for me, my heart," he urged, his voice a low, desperate growl, licking your bloody face. "Come on my cock, my queen. Let me feel you, all of you, now and forever.”

“Frid. AH!” The sound of your scream, raw and filled with ecstasy, pushed him over the edge. He groans,  burying himself to the hilt inside you as his own release overtook him.

"Fuck," he roared, his voice echoing off the walls of the bedroom. "I'm coming, fuck, I'm coming so hard! Take it, darling."

He pulsed and throbbed inside you, spilling his hot seed deep into your womb as he held you tight, crushing you against his chest. He could feel every clench and flutter of her walls around him, milking him for every last drop as you rode out the aftershocks.

He could feel his body growing weak, prolonging that orgasm as he gave the last thrusts, his eyes turning blank and the grip loosening. 

"Frid... Frid, my love." You cried out, watching him smile weakly, his eyes nearly fading. Desperate, you stood up and slapped his face gently against your chest. "Frid. Friedrich. Friedrich, answer me!" you sobbed, cradling his nearly lifeless body in your arms, your tears falling heavily.

"It will be over soon..." he whispered, his hands weakly resting on your back, pulling you closer. "Soon I’ll... be with you... my love... Eat my heart, and you can live with our daughters."

"How? What do you mean, my Frid?" You shouted, gasping, as life slowly drained from him.

"Wasn’t that how you... came to me? By eating Sievers' heart?" He coughed and gasped for air, his lungs sinking from the lack of oxygen. "That's what Von Franz thinks... he knows about it. You trusted him before me... I didn’t believe in you..." 

"No..." You trembled, your eyes wavering as you turned his face towards yours, gazing into his pale blue eyes, already touched by death. "It wasn’t like that, Frid. You brought me back. Your love brought me here. I manifested because of you. I can fix it. I know I can, we can live forever."

You bite your wrist, but nothing came, your blood was dry. You tried to rip your ribcage to get your heart and make him eat, but you weren't strong enough.“No… no…” you gasped

“I've always admired you. You always did your best to make me live comfortably, made me feel a king, love.” He gave a soft laugh, his body moving slightly with it. "I'm glad... I could do something… I'll love you forever" he murmured, finally succumbing to eternal peace.

“And I'll love you always, Frid.” You sobbed, holding his lifeless body in your arms, rocking back and forth as you sang a soft lullaby, the weight of your sorrow deepening, while your body slowly disintegrated, returning to dust and slipping back into your coffin.

In honor of Friedrich's love, Thomas crafted a grand coffin, large enough for both of you. They carefully prepared his body and placed it comfortably in the wooden vessel, where your hands were intertwined with his, bound together for eternity.

[cool-island-songs]

Analysis of ALNST Character Relationship Metrics

My art book won't be here for a minute, but I ran some screenshots I saw on twt through an image translator and have a lot of thoughts:

TILL: Despite claiming to hate everyone in the world, Till ranks Ivan at 70% intimacy even as he identifies perturbing behaviors of Ivan's going back years and refers to him as "a bother". He also ranks Sua at 10% in spite of having little to say about her and finding it uncomfortable to be around her.

Though he postures at being misanthropic and has all the manners you'd expect of a boy who was half off at the human child pound, he's actually quite gentle and sensitive. This is reflected in one of the graduation messages he's left by a classmate as well:

The person he feels closest to is an unattainable crush, and someone who doesn't feel that close with him in return, likely because he's too shy to really approach her or carry on a conversation.

MIZI: That's Mizi, of course, who's rather childlike and naive initially. She likes everyone, but since Till chokes when he tries to speak to her and often keeps his distance, she wonders if he's avoiding her because he dislikes her.

Mizi gravitates towards people who she sees as "perfect", which is how she describes Ivan and Sua in her graduation message to Ivan:

She doesn't see the darker side of Ivan's personality (which has been described on several occasions, even by himself, as "twisted") because he's attractive, successful, and helpful to her.

Though she likes everyone, Sua is her "God", and the only thing that can keep them apart is the tragedy of their situation, which forces Mizi to grow up in a brutally painful way.

SUA: Sua is far less idealistic and naive than Mizi, and has clearly thought about sacrificing herself to save Mizi, since Ivan picks on her for thinking of doing so in an official comic. Accordingly, her feelings about Mizi are far more tinged by the knowledge that they will one day be torn apart by external circumstances. She laments that reciprocating her feelings will one day cause Mizi great pain.

She's always been more somber, and despite her surface similarities to Ivan (which he notes in a follow-up comic wherein he realizes he was wrong about Sua's feelings for Mizi being unrequited), she's quite different on the inside. Sua's more sensitive and thus her colder exterior serves to protect her, whereas Ivan's outward persona creates an illusion of normalcy that doesn't reflect his reality.

Sua views Ivan and Till as a threat and a nuisance, respectively. Like Till, she senses something strange about Ivan, and when it comes to Till, it's just one person too many around for her. This is fascinating to me, because I thought she might pity Till! Her feelings about Ivan were already pretty clear from this panel of the 'piggyback' comic, and she seems deeply hurt in the first comic linked by his prodding.

IVAN: For his part, Ivan is fascinated by Till even though he's content to sit back and observe, pestering him to get a reaction or his attention for a brief time. He doesn't expect anything in return but wants more than anything to be on Till's mind (hence behaviors like stealing Till's belongings and returning them to him, pretending he had found them).

He prefers Sua to Mizi despite his awareness that Sua doesn't particularly like him, seeing her as a sister and even telling her she's "twisted" like he is. He likes Mizi well enough, especially her sincerity, but seems to find her optimism a bit much at times.

The fact that Mizi and the others would likely consider Ivan and Mizi quite close while Ivan does not reflects how much he postures even in his closest relationships. He struggles to connect with those he's most compelled by and it's not clear if he really wants to.

Some Ivantill thoughts before I go:

There seems to be a common sentiment that it's tragic Till was unable to see how much Ivan loved him, and I think we'll likely get more of Till's perspective on Ivan and their relationship in round 7. But it may not be the case that Ivan even wanted his true feelings to be seen, or would have known what to do if Till had reciprocated them.

There's something almost voyeuristic and self-negating in his feelings for Till (see: "I can’t reach you, so I imagine alone/You who shines, I stand next to you" from 'Black Sorrow'). He has far more self-awareness and willingness to accept things as they are than Till, who doesn't see that Mizi only has eyes for Sua and who would likely struggle to accept that reality.

Ivan, on the other hand, is well aware that his feelings for Till are "shallow", a bright fantasy to get him through his dark reality, and he seems to sincerely believe that his death won't scar Till because he's never really broken through to him. He's a schemer, and comments he makes in his graduation message to Till and the interview he gives in advance of round 6 suggest that he may have been planning to sacrifice himself for some time.

Part of me wonders if he hoped it would leave a mark on Till. Choking, kissing, and violently sacrificing oneself are all aggressive, forward acts, especially from someone who used to toy with people to get his kicks but was otherwise quite passive and unfeeling.

There are a lot of parallels in the one-sided loves, like Till acting out of his usual character for Mizi, and Ivan doing the same because of Till, putting all hopes of being saved in something just out of reach, staying in chains for that one special person. But Ivan's psychology is quite different from Till's, and in fact closest to Luka's re: low or no empathy. Both Ivan and Till are significantly traumatized by their upbringings but Ivan's difficult early life in the slums and his experience being dangled off that rooftop seem to have damaged his ability to connect to others or feel much of anything.

Till is the first person for whom he feels anything while for Till, Mizi is an early crush he puts on a pedestal in a much more commonplace way. I think the shared trauma of competing on that stage makes it much more difficult for either of them to imagine moving on, but Ivan is not wrong in identifying that he won't find that feeling again.

The thing that intrigues me most about this series is the way the contestants' differences play out, particularly with regard to how they view love and how they respond to their individual and shared challenges. I'd love to get into it further another time but this is quite long already so thanks for sticking with it if any have (haha)

[pokemonheritageposts]

pokemon heritage posts inbox sim(probably):

I want to lick salazzle's poisonous sweat off the inside of her thighs I don't care if it kills me

[foot fetishist lamenting the tragedy of gardevoir]

Pokemon SEX and Pokemon CUM

leg fetishists lamenting gothitelle's fucked up legs

[ashlynnfall]

ekko looks for powder in the color blue. the sky, the water, hair, and eyes. blue blooms in the flowers near his tree and weaves through the streets of zaun, leaving trails for him to follow, leading him to something that no longer exists.

ekko looks for powder in light. it emanates from fire and spreads throughout zaun in the night. it's in the fixtures that decorate the streets, and it cascades down onto ekko's hideout, illuminating the mural that commemorates what has been lost. light reminds him of her. her bright smile and her blinding beauty. it revives the past they shared before tragedy struck, of that unforgettable night where they danced under the stars, of that kiss on the ledge...it's an everlasting reminder of his deepest affection.

ekko looks for powder in the gadgets he possesses. he searches for traces of her in the trinkets he collects, tinkering away to create new ones. inventions are where he looks the hardest, reminding himself of the days they spent working on innovative projects together. he thinks of her genius, her drive, and her madness in the craft. the memories bring a comforting smile to his face, which is a rare sight these days.

ekko looks for powder in time, lamenting how much they used to have together. there's a cruel irony in "the boy who shattered time" nickname. he was unable to spend the time he wanted with her, he couldn't shatter time enough to fit his needs. he enjoyed what they spent together, but it was too little. he could rewind time over and over and over again, but he still wouldn't get enough of her. his love for powder is timeless.

ekko looks for powder in his title: the boy savior. yet another cruel irony. he saved the entire world, ensuring the survival of many. in fact, he's spent his whole life saving people. he's always sacrificing his own needs for others as he leads a life of unbridled altruism. in a way, he's making up for being unable to save powder from jinx and silco. the boy savior, capable of rescuing anyone and everyone, except for the love of his life.

ekko looks for powder in the new era of zaun. sevika leading in the council, children running in the streets in glee rather than fear, the people breathing fresh air-it was everything they ever dreamed of. if only she was around to see it. ekko searches for the murals dedicated to her, seeks out the remnants of her hideout, scouts for anyone with leftover stories of her to tell. he observes the elated spirits of the city and bears the pain deep within his smile, reminding him of what could have been.

ekko looks for powder physically. it's not enough to just remember her. he needs to hug her, hold her close, and never let her go. he needs to hear her voice again, to invent with her again, to dance with her again, he just needs her to be here again. powder's absence is impossible to ignore, and ekko's tired of acknowledging it. he wants to be selfishly in love with her, but he can't. the world needed a savior, ekko answered the call.

ekko never stops looking for powder. she's in his head, in his heart, in his memories, in his home-no place is without her image. in his mind, powder's words echo promises of the past, not knowing that they'd be broken in the future. he searches for her in the people of zaun, hoping for the day when someone's face matches the one he craves to see so desperately. his search is endless, hopelessly devoted to a ghost of his past.

ekko finds powder in the hand that extends to him from a large white blimp. blue and pink nails decorate the pale skin covering it, confirming who stands before him. he looks at her bright smile, her pink eyes, the blue hair that grew back to the tops of her shoulders, the beautiful face he yearns to get lost in. he takes her in, processing everything he can see, praying that this isn't some horrible dream or hallucination.

ekko finds powder in the hug that they share, the hands that he holds, and in the lips that kiss him. ekko finds powder in the promises of adventure, in the conversations about their post-war lives, and in the apologies for everything. ekko finds powder.

powder and ekko find each other in love, in the reunion with their surviving friends and family, in the celebrations of a new zaun. they find each other on the dance floor once again, but this time, in the right universe. they bask in each other's arms, refusing to ever let go.

ekko finally finds powder, promising to never lose her again.

a/n: hi! i wanted to give ekko the ending he deserves because he's my fav character and deserves the whole world. timebomb as a couple mean so much to me, so i wanted to write a little story about their reunion after the finale of season 2. i need them together!! i also just adore ekko and powder, and that scene of them dancing in the alt universe was insanely well done. i hope you enjoyed my work, and thank you for reading! any tips of improving my writing or general thoughts on the fic would be greatly appreciated. thank you for your time <3

[koimethehorizon]

Amazing Digital Circus Theory: Gangle is an NPC

Sooo, I wasn’t expecting to talk about this show. I was perfectly content to just enjoy Digital Circus as is.

It’s a show that invites theories as to what exactly’s going on with the setting and characters, but I didn’t have much room to think too hard about it. Who’s Abel? Is Pomni really a human? Why is this VR game emulating an N64 game at the start? I like the show plenty, but it just wasn’t as interesting to go hard on any of those questions at the time.

But with this recent episode… a single, perhaps throwaway line got the brain nagging. And it’s kind of a bizarre one to waste hours analyzing.

Okay, so yeah, it’s a joke on submissive and breedable. (Don’t give them ideas) But try taking it at face value.

What does he mean by this? Sure, Jax is an asshole, and being a bullied kid is Gangle’s whole archetype… but what if it means a little more than that?

Gangle’s trapped for all eternity this asshole and she’s just letting him boss her around. Zooble can choose not to participate, so no one has to. Why does Gangle listen to Jax at all?

Let's entertain a thought: Is Gangle an NPC?

With Episode 2 bringing so much attention to the autonomy of NPCs, it seemed natural to start pointing fingers at characters being this or that. But this isn't just a random crackshot, I feel that there is a story to tell here.

Look back at Pomni’s “orientation” with the other humans. Ragatha, Zooble, and Jax ease her by saying that they’ve been trapped in this world for years and then bring attention to Kinger being the oldest.

But Gangle… she’s isolated from the peanut gallery, busy moping about the broken comedy mask instead.

Every character has been given some hints as to how they’ve been coping with the situation. Jax no longer empathizes with anything, Ragatha once had trouble adjusting but now tries to stay happy, Zooble picks and chooses her involvement, Kinger is the eldest and just exists for the hell of it, and Pomni is new to everything.

With Gangle, it’s a blank. No opinion, no hints of her human side, how long she’s been here, no thoughts on the games, nothing. She’s just Jax’s punching bag.

Even Kinger gets a potshot on Gangle in a rock-paper-scissors game…. and he likely forgot that she doesn’t have hands!

And that brings me to another detail. Doesn't Gangle look different from the others?

Unlike everyone else, Gangle's just a mask and a ribbon. No hands or legs, or just any limbs in general. She stands out as looking a bit simpler than the others.

Gangle's most interesting design trait is that she's based on comedy and tragedy masks. The ones used old Greek theater to dictate the emotions of their characters.

The first episode seems to imply that with a broken comedy mask, Gangle literally can’t stay happy. Hence why we see her sad most of the time. That's a strange limitation if Gangle's human mind is supposed to be completely intact, especially with how expressive the other characters can be.

It's not delved into too much but does Gangle actually rely on these masks to "feel" emotions?

The obvious hole is that Caine would’ve just killed her a while ago if she was an NPC, but he's not exactly omniscient.

He even admits that he has to kill them off because it’s possible for him to lose track.

Now normally I could just stop here, but I’m all about the grand statements. You know, the retroactive readings of an episode once you get a theory going. Why does Gangle being an NPC matter at all? How does Ep 2 change?

While deep diving, I realized that the thematic core of Episode 2 is Pomni and Jax’s approaches to surviving the Digital Circus.

In Pomni’s A plot, we see her connecting with Gummigoo, the NPC that Caine pitted their group against. After discovering him lamenting his new reality, she finds a strange comfort in being existentially lost together. Because in the end the NPCs and the humans are just as displaced and frightened in this meaningless world.

In Jax’s B plot, he forces Gangle to follow some insane orders. Sabotage the game to let the big chocolate turd monster destroy the Candy Kingdom. To Jax, he is the main character. Helping or displeasing this giant population of fake people doesn’t have any consequence for him, so why humor anyone but yourself?

A bit of a stretch, but what if Jax already knows Gangle is an NPC and is keeping it quiet as long as Gangle follows orders, hence the “submissive” comment? He’d be a way more unpleasant character with this reading, but it doesn’t seem off the cards with how he treats everyone anyway.

This dichotomy already plays out well within the episode, but when reframing it as Pomni and Gummigoo vs Jax and Gangle, the parallel is a lot more interesting.

Make an NPC an equal, they die. But keep an NPC under wraps as long as they continue to obey you… they live.

The episode ends with a grim conundrum that NPCs can’t be together with the humans, not because of their differences but because they're just... not allowed to be. But what if one already in the group, proving that they’re just as capable as the humans to play the games and grieve loved ones together?

PS. Despite knowing everyone else's name, I actually forgot Gangle's until I started finding evidence for this intrusive thought. Sorry Gangle.

PSS. I couldn't fit this anywhere, but Gangle's door frame doesn't work as evidence against the NPC theory, because even the mannequins have their own rooms in that hallway.

[gfmima]

category : 米哈游 原神 work title : matchmaker, he’s actually in love with you!

slam!

the towering doors of the sanctuary shut with force, echoes that reaches every corner of its four walls. nahida, sitting on her makeshift swing, was quick to react. she descends from the swaying contraption, her curiosity piqued by the abrupt return of wanderer.

huh? he’s back early, she mused to herself, her nimble walk quickens, each step punctuated by a skip, as she makes her way towards him. she cannot help but be keen to learn how his evening went.

a fleeting glimpse into his mind had been all it took to ignite her interest. the flowing stream of commentary he provided were nothing short of fascinating.

from the minute she caught wind of your attempt to set him up with a good friend of yours, the young archon had a lucid premonition of how it might unfold — a disaster in the making.

as she approaches him, she wears a smile that conceals her amusement for his situation, covering her knowledge of his plight. she begins with a simple, “how was it?”

his response was immediate and fervent.

he jumps from tangent to tangent, a barrage of complaints and disappointments. he paints a detailed picture of his date, describing her as a ‘bore’ and lamenting the lackluster conversation he made the mistake of engaging. he afforded no adjective in critiquing her.

yet, it was his thoughts about you that intrigued her.

he proceeds to vent; he spoke of the audacity you displayed by assuming he would devote his night to such trivial endeavors, the gall to think he should allocate his time for a nuisance you believed to be a ‘perfect match’ bothered him beyond comprehension.

what were you thinking?

at this instant, she manifests a swing to sit on.

the conversation between them soon develops into a back-and-forth as they delve deeper into the truth of his feelings — or rather, his reluctance to confront them.

“i don’t have feelings for her!” he argues, crossing his arms.

nahida bites her tongue to stop herself from asking why did he sound upset. she was wise enough to know it would only irritate him further. still, she forges ahead, calmly swinging, her voice maintaining a balanced cadence.

“if there’s nothing romantic, then, perhaps there would be no issue if another man were to court her? or if she—”

his reaction was palpable.

wanderer takes a step forward, his indigo eyes narrowing in on her. in that moment, she envisions the formidable figure he must’ve been in his past life as a harbinger; a scene that could undoubtedly be intimidating to mortals.

“what have you heard? is there another man courting her?” he persists in his ramblings, pinpointing a man whom he suspects and going on about your incompatibility, counting every plausible reason it wouldn’t work. his speech appears more like an effort to reassure himself than convince her.

wouldn’t it be easier to accept the truth?

“what is there to accept? there’s nothing to accept. why do you speak as if i’ve fantasized about her! like she haunts my mind?” his rushed words hung heavily in the air, a pregnant pause ensues. he slipped up, and he knows she knew it too.

“don’t even try it, buer.”

he can almost hear her answer: “i didn’t imply it, you did!” and it pushes him further down the rabbit hole.

the young archon watches him struggle to cope with what he felt, wrestling with the reality he had tried to bury underneath a facade of indifference since he first met you. it was a tangle of emotions, especially after long centuries marked by constant betrayal and tragedy. flustered by the whole ordeal, he starts to walk away from her.

“i’m glad to see you’ve come to terms with your feelings. as they say, the truth shall set you free,” she chirps, however, it comes across mocking to his ears.

he scoffs at her.

slam!

then, the doors fall shut once more, sealing the discussion with resounding finality.

nahida shakes her head with a sigh, her smile widening. ah, young love. it was a powerful and unpredictable force, capable of unraveling even the most composed individuals. with a nod, she decides to give destiny a nudge in the right direction, all for the sake of her friend.

inside the dimly lit atmosphere of hotel debard, lyney found himself in a strange predicament…

perched at the table, he speaks with a minor drawl — a clue to the quantity of alcohol he consumed within the last hour, his elbow rests on the mahogany surface and his head prop wearily in the palm of his hand.

the muted radiance of candlelight cast shadows on his face as he rambles along with a hint of longing and frustration.

across from him sat his date for the evening, a co-worker of yours too, swirling her white wine. her gaze directed at him, as she absorbed his every word and nodded here and there.

the tone of his voice brings a weight of distraught emotions as he went on a melodramatic retelling of his woes, most of it concerns you. he recounts everything; the subtle nuances in your actions, the glances exchanged, and all the personal endearments said.

“i can’t understand why she would do this to me…” he huffs, drawing an involuntary pout to his lips.

“me neither,” she murmurs under her breath, then indulges in a lengthy sip of her wine.

“my sentiments exactly, i’m glad we agree.”

he was not listening in the slightest degree.

the seconds tick away — one by one, it added to the tension in the restaurant.

he didn’t hide the offense seething beneath the surface. the idea of you, the object of his affection, organizing a date with another woman, whom you believe to be his match, for him was infuriating. how dare you! he ponders, he sincerely thought there was a connection with you…

a wave of bitterness streamed inside of him, reflected in the frown creased on his face, yet he remained composed as he can be.

were you oblivious to his advances? or was this an excuse to avoid confrontation, a indirect rejection of his feelings?

after all, lyney had not been sly in his pursuits, he was more than daring.

he left a stem or two of rainbow roses on your doorstep, the existence of morning dew upon its petals suggests its early harvest; he had gone out of his way to help you, his shoulders endure the memory of carrying heavy baskets of fruit picked from your garden; and he walked you to and fro your home and workplace daily.

his devotion had known no bounds…

and this merely scratched the surface!

he stayed up with you on long nights when you had to work additional hours; he slipped your go-to pastries, that he purchased with his own mora, into your tote — a gesture of care, a reminder to take breaks; he had even introduced you to his siblings and invited you to dinners with them.

your company had become so frequent, it was expected, an acceptance of your spot in his life.

he likes you.

he likes you.

he likes you!

he yearns to bellow it from the rooftops, just so you’d grasp the depth and intensity of his feelings. he considers stating it at the outset of every performance, leaving no doubt that what he felt for you was far from a joke.

as he continues to passionately recount, his date’s patience wears thin and thinner by each syllable. sighing, she carries his monologue to a halt.

“are you sure you only ‘like’ her?” her voice had a faint touch of annoyance. he raises a brow, prompting her to clarify her remark. she leans forward, exclaiming:

“just admit it! you’re in LOVE with her!”

her words hover in the enveloping silence, the mutterings of conversation from the neighboring tables eclipsed them. he mulls over her previous question once more, the realization gradually dawning on him. she, visibly exasperated, rolls her eyes. how can he be so clueless?

“be honest, lyney… be honest WITH her,” she urges, “you’re in love with her, and it’s glaringly obvious. i’m shock it took you this long to realize it.”

a pause.

“what if she doesn’t feel the same way? i don’t think a man can recover from such heartache.”

“but she DOES!” she affirms, “you need to tell her how you feel — vocalize it! she’ll reciprocate, i know she will because of the way she tried to charm me into agreeing to this date.”

he thinks about it, he thinks about you, about the moments you shared, and about the true nature of his feelings. should he take the chance? the urge to stand from his seat and find out what awaits if he does overcome him… and yet he quelled it.

he realizes how discourteous it would be of him if he left her alone, subjected to the gossip of the other patrons.

“go after her. i’ll be fine.” she waves him off. “trust me.”

with newfound determination, he left without another word, the echo of his hurried footsteps waning into the cool night. the path ahead was filled with hope as he ran to your home, ran to you, the woman who captured his heart.

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

⋆ ˚ 🦋 ｡ ICHOR ────── Yandere! Prince ⋆˚

⊹ ٬  Headcanon. Yandere! Prince x Knight! Fem! Reader

In a world marked by betrayal and the struggle for power, two souls find themselves caught between loyalty and desire. As the shadows of tragedy loom, a shared destiny binds them, though the cost of that love may be higher than either is willing to pay.

⊹ ٬  Word Count. 6.5k

⊹ ٬  Content. MDNI. Dark themes, violence/death, age gap, blood, trauma, invasion of privacy, kidnapping, Angst, disturbing content, corruption, isolation, paranoia, manipulation, emotional abuse, emotional manipulation, stalking, cultural exchange, war, dehumanization, loss of loved ones, family conflict, moral dilemmas, betrayal, race conflicts, colonialism.

「 the fluid that flows like blood in the veins of the gods 」

You must be a lady.

That’s what your mother told you when, panting and with dusty knees, she found you wielding a wooden sword alongside your older brother. Her lips would tighten into a thin line, the same one she traced with the needle while embroidering war banners for men who would never return home.

Ladies don’t wear pants.

Your dress had to be long, puffy, of a red so deep it matched the blood that cemented the glory of Vexoria. It didn’t matter that the annals of the continent recorded the name of your nation with equal respect and fear, nor that its military exploits were narrated in the voice of victory and the echo of silenced laments. Women were not warriors but banners waving over the battlefields, prizes for those strong enough to claim them.

Having a daughter was securing alliances, perpetuating dynasties of tough men and well-tempered steel. Having a son was birthing war flesh, blood spilled too soon over distant lands.

Never fight.

Women do not throw the first punch, but they are the ones who end wars. A scratch on a man’s skin was a battle wound; on a woman’s body, it was a portent that war had found its way home.

If they tell you to kneel, you obey and remain silent.

That’s what they taught you from the cradle, whispered among the cold walls of the fortress and repeated by the wet nurses as they wove tales of submissive queens and devoted wives. But that morning, when your father found you among the sons of lords, your feet planted firmly in the training ground sand, you did not obey. You did not remain silent.

You screamed like the bronze of a trumpet in the cornucopia, your voice tearing through the heavy morning air.

—I want to be a knight!

Your trembling fingers gripped the fabric of your dress and tore it in one pull, shedding the cage they had sewn for you. Your father turned red, anger surging like a torrent up his neck. It was the color of shame, of humiliation, of the certainty that his daughter had been born with the tongue of a warrior and not with the smile of a wife.

It was not him who struck you. It was your mother.

Her delicate, cared-for hand cut through the air before crashing against your cheek. There was no fury in her eyes, but something worse: a resigned sadness, a frustration contained in years of drowned dreams. Her face, once smooth and hopeful, was now marked by the invisible scars of obedience.

—You will be a lady —she told you, her voice firm, though her tears betrayed her strength—. You will marry one of the sons of the great lords. You will have children. And that is final.

But you did not yield.

—I will follow my dreams —your voice replied, ignited with the conviction of an oath.

It was too much. Your father could not allow it. He could not bear the thought that his firstborn, his pride, had sown in you the seed of disobedience. So he sent your brother to war. Not because it was his duty, but because he could not conceive that his own son had contaminated his little daughter with ideas of freedom.

No one in Vexoria was free from their fate.

The word fate was spoken in whispers, like a distant echo resonating through the castle halls, but no one dared to defy it. It was not an ethereal concept but an unquestionable truth, an invisible rope binding each person to the role they were to play in the play that their nation was writing with fire and blood. You were eight springs old when the kingdom of Castamar, the ancestral enemy, revealed itself as a shadow that devoured the light.

That night, your skin still bore the softness of childhood, and your dreams were woven with the golden threads of a carefree world. You slept peacefully, under the silk and goose feather sheets that wrapped you in a false sense of security, when the sound of screams shattered the air, tearing it apart with an intensity so harrowing it seemed to come from the very bowels of the earth.

Fire consumed everything. Flames engulfed the city, wrapping buildings in a dance of destruction that lit the sky like a hellish signal. Blood flowed in torrents, red and hot, watering the streets that had once been the pride of your family, of your nation. Vexoria, the unstoppable, the invincible, had finally succumbed. For the first time, the kingdom that had always dictated war, that instilled fear and glory, was the one losing.

You were the daughter of a great lord, a noble born under the seal of strength and supremacy of your lineage. Your family had been named for the Golden Bull, that macabre prize awarded to those whose lineage was so prestigious that their fall would serve as a warning to others. It was the most feared death penalty in all of Vexoria, a brutal fate in which the nominees were placed in the golden belly of an iron bull, a searing cauldron, and roasted alive as sacrifices to an ancient power.

You knew what it meant to be part of that list. You knew that, sooner or later, the blade of the scythe would fall upon you, but at that moment, your entire being crumbled before the certainty of condemnation. You were going to die. And there was nothing you could do. It didn’t matter that your mother, with her trembling hands and face marked by years of dutiful submission, embraced you desperately, crying inconsolably as she prayed to your gods. There was no prayer that could save you from that fate.

But something changed in that moment. Something that, though fleeting, altered the course of your existence forever.

He appeared, a man in worn armor and a face aged by the years, but still with the steely gaze of those who have lived to witness death, like a shadow slipping through the flames. Sir Orion Casterly, an elderly knight from the enemy kingdom of Castamar, took pity on you. He did not think, he did not hesitate. He took you from your mother’s arms, who was already undone by helplessness, and pulled you away from her embrace, as if he knew there was no time for tears or empty promises.

She looked at you with the anguish of one who knows she is delivering you to hell. With eyes filled with despair, she told you not to part from him, that this man, this knight, would be your protector, the last vestige of hope in a crumbling world. The uncertainty of that farewell, the coldness of death lurking in every corner, made you feel as if everything you knew was fading into darkness. The weight of your mother’s sacrifice settled in your heart, a weight you would carry for the rest of your days.

You left with him, unable to understand the magnitude of what had just occurred, not realizing that the decision your mother was making would perhaps be the last thing she would give you in her life.

────── 🦋 ──────

Your face was that of millions of battles won, but none satisfying. A face forged in the iron of war, bearing the marks of victories that never filled the void within you. It wasn't trophies or crowns you sought; wars, in all their forms, were merely an endless succession of losses, even if hymns were sung in your honor. You left your horse in the stable, and as you stripped off the reins, a long, heavy sigh escaped your lips, as if it were the last vestige of the fatigue accumulated during the long journey.

It had been two months, two endless months of riding without rest, escorting the king to the kingdom of Valdracia, to negotiate a marriage alliance. You didn’t know if it would be the elder prince, the one with the cold gaze, or the second, whose warm smile did not hide the dark intentions visible in his eyes. Perhaps it was the third, the youngest and least experienced, still carrying his untainted hopes. Which of the three? You didn’t know, and you cared even less. At that moment, the political intrigues, the marriages, and the pacts between kingdoms were just distant echoes that failed to penetrate the wall of exhaustion that enveloped you.

All you desired, all your soul needed, was stillness, rest, even if only for a few minutes. A place where the noise of war, the demands of the kingdom, and despair could finally be silenced. You walked to the palace garden, where the fountain of the seven awaited. The water fell in a hypnotic dance, striking the stones and trickling between them with the serenity of something that needed nothing more than to exist. You sat on a marble bench, allowing the sound of the water to drown out the voices still resonating in your head. It allowed you the luxury of not thinking of anything, for once.

You looked at Vixen, grazing in the nearby grass. The horse had been your only faithful companion for so many years. It was a gift from your father on your ninth spring, twenty winters ago. Back then, Vixen was just an inexperienced colt, with spindly legs and tangled manes, but you loved him with the intensity of a young heart, eager to seal a pact that would never be broken. Now, Vixen was strong and old, with fur hardened by years of battles, yet he remained your refuge. As you stroked his mane, you remembered those moments of youth when the world seemed simpler, when your dreams were not stained by the sweat of war or the thirst for power.

You and that horse had lived through it all: the relentless cold of winters, the scorching sun of summers, the ground soaked with blood and sweat, and the contained rage of a life that, though lived in the shadows of war, never ceased to burn. Stroking his mane was like returning to a time when the purity of loyalty and friendship was not corrupted by politics or duty. The memories you shared with Vixen were, in their simplicity, the only truth that remained. The water continued to fall gently from the fountain, and for a moment, you forgot everything else.

It was just you, the horse, and the stillness of the world.

And then that disgusting laugh of the charming prince echoed like an unpleasant reminder in your eardrum, bouncing in every corner of your mind with the persistence of a plague.

—Lady Casterly! What a pleasant surprise to see you here. I was so worried when I saw you step away from the group as soon as the king arrived in Valdracia.

George of Castamar's voice was like a deafening whisper, smooth and exasperating, the kind of voice that seemed designed to enchant any foolish lady crossing his path, yet for you, it was a constant hammering. It was one of those voices that crawled on your skin, one that seemed to envelop everything, even though there was nothing in him that warranted such attention.

George, bearer of the unicorn shield, second in line to the throne of Castamar, with his prince charming attitude, as unreachable as the reflection of a vain dream, represented everything you disliked about the nobility. He was the headache that never went away, the fly buzzing around your face just when you thought you might finally find some peace. He, with his well-fed boyish face and eyes shining with such crude arrogance that left you speechless, seemed to not understand that not everyone fell at his charming façade.

You were twenty-one springs into the cavalry, but you had seen enough of that world not to be fooled by the facade of youth he so proudly displayed. You had served for years in the Royal Guard, fought and sweated under the blue insignia, in the trenches where loyalty was tested in blood and sweat, not in empty smiles. Yet this young man, who had barely seen twenty winters, followed you everywhere like an unruly dog, always surprised that a woman held a position of power, that a woman was the sub-captain of the blue division, the one tasked with protecting the king.

The same George who, despite having been in the royal cavalry for six months, barely knew how to wield a sword without someone having to put his hands on the hilt, the one who needed a squire to do what a true knight did by instinct. The irony of his existence bit you like a slow and constant poison. You didn’t know whether to be more exasperated by his lack of skill or his tireless insistence on proving to himself that nobility and lineage were all that mattered.

The sun reflected off his armor with the same brilliance as his ignorance, and there he was, in front of you, as if his title and position at court could erase his uselessness.

"Our captain, in his unusual gesture of generosity, granted me a few hours of solitary peace to compensate for the fatigue accumulated from my hard work protecting the king," you said firmly, not even looking at him, lost in the stillness of your own thoughts. Your cold hands, from the spring water, slowly dipped into the fountain, seeking a small comfort in its coolness. The sound of the water falling over the stones was a silent reminder of how fleeting tranquility is in this world that never ceases to revolve around war and politics.

The young man from Castamar approached, his presence as imposing as it was unnecessary. "Lady Casterly," he began with that tone you found so unbearable, filled with forced courtesy, "it is an honor for me to have the opportunity to speak with you at such solemn moments. Your devotion to the king is admirable, as always."

You sighed, looking up at the sky for a moment, seeking some peace in the vastness of blue. Then, without turning completely, you were direct in your response, your voice calm but laden with an authority that needed no backing from titles. "And as I have already mentioned before, young Castamar," you replied, your words sharp as a well-honed sword, "it is Sir Y/n Casterly for you. And if you must address me, I would appreciate it if you did so accordingly."

The young prince, seemingly taken aback by your frankness, hesitated for a moment. His eyes shone with a mixture of surprise and curiosity, as if he truly did not understand why someone of your standing would not be swept away by courtly conventions. "My apologies, Sir Casterly," he said finally, his tone lowering slightly, though still retaining the glow of his unmistakable arrogance. "It is not my intention to offend you."

"I know," you replied with a slight smile on your lips, though devoid of warmth. "It is not my intention to offend you either, but formality is reserved for those who truly deserve it, young Castamar. And at this moment, it seems there is no space for it between us."

A silent tension settled between the two of you. George of Castamar's eyes sparkled with the typical discomfort nobles felt when confronted with something they could not control. There was something in your demeanor he could not decipher, something that bewildered him, as if your position and rank did not hold the same importance as they did for others.

You focused again on the water, letting the gentle movements of the spring allow you a breath. You knew you would gain nothing by arguing with him, that his words would be empty, as they always were. The court's ego war, with its constant push and pull, was no longer something that interested you. Loyalty, true loyalty, did not come from titles or empty smiles; it came from sacrifice, from spilled blood, and from decisions made under the stars, not in palace halls.

Silence stretched between you, dense and palpable, as if words had gotten trapped in the air, fearful of being spoken. George's eyes watched you with that expression that, though masked in feigned curiosity, betrayed the palpable tension between you. He awaited a response, though he was merely a child playing at being an adult in a battlefield where he did not understand the rules.

"I heard about the altercation the king had when we passed through the kingdom of Eldorath," he said, finally breaking the silence, his voice somewhat lower, as if the weight of the question frightened him a bit. "Is it true what Sir Caspian said? That some assassins with a Valdraco accent tried to take the king's life?"

His words collided against your ears like a contained explosion, awakening dark and murky memories of that night, a night when danger lurked in the shadows of the Eldorian kingdom. You took a deep breath, letting the air fill your lungs, while your eyes fixed on the horizon, as if there you could find an answer you had yet to formulate.

You finally looked at him, and for an instant, your gazes met with the intensity of unspoken truth. This young prince, with his pristine face and arrogant smile, did not comprehend the magnitude of what had really happened. For him, it was merely court gossip, a story to tell at the next dinner. But you knew that the king's life had been in danger, and that danger did not retreat; it lurked, waiting for the curtain to fall.

"Yes..." you said, your voice calm, but with a coldness that cut like steel. "The king was very frightened throughout the night after that. His men were not enough to protect him at that moment, and despair was reflected on his face."

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, as if the mere act of recalling what had happened drained you of energy. That night, the king had been vulnerable, his body tired and frail, already too old to bear the blows of a fate that did not forgive the weak. You, however, stayed with him, while the other knights, including men like George, distanced themselves to seek solace in the brothels of Eldorath, forgetting their duty.

The contrast between duty and indulgence was more evident than ever. While they lost themselves in vice, you kept vigil over a man who could no longer hold himself up. But that was not a choice. Not when the king was under your protection, and even less when the echoes of betrayal whispered in every corner of the kingdom.

"But Queen Selenia..." you continued, your voice taking on a darker, more somber tone. "She explicitly asked me not to tell anyone else. To keep silent about what happened." A slight sigh escaped your lips, filled with resignation, as if the queen's decisions were just another burden on your shoulders. "Unfortunately for Queen Selenia, I only serve the king. My loyalty is not divided."

The young prince seemed momentarily disoriented, as if the words could not fit into his mind, but in the end, he nodded with a mix of discomfort and disdain. He knew that this was not a matter he could meddle in, but he also perceived the weight of the loyalty that bound you to the king, something he would never fully comprehend. Loyalty was not something that was negotiated, something that could be asked for in a whisper over cups of wine and empty laughter. Loyalty was proven, and you had proven more than enough during your years in service to the king.

"Really, the Valdracos disagree with my brother's betrothal to the princess, don’t they?" George's voice slid between the shadows of the hall, laden with a rather empty curiosity, as if the intrigues of the kingdom were just a pastime for him. His gaze fixed on you awaited a response, but you already knew he was not seeking understanding, but merely a small glimmer of confirmation for his own conjectures.

The question hung in the air for a moment as you carefully considered your words. "All the kingdoms and noble houses are opposed," you said with a tense calmness, your eyes reflecting a shadow of disdain. "After... the fall of Vexoria, no kingdom has felt comfortable with King Alistair's decisions. Distrust has sown deeply, and few dare to look forward without remembering what happened."

A slight sigh escaped your lips, as if the words themselves weighed down on you. The disaster of Vexoria had left scars, not just physical but deep in the souls of all who witnessed the fall of an empire that was once great. But the consequences of that fall did not limit themselves to a single kingdom. They had reached all, even Castamar, though many insisted on denying it.

George, however, seemed not to grasp the gravity of the matter. His arrogance still failed to see beyond the surface, as always. "That invasion was my grandfather's decision," he said with a shrug, as if the responsibility for what had happened held no more weight than a forgotten story. "I don’t understand why everything keeps coming back to this. What matters now is the future, right?"

"What does it matter what king it would have been?" you retorted, your voice lower, colder, but equally sharp. "Castamar will bear the cross on its back for its disloyalty to its family, for its betrayal of those who once trusted them." Your words cut through the air with the hardness of a well-honed sword, the truth striking with the force of a hammer on the anvil. "The weight of that betrayal cannot be erased with kind gestures or empty promises."

George fell silent, as if the weight of your words began to seep into his mind, if only a little. You knew comprehension would not come easily, not now, not ever. For him, the concept of loyalty was something that shifted with the wind, something that changed according to the convenience of his position. He did not understand the value of spilled blood nor the difficult decisions that marked the lives of those who truly served their kingdom.

"It’s easy to forget what is lost when everything surrounding you remains intact," you continued, looking to the horizon as if the future were there, waiting to be claimed. "But the damage is already done, and alliances, promises, are not easily forgotten."

The young prince, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what true loyalty entailed, remained silent. His face, still marked by youth and ignorance of political complexities, reflected the frustration of not finding the answers he sought. But you already knew there were no easy answers in this game. The fate of nations, the decisions of kings, the betrayals of houses, all that wove into a net so complex it was impossible to unravel with simple words.

You looked at Vixen for a few seconds, his dark coat and robust body, feeling how the stillness of the moment contrasted with the storm of thoughts crowding your mind. Then, your eyes returned to George, who seemed lost in his own thoughts, staring off into the distance without seeing anything in particular. You had no patience for his games, but he, it seemed, did not understand what it meant to be a knight in truth, what that life full of sacrifices represented. He did not understand that the price of loyalty was not always paid with pretty words, nor with comfortable alliances.

"Don’t you think about marrying, like your brother Rodrigo?" you asked, letting the question linger in the air, giving it an ironic and biting tone. "You know, to favor your shield, as many do to maintain power in the wrong hands."

George shook his head, as if the idea of marriage were an abomination in his eyes. "No, I swear loyalty to the royal guard," he said with a firmness that seemed no more than an attempt to evade what it truly meant to belong to that order.

"And what of it?" you replied without hesitation, your words falling like a dry blow. "Knight Banneret Orion Casterly is married to Lady Mikaela, and several knights have bastards out there. You wouldn’t be the first or the last knight in this world to fall in love and follow a path not filled solely with duty. Everyone, even those who swear devotion, have their lives, their desires... Why be different?"

The look George returned was one of discomfort, but the conversation was far from over. He seemed to think that with the simple oath of loyalty he had finished his responsibility, as if a mere vow could erase the desires and internal struggles that defined him as a man. But you knew better than that.

"And you, Sir Casterly, don’t you think about marrying?" he asked, attempting to steer the conversation toward your own commitment, or the lack thereof. His tone, a mix of curiosity and disdain, sent a pang of contempt through you. The young man did not know what it meant to be a true knight, what it meant to live a life of sacrifices. He did not understand that the price of loyalty was not always paid with pretty words, nor with comfortable alliances.

You looked at him with a hatred as cold as steel, a hatred that needed no words to express, but nonetheless, you decided to articulate it. "The only man I kneel to," you continued, letting your words land as a final blow, "is the king." The silence that followed your declaration was profound, like an abyss that separated you even further, though you needed nothing more than your own duty to feel complete in this world of false promises.

George smiled at that.

────── 🦋 ──────

"I swear by Cica and the king's hand that we did it behind the stable," shouted Sir Dorik, his voice resonating powerfully in the air. He slammed the table with such fury that the echo seemed to thrum against the walls, his frustration palpable. "She may be old, but by the gods, she has a technique that even the youngest courtesan cannot match. The damned woman knows what she's doing!"

The room fell silent for a moment before Sir Clemond, no stranger to fits of rage, let out a bitter laugh. "Don't lie, Doo! Queen Selenia is so arrogant and pretentious that she would never do something so... vulgar. Remember what that old witch told us all, huh? 'You are just worms looking for rain.' Well, if I'm a worm, she’s a cockroach, a damn cockroach who crawls to get what she wants."

Tension grew like a storm about to burst. Clemond, as impetuous as ever, threw his flowery beer to the ground with such anger that the liquid almost spilled across the table. The sound of shattering glass barely calmed the heat that erupted from his words. "How dare she treat us like this? I'm fed up with her poison!"

The annoyance was evident, but you remained seated, calm, your face impassive as you slowly drank from your own beer. Your gaze fixed on the foam in your cup, you took a moment before speaking. The resentment and fatigue of hearing the same old rant often reflected in your eyes, but the discipline and professionalism you had learned over the years kept you steady.

"Please," you finally said, your tone soft but laden with a latent tension. "Even if Sir Dorik speaks the truth, we cannot simply speak ill of Queen Selenia. It’s not our style, no matter how justified our anger may be." You set your cup on the table with a slow gesture, looking at the men present. "It’s not about what we believe or what that woman has done. Queen Selenia has her place, and although we all know what she thinks of us, we must maintain our composure. Loyalty to our king and the realm must be greater than our personal frustrations."

However, you couldn't help but let your words carry a slight bitterness. "And if we ever say what we really think, tremble, for the very Queen you despise is capable of swallowing whole those who dare to contradict her. Don’t forget what we are up against."

Sir Clemond, visibly irritated but still holding a hint of respect, clenched his teeth tightly, biting his lower lip as his eyes burned with contained anger. He knew you were right, though admitting it felt like swallowing ash. Castamar had never distinguished itself for its wisdom in dealing with its subjects, nor for its courtesy towards those who served it. No, the realm was ruled by the edge of swords and the weight of coins, and those who had neither were at the mercy of their lords' whims.

Around you, the tavern vibrated with coarse laughter and words slurred by wine. The knights of the Blue Division, battle-hardened yet fragile before the temptation of a well-served mug, drank with the carefree attitude of those who know war too well and understand that death can come at any corner. The sun had barely reached its zenith, and already the stench of liquor filled the air. They spoke unabashedly, ranting about the highborn nobility, the hypocrisy of great names, about Queen Selenia and her disdain for those who fought for the realm while she paraded in her silks and perfumes.

Such was your group. A handful of men with no loyalty but to their steel and to the king. Rugged men, loyal to each other, yet broken by the reality of serving a crown that rarely showed them gratitude.

It was then that George appeared.

You saw him enter with his carefree stride, that air of nobility contrasting with the roughness of the surroundings. It was not unusual for him to show up at knights' meetings, though he was never truly welcome. He invited himself, as if his lineage entitled him to share the table with soldiers who had spilled more blood than he would ever see. There was a brief silence upon noticing his presence, not of respect, but of resignation.

You, without averting your gaze from your cup, remembered the first time you met him. You recalled his impeccable manners, his easy smile, his exasperating naivety. And you remembered the words you told him then, with the edge of one who has no patience for princes playing soldier:

"This is no place for a prince."

George seemed unfazed by the hostility in the air. He walked between the tables with the same confidence with which a noble walks through his own hall, though everyone present knew this was not his territory. Here, in the dim light of a tavern filled with soldiers hardened by war, his lineage meant nothing. His name could not stop a thrust, nor did his royal blood grant him respect among men who had killed and bled for a king who barely spared them a glance.

And yet, he smiled.

"Sir Casterly," he greeted with that affected voice that so many ladies in Castamar found charming, but which only provoked annoyance in you. His tone, perfectly measured, his posture impeccable... As if he felt no tension in the air, as if he did not notice the wary glances fixed on his back.

"May I sit?"

You did not respond immediately. Instead, you took another sip of your beer, letting the silence weigh heavily. Sir Clemond snorted softly, and some of the knights exchanged mocking glances. They all knew George would stay regardless. He always did.

"Does it matter if I say no, Your Highness?" you finally replied, not bothering to conceal the fatigue in your tone.

George let out a brief laugh, as if he had expected exactly that response.

"It flatters me that you know me so well, Sir Casterly."

With an almost insulting nonchalance, he took a seat across from you, resting an elbow on the table as he scanned the room with his gaze. He examined the men around him, soldiers seasoned by a thousand battles, men who owed him neither loyalty nor sympathy. And yet, he looked at them with that arrogant curiosity that only someone like him could afford.

"Shouldn't you be training?" he asked with feigned innocence, his eyes dancing with barely contained mischief. "Don’t get me wrong, I know a good beer can warm the spirit, but I doubt it does the same for the sword."

Sir Dorik let out a hoarse laugh, slamming his mug against the table with a noise that made the furniture vibrate.

"Bah! We don’t need training to deal with brats like you, prince. Give us a sword and we’ll beat you blindfolded."

"I don’t doubt that," George admitted with an easy smile, as if the comment amused him rather than offended him. "But my duty is to learn from the best, right?"

The tavern erupted in rough laughter and sarcastic murmurs. Men who had known war since childhood mocked the idea that a spoiled prince could understand what duty truly meant.

You, however, did not laugh.

You looked at him intently, searching for the purpose behind his relaxed demeanor. George could be many things: a clumsy noble, an inexperienced soldier, a courtly brat. But he was not stupid. He knew perfectly well what he was doing by mingling with the guard, by sharing drinks with the men his own family considered expendable. He knew what his mere presence provoked, how his words ignited a fire that could be both entertainment and distraction.

"What do you want, George?" you asked, cutting into the conversation like a dagger to the neck.

The prince tilted his head slightly, his smile barely wavering.

"To converse," he replied at last, with a lightness that contrasted with the intensity of his gaze. "To enjoy good company. Yours, specifically."

You said nothing immediately. You let the weight of his words hang in the air, like the smoke from the candles around you. Because you knew, as well as he did, that George of Castamar never did anything without a motive.

The murmur of the tavern continued to resonate around you: the sound of mugs clinking, coarse laughter, and conversations peppered with curses. However, at the table where you sat, a bubble of barely concealed tension had formed.

George of Castamar tilted his head slightly, with that damned smile of his, the one he wore when he thought he had control of the situation.

"I didn't know I had the capacity to leave the legendary Sir Casterly speechless," he murmured with feigned surprise. "I feel honored."

You did not respond. You simply took another sip of your beer, as if his presence were nothing more than an annoying shadow in your peripheral vision. George, however, did not give up.

"I must say it's impressive. Not every knight can drink with such grace after weeks of hard work protecting my father. Although, of course, I imagine for someone with your temperament, that’s just another ordinary day."

You knew what he was trying to do. The flattery disguised as jest, the casual tone with which he wove each word. A clumsy attempt to stroke your pride to gain your attention.

He was failing miserably.

"The next time you flatter me, Your Highness, make sure it doesn’t sound like you’re speaking to a courtesan at a court party," you said without looking up from your mug.

Sir Clemond stifled a laugh in his drink. George, for his part, tilted his head with an even broader smile, as if he found every snub you dealt him amusing.

"Touché," he admitted. "But I'm afraid I don’t have the habit of flattering in vain. If I say it’s impressive, it’s because it is. There aren’t many knights who could do what you do. And certainly no lady in this realm who can match you."

"Because there is no lady in this realm foolish enough to waste her life in the royal guard," you replied indifferently, leaning slightly forward to place the empty mug on the table.

"I wouldn’t say that," he countered, with a look that grew sharper. "I would say there is no lady in this realm who has your courage."

This time you did look at him. Not because the words had caused the effect he expected, but because you wanted to ensure he understood something very clear.

"Courage is a luxury, prince. What I did wasn’t a choice."

The glint in George's eyes intensified, as if your response had intrigued him rather than repelled him.

"Everything in life is a choice, Sir Casterly," he murmured, and for the first time his voice sounded lower, more serious. "Including this conversation."

You stood up without answering, taking your mug and walking away from the table with the same indifference you had received his presence. You could feel his gaze following you, expectant, as if he were waiting for you to stop, to turn back to him.

You did not.

George of Castamar could be charming, persistent, and, deep down, more astute than people gave him credit for. But if he thought he could court you like a lady of nobility, he was wasting his time.

────── 🦋 ──────

The light of the lamp flickered faintly in the barrack, casting elongated shadows on the bare stone walls. The place was devoid of any luxury, as befit a knight of the royal guard, yet it was still your refuge. A place where you could exist without the burden of armor or inquisitive gazes.

And now, he was there.

George of Castamar stood at the entrance, wearing the same arrogant smile as always, but this time accompanied by an unexpectedly soft gesture: a bouquet of Razina flowers rested in his hands. Their fragrance filled the room as he raised them toward you, an intoxicating aroma, a blend of roses and something stronger, almost ethereal.

You recognized them instantly.

Your expression hardened.

“I don’t want them,” you said, your voice sharp as the edge of a well-tempered sword.

The prince tilted his head, unfazed by the disdain in your tone.

“Don’t you even want to know how I got them?” he asked, using that lazy tone he adopted when trying to draw you into a conversation.

Your eyes fell back to the flowers. Beautiful, delicate... and born from destruction. The Razinas only grew in lands that had known ash and blood, where death had fertilized the soil better than any peasant could. They were the flowers that the women of your nation wore in their hair as a symbol of resilience, of mourning, of belonging to a home that no longer existed.

That George would bring you those flowers, here, in the dimness of your barrack, dressed only in a nightgown, on a night he had no right to invade...

It was grotesque.

“Do you know what these flowers symbolize?” you asked, not bothering to hide the contempt in your voice.

“Of course,” he replied, with the confidence of someone who does not truly understand the weight of his words. “They are the flowers of Vexoria, right? A tribute. A gesture of goodwill.”

A tribute.

A humorless laugh escaped your lips as you crossed your arms over your chest, holding his gaze.

“A tribute?” you repeated, with a biting incredulity. “Is that how you see it? As an exotic gift to woo a knight?”

George let out a sigh, but his smile did not fade.

“Not everything I do has a hidden intention, Ser Casterly,” he said, stepping further into the room. “Maybe I just wanted to remind you that, despite everything, you are still more than just a sword in the service of Castamar.”

Silence stretched between you, laden with unspoken meanings.

The flames of the lamp danced in his eyes, reflecting a mix of stubbornness and something deeper, something you were not willing to unravel.

Slowly, you approached him, but not to take the flowers. Instead, you raised your hand and gently pushed them against his chest, forcing him to hold them more firmly.

“If you really want to prove something to me, George,” you said, your voice low, firm, unyielding, “stop treating me like a damned damsel.”

George’s smile faded for just a moment before reappearing on his face, yet it no longer held the same lightness as before. Something in his gaze had changed, as if the mask of the charming noble had cracked just enough to reveal another facet, one less naïve, more aware.

“I’m not trying to see you as a damsel, Casterly,” he said softly, but with a latent edge. “I just wanted to have a simple gesture with you.”

His fingers tightened around the bouquet of Razinas, as if the warmth of the flowers could soften the ice in your gaze.

“King Alistair advised me to give you this,” he continued, “and perhaps... to invite you for a walk.”

The air in the barrack seemed to grow denser, trapped between the stone walls and the flickering dimness of the lamp. You wondered if it was mere courtesy or if the old monarch had a more sinister purpose in mind.

“I don’t want to go with you.”

Your words fell like lead, with no intention of softening the rejection.

George sighed, as if he had expected that response, but that didn’t mean he would accept it.

“Well, then I order you, as the Second Prince of Castamar, to accompany me for a walk through the beautiful gardens of Valdracia Castle.”

His tone remained light, almost playful, but the command seeped into his words like poison in sweet wine.

Your lips curved into a bitter smile.

“Someone like me cannot walk in those places.”

“And who says that?”

“Society.”

George tilted his head slightly, studying you with renewed interest, as if he had just discovered a new piece on a board he thought he knew by heart.

“Maybe,” he murmured, “but the gardens of Valdracia are used to beautiful things born from tragedy. After all, Razinas grow there too.”

His gaze fell back to the bouquet in his hands, and for the first time in the entire conversation, you didn’t know what expression crossed his face.

You looked at him for a long moment, and although your body tensed, you didn’t say a word. Finally, with disdain and a barely audible sigh, you took the flowers and set them on the bed, in a gesture that made your disinterest clear. His presence was unwelcome, but what bothered you even more was that slight smile on his lips, as if he enjoyed your resistance.

“Shall we go, Sir Casterly?” he asked, his voice warm but with a palpable tension that he could barely hide.

His gaze continued to roam the room, though he knew he wasn’t looking for details on the walls. He was watching you, waiting for the silence to force you to respond.

“I’m still in my nightgown.”

George’s laugh was low, almost mocking, but there was something in his tone that threw you off.

“It doesn’t matter, much better,” he said with that unshakeable confidence that usually irritated you.

A slight flush crept up your neck, and you couldn’t help but look at him sternly, though George’s face remained impassive, clearly enjoying the discomfort he had caused.

“Much better?” you asked, with a tone that bordered on acidic, but you couldn’t deny that the idea of going out in your nightgown, under his gaze, made you feel a strange mix of anger and something harder to identify.

George didn’t seem bothered by your response. On the contrary, his smile grew a little wider, as if what he had said had achieved its goal.

He stepped closer to you, his eyes shining under the dim light of the hallway lamps. Without a word, he took your hands gently, as if they were glass, and that gesture was enough for a shiver to run down your spine. There was an obvious contrast between his hands and yours. Yours, hardened by years of combat and sacrifice, were calloused, marked by the scars of the battles you had fought. Each finger was adorned with bruises, each line of your skin told stories of struggle. His, on the other hand, were soft, fine, without marks of pain or effort. They had been shielded from the same fate as yours.

Yet George didn’t seem to notice the difference. He looked at your hands with a smile full of something you couldn’t identify, before gently leaning down to kiss them, with a softness that was almost inaudible, as if he didn’t want to break the magic of the moment. "They're perfect," he whispered, a statement that made you feel uncomfortable, yet something in your chest tightened at the same time.

He gently tugged you along, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And although your mind screamed that this was a mistake, that you shouldn't let yourself be swept away, your steps led you outside the barrack, right beside him. The warm darkness of the night enveloped the castle, and the echo of your boots resonated against the cobblestones.

The city of Valdracia seemed to be asleep, but the air in the garden brought with it a light breeze that rustled the leaves of the trees. As you walked together along the lantern-lit pathways, your eyes were drawn to the portraits of the Seven, the imposing statues that adorned the castle grounds. They were the figures of gods, but you saw something more in them. Those stone-carved figures, those faces you had once revered fervently, now appeared colder than ever. It was as if the promises of the gods could no longer save you from your fate.

The night breeze caressed the garden softly, wrapping both of you in its chilly embrace. You moved toward the center of the garden, where, on a stone pedestal, stood the imposing Statue of the Seven. The sculpture, carved with an inhuman perfection, depicted the monarchs of each of the Seven Kingdoms, their eternal forms and fixed gazes looking toward the horizon, as if they could foresee the fate of those who passed before them. The figures, despite their great beauty, showed the wear of time, with cracks beginning to mar the stone, as if the years had left their mark, yet their power remained unyielding.

George stopped in front of the statue, observing it with an expression that could not conceal his bewilderment. The figure of an elderly monarch, with a crown that seemed more a burden than a symbol of power, dominated the center. "I don’t understand," he began, his tone contemplative, almost mocking. "Why do so many people hold these kings in such devotion? They are just... very old people, some almost dead, others already buried in their graves, aren't they?"

The question escaped his lips with a lack of understanding that bordered on insensitivity, and the way he posed it, casual and devoid of any reverence, ignited a fire in your chest. The Statue of the Seven was more than just a monument to you; it was a symbol of rebirth, of unity, of what had been made possible after the wars, the struggles, and the losses that the Kingdoms had endured. What you saw in those figures was not merely the passage of time, but the hope that even in decay and death, the land could rise again, that the people could rebuild.

Your gaze hardened, and for a moment, your fingers clenched against the edges of your cloak as if trying to contain the anger that surged within you.

"What you don’t understand," you began, your voice low but firm, "is that those kings, those men and women you see here, represent something greater than just their years of life. They are symbols of what the Seven Kingdoms were able to build after devastation. Yes, some died in their old age, but their vision, their sacrifice, their struggle, has not vanished. They are the pillars upon which we stand now. Their devotion is not merely a matter of revering their bodies, but honoring the legacy they left behind."

George looked at the statue, puzzled by the intensity of your words, not fully grasping the fervor behind them. His face showed a mix of interest and a hint of amusement, as if he were trying to understand the blind loyalty people felt for those kings of bygone eras.

"So, you believe that devotion to the dead is... necessary?" he asked with a slight smile, as if testing your limits.

"Yes," you replied with a vehemence you hadn’t anticipated from yourself. "It is necessary. What you see as 'the dead' are the foundations of our destinies. They forged the unity of the kingdoms, created the peace that allows us to live in these castles, fight our battles, and sit in these gardens. Without them, there would be no rebirth. There would be no hope of moving forward."

Silence filled the space between you, but you did not step away from the statue. Its empty eyes seemed to look at you, not at George. It felt as if, in its silence, it understood you better than any spoken word ever could.

"Perhaps what you don’t understand," you continued, your eyes fixed on the stone, "is that not everything in this world can be measured by a person's age or their physical presence. People like the Seven Kingdoms... they are ideals, dreams of what we can become when we stop fighting among ourselves and unite our strengths. And although those kings are no longer alive, their influence does not die. It never does."

George watched you for a moment longer, and although his smile remained light, there seemed to be something in his gaze that, for the first time, was not mocking. Instead of responding immediately, he took a step closer, his eyes tracing the lines and details of the statue as if he were trying, in some way, to understand what you had just expressed.

With surprising delicacy, George guided you to a stone bench located right in front of the Statue of the Seven. The night air felt cool, and the crunch of leaves beneath your boots resonated softly in the stillness of the garden as you sat down. He followed suit, taking a seat beside you, and for a moment, the silence between you was only interrupted by the whisper of the wind.

Even with the gentleness with which he had touched your hands, there was something in the tension of his posture that made it clear he was not willing to remain silent for long. Finally, his voice, soft yet inquisitive, broke the calm.

"Why do you hate me so much, Ser Casterly?" he asked with a slight smile, but his eyes, fixed on you, reflected genuine curiosity.

You turned to him, your face still marked by the discomfort his words provoked. His questions always seemed to carry an irreverence that you couldn't overlook. However, you decided not to evade the answer this time. You were too tired of doing so.

"Why do I hate you?" you repeated, almost with a sigh, as if uttering it aloud gave the answer more weight. "It’s complicated, George. I have my reasons. But there are so many that it would be a waste of time to list them all."

George leaned back slightly, not breaking eye contact. His laughter, soft yet sincere, emerged with a teasing tone. "I suppose you have many reasons then," he said, with a spark of amusement in his eyes. "But I, for my part, do not hate you, Ser Casterly."

You turned slightly, surprised by the serenity of his declaration. "Really?" you asked, with a mix of skepticism and a hint of disdain. "Do you not hate the woman who has ignored and rejected you at every turn?"

George shrugged, his smile widening, almost a challenge. "No, in fact... I admire you." His tone was firm, as if he spoke with certainty. "There’s something about you that captivates me, Ser Casterly. That determination, that strength you always carry with you. You have impressed me since the moment we met."

For a brief instant, your lips parted as if you were about to say something, but the surprise held you back. "Admire me, huh?" you murmured with a tone of disbelief, but without irritation. "It’s curious... because that doesn’t change anything."

"What do you mean?" George leaned his head, observing you with attention. "Do you think that my admiration changes who I am or what I do? I wouldn’t, but the truth is, I see no reason why someone like me shouldn’t court someone like you."

You shook your head, your eyes fixed on the garden before you, but no longer looking at the statue. Your thoughts seemed darker, as if the shadows surrounding the Statue of the Seven reflected the reality you saw in the world.

"It doesn’t matter how much you admire me, George," you said with a coldness that left no room for doubt. "It’s not wise for a prince to court a mere knight, even if you don’t see it that way. You are a prince, of royal blood, the future of Castamar. And I... I am just a guardian, destined to protect the king until the day I become cannon fodder. The moment the king dies or Castamar is defeated, I will be nothing more than that, flesh for the sacrifice of some other kingdom, or of our own allies. The life of someone like me holds no value when war and death loom."

Your voice cracked only slightly at the end, but your gaze remained firm, as if resisting the idea that anyone could see you as vulnerable. The wind blew gently, rustling some branches around, as if nature itself were a witness to what you had just said.

George did not respond immediately. The silence between you extended, heavy, dense. He seemed to be processing what you had said, perhaps for the first time looking beyond the nobility that surrounded him, understanding, albeit belatedly, the lives of those who served, sacrificing themselves without receiving glory or recognition.

Finally, in a low, almost whispered voice, he said, "I don’t want you to become cannon fodder. I want you to know that, although I don’t share your view of life, I believe there is something you could achieve beyond this war. You are not just a knight... You are a woman with courage, and perhaps, just perhaps, you could see beyond what you are meant to be."

Your eyes met his for a long moment, and for the first time that night, perhaps for a fleeting second, you wondered if he, deep down, could understand something of what you had just told him. But reality returned swiftly, like a sharp blow. The difference between his world and yours could not vanish with a simple exchange of words.

"It doesn’t matter what you say, George," you replied, turning back to face forward, "you have no idea what that means."

The sky was clear, and the stars, like distant beacons, twinkled softly above them. The night air seemed suspended in time, while the garden of Valdracia, with its long, silent shadows, stretched around. The stillness of the night made even the whispers of the trees sound muted, as if the whole world were watching the two lonely figures beneath the starry mantle.

George remained by your side, and although at first he seemed uncomfortable with the silence, gradually, his presence became more reassuring, like a familiar shadow. Finally, without warning, his hand gently rested on yours. It was an unexpected gesture, yet at the same time, it felt like a natural extension of what had begun between you that night. Without saying a word, joining in that contact seemed the only possible path in that moment.

Your heart raced for a moment, and your mind wanted to rebel, but something in his touch made you pause. George, without taking his gaze off the sky, slowly leaned his head until it rested softly on your shoulder, as if he were seeking comfort or understanding from you in some way.

"For me," he said softly, filled with a sincerity that sought neither applause nor boastfulness, "you are not just a knight."

You tensed for a second, but he continued without withdrawing.

"You are not just the guardian of the king, nor the soldier who faces battles with a strong heart," he continued. "To me, Ser Casterly, you are the most beautiful and courageous knight I have ever known in my life. I truly believe that. My parents... your parents should feel incredibly proud to have you as their daughter."

His words were slow, yet laden with a warmth that you could not ignore. His closeness, his whisper made the air thick, almost suffocating, but not from discomfort, rather from something deeper that seemed to bloom between you, a feeling neither he nor you dared to name.

A tear, treacherous, slipped slowly down your cheek, barely perceptible but enough for him to notice. You did not wipe it away, as somehow you felt it deserved to fall. The weight of his words, so unexpected and so different from everything you had heard before, stirred something in you that you thought had long been buried.

"Thank you," you murmured, unable to help it, your voice trembling, almost choked. "I hope that is true."

The shadow of the Statue of the Seven watched over you in silence, as immutable as ever, while the stars continued their dance in the sky. George did not speak further. In that moment, all that remained in the air was the softness of his presence, the warmth of his words, and the gentle brush of his face against your shoulder.

And for an instant, the outside world faded away. There were no kingdoms, no struggles, no bloodshed. There were just the two of you, beneath the stars, sharing a silence that spoke more than any words could.

The prince, though so distant in his lineage, seemed suddenly so close, so real, so... human, in comparison to the coldness of his position. And you, despite the scars of war, despite your life marked by sword and duty, were not merely what the world thought you were. Not in that moment. In that instant, you were just two souls in the vastness of the night, searching for something that lay beyond everyone else's expectations.

────── 🦋 ──────

The sun, which had once seemed warm and promising, now fell upon the scene with an unrelenting harshness. The murmurs around you seemed to resonate like distant echoes, distorted by the fog of anguish that had taken hold of you. Silent tears fell, heavy but without sound, rolling down your cheeks as though the pain accompanying them was too deep to express aloud. You couldn’t stop staring at the bodies—those who had once been close friends, comrades in battle, and now were nothing but cold corpses, their humanity ripped away by the cruelty of fate.

George, seeing you there, unable to hold back, approached and enveloped you in his arms with a strength only someone who cares deeply can have. He held you with such intensity that, for a brief moment, it seemed like he could stop the pain that consumed you. His hands moved gently across your back, trying to offer comfort, but all he could do was hold you as he felt his heart break with every stifled sob you tried to suppress.

"You’re not alone, Casterly," he whispered in your ear, his voice deep and gentle at the same time. Then, with tenderness, he kissed your cheek, leaving a warm kiss on the skin that pulsed from the tension. A gesture of affection that didn’t ease the weight of the tragedy, but in that moment, it was all he could offer.

You trembled, not just from the morning cold, but from the emotional blow that had shaken you to your core. Your mind struggled to process what had happened. It was as if everything were happening in slow motion, like the pieces of the puzzle were crumbling before you and you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

With a broken voice, you murmured, almost without realizing it:

"I’ve never failed... I was always alert... how could this happen?"

The words hung in the air, empty of hope. You couldn’t understand how the tragedy had reached you. In all those years of struggle, sacrifice, and preparation, you had never imagined an end like this. You had always believed that constant vigilance, the strength of your spirit, and your loyalty to your kingdom would protect you from any misfortune. But in this moment, you were being shattered by the weight of the truth: none of that had saved you.

George held you tighter, as if his body could offer you some comfort in the midst of the storm. His face was close to yours, his warm breath against your neck. Despite the pain he felt, he knew his words had to be as firm as possible.

"What happened isn’t your fault," he said, with a deep sincerity. Though he couldn’t erase what had happened, he wanted you to know that you didn’t have to carry the blame. It wasn’t fair, nor realistic, to bear that weight.

You didn’t respond, but your body relaxed slightly, as if his words were a rope to hold onto, even if you couldn’t fully understand them.

In that moment, he gently pulled away from the embrace, guiding you through the garden. Every step you took felt heavier than the last, but George never let you go. He looked at you with an expression full of compassion, but also with a quiet determination.

"Come on, Casterly," he said, almost gently. "You can’t stay here. There’s a future we still have to face, and no matter how hard it is now, you’re still the knight you’ve always been. Don’t let this destroy you."

You didn’t say anything, but you kept walking, your mind still trapped in the horror of what you had seen, of the loss you felt deep within you. However, the fact that George was by your side, in some way, gave you a small breath of relief. At least, for a moment, you weren’t alone.

As you both walked through the garden, the first rays of sunlight illuminated the figures of the trees, making the shadows stretch toward you like spectral fingers. The air felt heavy, filled with palpable pain, as if nature itself mourned what had just occurred. But you didn’t want to look back. You couldn’t. The only option was to keep moving forward, even though you didn’t know where this uncertain future would take you.

"Will you stay with me?" you suddenly asked, your voice broken but determined, as you walked together, your steps resonating on the ground covered with dry leaves.

George looked at you and, with a faint smile that didn’t hide the pain in his eyes, replied:

"Always."

The embrace between you lasted longer than either of you had expected, a silent comfort that seemed to stop time for a moment. George held you with a soft but persistent strength, as if he wanted to protect you from everything that had happened, even though he knew he couldn’t. The air was thick with anguish, and the weight of the pain on your shoulders was palpable. You, with your head resting on his chest, could feel his heart beating fast and hard, as if, in that embrace, you could find some semblance of calm, even if it was momentary. Your breathing, initially erratic, slowly softened.

Yet, the sadness still weighed on you, a cruel reminder of the tragedy that had unfolded. It was he who broke the silence, his voice deep and firm, but also laced with a strange concern that you hadn’t expected to hear.

"There must be an assassin among us... or maybe someone from another kingdom is sending assassins to eliminate the royal family," he said, the tension clear in his words. His gaze was fixed on some distant point, as if he were searching for an answer in the air. Though he didn’t have any concrete suspicions about who might be responsible, the certainty that something was happening left no room for doubt in his mind.

"It’s likely we’re being attacked by other kingdoms... Maybe this isn’t an isolated incident."

You looked up at him, your face marked with concern, but also with a determination that hadn’t been there before. Your eyes, red from crying, still held that spark of fire that had always been yours. You weren’t going to give up, no matter what happened.

"I'll be more vigilant from now on," you reply, your voice firm, though still trembling. You've learned over time to be alert, to detect any sign of danger, but things are never that simple when the enemy hides in the shadows, within your own home. George looks at you with a mix of sadness and gratitude, but his expression is serious, as if he understands that the situation has changed irrevocably.

"It won't be enough, Casterly," he says in a soft, almost desolate tone. "You can't do it all alone. This is bigger than you think. We need to act, and not just you. The whole kingdom is in danger."

You watch him for a moment, feeling the weight of his words sink in. There’s something in his tone that leaves no room for doubt. It’s not just an assassin, nor even an isolated betrayal; it’s something much bigger, a conspiracy stretching across every corner of the kingdom and beyond. Enemy kingdoms could be conspiring together to bring down the royal family, and in the process, you would be the first to be dragged down. The thought chills you, but also makes you more resolute. No matter how many enemies are lurking in the shadows, you won’t let your people fall without a fight.

"So, what are we going to do?" you ask, your voice now harder, more determined.

George looks you directly in the eyes, not breaking his gaze for a second. His words are a promise, a plea, but also a warning.

"Whatever it takes. And we’ll do it together."

The silence that follows is heavy, as if the universe itself is waiting for the decision you just made. There’s no turning back. Both of you know that the path ahead will be long and dangerous, but you also know that the fight for the kingdom, for your family, and for your very life, is about to begin.

You nod slowly, your heart beating fast. Though the shadow of tragedy still follows you, you feel a spark of determination growing within you. The battle for your kingdom has just begun.

The silence that follows your words grows even heavier. George, as if aware of the tension that has grown between you, lets out an enigmatic smile, one that contrasts with the weight of what he just said. The smile is neither comforting nor sorrowful, but one that reflects deep, almost malicious interest.

"Now I’m the heir to the throne," he says with unsettling calm, as if the words are just a simple fact of life. His gaze rests on you, almost challenging you.

"And most likely, they’ll let me court you now, don’t you think?"

You stare at him, as if you've just woken up from a horrendous nightmare. His words make you feel a deep rage, a burn that spreads throughout your entire being. How can he be talking about courting you in the midst of such tragedy? Your brother has brutally died, and he, the man who just lost his greatest rival for the throne, seems to find comfort in the possibility of courting you. You can’t believe what you're hearing.

"Are you serious, George? Are you thinking about that now?" your voice breaks, but the fury you feel is evident. "Your brother just died. He was literally just murdered. And here you are, the only thing you can think about is what they’ve allowed you to do."

George watches you without losing his smile, as if your words are nothing more than a step in the inevitable power game he's trapped in.

"It’s true, his brother has died. But, who was dictating the law until now?" His tone softens, as if explaining a fundamental truth of life. "The king, and now, thanks to his departure, I’m the one in control. So, as the heir to the throne, I have the right to decide who can be by my side. And honestly, I’d like it to be you."

The blood in your veins boils at hearing those words, but you can’t help but feel a strange revulsion, a mixture of disgust and pity. It’s as if your brother’s death had been nothing more than just another piece in a game he has already won. A piece that opens the door to what he truly wants: to have you, as if you were a trophy, another step toward his ambition.

"Don’t forget that I’m still a knight, George. And you... you’re just a prince," you reply with a voice full of disdain, trying to regain control over your own emotions. But the truth is, you feel like you’re fighting against a tide that drags you along, a power play where it no longer matters who has died and who has survived.

George doesn’t respond immediately. He just moves closer to you, his face reflecting an unwavering satisfaction, as if nothing could change his fate. With one hand, he gently lifts your face, his fingers touching the soft curve of your cheek.

"Now, dear Casterly," he whispers, his warm breath brushing against your skin, "I’m the heir to the throne. And my word is law."

You fall silent, a mix of disbelief and fury building in your chest. There’s no doubt in George’s gaze, nor in his voice. He believes that, as the heir to the throne, everything he wants will be within his reach. And you... you can do nothing but listen as your fate, now in the hands of that man, turns into a nightmare.

He smiles again, this time with no trace of doubt.

"So, I ask that you consider what I’m offering you. Power is at my feet now. Don’t you think what binds us is greater than anything else?"

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to suppress the wave of emotions that overwhelm you. How did it all get this far? How could the death of one man have become another’s opportunity to take what he wanted? The reality was clear. Your brother’s death, and George’s rise to power, meant that you, as always, were nothing more than a pawn in the kings and princes' chess game. And worst of all, your life, your future, now also depended on the will of the man who looked at you with a smile on his lips, seeing you not as an honorable knight, but as just an opportunity to further solidify his power.

You take a step back, the sharp pain in your chest reflected in every movement you make.

"And if my loyalty isn’t in your hands, George... what will you do?" you ask, your voice dark, almost defiant.

George looks at you intently, the smile never leaving his face. He knows that everything now depends on him, that the final word is his. And he doesn’t plan to let you go so easily.

"You can ask those three"

Note ───── There was a moment when euphoria hit me so intensely that, in less than three hours, I had already created an entire universe. It was a burst of creativity that, while satisfying, I feel ended up being a bit shorter than what I usually do. As always, I tend to expand ideas much more, but this time I kept it more concise. However, even though the result was a bit brief, I sincerely hope you enjoyed this first original piece from me.

As for the character of George, I have to say that my friend was really fond of him. I'm glad to know he made a good impression, although personally, I feel like his interactions were too limited. Maybe I didn’t delve enough into his development or his dynamics with other characters. I’m not sure if you felt the same way, but it’s something I’d like to know. Despite my own doubts, I hope the overall idea was still enjoyable.

As always, any feedback or suggestions are more than welcome. Don’t hesitate to message me whenever you want to share your thoughts or discuss any aspect.

[metanarrates]

ugh anthy is so good. nearly every single other story I've seen about a Mysterious and Tragic teenage girl has failed in some way either because the writer forgot to give the character complexity and an internal life, or because the tragic things in her life were far too aestheticized to have real teeth. anthy succeeds as a character largely because the whole story is dedicated to deconstructing an aestheticized view of her & her suffering, and also showing how that aestheticized view dehumanizes her and denies her agency. she is not a harmless victim or a beautifully agonized one - she is a teenage girl who is reacting in realistic, complex ways to a lifetime of crushing systemic abuses. and similarly, every teenage girl around her is also reacting in complex ways to their own suffering under patriarchy.

depiction of sad teenage girls often posit their pain as a natural phenomenon, something that is just intrinsic to girlhood. adding a layer of mystique onto them just further serves to obfuscate the sources of teen girl suffering. instead, teenage girl pain becomes palatable. consumable, even. #aesthetic. these depictions are unthreatening because, by their nature, they cannot depict societal issues in a way that would demand a restructuring of society. we can posit a familial tragedy but not a tragedy of the family structure. we can lament a beautifully mentally ill sufferer but not the systems of wellness and community that failed her. et cetera. nothing can ever hold up an uncomfortable mirror, only a flattering one.

revolutionary girl utena directly says that that idea is bullshit and that its teenage girls are suffering as a direct result of entrenched systematic oppression. and in that uncomfortable honesty, it's able to be WAY more authentically hopeful with its sad teenage girls. anthy is able to finally walk out of the society that trapped her and live freely of the image that was constructed around her! she can be a flawed human girl who is still going to be happy with her girlfriend! her victimhood is not eternal and does not mean she can never find happiness! A TEEN GIRL DOES NOT HAVE TO STAY IN A COFFIN IN ORDER TO DESERVE COMPASSION!!!!

[maidflowery]

Good Night, Sweet Dream

Jiaoqiu x Reader

You have a bad dream and Jiaoqiu is there for you. But at what cost?

Prequel: Pinky Promise

You had a dream.

Or more precisely, a nightmare.

In that dream, you saw your Foxian boyfriend being led away in chains, about to be taken somewhere you didn't know.

"...!"

You tried to scream his name, but no voice would come out.

The coral pink-haired, fox-eared man continued to walk, looking straight ahead.

The fear of losing him came crashing down on you.

You tried to rush after him, your mouth wide agape, letting out soundless screams.

But for some reason, the more you ran, the farther he became. A vast distance spread between the two of you like the ocean, threatening to separate you forever.

Before long, you could feel something hot trickling down your cheeks.

Huh?

But then, the scenery changed completely.

All of the sudden, you found yourself in a lush meadow. Something pink and fluffy were running around. Foxes. Extremely cute foxes.

Like a child, your sorrow went forgotten as you went to chase one of the pink foxes.

Where is it going? Also, what is this delicious smell...?

Lucky you, the fox led you to an opening, where something unexpected appeared.

A giant meat bun!

That was right. A huge, white meat bun towered in front of you. Its silky smooth and fluffy surface had a vibrant pink hue to it.

You sniffed the air. Yes, this was where the yummy smell came from! There was no mistaking it!

It was a pork curry meat bun! The same dish your dear Foxian boyfriend had served you for dinner tonight!

You began salivating, your stomach growling in tandem.

Time to dig in!

You jumped at the meat bun, nibbling and chewing on its surface. However...

"Damn! Why is it so tough!?"

Despite looking so soft, the meat bun turned out to be chewy. Or maybe you should search for a softer spot, as illogical as it sounded. Well, it was a dream, anyway.

Thus, you moved your mouth somewhere else, only to be met with retaliation. Yes, the pink meat bun started jiggling and bouncing, pushing you away.

"What!? Wait!! My pork curry meat bun!!"

Having gone feral, you leaped at the retreating meat bun and chomped on it!

However, instead of a rich, spicy curry, something foreign entered your mouth... Something like, fur...?

"Huh!? Blergh! Cough, cough! Gross!"

Your eyes darted open. The familiar ceiling of your room greeted your sight.

...What a weird dream.

"How rude."

Before you could ruminate on the meaning behind such a cryptid dream, a silvery voice entered your ears. Unlike his usual gentle tone, his voice sounded sulky.

You tensed up. You had a bad feeling about this. Also, since when did he come home?

Slowly, you turned to look at the owner of the voice.

The moment you saw him, your jaw dropped.

Your Foxian boyfriend sat beside you. Actually, rather than sitting, it seemed as if someone had pushed him down into that position.

His sleeping robe was disheveled, its sash lying in a heap nearby, and his sculpted abs were in full display. His sleeves hung on his elbows, revealing his smooth and lean shoulders.

Moonlight streaming in through the window shone on the red marks that blossomed along his shoulder to his neck. And even his ear.

To put it simply, your boyfriend seemed to have been pounced on. And you had an inkling as to whom the culprit was. Besides, there were only the two of you in that room.

"Ha-haha... Hey there, Jiaoqiu. Since when are you home?"

Pathetic, you know.

Your boyfriend glared at you as if he had been wronged.

"Someone seemed to be having a nightmare, so I came to check on her. Absolutely nothing could prepare me for what was about to come..."

Jiaoqiu lamented like someone recounting a tragedy, each word slicing your heart like a knife.

"...Now that you've had your fill, you're just going to push me away? Humans are so fickle..."

As he stared at you in accusation, your boyfriend, whose beauty even surpassed that of a woman, seemed about to cry.

"J-Jiaoqiu, I didn't mean to... I'm really sorry, did I hurt you?"

You tried to soothe him. When you reached toward him, to your surprise, he leaned in.

Instead of answering you, your boyfriend asked you, golden eyes sparkling in yearning.

"Then, you won't push me away?"

Instead of answering him, you wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him to you. Jiaoqiu surrendered himself to your embrace. The mattress sank as he slowly fell on top of you. Now that the two of you had settled in nicely, it was time to sleep.

Your Foxian boyfriend tended to get lonely. Although he didn't show it, he loved touching and being touched by you.

As he buried his face on your chest, you stroked his coral pink hair. His ear twitched as you gently caressed it.

"...But, Jiaoqiu."

"Hm?" He responded, his voice muffled.

"Your sash was way too tidy for it to have been removed by force. Stage a better accident next time. Or better yet, just tell me if you want to sleep together."

You could feel your boyfriend's lips curving into a smirk against your belly.

He lazily raised his head. A pair of golden eyes bore into yours, gleaming with schemes and intrigues.

"You caught me."

Sequel:

The Gratitude of a Fox

[padawan-historian]

If you are talking about the human tragedy and climate disaster impacting Hawai’i ONLY in relation to tourism or your (postponed) vacation plans . . . therein lies the problem.

Hawai'i is not an "eat, pray, love" trip nor is she a cultural theme park.

Hawai’i is a collection of communities with deep indigenous roots and ancestral identities (many queer + colorful) that American + European colonizers once attempted to eradicate.

In the present day, empire-builders and colorblind colonizers are attempting to gentrify and commodify these ancestral spaces, not to benefit the indigenous, diaspora, and immigrant folks (folx) who steward and preserve those waterways and lands, but to protect the interests and properties of billionaires on vacation

Afronaut Note: This is not a discussion about policing language or shaming folks in your neighborhood who are sharing vacation pictures or lamenting their travel plans. This is about expanding our horizons to center decolonized, ancestral, and communal spaces. Imagine if after the Japanese tsunami (2011) or Hurricane Katrina (2005), people shared vacation pictures and complained about having to cancel their graduation trips.

Original post from @seedingsovereignty

——

"Our culture has to be the core of our mana." Dr. Haunani-Kay Trask (1949 – 2021)⁠

A leader of the Hawaiian sovereignty movement & a fearless leader.⁠

Her memory is needed during these times. ⁠

Support the People of Hawai’i

[oddyseye]

EPIC is an absolute banger. The music? Gorgeous. The emotion? Raw. Jorge’s talent? Undeniable. The way Calypso is written? Tone-deaf, frustrating, and honestly pretty gross.

In Homer’s Odyssey, Calypso is not some sad, lonely girl with a “childlike mind” who just loves too much. She’s a vindictive, manipulative immortal who traps a traumatized war veteran on her island for seven years and forces herself on him. That’s not a tragic romance — that’s abuse. She’s not some misunderstood girlboss crying about unrequited love; she’s a literal predator. The Gods had to order her to let Odysseus go. And even then? She didn’t make it easy. She handed him an axe and made him build a raft himself. As if this 40-something-year-old man who’s spent a decade at war and has lost everything needed one more chore. She wasn’t helping him. She was making him earn the privilege of escaping her.

There is no ambiguity to her actions and Homer himself never once tries to justify her.

But in EPIC, we’re suddenly supposed to feel sorry for her. “Love in Paradise” paints her obsession as some dreamy, lovesick devotion. And it is creepy.

The problem is, this version of Calypso erases the reality of what she did. Jorge turns her from a vindictive, manipulative abuser into a sad, lonely girl we’re supposed to sympathize with. That’s not fair to Odysseus, and it’s not fair to male survivors of abuse. Men’s trauma is rarely acknowledged as it is, and here was an opportunity to tell that story honestly — and it got romanticized instead.

Calypso apologizes for “coming on too strong,” as if her actions were an innocent misunderstanding. No. She didn’t just “push too hard” — she abused a broken man for her own selfish loneliness. The song treats her confession as tragic, culminating in her frustration: “Why in the world won’t you love me too?” But that frustration isn’t justified. It’s manipulative, as if Odysseus owes her love because she’s sad and lonely. It’s a narrative that too often gets applied to real-life victims of abuse: “Can’t you see how much I care about you? Can’t you just love me back?” Framing her desperation as sympathetic only romanticizes her cruelty. The issue? These words are carefully chosen to minimize her abuse. She reduces seven years of captivity to “coming on too strong,” as if her actions were an awkward overstep rather than a violent stripping of autonomy. The word “ambushed” is especially insidious — she uses it casually, almost like a joke, to hand-wave away the depth of her cruelty. The framing makes it sound as if Odysseus simply rejected her too harshly, as though her love was just “too much for him”.

Her final plea in the song: “Why in the world won’t you love me too?” …is the most manipulative moment of all.

The focus shifts entirely onto her suffering, centering her loneliness as the true tragedy instead of Odysseus’ years of despair. Her pain becomes the emotional core of the scene, while Odysseus — whose trauma, grief, and loss should be front and center — fades into the background. Calypso’s selfish lament distracts from the reality: she was never a victim. She was a predator who exploited a broken man to soothe her isolation.

It’s even more frustrating when you think about how Calypso is treated versus other female characters in the musical. Penelope gets a whole invented storyline about threats of sexual violence from the suitors — something that wasn’t in Homer’s original text — while Calypso’s literal abuse of Odysseus gets downplayed into sad girl hours. Make that make sense.

Calypso didn’t need redemption, and she didn’t need a ballad. She needed to be called what she is: a captor who preyed on a broken man.

And before ANY of you BRAINDEAD defenders come at me with the “B-but Calypso didn’t force herself onto Odysseus! This is a retelling that removed that part!”—no. You’re wrong. The lyrics in "Love in Paradise" and "Not Sorry for Loving You" make it abundantly clear that Calypso’s actions are still coercive and controlling, even if the story doesn’t explicitly spell it out.

“Soon, into bed we’ll climb and spend our time”. What exactly do you think she means by that? Odysseus outright says no — “Hell no, I could kill you where you stand! I’m no pet, I’m a married man!” — and her response isn’t to respect his boundaries but to smirk at his helplessness. She laughs off his threat of violence because “last I checked, goddesses can’t die”. Calypso knows Odysseus can’t fight her, can’t escape her.

She doesn’t care about what Odysseus is going through. She only cares about keeping him there.

Odysseus says no — explicitly, violently — but it doesn’t matter. She’s already decided how this story goes.

“So if I pushed you, Or if I came on too strong, Or if I ambushed you, For that, I’ll say I was wrong.”

Let’s focus on “ambushed you.” She’s admitting it. She’s admitting she forced something onto Odysseus he didn’t consent to — she just downplays it. Instead of accountability, she turns herself into the victim with: “I’m not sorry for loving you.”

This isn’t remorse. It’s manipulative. She’s telling Odysseus that her feelings justify her actions, as if the way she loves him matters more than the pain she’s caused. And then she twists the knife further:

“Why in the world won’t you love me too?”

This is emotional guilt-tripping. Calypso has kept Odysseus trapped for seven years, ignoring his grief, his trauma, his screaming memories of war and loss. Yet when he rejects her, she makes him the cruel one for not returning her love.

I actually really liked Calypso in The Odyssey because it didn’t sugarcoat her actions. The Odyssey shows that women can be just as awful as men. Coercion, abuse, manipulation, it’s all there. And it’s important to acknowledge that men can be victims of these things too. That’s real, it’s gritty, and it doesn’t shy away from difficult truths. What I loved about it is that it made me think. It wasn’t all about idealizing characters, it was about understanding that people, both men and women, can be flawed and capable of harm.

But then Epic came along and ruined her. They took the edge off her character, made her into this sad, lovesick nymph who just wants to be loved by Odysseus, and completely erased the fact that she’s an abuser. And that’s what frustrates me. Epic fans seem to ignore that critical part of the story. It’s frustrating as hell to see so many people romanticize this version of Calypso without any awareness of the actual harm she caused. Sure, if you haven’t read The Odyssey, maybe you won’t get it, and I get that. But the rest of you? You’ve had the chance to see the truth and still choose to ignore it because it’s more comfortable. You’re not interested in critical thinking or nuance, so congrats for missing the whole point of the original myth.

If you’re going to turn Calypso into something she wasn’t, at least admit that you’re not trying to tell an honest story anymore. Just be honest about the fact that you don’t care about male victims, or your own intelligence for that matter.

[thenameswinterfics]

CAOINEADH

Fandom: The Last Kingdom Pairing: Sihtric Kjartansson x Banshee!Reader Settings: Season 2, brief mention of moments from S3 to SKMD Summary: While wandering outside Dunholm with his mother, Sihtric is visited by a creature whose presence brings terrible news to his family. Years later, the Banshee returns to the mortal lands and Sihtric, now grown up and in the service of Uhtred, faces the consequences of a bad omen. But the tragedy also brings them closer together. Word Count: 5,2 K Warnings: Angst, mention of blood, mention of death, mention of main character death(s), human/monster romance, hopeful ending? , me writing Finan's Irish accent. A/N: After a long time, I'm back to writing for my favourite Dane rat boy. I'd somehow forgotten how much I loved and enjoyed writing for him, especially after a period of putting him aside for a while. This feels like I'm republishing a fic of his for the very first time, so I'm terribly nervous. I hope you like and enjoy it. If you find the ending a bit rushed, I'm sorry. I finished it while it was late at night in my timezone, and everything will be fixed eventually when I'm awake and more aware of my actions. Many thanks to @foxyanon , @legitalicat and @zaldritzosrose for helping me with the Banshee lore, for writing Finan's accent, for the emotional support, for the beta reading and last minute corrections, and to @sylasthegrim for the early beta reading and emotional support as well.

This fic is my entry and first submission to the Fan-Frankentober event, organized by @fandomeventcenter. Here the masterlist to take a look at the other works.

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. I APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR MY GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY MISTAKES.

Header by me (template by @zaldritzosrose) Dividers by me and @zaldritzosrose

READ IT ON AO3 (COMING SOON)

Caoineadh: Irish and Scottish Gaelic pronunciation of "keening" (to cry, to weep); traditional form of the vocal lament for the dead in the Gaelic tradition.

By the time Sihtric stopped running, he had no more memory of the place he was in.

His hands, clenched into small fists, rubbed his tired eyes as he tried to scan the surroundings, looking for any detail that might help him orientate himself in the unknown space. He could not recognize the long tree trunks rising from the ground, their dry branches seeming to touch the twilight sky as he watched the sun's rays filter through the few remaining canopies. 

The place was eerily quiet, the sound of the wind blowing and moving the branches and leaves on the ground the only sound to break the surreal yet disturbing atmosphere. He felt a shiver run down his spine and the little Dane suddenly hugged his shoulder, as if to hide his head between them like a turtle. 

It was one of the few times he and his mother had left the strong walls of Dunholm together, Sihtric enjoying the fresh air of the forest while Elflaed was busy gathering flowers and herbs that he had little interest in. Sometimes his curiosity would get the better of him, his big, mismatched eyes fixed on Elflaed's wooden basket and how many herbs she had managed to gather. When his mother felt his eyes on her, she would patiently stop picking and crouch down beside him, patiently explaining what she was doing as she wrapped his small body around her, only to see her son wriggle out of her embrace soon after and play with small sticks nearby. 

Sihtric was usually a quiet and obedient child: when his mother asked him to stay close to her, he obeyed without a fuss. That day, however, something caught his attention, a heartbreaking wail that filled his ears and shook his heart: it was a gentle but sad song that carried pain and sorrow, hiding a sense of concern and care towards to whom it was addressed. Armed only with a small stick and with curiosity teasing him, Sihtric dared to disobey his mother for the first time, and entered into the woods while leaving his mother behind.

And there he was, lost in an unfamiliar place, with nothing to defend himself but a small stick. He was too young to call himself a warrior, barely able to hold a knife, let alone wield a sword that was too heavy for his tiny hands and a shield properly. Hiding and fleeing was the only option he could take in case of real danger, for he had spent his whole life hiding from the wrath of his cruel father; but the surroundings would make the task impossible, as the tall and twisted trees casted long shadows, and the undergrowth cracked with every step he could take.

Suddenly, the silence of the forest was broken by the same sorrowful chant that dragged him in the deep of the woods. Holding his wooden stick in his hands, Sihtric moved carefully in the direction of the voice, trying not to make noise while the ground cracked beneath his feet. 

The walk was short, and he found himself in front of a small lake he had never seen before. Squatting on the bank was a young lady in a blue gown, her black hair cascading down her shoulders like pitch-black watercourses, giving the little boy her back as she continued to sing her lament. Sihtric could hardly understand what she was doing, her head almost hidden beneath her shoulders, her hands working frantically to move the water in small ripples.

Holding his breath and trying to be as quiet as a mouse, Sihtric crept up behind her, lifting his small head and trying to find the right angle where he could see what she was doing underwater. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, fear and anticipation creeping into his bones as he felt the keening close to him, the chanting drawing him in even if he couldn't understand it. But as he crept closer, something beneath his boots cracked softly, and the sound was enough to make the lady turn and show her face to the boy.

It was the first time he met you. 

Sihtric watched with frightened eyes as your icy blue gaze locked on his and a low hiss escaped your mouth, your pale complexion adorned by scarlet tears rolling down your eyes. Behind you, piles of clothes lay scattered on the grass, others dripping in the water that had lost its transparency and had become muddy with blood. 

The little Dane found the strength to stand up and try to run away, but he soon fell, tripping over a stone behind him. Your ghostly presence, now calmed down after the initial fright, lightly approached him and crouched down. One of your slender hands rested on his cheek, your touch as cold as the death itself. But the words that came out from your lips were way colder, breaking the silence with your voice as soft as the silk but sharp as a piece of glass. 

“She cannot escape to the Other World.”

“She?” “Escape from what?” “What is the Other World she is talking about?” These were the words that filled the boy's mind, filled with nothing but fear and the coldness of your touch. But soon Sihtric's tiny body was enveloped in a familiar warmth, and two arms lifted him from the floor. It was only when warm, trembling lips were pressed to his forehead that he recognised the touch of his mother, who had searched for him after losing sight of him.

“Sihtric!” Elflaed cried while holding her son close to her. “Why were you here all alone? I told you never to leave my side, never! Oh, my sweet boy!” 

The young Dane watched as he silently pointed to the spot where you appeared before him, but a cold realisation hit him as you were no longer there, gone like ashes in the wind.

Sihtric did not answer, too lost in his mother's warmth and love, and the bad omen you gave him still shook him to the core. He clung to her presence, and each time your words echoed in his mind, he sought comfort in his mother's presence, even when they left the forest and the warmth of her small hut welcomed them.

But a few days later, the opening of the Other World shook nature and its creatures. And his mother's soul was claimed after a long agony.

Standing outside Eoferwic, you looked up at the walls that surrounded the town, admiring the mix of Roman, Danish and Saxon architecture that was unfamiliar to you: you were there when the Romans laid the foundation stone on the ground, and the same souls were the first you guided to the Other World, announcing the sad event in the form of a manifestation to the families you watched over. 

And you were called to do your duty again: to find the same boy you met years ago, to tell him that more of his family's souls will be claimed in the days to come. They will not be gentle and innocent like those of his mother and grandparents you guided through the other world: they were violent, reckless, stained with blood’s innocents and sins far from forgotten. But it was up to the god or gods to decide where their souls would go in the afterlife. 

Your pale eyes scanned the area, and when you found a small stream where you could wash the dirty clothes you were carrying, you walked over and dipped your hands into the cold water. You watched as your fingers swirled around the cloth and the water lost its translucency, a faint reddish tinge staining it.

The night was still, and a gentle breeze rustled the trees, lightly caressing your raven locks. You continued to scrub the clothes in the water as your wailing began, your lament filling the air and mingling with the sound of the rushing water as your eyes watered and scarlet tears rolled down your white face. 

As on that night, something soft cracked on the ground and your wailing stopped. You lifted yourself from the ground and turned towards the sound, and soon found yourself crouched beside a young man, probably trying to sneak up on you without attracting attention. 

He was a handsome man, the most beautiful your eternal eyes could ever have seen; his features sharp, his fair skin adorned with a few scars on his forehead, eyebrow and cheekbone, a knotted tattoo crossing part of his head, his dark hair cut at the sides and combed into three plaits and knotted at the back. These were features that were strangely familiar to you, your mind trying to remember when was the last time you saw him. 

But it was his eyes that captured you the most. There was pain, melancholy and innocence in them - the same light you had found in the bicoloured eyes of the little Danish boy you had reached outside Dunholm. You felt a sudden flicker of recognition, your eyes widening slightly as you recognised that lost and frightened boy in the man he had become. The years had moulded him into a skilled warrior, but the softness of his eyes remained unchanged, you noted. 

You chose a cautious approach, slowly closing the distance between you. You noticed his body trembling and his jaw clenching, his muscles not moving from where he was: it was still unclear to you whether he wasn't moving out of fear or anticipation.

“It has been a long time, sweet boy,” you broke the silence, using the same nickname you had heard his mother call him. Sihtric stood frozen, partly enchanted by your ethereal appearance and your voice, as melodious as the birdsong at sunrise.  

His eyebrows furrowed and his expression changed from alienation to curiosity: your figure was too familiar to him, but he could not remember where he had first met you.

 “Do… Do I know you, lady?” the Dane asked, holding his breath as the silent nod of your head answered his question. 

You took a long pause before answering him, "You do, in a way," you said in a soft voice that carried the weight of your grief. You took a step closer, noticing that the Dane was shifting his incongruous gaze slightly away from you, "But I have known you since you were a little boy playing spy in the deep forest.”

One of your hands reached out and rested on his cheek, the cold touch awakening something in Sihtric that he thought he had buried deep in his heart. He remembered your figure knelt near the lake shore, your icy blue gaze that penetrated deep into his soul, the cryptic prophecy you had given him but he was too young to understand.And then he remembers the mother he lost, and how it was one of the last nights they wandered the Dunholm woods together, and how after her death the Dane desperately tried to find you to explain, but you never showed again.

Instinctively, one of his calloused hands reached for yours, shivering at the cold of your pale skin. But he never pulled you away: instead, he leaned against you, finding the softness of your touch endearing.

“I remember your touch,” he murmured shyly, lowering his gaze as it briefly met yours, fascinated by your pale eyes, “It was you, all this time,” he continued, earning your satisfied hum.

“It is your family that forged our bond,” you announced with a solemn tone, absently doing circles on his skin with your thumb, “It was your mother’s souls that bound you to me.”

The mention of his mother made Sihtric snap back to reality, and pain filled again his mismatched eyes, “My mother’s soul?” he repeated in a whisper, a slight trembling could be heard in his voice, “What did you do to her? Why didn’t you save her?” 

His voice broke down when he asked his final question, and the red tears rolled down your cheeks furiously “Why did you take her away from me?” 

“It is not me who willingly chose to wrestle your mother from your arms,” you murmured softly, your other hand resting on his other cheek, cupping his face completely. Your thumbs gently wiped away his tears, and you could hear him draw in a sharp breath. Under the moonlight, you could see a faint blush in his cheeks.

“It is fate that foretells a mortal's permanence in this world and how their entry into the Other World will come about,” you explained carefully, as if you were talking with a child. “It is my duty to show myself to you and to guide you through the painful parts of death. Your pain is my own burning.” 

An uncomfortable silence fell over you, the weight of your words making it almost impossible for you both to speak. Finally, you summoned the courage to speak again, and your next words sent shivers down his spine. 

“The Other World is shaking, more souls from your family should be claimed,” You solemnly stated, and your words brought a sense of uneasiness and confusion in Sihtric. 

“Lady,” The Dane lowered his gaze, his cheeks burning at the sight of you, his body trembling at the surreality of the information he was receiving that night, “I have no family left outside my mother and my grandparents,”

You chuckled softly and shook your head, amused at his naivety, "Even if they neglect you, there are still ties of blood that fate will sever."

Sihtric clenched his jaw, his gaze darkening at the memory of a father who neglected you and looked at you with disgust only because he was guilty of being born a bastard, and of his half-brother who always looked at him with the same disgust for their father. The news of their imminent deaths brought him an unexpected sense of peace, and the chains of his tortured past will be broken forever: but he would fear how their deaths would affect him, when the damage they had done was far from repaired, and the memories of his past would knock furiously at his door, reminding him that no matter how hard he worked to forge his own path, he would forever be marked as a slave.

The Dane was about to open his mouth to reply to your words when a loud, rough voice called him out from a distance. 

“Sihtric! Come back here, yer little runt!” Finan’s voice brought him back to reality, forcing the Dane to shift his gaze and look at him. 

“I am coming, Finan!” Sihtric replied to him as quickly as he could, so that he could face you and ask you about the fate of Kjartan and Sven in death.

But when he turned his eyes again, you were gone. And a sudden emptiness filled his heart and saddened his soul.

Later in the evening, the atmosphere within the walls of Eoferwich was playful and joyful. Warriors gathered around small tables outside, filling their stomachs with food and ale while telling stories of women, successful raids, or simply myths and legends from their homelands. 

Sihtric's mind was elsewhere that night. It was common for the warriors who shared a seat at his table to see the young Dane so shy and taciturn, a pattern they justified from his earlier days as a slave in Dunholm, his eyes darting around while his body tensed at the proximity of the too many people in front of him.

But this time it wasn't the echo of his past that tormented him: it was you, your stunning, ghostly presence and melodious voice had bewitched him and altered all his senses. It was as if he was seeing you for the first time, for he had seen you when he was a little boy, unaware that his world was about to collapse upon him and that he would have to rebuild it all by himself. Now that he was a young man and more aware of his own feelings and the world around him, it felt like a string pulling him towards you, longing for your touch and the way you spoke of destiny and its inexorable flow. And the mystery surrounding your figure made you even more desirable in his eyes, and he often wondered if he was facing a goddess herself.

Sihtric's thoughts about your figure were suddenly interrupted by Finan's speeches about his homeland, Ireland, its customs and its most famous legends. One in particular caught the Dane's attention, and he shifted his gaze from his reflection in the mug to the Irishman.

“I told yer tha these creatures ain’t nothin’ but an omen of death!” Finan spoke with such emphasis, looking at Clapa and the few men at the table listening to him. When he felt Sihtric's gaze resting on him, he continued his story. “Legends say they’ll appear in front of yer, sometimes washing bloodied clothes, and they’ll cryin’ and wailin’ somethin’ terrible tha will hit ya family.”

Sihtric listened intently to Finan's words and felt his hand tremble as he gripped his mug of ale. He felt all the dots connect at once, especially when he saw you washing dirty clothes and singing a mournful chant, your wailing so tearful that it filled the listener's heart with sadness. He also remembered facing you twice and seeing the tears of blood leave your eyes. 

There were no creatures like you in the Norse legends and beliefs, and Sihtric wondered how a creature from a different faith could become the spirit guardian of his family.

“I found a beautiful lady washing a pile of clothes not so far from here,” The Dane murmured against his will and soon the animated atmosphere died down and he shrugged as he felt all eyes on him. His mismatched eyes found the Irishman's brown ones and with a slight nod he silently ordered him to continue.

“She was singing something,” Sihtric continued, his voice faltering slightly as he could feel the intensities of their gaze on him, “It was a lament, something so heartbreaking that it chills the blood in your veins.”

His gaze rested on Finan while he spoke his last words, “She brushed my skin and was cold at the touch. And then she was looking at me with her pale eyes, crying blood-“

“Cryin’ blood, yer said?” the Irishman asked in an urgent tone, and Sihtric nodded his head. Then he reached for the Dane's shoulder and squeezed, but not too hard: Finan knew what the wrong touch could do to a former slave, especially one as young as Sihtric.

“That woman you claimed to have seen before… Did ya know what a Banshee is?” Finan asked Sihtric, and received a shake of head as an answer. The Irishman sighed quietly, and leaned his face close to the Dane. 

“Tha’s the spirit I was talkin’ about before. They’re bound at yer family and they’ll come wailin’ and cryin’ blood while announcin’ the death of yer loved ones. She can be either a gorgeous woman or a vindictive old witch. Tha’s someone ain’t to be trifled with, remember this.”

Sihtric gulped at Finan's description of the Banshee, which was nothing like what you really were. You were so gentle with him, taking care of his pain and not putting the burden of grief on his shoulders. How could such a sweet creature as you be the dangerous spirit that Finan described earlier?

“She treated me with nothing but kindness, Finan,” the Dane replied almost innocently, and the Irishman grinned at his words. 

“Then ya were a lucky bastard!” he retorted in an ironic tone, gently slapping Sihtric’s cheek and returning to his seat. 

The conversations continued with more stories of the Banshees and Irish legends until Uhtred broke the mood by calling for Sihtric, who obediently rose and reached for his Lord. And after preparing the final strategies of war, everyone fell asleep, thinking of the battle they would face at Dunholm and how you would draw the veil of death over their heads.

After a day of celebration, Sihtric found an opportunity to sneak out of Dunholm fortress through the small door in the east wall used by the servants. He followed the small watercourse that flowed into the forest entrance and, armed with his sword and dagger, he walked into the heart of the forest, his movements light as a feather to avoid any upcoming dangers.

Once again, the prophecy you told him about your family proved true, and on the day of the battle both Kjartan and Sven were killed, their souls taken by you and sent to the afterlife. While the event lifted a great weight from Sihtric's shoulders, free at last to forge his own destiny without the cruel shadow of his father tormenting him, he wondered if you knew the difference between your afterlife and his, and if his father's soul did not rest beside Elflaed's. The image of Kjartan distressing his mother even in the afterlife made his heart skip a few beats: he would rather accept slavery under the cruel Lord of Dunholm than see his mother tormented in heaven, having found the peace she never had in life.

Finding you would be the only way for him to be reassured and to have the answers he wanted. But finding you would also mean surrendering to your cold touch, losing himself in your lifeless eyes that stirred emotions he could not believe he was feeling. Finan had warned him to be wary of spirits like you, but you were nothing more than a comforting presence at his side, a guardian who would watch over him even if he could not feel you.

Fortunately, Sihtric found the little spot where he had found the two of you the first time, remembering the details of the foliage and surrounding vegetation. And there you were, sitting near the shore, gazing out at the shimmering water, your presence quiet and not filled with your lamentations. When you appeared, Sihtric noticed how your pale face was cleared by your scarlet tears and held his breath at how even more beautiful you were without crying, the pale rays of the moon caressing your skin.

"You came," you said with a gentle smile as you stood up and approached him.

"I thought I would find you here, lady," Sihtric replied sheepishly, his cheeks turning red as he saw you closing the distance between us. He swore he had never seen such a beautiful creature as you. 

"I realised I never asked what your name was," the Dane continued, but you cut him off with a shake of your head. 

“Names are not important for eternal creatures like us,” you explained while you cupped your cheek in your hand, brushing his skin with your slender fingers, “you do not need to know my name to feel close to me. I will always watch over you, Sihtric.”

“I refuse to believe a creature as beautiful as yours is deprived of a name that does her justice,” Sihtric replied, closing his eyes while abandoning himself to your touch, ignoring the lump that was forming in your throat. 

You could not remember what your real name was, for you had forgotten it when death took you in its arms. You did not remember your former life as a young woman full of hopes and dreams, and how a violent death, coming from those closest to you, extinguished your light forever.

Ignoring all your thoughts, you shook your head and looked at Sihtric, who covered your hand with his calloused one and pressed his lips to your palm, feeling the coldness of your skin against his. It was a small gesture of affection that set a heart beating that you had forgotten you had, for it beat only with sorrow and grief.

"You claimed the souls of my father and half-brother today," it was Sihtric's turn to break the silence, wrapping his strong arms around your slender waist and pulling you close. Even though you were a ghost, you looked so real in his eyes and he was content to touch you and cradle your form.

"The doors of the Other World have indeed been opened to them," you replied, almost lost in his touch, "but for them there is another path to take, one filled with eternal pain and damnation."

The sight of his body tensing at your words saddened you, so you spoke quickly to reassure him, "Your mother and father have taken different paths in the afterlife. They will never meet again.” 

Sihtric felt another burden lifted from his shoulders, and his body suddenly became light: he was glad to see that his dear mother's soul was enveloped in the eternal light of beatification, while his father was probably rotting in the depths of Niflheim, surrounded by cold and darkness, for he died without a weapon in his hands. But even if he had gripped his sword tightly with his last breath, Sihtric did not believe that Odin would open the gates of Valhalla for him.

“Thank you,” the Dane whispered softly, giving you the first sincere smile you’ve ever seen while watching him growing up. His bicolored eyes shone with a renewed life, tasting that freedom he thought he could never have in his life. 

But a new realisation hit him hard, and the light in his eyes was replaced by a look of suffering: your duties were done, and you would return to the veil that separates the living from the dead, and watch over him silently but without concealment. He was not ready to say goodbye to you, not after he had found a person who would treat you with kindness and make his heart beat faster, it mattered not if that person was a creature from the afterlife or not.

“Do not go, please,” Sihtric pleaded in a feeble voice, his jaw clenching as well as the grip he had on you, afraid that you might vanish at any moment. He moved your body close to his own, resting his warm forehead on your cold one.

“I have to, Sihtric,” you explained quietly, though you felt your eyes burning and your scarlet tears about to escape. “I am bound to the spirit world, preparing families for their upcoming deaths. You are a young warrior, with life burning inside you.”

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the warmth his living body is giving to you, a warmth you used to radiate as well. And when you felt a rivulet of blood escaping from your eyes, Sihtric’s arms were quickly cupping your cheeks, wiping them with his tattooed fingers. 

"One day, when the doors of the Other World open again and the veil between our worlds forms its rift, they will give me the call to take you, and only there will you be mine forever," you added, the words slipping easily from your tongue as you lifted your gaze and locked it in his eyes. You have never had anyone look at you with love in their eyes, not even in your previous mortal life. Sihtric was sent to you to show you that a damned spirit like you could be loved and deserve to be loved. But he was the right person at the wrong time. 

“Promise you will live and wait for me until your hour will come.”

Sihtric took his time to calm down, closing his eyes and breathing slowly to calm the tears that were about to fall and to suppress the pain inside him. He thought he had found the right person to spend the rest of his life with, to take you as his wife and build a family with you. But he had to face the cold truth that you were not a living being and that you would soon have to leave his side.

The Dane opened his watery eyes again and looked at you with burning desire as he gently lifted your head with his hands. "I promise I will wait for you, my love," he swore, clutching his Thor's hammer with one hand, "and when that day comes and death takes him, I will be ready to go. And there I will be yours forever."

You both raised your faces to each other like a magnet drawing you close, sealing your eternal promise with a kiss that poured out all the love you both had carved out of each other, but that your time had not yet allowed. And when you reluctantly broke the kiss, you slowly turned and walked towards the small lake, your body disappearing into a cloud of mist that slowly dissipated into the air, the sound of a bird flapping its wings in the distance. Sihtric watched your disappearance with pain in his heart and watched over the lake until morning, when he returned to Dunholm to be reunited with Uhtred and the others.

Over the years, Sihtric had kept his promise and lived a true warrior's life, the once shy boy growing into a skilled warrior and confident man. He became one of Uhtred's most trusted allies and closest friends, and together with Finan and Osferth they wandered the borders of Mercia and Wessex, the Danelaw and East Anglia, eventually reclaiming Bebbanburg for Uhtred, who reclaimed his birthright and became its lord.

Feeling that you were always watching over him, you only appeared sporadically to bring him and his band of friends bad news: it was your job to inform him of the impending deaths of Gisela and Thyra while he was at Coccham, to warn him of Father Beocca's death before their first attempt on Bebbanburg fortress, and to claim Osferth's soul at Rumcofa. Uhtred was next, succumbing after a long and arduous battle, followed soon after by Finan, too old to even stand properly on his feet.

You were at his side, emptying his heart of grief as his mouth claimed yours in fleeting kisses before you went back to hide in the veil. You watched Sihtric grow old over the years, loving every single wrinkle on his face and every white hair that appeared over the years, while to him you were always the same young woman he fell in love with when he was a young and inexperienced lad.

And when he grew old and grey, surrounded by nothing but the walls of Dunholm, of which he had become lord, he felt the doors of the Other World open and a bird flap its wings, followed by the sound of a gash. With dying eyes and a tired smile, he watched you keep your own promise and claim his soul as he breathed his last, and feeling his body rejuvenated by the effects of eternal life, he took you by the hand as you reached the gates of the Other World, and with a long, desperate kiss, you sealed your eternal life together, and your souls at last lived and rested in peace.

If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading my fic! Hope you enjoyed it! Please, leave a comment if you want to be added in the taglist or be removed.

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