#and placed in the bright moon palace somewhere

[el-ffej]

Feels like this should be replicated in a stained glass window.

i’m just never going to stop thinking about this scene

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Moonmaiden's Reconstitution

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, minor appearances by a few supporting OCs Length: ~10000 words Rating: T, for angst and references to canon-typical violence. Summary:

"We have grown up on tales of your exploits, hearing about the Sword of the Silverlight. It is a nigh-unimaginable honour to be able to thank you in person. On the eve of a grand ceremony, no less, here at the heart of Our Lady's worship!" Unimaginable, Aylin thinks to herself with a rising bitterness, casting another glance over the large hall, skirting over heads and faces, failing to find the one she yearns for. How long need one be gone for, to pass even from imagination?

A year after the defeat of the Absolute, their travels take Aylin and Isobel to Waterdeep, to the House of the Moon, where they are both driven to confront things they were trying to avoid.

Contains various flavours of angst, dealing with trauma, and emotional hurt/comfort, as well as a bath. Also contains the author thinking the House of the Moon is cool, while also finding it very convenient and fitting that it has very detailed writeups and maps… that are about 100 years out of date in-universe, save for one little addition and a brief mention in one 5e adventure. This started off as a bit of a followup or companion piece to With Tremulous Cadence Slow before growing completely out of control.

Written for day 4 of Aylin/Isobel Week 2025, for the prompts: Returned to the fold of time | Hero worship, smitten, argument, anger

Also on AO3.

—

Moonmaiden's Reconstitution

Dame Aylin is ill at ease.

Even here, in the mightiest citadel of her Mother's faithful, where Her face gazes down on Aylin from statues and reliefs and frescoes around every corner. Where the night is as bright as it should always be: lit gently with motes of moonlight and pale droplets embraced in the petals of a flower-garden; lambent silver filling fountains and pools, shining from secluded chapel niches and lofty domes alike.

The House of the Moon is as magnificent as any palace other than Argentil could ever hope to be. White stone intricately carved, tiled marble; blue and silver everywhere one looked, topped with gleaming gold. Why, if Aylin felt like it, she could don her armour, stand stock-still next to a line of statues, and the visitors passing her by would surely be none the wiser.

How could anything here be wrong, be out of place, when the entire complex was built not to align with the crisscrossing of streets and city infrastructure, but to provide views on the moonrise and moonset on those special days when Selûne would climb highest in the sky and bless Her faithful with Her direct light and loving gaze the longest? The entire brilliant arc of the moon's nightly travel could be comfortably beheld from underneath the temple's domes, enchanted to become transparent when touched by moonlight.

Aylin has been here many times over her many years in her Mother's service, indulged in many chances to come to know it well in all its occasionally overwrought splendour. She has always been welcomed, too; each of her visits proclaimed a portent of blessings to come - or as a timely warning to shore up the defences before an imminent threat reared its often shadow-wreathed head. The welcome has not faded, even after more than a hundred years of absence and a transition in leadership.

With the familiarity comes also the disquietude of all the changes a place goes through in a century. It's at least doubled in size, for one; Aylin cannot muster any complaints about that. But then there is the frustration of a hallway she'd trod down dozens of times suddenly leading her to somewhere completely unexpected, of finding rooms whose functions she'd once relied on confusingly repurposed, or the disorientation of an entire silver-tiled wing she doesn't recognise at all. Domes and cupolas looming over her where before there was nothing but a view of the sky and sea.

Isobel only ever visited here when she was very young, with her mother, and what little she can recall from then is so vague as to make everything more or less new to her. Her delight every time she exits onto a sea-view balcony is contagious, and a most welcome distraction. The thrilled glimmer in Isobel's eyes when they first stepped into the temple's grand library and she realised she could levitate up into the air remains unmatched. The sight of her simple joy at the not-quite-flight, taking both of Aylin's hands in hers and pulling her along until they faced the very tops of immense bookcases, is something Aylin will treasure for the remainder of her eternal life.

As for the rest of it, well, Aylin wrestles with her odd bouts of rudderlessness and feels a tiny prick of envy.

And then there is that tremendous, eye-catching tower that Aylin will, of course, be flying a glowing trail around during the upcoming ceremony of, as they've chosen to term it, the Moonmaiden's Reconstitution. The very tallest in Waterdeep! the High Priestess proclaimed it while leading them around on a tour upon their arrival. As befits Our Lady of Silver, one of the silverstars flanking her agreed with great enthusiasm.

High, high, high above the city, remote, untouchable, quietly watching from afar…

Fitting, is it? Aylin feels her gut churn whenever she catches sight of it, and says nothing. For better or worse, nobody seems to notice.

-

Since their arrival, the two of them have helped with everything from rite-related formalities and daily services, to all the practical aspects of worship the temple housed and offered. They've blessed, healed, advised, trained, studied maps and records - there is more than enough here to fill their days, even without venturing into the fabled city of splendours proper.

But even as occupied as she's been, Aylin's thoughts keep catching on the one prominent effort expected of her in the future, and the cause for their invitation and detour to Waterdeep in the first place - the ceremony. Official-looking correspondence from the House of the Moon had found them, somehow, in the midst of their travels; a summons written in an elegant script, in a dark blue ink with silver residue set in for a sparkling effect. The House has always been somewhat ostentatious, which Aylin can't say she dislikes.

For some unknowable reason, the perfectly benign and even likely to be lovely occasion has felt like a sword hanging over her head ever since, a strange shroud over her near future.

It was publicly proclaimed and announced not long after their arrival, underneath the very Dome of the Moon, weeping its silver haze brightly over the gardens. Aylin didn't mind the ever-present chill there, but she'd noted with some gratitude Isobel was dressed in a new and warm set of robes. The High Priestess, meanwhile, was in her fabulously grandiose outfit, and yet still looked so small and unassuming when stood next to Aylin herself. The joy and approval from the crowd were immense and swiftly and raucously demonstrated - though the promise of a grand feast or two somewhere in the proceedings may have played a part in that.

But the one thing Aylin remembers most prominently from that day is not listening to and approving the various plans for celebrating the blèssed return of the Moon Daughter, nor is it the speech she herself delivered, as heartfelt as always, for she knew no other way to be. No, she remembers barely making it through the formalities due to being impatient and almost giddy with the anticipation of showing Isobel a part of the temple she'd yet to visit, and one of Aylin's all-time favourites. For, oh, if Isobel's eyes lit up at the sight of the sea, she was going to adore this!

She remembers taking Isobel's hand in hers as soon as could possibly be considered polite, giving it a quick kiss, then pulling her along out of the jubilant crowd and down the first set of stairs, towards the magical, unique spectacle that was the fabled Hall of Wind and Waves.

She remembers stepping into the enchanted area first, immediately exclaiming in joy at the sensation of the salty spray on her face, the excitement of the fresh sea breeze in her feathers, the rocking and creaking of the ship's deck under her feet. Knowing it to be an illusion had never made the rush of it any less real.

She remembers when the part of the experience that included a spell-wrought sense of solitude fully set in, somehow concealing even Isobel's hand held in hers. Aylin found herself fighting a tightness in her chest utterly out of tune with the freedom and exhilaration the illusion had ever evoked in her, lurching forward and marching on to exit the enchantment as quickly as her feet could carry her.

She remembers she'd felt such a fool for forgetting that part. Later, when she'd reached some sort of calmness once more, when a flushed and thoroughly, endearingly windswept Isobel found her again, quiet and leaned against the library wall. When Isobel, now awash with concern, looked askance at all of Aylin's claims that she'd merely left to let her properly experience all of the conjured sensations for herself, but remained quiet.

How very unlike her, to forget - it sticks in Aylin's mind still, days later, like the tiniest pebble stuck in her boot and refusing to be expelled. The fastidious nature of her memory has ever been a point of pride. It stings, that it has let her down in this way, and that it has led her to this… embarrassment. Weakness.

What Aylin has not forgotten since is to plan her way around the third floor of the temple carefully, never even brushing against the limits of the enchantment.

-

The ceremony is only a day away.

Returned to the fold of time, Aylin called herself once, in the turbulent times of the Absolute crisis.

Returned, bit by bit over the past year, to the midst of many of the richly varied communities under her Mother's guidance and protection, as scattered as they are devoted. In her search, she has found that some have been lost forever, and found some that have changed enough to be unrecognisable.

Aylin had known so many of their particularities, once; all the fascinating local twists on how worship was to be performed, how respect was to be paid, how the moon was to be honoured in each of her phases. And be it ceremonies or feasts or celebrations or blessings, she was all too happy to participate and contribute. Rejoicing and basking in her connection to her Mother, gladly acting as a conduit for whatever was required, Aylin has never dreamed nor dreaded that it could be otherwise.

Now there is this foul, niggling thought, insistent on making itself known at the most inopportune of times - do the people, does this world, even want her back?

In a century, some of them have been born and died. Villages and towns have sprung up, others have disappeared. A century should never have mattered so much, or been so long and impactful a time for an immortal. But it seems to Aylin sometimes that every moment of the past hundred years is carved in her mind in grand and disproportionate scale as well as detail, and it drags her down like the clawed hands enforcing her imprisonment in the Shadowfell.

Most of all, she remembers the faces. And after each and every face, a death.

Will these people, feasting in her honour now, welcoming her with open arms, turn against her as easily as some in Reithwin did? Or will they hang on until the very last, desperate moment, and give in only then?

Aylin feels unpleasant, cool perspiration gather on her neck, and wants to curse at the way it stains the pressed collar of her fine shirt.

None of these are the people she once considered allies, comrades-in-arms, even friends. Heroes she used to adventure with, her contacts in temples, in enclaves, the soldiers she had led into mighty battles, and out of them into moon-blessed triumphs. Where are any of them now? Surely some of them still live - those of elven blood, at the very least. Shar could not have gotten to all of them, though she'd have doubtlessly tried. Where to even begin with tracking them down? When?

And what has Aylin done, in that time?

Died. Suffered. Raged, with futility as endless as her lifetime is to be.

Brow furrowed in frustration, Aylin gazes at her pristine reflection. Outwardly, she is the very picture of splendour in her silvers and blue brocade, outfitted to match both the occasion and the premises. Her wings remain tucked away for the evening, which she now regrets agreeing to.

"Brooding again?" Isobel interrupts. Clad in her fine new dress-robes, she wraps her arms around Aylin from behind, and peeks around her at the image of both of them in the mirror. "I understand. The smaller enclaves seemed so much more… manageable."

Aylin shakes her head. "It will be fine," she says, tugging a finely embroidered sleeve into place. "I am ready to leave. Shall we go?"

-

The crowd gathered in the refectory for the feast on the night before the ceremony is far larger than anything Aylin anticipated, filling up the great hall even with many of the long tables removed. Isobel, guided away by a veritable flock of white-and-silver cloaked priestesses as soon as they stepped foot into the hall, remains nowhere to be seen.

A senior cleric, drunk on a combination of wine and awe, has cornered Aylin and is regaling her with a lively tale of how she herself turned a sordid, ill-omened winter into an illustrious triumph over a band of marauding Sharran assassins. Striking in the dead of each icy night, in utmost silence, they'd driven several towns almost to extinction - until, of course, the Moonmaiden sent Her radiant daughter to dispel the darkness, leaving them nowhere to hide to escape retribution.

They rattle off names of the villages Aylin saved, then point out with particular pride the one they themselves hail from. Aylin nods along, sips at the drink in her hand - a tasteless thing she does not recognise, thrust upon her as, she supposes, another honour. Only, she remembers it hadn't been winter at all, and the Sharrans had been the very antithesis of subtle - they'd left a trail of burning wreckage along a narrow mountain pass, first cutting the villages off by causing a large rockslide at its end. Aylin, and her wings, had been the people's quickest hope for reprieve - and so reprieve was gladly and swiftly granted.

An entire generation of accomplished devotees to Selûne stemmed from there, the cleric claims, pride mounting. A fine crop of acolytes sprouted from the seeds of inspiration sowed by Aylin's own deeds.

"We have grown up on tales of your exploits, hearing about the Sword of the Silverlight. It is a nigh-unimaginable honour to be able to thank you in person. On the eve of a grand ceremony, no less, here at the heart of Our Lady's worship!"

Unimaginable, Aylin thinks to herself with a rising bitterness, casting another glance over the large hall, skirting over heads and faces, failing to find the one she yearns for. How long need one be gone for, to pass even from imagination?

It was her, yes, and those were her deeds - more or less. But tonight she feels such a gaping, yawning divide between herself and that radiant paladin, not yet so blemished by world or duty. Something has appeared between them, vast and unforgiving. Something that, for better or worse, seems not quite so obvious from outside.

Aylin has never felt such an odd jolt at the concept of affirming yes, I did that, with a simple nod and scarce few words. "I do indeed recall the region, as well as the incident. I am pleased to hear it has recovered."

"More even than that! You saved so many: not just the lives of those who were there to shake your hand afterwards, but the lives that sprang from them, that flourish there even now. It is a thriving community, you know - why, I would not dare to impose, but if you have the time, if some quest or another takes you near there, I would urge you to visit and witness for yourself."

And yet nobody came for me for a hundred years, is all that Aylin can think suddenly, bitter bile peaked in the back of her throat, the pettiness and unfairness of everything, of everyone here, herself included, of the entirety of the Realms and beyond, making her want to scream, or retch, or curse, or a hundred other unbecoming things.

"You will have to excuse me," she mutters instead, providing no excuse at all, and extracts herself from the conversation as quickly as possible without manifesting wings to fly directly upwards. "Moonmaiden's blessings!" She thinks at the very last moment to throw over her shoulder at the poor, faultless cleric, her insides already steeped in guilt.

There are two behaviours a rowdy Selûnite crowd exhibits when confronted with Dame Aylin. The first is being almost magnetically drawn to her presence, pushing against each other to come as close to her as possible; to graze and touch, perhaps, a gleaming pauldron. The other is to part before her like an awed, scurrying sea, and it is this second one Aylin is relieved to experience tonight.

It makes it easier to reach the stairs, to make quick and steady progress towards where she and Isobel have been put up in a place of honour on the fourth floor, overlooking the garden.

In her retreat, Aylin's hand brushes against a smooth white wall, and she remembers, vividly and with a jolt, orchestrating fine marble being brought over all the way from Reithwin to complete both a reconstruction after some Sharran-inflicted damage and an expansion of the premises. A sign of our enduring faith, Ketheric Thorm had spoken so proudly over the heavily laden ships departing downriver, the very ground under our feet offering up its riches to honour the Moonmaiden, entwining two places of utmost dedication to Her, forever.

Forever.

-

Isobel returns, eventually, from wherever the celebration had taken her, or wherever she had squirrelled herself away to avoid the worst of the crowds. Aylin watches her slip into the small but elegant antechamber of their quarters, and watches the polite, refined mask slip from her face at the same time. Every step she takes after kicking off her shoes, every little bit closer she inches to where Aylin is sitting, brooding on the edge of their bed, makes a small weight lift from her shoulders.

Isobel takes one look at Aylin, takes in her moody slouch, and meets her gaze with an exhausted smile. "There you are. I was half-convinced you'd still be down there, enjoying the ruckus - perhaps causing some of your own."

"Not… not today," Aylin replies, sounding as tired as she's ever heard herself be. Isobel kisses her temple, then sits next to her, and doesn't say anything like you would have loved this, once.

"I am hardly at my best, either. They asked me to lead a prayer in blessing of the ingredients intended for tomorrow's part of the feasting, and I just froze. All I could produce were horribly shallow platitudes. Hope prevails! I stammered out over some leeks and potatoes, Light conquers darkness! And then I realised, gods, isn't it odd, to quote one's own engraved epitaph? Would it be considered in poor taste?" Isobel grimaces, then chuckles at the absurdity of it all. She draws closer to Aylin, leaning against her shoulder in a way almost conspiratorial, eyes widened in mock-curiosity but still crinkled with amusement at the edges: "What if it's not the done thing in the big city?"

Her laughter at her own jokes is bittersweet but contagious, and Aylin gladly joins in, shaking off a bit more of whatever shadows seem to be clinging to her with every chortle and titter and giggle either of them produce.

"Their wine is rather strong. And I must have lost my stomach for both wine and grand events and loud crowds somewhere along the way," Isobel says, then shrugs. "Perhaps along with my actual stomach. Who can tell?"

It is horrible, yet also hilarious. Aylin wants to protest, in between guffaws, even thinking about that grim period, seeing what was once the person she adored most in the world be interred in cold marble. But Isobel makes it so… palatable. Light, but darkly amusing - for a precious moment, it's like it happened to someone else, like there is enough distance between them and it all to allow them to breathe freely.

"Let's go to bed. I feel like I could sleep for a century." Isobel winces and drags a hand down her own cheek, clears her throat of something unpleasant. "Ah, no. Awful phrasing. Just horrible. Please pretend I did not say that."

Aylin nods solemnly, then wraps her arms around Isobel's waist and tips them both backwards onto the covers in one swift movement. Isobel's little squeal of surprise turns into giggles soon enough. Though increasingly breathless, the giggles - Aylin notes with some satisfaction as she keeps fuelling them by pressing feather-light kisses to the parts of Isobel she knows to be most ticklish - do not turn into coughs that night.

-

As the day of the ceremony dawns, the first rays of sun find Aylin already awake. It is hardly Selûnite custom to rise so early - the moonlit night belongs to them, after all - but her reason is simple enough: she hasn't slept at all.

There were no night terrors jarring her awake in a sweat, nor shades of the past clinging in their nightmarish wake and denying her respite; no coughing fits from a guilty, apologetic Isobel, rousing them both. The night went by peacefully, quietly, with the mellowest rays of the almost-full moon filtering hazily into the room, setting Isobel's softly and regularly breathing figure all aglow. A rarity, such uninterrupted peace.

And yet Aylin spent it restless for reasons she still cannot name or explain. It felt, at moments, like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin and exist, for at least a little while, as something else.

She would have gotten up, and gone for a flight - anything to dispel this nervous, gnawing energy. But with Isobel so sweetly asleep on her chest, when she'd had such a trying few months on the road - Aylin did not have it in her to even risk jostling her beloved.

So here she is, and here she must sit with herself and her own thoughts for company. And there are few things Dame Aylin despises as much as having nothing to do but think, with simple acting being out of the question.

Her salvation finally comes in the form of Isobel squirming, mumbling sweetly against her skin, nuzzling into her as if looking for more warmth to leech - Aylin welcomes her to it, always. She tightens her arms around her, and digs them both further into a nest of duvets and blankets.

"Good morning, my love," Aylin whispers into silvery hair, to a charmingly unintelligible reply as Isobel entangles their legs further, then makes no other moves towards awakening. But she seems to melt against Aylin with the added warmth, and Aylin feels some of her miserable concerns melting alongside.

-

The gnomish youth walks up to them in the cheery daylight of the sunny morning, in the middle of their stroll around the outer temple concourse. He seems nervous but excited as he approaches, clears his throat, then wipes his hands on his robes. Their light grey colour and half-moon trim proclaim him an acolyte.

"Excuse me for the intrusion, but I… If I may have a moment of your time, Nightsong, I—"

Aylin whirls around on him in an instant, stepping closer only to loom over him terrifyingly, threateningly. "What did you call me?"

"Aylin," Isobel says in a hiss, herself yanked to a sudden stop, then places her best attempt at a calming hand on Aylin's arm. Aylin shrugs it off, somewhere at the periphery of her perception.

Nightsong nightsong nightsong is all she can hear - the dismal soundscape of the Shadowfell. Knives in the dark; cowards staying just out of reach of a woman bound but never helpless; taunting, mocking, jeering, cutting, stabbing. Killing.

"One of her lackeys, are you, slipped through the net?" Aylin manages through teeth clenched so tightly her jaw twinges with pain. "Thought to follow me here and catch me unawares? In my sleep, perhaps? Ho, but would that suit your yellow-bellied sort so well!"

There are visible beads of sweat on the acolyte's forehead as he tries to stammer out a reply, frozen in appropriate terror. "P-please, I, I only meant— I didn't, I didn't mean anything by it—I heard—"

"What?" Aylin roars into his face, eyes ablaze, arms thrown wide in a futile attempt to encompass the whole of her rage and the whole of her disgust. The insistent but weak pull on her sleeve she barely notices, now. "What did you hear? That your dark lady had a captive waiting for your blade? That easy sport was to be had, her fickle favour earned with but one display of wretched spinelessness? No more! No more, and never again!"

"No! No, please, I— your honoured titles, I thought it was just… just a title, I—"

"Aylin!" Isobel is there, suddenly. In front of her. Her Isobel, darling Isobel. Larger than her slight stature would suggest - or is that merely how far Aylin's vision has narrowed? Her clear, sweet voice is barely audible over the sound of Aylin's heart drumming in her own ears.

Two small, familiar, ever-cherished hands take Aylin's trembling one between them with aching tenderness. Sunlight warms Aylin's face, a breeze tickles her cheek, carrying over the smell of fresh bread and the damp of morning dew. The tension rushes out of her so rapidly Aylin fears, for a moment, she might just collapse into a heap on the ground then and there.

There are people around them, hushed, frozen stock-still, staring. There is a quivering young man behind Isobel who looks to be in tears.

Isobel takes in everything about Aylin in one long look - she sees and understands, as always, far too much. Aylin swallows with some difficulty, mouth unpleasantly dry, and a bitterness slowly but insistently crawling up her throat.

Isobel turns to the acolyte, voice so very soft, careful, and gentle: "Are you unharmed?" Oh, Isobel. Isobel, Isobel, Isobel, the calm in any storm.

"I-I think so, yes," the man - the boy - answers in a thin, reedy voice. But there were boys in the Shadowfell, too, near the end of Ketheric's campaign; no less doomed for their callowness, and no less determined in their efforts. He is pale, his robes visibly stained with sweat, and his wide-eyed gaze does not leave Aylin. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean any offence."

Aylin wants to speak some kind of apology of her own, but her lips manage only soundless, futile movements. And, herself the coward she was just accusing this man of being, she surrenders to it, averts her eyes, and hides behind Isobel - avoiding the glances she keeps shooting Aylin's way.

"That is a relief to hear," Isobel says sweetly, soothingly, taking and smoothing over the entire unpleasant situation with enviable and practised skill. Her voice, now that Aylin's own mind allows her to hear it, is truly a balm for every ill. "A great relief to us both. Please do not worry, we know it was a misunderstanding. Can I help you, perhaps, with whatever it was you needed?"

"It's… it's nothing really important. It is to be my first attendance at a formal ceremony and I had some questions. And, and the, uhm, Dame Aylin," he enunciates it so very carefully, "Dame Aylin is known for her open, welcoming nature, and willingness to instruct and share her great Mother's blessings. My teacher told me, they remember, from. From before."

Isobel's friendly smile is strained in that subtle way that, Aylin thinks, only she can recognise. "Perhaps another time, hm?" She asks, head tilted charmingly, and who could ever disagree with her? "Dame Aylin has been on some very trying missions of late - we should let her rest up and recuperate, so that she is at her best for the ceremony."

The acolyte nods, bows deeply, and leaves on still shaky legs.

Isobel takes her hand without another word and guides them back towards their quarters. Aylin does not protest.

-

She and Isobel take their light lunch in their room, trays set upon the unmade bed, legs tangled in feathery duvets.

Quiet companionship. That is all.

And then Isobel gets up to leave, off to participate in midday prayers. Mercifully, after one good look at her, she offers to excuse Aylin with some white lie or other.

Aylin, in her misery, doesn't even notice the chafe of her pride as she agrees.

-

Isobel does not return for quite some time. It is long past the chimes ringing out to mark the end of the daily devotions, fast approaching the start of their preparations and meditations in advance of the ceremony.

So Aylin gathers herself, shakes off the soft temptation of cowardice, and ventures out.

Her first guess, the temple's grand library and one of Isobel's favourite hideaways, does not produce any trace of her beloved. But the search does not take long from there; a little ways further down the quiet hallway she hears Isobel's voice from one of the unused chambers in this array of housing quarters.

"There is… something…" Isobel stammering, hesitating like that is highly unusual. Aylin's attention is arrested on the spot, and she steps closer to the door cracked only slightly open, listening keenly. "Some foul residue of death, some rot, still within me. I have failed to expel it on my own. I have tried prayer and ritual and herbs, but…"

"What would you ask of me?" It is the voice of the High Priestess; serious, but with a definite touch of concern.

"A blessing," Isobel sounds, to the untrained ear, perfectly composed and polite. But Aylin senses an undercurrent of uncertainty, even fear, in her words. A tremble so slight it is barely perceptible. "A restoration, or rejuvenation of some sort - perhaps a retaking of vows? Any vows you and Our Lady would deem fit. It is only that… none of my own spells have had any effect, and time has not truly helped."

Every word out of Isobel's mouth feels like agony. Like a hot, searing knife of shame cutting into Aylin's belly - that she is so weak, her dearest Isobel would prefer to suffer in silence rather than burden her, and wait for so long for an opportunity to seek help. If her own stalwart champion could not help her bear her burdens, keep her happy and hale - what was the thrice-damned point of her?

Aylin clenches her teeth and tries to calm her breathing, resting the back of her head against the wall - it would not do to alert anyone to her presence, to interrupt Isobel's doubtlessly hard-won consultation. The High Priestess was always a busy woman, and especially so in times surrounding celebrations and grand occasions, holy days and rituals.

"As for the, ah, incident… word has doubtlessly reached your ears—"

As soon as she tries to focus on the conversation again, Aylin freezes, aghast at the realisation they are talking about her, about her failure in broad daylight in front of half the temple.

The High Priestess is choosing to stay quite diplomatically comforting. "Rest assured no harm was truly done - save for the harm that was already there, that remains to be dealt with."

Isobel's sigh is deep and long. Though Aylin cannot see her, she can picture so very clearly that way she holds her hands together and runs her thumbs over the seams on her gloves when she is thinking. "I am… not sure how."

"You love, and care, and listen. And intervene against her worst, unwise impulses. I should think that will suffice, eventually."

"Eventually," Isobel repeats, as audibly disgruntled as Aylin has ever heard her allow herself to be in company. And it stabs at her with mild and bittersweet amusement, that in some way her darling is running out of patience, wearing it desperately thin, just as she is.

"We are rich in experienced clerics here," the priestess continues, her voice gentle but not quite descending into pity. "We have seen such things many times, alas. I am afraid time, and care during that time, have proven the only reliable cure for ills like these."

"I worry. For her. For myself."

"It is only natural. You love her."

"I do," speaks Isobel with the determined, silky softness over that core of steel - her darling will not be daunted. Aylin almost wants to grip at her chest, with how her heart swells in its eternal home. "And… well, we have tried rest. We have tried travel and pilgrimage. We have tried removing ourselves, a bit, from everything. Perhaps that was my mistake. Being back here has been… challenging in ways I did not quite expect."

"Look up," Aylin herself follows the High Priestess' instruction - the ceiling, growing slowly transparent as moonrise draws near, still has visible designs of all the moon's phases running around it. Round and round and round in their destined cycle. Forever. "Our Lady shows us many faces. But Her fiercest countenance She shows towards Shar, the ancient enemy who would sink us all into darkness. Fierce battles must be fought, when your opponent will not stop or deign to show mercy, when they are hell-bent on your eradication. Is it not then right, if we must fight, to have those who are trained and taught to do so lead the charge?"

"I suppose so, yes," Isobel sounds cautiously uncertain of the point being made.

"The Sword of the Silverlight is our best defence, after all, as they say - a good offence."

"She is," Isobel agrees. "And she loves being this. She genuinely enjoys her duties and does not wish to be excused from them - and I understand."

And that is the beauty of it, Aylin thinks with yet more warmth blooming in her chest, for Isobel does. Even with the concerns she has voiced over the years, on some fundamental level she sees Aylin like none other ever will. For Aylin counts herself blessed to have been granted clear and glorious purpose, to have been born to do such good, to take up arms for a cause so worthy and noble and right. Not many can claim this. Her oath is no great burden foisted upon her, no tragic anchor weighing her down - it is one of the precious things that kept her truly alive and holding together the pieces of herself throughout her captivity. She takes great pride in all that she is, and great satisfaction, too, and wishes to relinquish none of it.

What is troubling to her, in fact, are those rare occasions when the satisfaction wanes, when the joy of her gladly-borne duty slips just a bit out of reach—

"For all of her singularity, she was not— you were not meant to be set apart. Not from the world, or from the faithful, or, I should think, each other. You have suffered a great injustice, during this century of sundering, and now the most immediate parts of it have been undone. Now there is a sense of moderation to be found, a balance to be struck, and you have yet to hit upon it. From everything I have seen, I believe you will, as surely as I believe that I will look upon the sky tonight and be graced by the light of Our Lady's face."

"So you must also understand why I worry for her," Isobel insists. "A century may not be long in her seeing of the world, her understanding of time. But the wounds are so fresh. No matter how many times she rises after being felled, how far she flies to enact Selûne's holy will and keep Her faithful safe, or how much genuine joy she gains from this, eventually she needs healing and rest like all of us do."

"How fortuitous, then," the priestess' smile is audible, "that she has a skilled cleric at her side."

"For as long as I am able, I swear it," Isobel states, voice slightly raspy with unpleasant reminders. "Though I might not be… oh, never mind."

"Spoken as if you were the paladin of the pair. Very well, Isobel Thorm. You have already dedicated one life to serving Selûne. I myself do not see the need for this reconsecrating - but since your resurrection was unusual, to say the least, and you yourself feel the need, I have no objections. You have my blessing, and you will have it at the ceremony." Then, far more pointedly: "For all to see."

Isobel did not bring up the tongues wagging in ugly gossip, the venom injected into the name Thorm whenever it was spoken, or the cruel rumours; those and all other reasons for her not exactly hiding, perhaps, but keeping so often to either their chambers or the quiet library after the first few days of their stay. That this has not failed to escape the High Priestess' notice was, perhaps, to be expected. "Thank you," Isobel says quietly, only slightly embarrassed. 

Aylin's glare was usually enough to silence any unjust insinuations aimed at Isobel for the sin of her parentage, but she couldn't be everywhere at once. And the cruel words seemed so often to resume once her back was turned. Perhaps a different demonstration could indeed help quell this utterly misaimed ill will - or perhaps it is, once again, a question of time, and of memory. Aylin is not blind to how often Isobel has introduced herself using nothing but her given name this past year, but has not commented upon it, either.

The conversation seems to be reaching its end, and Aylin realises she feels wretched. She cannot undo her intrusion, she cannot unhear what she has heard - so she does the one thing that befits an honourable paladin. She waits quietly until Isobel is finished, and when she exits the chamber, Aylin steps out from her hiding place, head contritely bowed, ready to accept her judgement.

Isobel understands immediately - her face drops in a way Aylin finds agonising, especially since she is the cause - then she closes the door behind herself rather pointedly. She tries to muster up a more characteristic, wry little smile, but the frustration in it makes it crooked. "I assume there is no point in asking how much of that you overheard?"

"A thousand apologies, my love," Aylin lowers her head further, reaches for Isobel's hand slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. But she does not, and Aylin heaves a sigh of relief as she brings it up to her lips for a gentle kiss. Her thumb rubs little circles into the cool hand, hidden beneath the sturdy leather of Isobel's gloves more often than not. "It was not my intent to intrude, and yet— and yet I did."

"I do not want nor need to be coddled, hovered over, or put under a fancy glass-crystal bell. I would like to remind you of this, Aylin," Isobel does not raise her voice, but her words carry a distinct sharpness.

"But it is my own most hideous failure that you do not feel you can confide any of this in me. Doubly so when I add my own burdens to yours, I…" Then, a rush, something actionable. "If I can somehow prove to you that—"

"Aylin, stop," Isobel is quiet but tense, brows furrowed in visible irritation.

Aylin bows her head again, swallows, re-centres herself in silence for a moment, and speaks the truth. "Then I want you to know that I hope, deeply and ardently and with every fibre of my eternal being, that you get whatever it is you desire out of the ceremony. I hope your burdens are eased, even if I am not the one to ease them. That is all."

Isobel's mouth is still twisted downwards in quiet anger, but she relaxes a bit with a long exhale. "Thank you, Aylin. Now, our bath awaits. Let's not waste the time we have been given, and have the attendants say they emptied the chamber for nothing."

-

It is difficult to remain at all tense or displeased when immersed in hot water. The steam rising from the clear surface seems to form a wall between Aylin and the rest of the world, with all its troubles and concerns; a pale shielding dome, much like those oft conjured by Selûne's servants.

Isobel, herself visibly mellowed by the warm, finely-scented water, is letting it wash away the worst of her foul mood, and is focusing on inhaling the damp air deeply and slowly. Aylin still feels horribly guilty over it all, and so they sit, uncharacteristically, at the opposite ends of the shallow recessed pool. It is a rare treat and privilege still, to have a bathing chamber so large all to themselves.

For the guest of honour to prepare for the ceremony in privacy, ostensibly, was the reason Isobel gave for this arrangement yesterday. Aylin thinks Isobel simply knows her too well, and is far too crafty for anyone's good.

With a heated head set against cool tile, Aylin's thoughts seem to swim against each other lazily. Not much is expected of her tonight, honestly - all of it is so very far from any challenge to her abilities. A swoop across the Dome, like a shiny bird of prey. A bright trail around the tower. A proclamation in Celestial, with some rather rote blessings. But visibility is the goal of the endeavour, first and foremost, and being noticed is something Aylin knows how to accomplish all too well.

It is horrible to imagine that rat Lorroakan being alive still, or going along with the initial plan of convincing him Aylin had been killed. Horrible to think of there being more of his ilk, and with Aylin drawing attention to herself like this—

She shakes her head with a growl, damp hair whipping against her face - what a preposterous thought to even begin to indulge! Dame Aylin hiding, cowering, obscuring her very existence - out of what, fear? She, who is meant to be a beacon in the thickest, vilest darkness!

For the ceremony is above all a signal to Shar and her followers, whose schemes against her Mother and Her flock Aylin was distraught but unsurprised to find out had escalated severely in her absence, as word of her disappearance spread. It is crucially important to send a message: the Selûnites are protected once more, the Sword of the Moonmaiden returned, as sharp as ever.

Only it isn't quite, is it?

Which nobody can know. Not even Isobel, Aylin would have said - but it has always been impossible to truly hide anything from Isobel.

"Aylin," Isobel's voice comes, suddenly, from right next to where Aylin has reclined. She startles, a bit - she hadn't even noticed her wade over closer.

"I am sorry," Aylin speaks up at once, turning to meet her eyes. "my intrusion was unbecoming—"

"It was," Isobel is determined, merciless, but there is a slight rueful smile dancing around her face. "And I was a fool - we are both fools for attempting to hide from each other, all in the name of supporting the other. We will achieve nothing this way."

"Agreed," Aylin mutters, wincing just a bit at the contents of her most recent thoughts.

Isobel moves even closer, until they are sitting thigh to thigh, still comfortably immersed up to their shoulders. Aylin notes, to some relief, her smile seems far lighter and brighter already. "I demand recompense, then, Dame Aylin, and I will consider the matter settled for now."

Aylin immediately sits up, causing the water to slosh out onto the stone tile. Fresh alertness blows away the last traces of her warm haze. "Whatever you would ask of me, you will have," she exclaims ardently, taking one of Isobel's hands out of the water and running her lips along the damp skin. Then she pauses, hesitates, swallows in trepidation. "Only, do not ask me to leave your side or be apart from you. I could bear a great many things, but not that. Never that."

"Oh, Aylin, my darling. I couldn't bear that, either," Isobel wraps her free arm around Aylin's neck, clings so closely to her she is almost sitting in her lap. Aylin makes no move of her own, but simply basks in her presence. "All I ask is that, to make us even, you share one of your troubles with me. Whichever one you want - goddess knows you have been stewing in them this past tenday, and have told me nothing at all."

Aylin's teeth worry at the golden scar that bisects her lower lip, and she considers the arrangement as Isobel's hand traces a comforting pattern down her neck to her shoulder and back up again, smudging droplets in its wake. Then she inhales deeply until her ribs strain, and exhales slowly, watching her breath disturb the curtain of steam before them. Finally, she begins. "I would have gotten utterly turned around looking for the old bathhouse, had you not led me here. If I let my mind drift or wander for even a moment, I end up lost, staring at some unfamiliar chapel in a dead end hallway. It is maddening that I cannot even trust my footsteps in this, a temple to a goddess of guidance and navigation and my own holy mother. More than a hundred years out of date," Aylin scoffs at herself, letting an agitatedly gesturing hand drop back into the water with a splash. "Perhaps they were right to call me a relic."

"Don't say that!" Isobel doesn't take those words very well, and Aylin herself is not sure just how jokingly she'd meant them.

And Aylin remembers, in a rush and with a wince, the sight of Isobel stowing away her cherished robes that very morning. Darling Isobel, as displaced as she. The Selûnite vestments found around the Heartlands haven't changed very drastically, but what is different became noticeable as soon as they first left Reithwin behind them, all those months ago.

Isobel has not made any alterations to her robes. She carefully mends what she can when she needs to, and has acquired a new set in addition, from one of the first enclaves they visited. The point was, according to her, to alternate depending on company and comfort levels, and to not wear out her original, precious set quite so much.

She touches them and puts them away so carefully and reverently every time - one of the rare surviving bits of a Reithwin one hundred years ago. Some parts of them, Aylin remembers being told, originally belonging to Isobel's mother in her youth.

Aylin leans down so their foreheads can press together, and closes her eyes.

"Perhaps it would help if you told me how it was before - something you were particularly fond of," Isobel suggests, a gentle, soothing hand running up and down Aylin's upper arm. "Or, better yet, something you hated that they've now fixed - surely there's some of that, as well?"

Aylin hums, casting her mind back, combing through a thousand little fragments. The kitchens have clearly gone through some well-thought-out changes, considering the lovely fare they've been serving - or perhaps, a small part of Aylin pipes up, it is merely that she has still not had her fill after a century of unwilling fasting.

She shakes her head, as if to physically direct her thoughts down different avenues. "The addition of the tower is… altogether too much, in my view. But the newly expanded east wing, with that row of inner terraces that look out across the gardens - that is truly lovely."

Isobel huffs out a small sardonic laugh. "You know, I myself have grown quite wary of people who strive to build very tall towers, claiming this is meant to honour Our Lady. When instead, all it feels like is them trying to reach for Selûne herself, for whatever their own selfish reasons."

Their peace is suddenly interrupted by the clear ring of a set of silver bells, and a polite summons from just outside the door - a reminder that their time here is up, and their duties call once more.

-

The ceremony goes by without incident. Afterwards, very little of it seems inclined to stick in Aylin's mind - like so much running water, it has passed her by in a blink, and it would be futile to try and retrieve it. But she has done it, and it is an immense relief. There is even a tentative sense she has captured some small piece of herself that had been floating around aimlessly, and slotted it back in its proper place.

Because throughout the proceedings, however long or short they had truly been, thousands of pairs of eyes stayed on her, rapt, and Aylin sensed from them nothing but hope, and joy, and amazement. No covetous glares, no ill intent. A great many of these people wanted a great many things from her, but none of them anything Aylin was not willing to give.

It is a good, much needed reminder of a truth Aylin has always known: there is no faith without the faithful. The people are what truly matters, and her place is among them.

Formalities done with, they all proceed to the festivities quickly enough. Aylin is congratulated, thanked, praised for her efforts as they go. She shakes so many hands, dispensing yet more blessings amongst the crowd as she navigates the grandly decorated hall.

She is trying, as always, to find the one person she would not hesitate to say matters above all others.

The one moment of the evening Aylin can picture clear as day, as if it were engraved in her memory, is this: Isobel, radiant, receiving acknowledgement, crowned with silver blessing to a great and roaring cheer - and, hopefully, finding at least a fragment of whatever peace has kept eluding her.

But Isobel is nowhere to be seen, again. Aylin takes a deep breath and allows herself to plunge into the crowd, tries to focus on drawing on that sense of connection she'd felt so keenly while up in the air, doing a showy loop for them all.

She finds her first target quickly enough, even though he is small enough to get lost in a crowd all too easily: the young gnomish acolyte who'd performed his role as the main altar attendant with gumption and gusto and relish.

Aylin stands a politely pronounced distance away from him, and extends her hand when he turns and notices her. She is relieved to see him only nervously hesitate for a blink before stepping forward and taking it - a slight, sensible amount of nervousness that Aylin is well used to.

"I wish to congratulate you on duties well-performed. As well as reassure you I bear you no ill will. My ire this morning was entirely misaimed," Aylin says, quietly, drawing a bit closer to him for some semblance of privacy as the crowd continues to be rather loud in their rejoicing. "And I was entirely at fault."

"Thank you, Emissary. Bearer of the Silverlight. Dame Aylin," the acolyte rattles off only some of her numerous titles, enthusiastically shaking her hand with both of his. "I apologise for my disrespect, and I swear it was not my intent. It was merely something I overheard and mistakenly counted among your long list of accolades. It sounded, forgive me, poetic enough."

"The Nightsinger has her moments, her sick amusements," Aylin tries to wave it off, and finds her teeth gritting in mounting anger - now with nobody to aim it at. "How were you to know? I have been gone for a miserable century. That moniker has spread far enough, even with much of its true meaning lost along the way. Once a thing like that takes hold, takes any root at all… well, let us just say I will have a time of it, disabusing people of the notion."

He nods, rapt, hanging on Aylin's every word, a low fire burning behind his eyes. Still, Aylin notices to her amusement, holding on to her hand and shaking it. She extracts it with a light tug and curls it into a determined fist between them. This gesture, too, is mirrored, and Aylin smiles sharply.

"Rest assured, and mark my words well: I am, have ever been, and shall always be Dame Aylin. Nightsong was only ever a curse, and foul Shar's attempt to claim me as her own. She has not, and will not succeed."

"Selûne willing," the acolyte agrees, a matching passion mounting in him as well. "May She guide our hands. I, for one, will not allow Shar or her lackeys to steal any more from any of us."

"A comrade after my own heart," Aylin claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. His knees only buckle for a moment, and Aylin's grin widens. A moment of brilliant clarity comes over her - a segment of her birthright, as well. "We will meet again. An illustrious future awaits you, I have no doubt - my Mother will ensure it. Continue your training here. Dame Aylin, the Nightsong-no-more, shall await your stalwart companionship on a quest of great import, one day. Together we will do Our Lady most proud. May I have your name?"

The acolyte beams, straightens his back, and squares his shoulders. The half-moon brooches on his ceremonial garb, polished with great care, catch the light as he moves. "Glint, my lady. Not two moons out of my novitiate, so I fear it may… it may yet be a while before we do anything of the sort."

"An auspicious name, Glint," Aylin nods, and then speaks a reassurance for the both of them, infusing it with every measure of certainty she can. "Worry not; there will be time enough for everything, now."

-

They are comfortably away from the world, sequestered in their quarters, long after the night's festivities have ended. The moon has sunk out of sight, and the first tease of grey dawn has started to bleed into the sky.

Snuggled deep in the cocoon of soft blankets and coverings and feathers that has become their usual, they are twined around each other so tightly it is difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. Neither of them would have it any other way.

That is when Isobel dares ask her question, in a voice so quiet Aylin fears she would have missed it, were she not so utterly attuned to perceiving and absorbing everything about precious, cherished Isobel.

"Do you sense… anything different about me?" When Aylin doesn't respond save for a brow furrowed then raised in question, she amends: "The ceremony - do you think it changed me in any way? Did the blessing… take?"

Aylin is quiet for a while. Leans back as far as the thickest duvet will allow to almost feign taking a better look at Isobel. Peels away a few layers of soft coverings and runs a light hand over a bare shoulder, down a pale arm. Closes her eyes to hear better, then takes a deep breath of the incense-infused air.

"I do not sense any change," Aylin can only ever be honest, though the way her words seem to cut gaping wounds into Isobel makes her want to spout deceits worse than a conniving devil. "But I did not notice anything off about you before it, either. You know this, Isobel. You know I cannot lie to you, and I would not even if it was within my power."

Isobel smiles, then the chuckle she produces turns into a tearful hiccup. "I think I pinned too much hope onto one silly thing - I think I somehow convinced myself this one simple miracle would solve all my problems. And the truth is… I do not feel any different at all, either."

"I think the miracle we both received is a little more complex than a single temple blessing, no matter the loftiness of the premises," Aylin replies softly. "Even if we are both still grappling with its many aspects."

There is a long quiet. A trouble for a trouble, Aylin thinks, remembering their arrangement.

"I did not want them to know," Aylin manages, finally. She hates how subdued and defeated she sounds suddenly; how small. Still she continues. "I did not want anyone to know. Not even you, who I cherish above all others. But it is impossible to hide from you."

"There is no shame in it—" Isobel begins.

"But there is," Aylin insists immediately, and curls tighter around her, the feathers in the duvet rustling in tandem with her wings. "It is shameful, it is a fallibility, it is a weakness. A year, and I am still like this. A year, and I am undone by a single word. I could have gone too far today, hurt an innocent for the crime of a phrase overheard, a mere misunderstanding."

"Perhaps you could have. But what matters is that you did not."

"Because you called me back from the brink. Isobel Thorm," she murmurs into Isobel's hair, trails fingers beneath a thin camisole, across the skin of a sharp hip and a soft belly, warm and real. Grounding in a way nothing else could ever be. "Witness to my wax and wane."

"As you are to mine," Isobel murmurs back, just as quietly, the sound almost stifled against Aylin's collarbone. "I did not want them to know how I felt," she says, mild rasp audible in her voice. "I did not want you to know, I did not want Selûne to know."

Aylin guffaws wetly, hides her tears in Isobel's hair as she feels her own skin grow damp where Isobel's face burrows against it. "What a pair we make. What a match."

"We always were, were we not?" Isobel laughs as well, soft, barely-there, and yet it feels more genuine than any other sound she has made today. She takes one of Aylin's hands between both of hers, presses a soft kiss to the knuckles, and holds it to her chest. "Nothing can change this - no matter how we ourselves might change."

"She is always so wise, my Isobel," Aylin whispers, feeling a bone-deep exhaustion slowly but surely settling into her, weighing down all her limbs.

"Yours," is all Isobel replies, as both of them sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.

-

They leave Waterdeep by ship.

Isobel seems, outwardly, her elegant and composed self, but Aylin can see the way she is thrumming with thrill and delight as they climb aboard in the chill that clings to the air just before dawn. Her previous excursions were only ever confined to little river boats and the Reithwin lakeside - Aylin, meanwhile, was more used to flying to her destinations. The joy of the two of them sharing a novel experience is buoying, making Aylin's insides leap far more than the waves rocking the still-moored vessel would justify.

Once they've deposited their belongings in their tiny cabin belowdecks, they return above to witness the departure and bid their silent farewells to the city. Suddenly, instead of resting them against the railing, Isobel throws her arms around Aylin's neck, feet tiptoeing just barely on the swaying deck. "Pretend the strength of that last wave surprised me - it's not like I have my sea legs, after all," she whispers against Aylin's lips. "Clearly I should have practised more, in the hall."

"Clearly," Aylin smiles into each salt-tanged kiss Isobel punctuates her sentences with, and holds her close. This time, the wind and waves and briny spray are real, and Isobel is not going anywhere.

"Thank you for indulging me," Isobel murmurs, before letting go and slipping down to find her balance again. She stays pressed against Aylin's side as she does, one arm around her waist.

"Hardly an indulgence," Aylin waves it off. "Perhaps you will decide you hate it within the first day of travel. Then we shall simply have to make our excuses and apologies to the captain, and rely upon my wings again."

"Why would I ever hate it?" Isobel looks up at her, both eyebrows raised.

"I admit, I have my concerns. The incessant rocking to and fro… the cramped cabins…"

Isobel smirks and presses, somehow, even closer. "I can think of worse things."

The cries of the crew start up around them before Aylin can think of an appropriately heated reply; a spectacle of ropes snaking about, anchors rising from the harbour's depths, and sails unfurling in the wind.

Aylin takes another deep, fresh, bracing breath as she looks up. She meets the face of the moon preparing to descend below the horizon and surrender the sky to ruddy, golden daylight. The wind turns just so; the ship cuts sleekly through the sea below, and leaves the pier far behind within moments. "We have a fine journey before us," she states with great certainty.

Isobel hums her agreement as the lights of the city slowly disappear out of view.

[burnwater13]

The Mandalorian, Din Djarin, standing in Jabba's Palace with Boba Fett, as Fennec Shand (out of frame). Image from The Book of Boba Fett, Season 1, Episode 6, From the Desert Comes a Stranger. Caption reads 'This is the Mandalorian, Din Djarin.'

Grogu felt like the trip to Mandalore was over before it really got a good start. They went to Sundari, talked to whoever it was that his dad was told to talk to and then gave them the armor to evaluate. Yup. It had once belonged to Pre Vizsla. No known living relatives. It was donated for the sake of Mandalorian younglings and before Grogu could say ‘Let’s go fishing, Dad!’, the Mandalorian had been contacted by Greef Karga and they needed to head back to Nevarro immediately. 

He told his dad he wasn’t disappointed, but he wasn’t actually being Jedi truthful about that. He had wanted to go fishing and exploring and visiting with the Armorer just to see how things were going. He felt a sort of duty to Mandalore now. It had adopted him and he wanted to be a good son. Not just to Din Djarin but to the Mandalorian people, with certain, very specific, exceptions.

Grogu had to admit that he wasn’t really fond of Koska Reeves. She had been kind of mean to his dad and then she wouldn’t share her food with him and then she seemed to disappear whenever his dad was around, which Grogu found very odd. He didn’t know if she was a spy for the Mandalore or just naturally shy. He didn’t really think she was shy. 

Now they were on their way back to Nevarro and as much as Grogu wanted to ask his dad what it was all about, he also just wanted to relax and think about the dream he had before they left Tatooine for Mandalore. Did he really want to leave his path as a Mandalorian Jedi? Or did he want to want to find out more about the Brethren? He wasn’t sure. 

For all the years he’d spent at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, he’d never heard them mentioned. He guessed, based on his dream, that they used the Force to do things like tell rivers to stop flooding, but he didn’t know how that worked and where to find anyone who might be able to tell him. That was annoying. 

It was too bad that they weren’t going back to Tatooine. He might have been able to talk to Jedi Seb about it all. Seb seemed to know a lot about the Force and the galaxy all around them. But Seb wasn’t going to be on Nevarro. Nope. Maybe he was still on Tatooine, but it was more likely that he’d gone off to Ordo, and may have even gone somewhere else. Jedi were like that. 

Of course he could ask his friends, the Monks of B’omarr, but they were also on Tatooine. They knew all sorts of interesting things, but you had to be careful about what you asked them. Grogu had learned that the hard way. 

He’d been up in their tower, just looking at the night sky, which they spent a great deal of their time admiring, when he wondered what the sky had looked like a ten thousand years earlier. Were the stars as bright? Were they in the same places? What had really changed… 

The next thing he knew the monks were all humming a strange, almost hypnotic tune and the sky changed right before his eyes. Most  of the same stars were still there, but a few things had changed. For one thing a moon hung in that night sky, polished smooth and providing a bright pathway of light that could be seen readily from their tower. Then the scene changed and Grogu watched as another ‘body’ crashed right into the moon and it exploded in slow motion, pieces flying every which way and with a chunk hurtling right toward them. 

He must have squeaked in fear because just as suddenly he was watching the actual night sky. No moon. No asteroid crashing into it. No explosion. No feeling of certain destruction. He was glad of that, but all the same, he thanked them quickly for sharing that information with him and returned to his room and stayed up the rest of the night watching episodes of Diggle and Daggle, the Fish that fish. 

His dad had asked him what had happened the next day, but Grogu shook his head. He not only didn’t want to explain it to his dad, he didn’t want to think about it again. Eventually he told his dad that he and Peli Motto had made a bet about who had watched more Diggle and Daggle in a single sitting and he was the proud winner of the bet. Grogu was just glad that Din Djarin had accepted that as answer that was just as likely as any other answer he might have offered. 

He supposed that once they reached Nevarro he could ask the Anzellans. The little droid smiths worked all over the galaxy and might have heard of other groups of people who used the Force. His dad often commented that he thought the Anzellans themselves must use the Force when you considered the work they did and their size. Grogu had commented rather sourly ‘Judge me by my size, do you?’, but the Mandalorian hadn’t understood his Gal Basic and Grogu decided that was all for the best. Once he started quoting Master Yoda, it was hard for him to stop speaking like that. ‘Eat, or don’t eat. There is no try’, was his personal favorite when they cooked something that didn’t turn out the way his dad had hoped it would.

So, if he didn’t ask the Anzellans, who were still pretty weary of him stopping by their shop because of the whole hugging incident, maybe he could find out from IG-11-M. Before the droid had become Nevarro’s marshal, it had been a bounty hunter. That meant it had traveled all around the galaxy, collecting information that would allow it to find the people caught up in the bounty system. Not like the Brethren sounded like the sort of people who would be caught up in that sort of trouble. But, if even one of their people had gotten into some sort of trouble, Grogu was certain if anyone would know about it, that anyone would be IG-11-M. 

Ha! Now he had a plan. Once they got to Nevarro and his dad was talking to Greef Karga, Grogu would chat with the protocol droid to get IG-11-M’s location and go find them. Then he could get some much needed information on the Brethren and he would know whether or not he needed to talk to Jedi Seb the next time he was on Tatooine, or Ordo, or even Mandalore if it came to that. Yippee! After all, a plan was as good as having the thing done. Right?

[jnkgrnde]

— kryptonite

pairings : shuri x black!reader

warnings : none

summary : shuri udaku didn’t let many things get to her, not things that would majorly distract her from the task at hand. as a matter of fact, really, the only thing that could falter her was you.

authors note: v slowly getting back into writing so my posts will hopefully start getting gradually longer 🫡

it was late in the evening, the stars out and the moon shining as bright as it can. shuri was hunched over at her station in the lab working away.

many people knew you and the princess were together, having seen the two of you hand in hand walking around the market. everyone greeted you and you’d greet them back with a warm smile.

some people jokingly called you shuri’s ‘kryptonite’, seeing as how you’d always find a way to distract her from her duties. you’d coaxed her out of her lab, or her ‘hiding hole’ as you’d call it, and take her on a walk to the gardens or through the market just to get her to be somewhere else.

this time, though, you’d be taking her to your shared bedroom to rest with you and watch horror movies and laugh at the stupid decisions the characters make. but you couldn’t do that without your favorite person, could you? not while she’s holed up in her lab.

“princess, y/n has arrived.” griot spoke. his voice echoed throughout the room when he finished. “thank you, griot.” shuri thanked him. she looked up at you after a minute, putting down her tools.

“hi, my love.” she greeted, a welcoming smile spreading across her lips. she grabbed your waist a bit needily with her grip tight. “missed you. you were supposed to be in bed by now, shuri.” you scolded her. you knew she never meant to, but a good amount of the time she’d stay overtime in her lab, too wrapped up in her work to rest.

“i know, s’thandwa, i’m sorry. i just got distracted.” shuri knew you were mad at her. you’d always gotten on her about how much time she spent in the lab and how much she neglected her health, hence why you’ve been deemed her kyrptonite; you’d always find a way to pull her from her duties.

“i can make it up to you i swear.” she’d promised. she’d started getting a desperate look in her eyes already. “really, now?” you raised a brow in curiosity. “promise, my love.” she firmly confirmed. an adorning grin settled, a kiss placed on the panthers lips. “mkay. can we go now? i made popcorn before i got here and it’s probably getting cold!” you whined while you stepped back from her hold.

laughter escaped shuri at your words. “just give me a second, usana, i need to clean up.” she said. “you got five minutes, udaku!” you yelled at her, leaving the lab. she clicked her tongue in fake annoyance. “you and your impatience.”

shuri did clean up in time and rushed out the lab to see you admiring the brightly lit city. “you ready?” you asked her once her footsteps came into hearing range. she hummed, grabbing a hold of your hand. it always amazed you how she kept her hands soft with her going on missions and working on rough projects so much.

“how do you always keep your hands soft?” you blurted out. “moisturizer.” she simply answered. “that rose and vanilla works wonders, don’t you think?” she had a playful smile on her face. you punched her in the shoulder, and she groaned in faux pain. “ow!” “shuri, i told you not to use my smell goods!” “ah, your such a whiner, my love!” once again, her laugh rang throughout the palace.

you smacked your teeth but smiled after and leaned your head on her shoulder while you walked. the walk to your bedroom seemed longer, but you didn’t mind because it allowed you to talk and catch up with her a bit before you got absorbed in the world of cinema.

the rest of that night was spent with you two switching positions to keep comfortable while munching on whatever american food you brought with you, and the sound of giggling at the screen before you.

[chronicangel]

lavender moon: Act 1 Chapter 6

Link to this fic on AO3. Words: 4064 Date posted: December 31, 2024 Summary:

The Dersite royal family are famed for their powerful magic, but Prince Dave does not have any. Prospit is an insular nation who believes magic to be inherently corrupting and wicked, and yet Princess Jade has magic flowing through her veins. When their marriage is arranged to end a centuries-long war, they have a lot to figure out.

If there had been any doubt before, Jade has certainly never seen this many people in one place.

Growing up, the castle had served largely as what it was—a stronghold against outside invaders. Castles are not places where people live, they are fortresses where soldiers lock themselves in to hide and rest and strategize. There have been dozens of small, empty rooms throughout the castle Jade’s entire life that she knows would, in another world, be home to knights, squires, and pages, soldiers training and preparing for Derse’s next move. If her mother were alive, if she had not been born small and weak and wrong, then she knows they would live in the ostentatious palace in Skaia where her father was raised and his father before him and every generation of royals stretching back hundreds of years. As it stands, they had needed to put poor, sensitive Jade somewhere no one could get to her, and she’s been imprisoned here since.

Today, though, it flourishes with life in the way that she imagines palaces are supposed to. Under ordinary circumstances, a coronation would be held in the capital city. They would have traveled down to Skaia to show John off to the people as the new king, and then Jade and Dave would have been married in the same place her parents were. It would have been her first time ever seeing Skaia in person.

They didn’t think that Dad could make the trip. Most days, it is difficult for him to even get out of bed, let alone take a two-day carriage ride down to the capital city for a coronation and a wedding. So they had used the wedding as an excuse, explaining that the castle was closer to Derse’s border than the capital city so it would be easier for the prince’s family to come here. Jade thinks there had been an undercurrent of prejudice, too. Do you really want the Dersites in the capital city? Do you really think they can be trusted? When she looks around this room, she thinks she can still see flashes of mistrust directed toward Dave, though it is mixed with blushing young girls practically swooning over him. The servants and guards who have gotten used to his presence either smile casually at him or outright ignore him as yet another figure in the background, but it feels less malicious than it had months ago.

She recognizes a few of the faces, vaguely, as people she and Dave met when they were in the village. Off to one far side of the room, the artist who had sketched them for only a handful of coins stands behind an easel, likely preparing to capture the moment John is crowned. She thinks that most of the people in this room, though, are those who could afford to travel north from Skaia. Most of them are wearing nice clothes, perhaps not to the full extent of a noble, but middle class at least.

Above all of them, on a large dais, her father sits on a throne making his first public appearance in months. Jade thinks he looks like a facsimile of himself. While his attendants have done a decent job of masking his illness with looser-fitting clothing that hides how skinny he’s gotten, excusable due to the summer weather, and some amount of makeup to mask how pale he is, his cheeks aren’t the right color, his hands so thin, his face gaunt, and his eyes lack all of the bright blue lucidity she had seen in them in his room the other day. In fact, he looks like he must not know where he is at all. Dave keeps staring at him, and she feels guilt twist in her stomach as she wonders what he must be thinking. Can he see through the disguise, too? Does he realize now that she and John have been lying to him for months?

Speaking of John, before the ceremony starts he sits in a chair almost like a smaller throne to Dad’s right side. He’s been stuffed into the traditional navy blue and gold formalwear she’s seen on paintings her entire life, and she thinks it looks good on him even as she knows her brother well enough to see on his face how much he wants to run away from this whole situation. On Dad’s left side is an empty chair where she would traditionally sit as the second child, practically the only formal acknowledgement a daughter can get in the Propsitian royal family, which has been robbed from her so she can instead be seen with Dave in public.

It was important, Dad’s advisor had decided, for them to be seen in public together at least once before the wedding. It adds an element of performance to her brother’s coronation that she does not relish as she loops her arm through Dave’s, leans against his side with a bright smile, and spends every moment consciously thinking about how the people around her perceive them. Some are actually bold enough to approach them, congratulating them on their impending union and remarking on how excited they are for the wedding tomorrow. She tries her best to smile and nod, though Dave doesn’t acknowledge them at all.

When the actual ceremony starts, the crowd of people goes quiet to watch John take his vows to protect his country and rule fairly and all of the other empty words that make Jade want to roll her eyes. She loves her brother and she trusts that he will be a good king, but too many bad kings have made the same oaths. He will be a good king because he is John and he is good, not because of these meaningless words he swears to follow in front of a tiny portion of their citizens who, for the most part, already have every privilege they could be granted.

Many of the portions of the coronation that she knows from history books are supposed to be done by her father are instead done by his advisor. The only part of the ceremony that her father really takes part in is the ritual gifting of a sword and placing of the crown on John’s head, which marks the end of the whole thing. She holds her breath when she watches him get up from the throne, half-expecting him to fall down before he’s able to stand. And, granted, he moves a little more slowly than usual, but otherwise seems to get up without a problem even though he has no help. Dave glances at her when she can’t stop a relieved sigh, but he doesn’t say anything.

She makes a big show of saying goodbye to Dave when the whole thing is over so she can go talk to her brother. She holds both of his hands in her own and stares especially adoringly at his face and for a second she almost forgets that they are pretending when she tells him that she’ll be right back. He gives her hands a squeeze that sends a very real thrill through her chest, though he doesn’t say anything out loud then, either. She wants to stay and ask him if something is wrong, but there’s a group of girls who must only be teenagers standing nearby and swooning over him (or maybe them) and that reminds her that they’re being watched, so she just squeezes back and peels herself away.

John is surrounded by people. Nobles and advisors trying to put a stab in for places in his inner circle, she guesses. She can’t help but notice Vriska is among them, standing just a little too close to him and leaning toward him every time he speaks like he’s the most interesting thing in the world. She cuts in, barely keeping herself from grinning, “John, would you like to come outside with me?”

The expression that washes over him is purely grateful. “Please,” he says, with that tone he used to get when they were small children and their relatives would all fuss over him and Dad would ask him to guide Jade back to her room. She used to sneak out on purpose sometimes just to try to give him a break, though proportionally, this was much less often than the times she would sneak out just to try to feel normal. She threads her arm through his and leads him through the castle and out to the gardens. They don’t talk for a while, just looking around at all of the plants that are thriving under all her hard work. She wonders if they’re going to wither and die when she’s gone, or if someone will take over caring for them. Kanaya, she knows, is set to come with her to Derse, where Jade only hopes she won’t feel as isolated as Jade does here. When they get to the gazebo, they wordlessly take a seat on the little stone bench.

“So,” she starts, looking over at him with a teasing little grin. “I see that Vriska has finally taken an interest in you.” He groans, somewhere between embarrassment and frustration, and buries his face in his hands.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? You were so enamored with her only a year ago!”

He glowers at her, and she grins back. “Vriska isn’t interested in me. She’s interested in the king. If Dad had been a viable target she probably would have gone after him years ago. And I’m pretty sure she has something going on with Tavros.”

None of this strikes her as incorrect. That doesn’t mean that she isn’t his younger sister and doesn’t have at least some obligation to make fun of him.

“Well, you’re going to have to marry someone now that you’re king. It might as well be Vriska, since you were already obsessed with her.” His glare grows a little bit sharper, and she laughs.

“I wasn’t obsessed with her,” he eventually hisses, and he looks around like he’s worried someone else will be there to overhear him. Jade wouldn’t necessarily put it past Vriska to follow them to the gardens if she was that determined to have John’s attention, but if he’s right that it’s all a manipulation game, she’s also smart enough not to push that hard just yet.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll win her over,” she eventually says with a shrug. Then, with another wicked grin, she adds, “Maybe after you marry her.” He makes a sort of strangled noise at that and buries his face in his hands, and her laughter is loud enough that it echoes back at them off the stone walls surrounding the garden.

There’s a long moment of silence between them. Eventually, John pulls his face back out of his hands and looks out instead at the stars shining in the sky above them. They used to look at the stars together a lot, when they were younger. Grandpa would help them identify constellations. She always had an easier time remembering them than he did, but he had an easier time spotting them in the first place. They made for a good star-watching duo.

“What does it feel like to be king?” she asks, and she’s not sure if it’s curiosity or if she’s simply trying to redirect the emotions from her own nostalgia.

He laughs rather than answering her, and then asks, “What does it feel like to be engaged?” So much for redirecting. Whatever emotions she may have had about her childhood, the emotions she has about Dave and the arrangement with Derse are much more overwhelming.

“It’s not as horrible as I expected it to be,” she says eventually, and it feels like the truth. As much as she’s dreading going to Derse and potentially never seeing her family again, the engagement part of the arrangement has been… nice. Dave has been nice, which is more than she has ever been taught to expect.

“I could gather that much from your speech at dinner the other night,” he says, and her cheeks flush now. Before she has the opportunity to speak up and defend herself or even sink into the pits of embarrassment, he adds, “I’m glad that you seem happy. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other when you think no one is paying attention. Dad always wanted us to be able to choose who we would marry, and I didn’t want to lock you into a marriage you were going to be miserable in, even if you didn’t get to choose. So I’m glad.”

She considers this for a long moment. “It feels like I chose,” she says eventually, and John beams at her brighter than she’s seen him smile since their father first got sick. She feels guilty, but she hadn’t noticed how exhausted her brother seemed the last few months. He’d seemed so vibrant when he was talking to Dave. When she looks at him now, up close, there are bags under his eyes, poorly concealed by the same makeup they must be using to prop Dad up.

Before either of them can say anything else, there’s a rustling of leaves not far away, and she looks over to see Dave brushing a branch with a large purple flower out of his face. “So this is where you two ran off to.” John laughs and rubs at the back of his neck like he’s been called out for something.

“Are people looking for me?” he asks.

“Serket, maybe,” Dave says, and Jade shoots her brother another teasing smile. “Your father left. Not sure what sorta business a former king attends to right after his son’s coronation, but I guess he must have had something going on. I was looking for the princess, anyway.” She blinks a few times as she stares at him, and he grins. “People are dancing. I thought you might want to?”

She looks over at John like she’s asking for his approval, and he smiles at her before smacking his hands against his knees and standing up. “Do you think dancing with Vriska is going to cause some sort of national incident?” She rolls her eyes and elbows him in the ribs. “Hey! I’m the king now. That could be treason,” he teases, and she snorts.

“I would love to dance with you,” she says to Dave, and he holds out a hand toward her that she has to stride across the garden to take.

Much of the crowd from earlier has cleared out, and it makes it much easier to breathe. All of the villagers from the nearby town are gone, and she supposes that those who are going to the wedding tomorrow will need to be up extra early to get whatever chores or work they may have finished. The small orchestra tucked to one side of the room, perhaps half a dozen people holding string instruments, is in the middle of a song that many of the nobles around the room are dancing to. Vriska and her lady-in-waiting are nowhere to be seen, and Jade guesses they must be trying to find where John disappeared to. Karkat is gone, too, which is not especially surprising—he’s always hated crowds, had relished in the freedom his position as her personal guard had given him to escape them before he was a fully realized knight and he had obligations among the noble crowds she was forced out of.

Dave is still holding her hand, and he uses it to pull her in tight against him, slipping an arm around her waist. It is not a form of dance she is familiar with, but then, she doesn’t have a lot of experience with dancing. This is the first party of any sort that she’s ever been allowed to go to.

She’s never noticed how warm he is before. Her fingers have been cold her entire life, and his hands bleed warmth into her skin, but it’s more noticeable with the way the heat practically radiates off of his chest to her face. It invites her to sink her head down against his chest, and she lets herself fall for the temptation. He’s solid under her, but there’s still a sense of softness there, like a firm pillow. He’s not bony like she had for some reason expected him to be. She’s seen him with no shirt before, seen the muscular expanse of his chest, but when he’s all covered in formal clothing, he looks so lanky.

“Why did you seem so… detached, earlier?” she eventually asks, her voice low enough that she doesn’t think anyone else can hear it over the music, her head still against his chest where she can’t see his face. She can feel his breath hitch, though, and his hand tightens in hers ever-so-slightly. It feels like the seconds crawl on forever before he replies to her, his own voice just as low.

“We’re getting married tomorrow,” he says, and she holds her breath through the surge of anxiety that he’s having second thoughts because they’ve already had this conversation. After a moment of hesitation, he adds, “And then it’s off to Derse for the rest of our lives. Are you nervous?”

“A little,” she admits a bit too readily. He lets out a breath at that that she isn’t sure how to read, so she adds, “I think I’ll manage, though. I’ll have you and Karkat and Kanaya. I’ll miss John, but I’m sure he’s going to be so busy as king anyway that he wouldn’t have had time for me even if I’d stayed.”

“I can’t imagine him not making time for you,” he says, and there’s something about it that makes her feel like he’s trying to communicate something more than what he says, something that makes her heart squeeze in her chest. “Were you two… close, growing up?” he asks, and it strikes her as odd that they’ve never talked about it before.

“We… wanted to be. It was hard, with how locked up I always was. I did everything I could to make him pay attention to me or make him play with me, but especially when we were little, everyone always acted like I was so fragile, and then as we got older, he got so busy. I love him, but I’m not sure close is the right word for it. Were you and your sister?”

He pauses at this, like maybe he’s not sure exactly how to explain it. She can imagine the uncomfortable expression that she’s noticed he gets whenever his family comes up, and she wants to ask more but she doesn’t want to pry.

“When we were little, we were as close as two people could be.” For a minute, she thinks he’s going to stop there. She lifts her head to stare closely at his face and try to read into his every microexpression. It’s easier than it was three months ago, but it’s still not easy, especially with the way he refuses to look at her. “Eventually, when it started to become more obvious that I didn’t have any magic, our father started training me as a knight instead. He said that it was important I still find a way to be useful to our family. To be useful to Rose. She’s one of the most powerful mages Derse has ever produced, so it just made sense that she was the one who was going to inherit the throne, not me. We were less close, after that.”

Jade imagines for a moment a world where their father declared her the heir instead of John. She would be the first queen regnant in Prospit’s history. She wonders if John would resent her, in that world. He had spent so much of their childhood dreaming of some way that she might take the throne instead of him, but that was always in a world where she could never possibly do it. Would he feel differently if she could?

“Dad didn’t have favorites. I mean, it felt like he did, when we were children. Why was John allowed to run around and play and see people like a normal child while I was forced to hide in my room all of the time? Even when I was doing well, the only people my own age I was allowed to be around outside of our family were Karkat and eventually Kanaya, though even that was past the age where I really wanted to play games with other children…” She didn’t mean to complain, and she digs her teeth into her cheek for a second until her thoughts slow down again and she can force herself back on track. “But I realize now that he was just trying to protect me, in his own way. He was doing what he thought he had to to keep me safe.”

“I don’t think my father cares very much about keeping me safe,” he says bitterly.

“I didn’t mean…” she starts, but cuts herself off just as early. Being defensive isn’t going to help anything. She takes a deep breath and then cautiously says, “Our father is dying.”

The quiet that hangs over them after that feels oppressive. She’s finally done it—finally forced herself to admit the truth. How could she keep it from him, when he had been staring so intently at Dad all night? And she doesn’t want their marriage to be founded on a lie, anyway. The idea that this is just a political marriage so Prospit can get off scot-free without Derse realizing they could have won one over on them and so Jade can finally learn how to use the magic she was born with died weeks ago. Months ago, even. If Dave doesn’t love her, then she doesn’t want him to marry her, and that means that she doesn’t want to trick him, no matter what it costs.

“I know.”

And of course, all of that immediately turns on its head. He knows? Who told him? Why didn’t they tell her that they told him? “What?”

“I’ve known for a while. After my blunder at dinner that night that we went to the village, I started to suspect that something was up. I’m marrying the king’s daughter and he hasn’t even tried to talk to me? I’ve met farmers more protective of their goats than your father was of you.” She snorts, and then bites her lip to try to contain it. “After a couple of weeks, I asked John. And you know him, he couldn’t lie to me about it, so he told me the whole thing.”

She stares. He’s known for that long and he didn’t tell her? He’s known for that long and he’s still here? “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs, and they’re still pressed so tightly together she can feel it. “I figured if you wanted to talk to me about it then you would. If the only thing stopping you from telling me was that you thought Derse was gonna go to war over it, then once you got to know me and realized I would never do that to you, you’d have told me. So there must have been some other reason, and I wasn’t about to pry about it. Plus, I figured that John probably would have told you that he told me.” She sees one corner of his lip quirk up just slightly, and once her eyes are on his mouth, she can’t pull them away.

Slowly, carefully, she licks her lips and starts to lean up toward him. She’s close enough that she can see the outline of his eyes through his glasses, and she can see how wide they are, but he doesn’t make any move to pull away. She can feel his breath against her mouth when the sound of the doors opening suddenly echoes through the hall.

One of the guards with a deep, booming voice announces, “The royal family of Derse has arrived!” She feels every muscle in Dave’s body tense against her even as she reels back to stare toward the entrance. When she finally manages to look back at Dave, it’s as though someone’s ripped the soul from his body, leaving behind something… empty.

[quarmasworld]

First time writing a fic

Hello jonsa fam, this is my first time writing a jonsa fic (well, any kind of fic actually :D)

I wrote it without thinking of any particular couple but rereading it, I think it's perfect for them <3

I guess it could be interpreted either as wolfish!Jon meeting Sansa after the resurrection somewhere at Castle Black, or wolfish!Jon and Sansa right after having reconquered Winterfell together, when it's still in ruins. It's not that important, but i just wanted to give you a sort of timeline :D

Enjoy and let me know what you think!

P.s. it's written in jon's pov 😌

Her eyes were like black ink, almost translucent, looking at me as if I could be her salvation. Or her ruin. Like she wouldn’t have minded either way.

Her copper hair was a waterfall, bright and alive with every breeze coming through the window, every breath she took.

She turned to me and she was asking a silent question. “Will you set me free?”

And I wanted so bad to answer.

As the world turned dark and shadows were all around us, I gave her my hand, as an invitation, as a deal, as a curse.

She took it, and smiled at me, faintly, like she was whispering a prayer she could barely remember.

I grabbed her hand and she melted on me, around me, inside me. I’d never seen a beauty like hers, so quiet, so scary.

She looked me all over once, twice, then her mouth was on mine, harder than I thought she could be, kissing me like she was grasping for air, for a way out.

“I’ve been waiting for you” she seemed to be saying, while her pale hands explored my hair, my neck, my shoulders. She gasped as my own hands gripped her waist then her curls, tugging her head back so my mouth could taste the length of her neck. Salty, like she had been bathing in the ocean, or like all the tears I had been holding back had covered her like a gown.

Her defty fingers were working on my shirt as mine were uncovering her back, caressing it like velvet. She started kissing my chest, healing all my wounds and scars with her sweet lips, and i was torn between asking her to live there, just above my heart, or leave me and my demons alone forever.

She moved away from me for just one second, and I realised I could never survive that second option. She looked at me, catching her breath, her lips swollen and her hair a mess, and I thought she was like a vision in a dream I never wanted to wake up from.

She grabbed her sleeves and pulled, letting her gown slip from her shoulders and puddling on the dirty ground.

All around us were debris, broken glass and rust and dust, all melancholic, decadent beauty. But looking at her - her curves and plains and smooth skin - made the place look like a fine palace, carved from marble and perfect and infinite.

She reached for me again and threw herself at me, and she was everywhere: in my hair, in my heart, under my breeches, creeping up my soul.

The vision she was froze me to my feet, and I felt like I was soaring up up up, away from my body as she stared at me, keeping me there, tethered to her, while her hands moved down down down and she was tugging at the laces of my pants. They fell to the ground with a quiet noise that woke me up from the dream, plunging me back into reality as I gripped her wrist and stopped her movements.

“I’ll set you free” I wanted to scream, to shout into the night sky and to the moon, as I hoistered her up and gently set her down into the makeshift hay bed in the corner.

“I’ll set you free every day of my life, if you let me” I whispered into her skin as I moved down her body. Letting her soar high high high, reaching a place she’d never gone to before.

[divinitics]

— announcing her grace, 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐲𝐚 of house moraqos. the mysterious enchantress.

BASICS

birth name: saeleya moraqos nickname: saela title: lady of myr, daughter of the grand prince known as: the midnight sun / moon pearl age: thirty and two gender & pronouns: cis woman & she + her orientation: bisexual status: unwed & unbetrothed

APPEARANCE

faceclaim: anya chalotra height: 174 cm hair: onyx, as dark as midnight eyes: the darkest shade of violet

MIND

spoken language(s): common, low valyrian intelligence: more cultured than typically intelligent — street smarts are the name of the game. she embodies the art and beauty she so loves. moral alignment: chaotic neutral mbti: estp —  the entrepreneur temperament: melancholic

AESTHETICS

impeccably and divinely dressed, always — the sign of a fearsome moraqos daughter both off and on a ship cutting through the narrow sea; serene movements, slow and hypnotizing like crystalline blue seas, with the same ability to devour those brazen enough to come close; well-travelled and worldly, dark violet gaze were as unforgettable as her laugh; glistening olive skin against the brightness of the sun, mind unencumbered by the pressures of politics, for it is beauty that she seeks — beauty above all else; every step like a deliberate dance, every movement like fluttering silk.

BIOGRAPHY

it was almost impossible to forget saeleya moraqos once you've met her. the glistening tapestry of jewels around her neck and wrists told tales of her travels, and the silks upon her skin impeccably chosen and worn with care. born into a political dynasty, saeleya knew that there were many of her kin that jostled and rushed for the position of 'grand prince', to hold their head up high as they call the pearl palace their home — it had only affirmed her belief that her place will be somewhere far, far, away from the magister's court. it was fortunate then, that her family's investments in merchant ships and companies had only flourished over time. she had spent the better part of her year on the seas since childhood. first on the lap of her grandfather — himself a prince-admiral — then on the deck of the 'silver snake', the primary ship of her uncle's merchant fleet. it wasn't long in her young adulthood did her father ( then newly the grand prince ) gifted her with her own ship: the midnight sun. saeleya sails in the name of her father, the prince, as an escort to one of her siblings in diplomatic envoy, or in the name of house moraqos' trade dealings — always regaling delegates with her own tales of travel and adventure. fantastical and gripping tales were relayed in the same airy, matter-of-fact voice that slipped out of her lips quite like the flow of waves. all the while seated in robes of magnificent silver or skirts encrusted with the finest jewels — onyx hair down to her waist, oftentimes adorned with a string of white pearls. a series of half-truths were always accompanied by a secret smile, the rumours around her swirling around her like whirlpool — one she would never drown from. there were whispers in pentos that she had given away violet-eyed children as wards to noble houses, and rumours that she owned vast palaces in qarth. no one could ever be certain with saeleya, and she was not one to confirm nor deny a thing.

[imjustheretoseetheprivateblogs]

Sailor Moon Rare Pair Week Day 5: Real/Fake

@sailormoonrarepairweek

“And this will be your room.”

The bedroom wasn’t as big as Ikuko assumed it would be. Just about the size of the main floor of her house. She was expecting it to be more in the range of an airplane hangar.

“Is everything alright?”

Ikuko turned to look at the young lady who had been giving her a tour, dressed in a traditional French maid’s outfit, offset by her bright pink hair.

It was hard to believe that this woman worked for her daughter, who’s work ethic was one of her least exercised qualities.

“Oh, everything’s fine, uh…”

The maid curtsied.

“Stella, your ladyship.”

Ikuko frowned.

“You can just call me Ikuko-san if you like.”

“I see, Ikuko-san your ladyship.”

“Just Ikuko-san. Please.”

Stella frowned at her, clearly confused by what Ikuko had thought was a clear and innocuous request.

“But, aren’t you her majesty’s mother?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ikuko said, I” am her mother. But… I’d rather not have people stand on ceremony for me.”

Before Stella could respond, Ikuko’s fist hit her palm as she remembered something that she had been meaning to ask since she’d first met Stella to be taken on a tour of the palace (and her now royal daughter had left groaning about paperwork in a very familiar fashion).

“Would you mind checking on my husband? I thought he’d be here by now.”

Stella nodded.

“Of course, your l—Ikuko-san.”

Stella left the room, and as soon as the ornate doors had closed, Ikuko collapsed onto the bed.

Her daughter had a maid. Scratch that, she had enough maids to assign one to give Ikuko a tour. It was like falling into an alternate reality! Like that one movie…

A knock on her door stirred her from her thoughts. Ikuko sat up as one of her bedroom doors (it still felt odd calling it that) opened demurely and a familiar head poked inside, as if suspicious of what could lay within.

“Dear?”

“Thank God!”

Kenji staggered into and across the room, collapsing onto the bed beside his wife.

“I’ve been looking for you for hours!” he said, “this place is massive!”

“I know,” Ikuko said, laying down so her gaze met his, “what happened to your guide?”

“I think I lost him somewhere around the kitchen,” Kenji replied.

Ikuko had to chuckle at that.

“I just sent mine to go check up on you,” she said.

Kenji smiled at her words and his hand found hers to clasp.

“It’s all so strange.”

“I know,” Ikuko said, “It doesn’t feel real, does it?”

“One minute, we’re just like everyone else. And the next…”

“Our daughter is a queen,”

“Just yesterday, it seems like she was struggling to get her homework done.”

Ikuko leaned in and placed a kiss on his cheek.

“She’s still our little girl,” she said.

Kenji smiled, something warm and sweet that Ikuko recognized as something their daughter inherited and that she loved so much before he looked up at the ceiling.

“Think we’ll ever get used to living here?”

“Well,” Ikuko said, “you once asked me ‘think we’ll ever get used to being parents’ after Usagi turned one. And I think we did pretty well.”

Her husband shuffled to embrace her and the two of them lay on the enormous bed, just enjoying being an island together on its sheets.

“Stella must be worried that she can’t find you by now,” Ikuko said.

“Who’s Stella?”

“My… lady’s maid.”

“Well, if she needs me she can find me right here.”

“You’re such a sweet talker.”

“Actually, I don’t think I could find my way back to my room.”

Ikuko leaned up and kissed her husband’s cheek.

“Well, maybe Usagi will let us make this our room?”

[pynkhues]

omg i just read you arranged marriage kenstewy au fic in. i hope you are you still working on it!

(x)

Hi! I am, anon! Slowly but surely, as I seem to do with most things these days, haha. You can have another little snippet if you fancy ;-)

-

“Enjoying our gardens?”

It’s more an announcement of his presence than a question, after all, the gardens are the Queen’s domain, not his, and he doesn’t find himself out here as often as he knows Connor and Roman do. Both seem to like to revel in their offense at Marcia’s new direction of the gardens – apparently having dug up some of Connor’s mother’s dahlia’s and pruned their own mother’s Tudor Roses’ back to the hilt – conversations that tend to have both Kendall and Shiv looking to change the subject. He’s not even sure what Marcia’s ordered the gardeners to do since she wed their father, and he finds it hard to care when there are greater insults to bear – like the fact that their father allows her son, Amir, a place in court.

Not that that’s the point right now. The point is the man from the Hosseini party doesn’t so much as flinch at his presence, no, he merely casts him an offhand glance, fingers busy with the hashish he’s laid out in silk against one of the lower stone walls.  

“You can see the new Queen’s influence,” he says. “Or is this your father’s pride?”

Kendall blinks, and at the look, the man gestures out to a bed of delicate purple flowers with long orange tongues.

“All these spoils of war. You think saffron grows here on its own?”

With a shrug, Kendall sidles a little closer, gaze focused first on the way the man slowly and methodically sifts the hashish, before he feels himself fixing more on the guy’s hands. Long, broad fingers, neatly manicured nails. This close, he can smell the small mound of toasted sesame seeds and brown sugar waiting to be mixed with the herb, can smell something floral on the man beside him too, like he’d stepped fully formed from these foreign flowers in their palace gardens and not ridden days on horseback behind another nation’s prince.

“What, you some sort of horticulture fuck? The Hosseini’s trying to play big court by having a gardener play prince guard?”

The guy just looks amused at that, big brown eyes bright underneath the evening sky. Behind them somewhere, Kendall can hear the music starting from the Great Hall, a dancer’s waltz for Shiv and Sadegh, knows their father will make a show of watching them while Marcia, hawkish and shrewd, watches the other king watch him. A dance in a dance, while Connor, heir that he’s supposed to be, makes moon eyes at the courtesan across the floor. The thought chafes: dipshit. Still, Connor might not know how to make moves, but, Kendall thinks, he does.

“Seriously though. Cousin, political counsel, knight…” Kendall trails off, fishing for anything of value for their father, and the other guy just laughs, pinching at a bit of the hashish, dipping it in the sesame seeds and brown sugar, and popping it gracefully into his mouth

“Well, that depends on who’s asking,” the guy says, then, after a beat, he offers the silk set up to Kendall: “Snooping little princes can just call me Stewy.”

[anyavaramyr]

Love is blind

Antonio x Bassanio oneshot(by a very frustrated literature student who is v v tired)

A/n:- I don't know if you've noticed but I have no idea how to actually post a fic on tumblr, but I tried.@vaguely-tricksy here you go!

Antonio did not know why he was sad

That ache he felt in his chest sometimes was now a feeling that he had grown accustomed to, that deep longing for something he couldn't name but desperately longed for. But it was never physical this pain, it emanated from somewhere deep inside of him, a part of his heart telling him something in a language he did not understand.

When Salanio first implied that he might be in love, Antonio had scoffed. Love, he'd thought assuredly, was not something that was not meant for him. As a young child Antonio had dreamed of it of course, as any child does. Finding a beautiful wife that he loved and settling down in a quaint little house near the Grand Canal, just him, her and a little mini them that he would love with all his heart. But then his father died and the responsibility of looking after the family fell to him. He'd toiled and struggled to provide stability for his family, worked hard to get to the place he is now. But even after he had become one of the most esteemed merchants of Venice, Antonio did not contemplate love. He had his trading business to look after, a family would be too much affort at this age. Besides who even needed love when he had money and friendships that he would sacrifice anything for.

Now, standing in Belmont in Portia's majestic palace, Antonio looks around at his lovelorn friends and their lovely spouses and smiles warmly. Just because he didn't believe in love for himself, didn't mean he doesn't believe in love at all. He watches the happy couples around him; Jessica and Lorenzo, jubilant after finally being able to be together without hindrance from Shylock, Gratiano and Nerissa, the latter of which helped the Venician control his wayward tongue and rude comments and lastly at Portia and Bassanio, where he lets his eyes linger

Bassanio looked....happy. Truly, wonderfully happy with the woman he loved, and his heart grew warm at how merry he looked. The merchant had always loved it when Bassanio looked like that; his green eyes alight with joy, carefree and with a smile that could rival the sun with how bright it was. He would do anything to keep that expression on his dearest friend's face. But then he felt the ache in his chest creep up again, wrapping its tendrils around him at the way Bassanio looked at Portia like she was his whole world. It was always him, Antonio remembered, that made Bassanio smile like that. And then suddenly, all at once, something in him clicked.

Antonio knew Bassanio would not be able to repay the loans he gave him, he knew that Bassanio was reckless with his money and liked to live more lavishly than he could afford to and he knew that if he continued to give him loans he would eventually run into some trouble. But he still did. Because it was Bassanio and Antonio would find a way to steal the moon from the night sky, uncaring of it's consequences, if he desperately wanted it. He would give him anything he wanted, even if it meant accepting a grant from his greatest rival.

When the news of his imminent execution reached Antonio, he did not think of writing to one of the many lawyers he knew; he did not bother calling his friends in high society or begging Shylock to show him mercy. No, instead he wrote to Bassanio to come home to Venice. Because if he was going to die, he wished to do so after seeing his closest companion one last time. He wished to leave this world, knowing Bassanio would be alright and he wished to take the memories of those last moments with him when he finally departed from this world.

Antonio could feel his breathing quicken as realization rushed through him, as he figured out why all his life he'd always strived towards his best friend's well being. He felt his pulse thrum and his heart pound in his ears as he finally came to an understanding as to why that perfect picture of a family he'd had in his childhood didn't suit his fancy anymore. Because now when he thought of happiness he didn't think of an unnamed beautiful woman who would smile up at him with love in her eyes. Now he thought of Bassanio.

The heart of the famed merchant of Venice could not belong to any woman, for it had already been stolen by the man Antonio called his soulmate.

Antonio now knew why he was so sad, and he was starting to wish he really didn't.

I fr need help if this is what I've been doing in my past time. Which I have so. Pls suggest a therapist. Also took some creative liberties with Antonio's past(forgive me Shakespeare).

[bandeliermusic]

Ryan’s 15th Annual Favorite Music Revue - 2024

Annual Preface: These albums I thoroughly enjoyed, with the top 10 often on repeat throughout the year. While I am not sure if these are the best albums, they are most certainly my personal favorites. I tend to gravitate towards songwriters, lyrics, and strong melodies—melody is king. I hope you enjoy the records shown below as much as I did, and I truly appreciate anyone who takes the time to check them out. I'd love to know what your top few new albums were this past year. Let me know! Happy trails and happy listening.

Top Favorites:

1. Laughing - Because It's True This record felt like a kaleidoscope of sound, blending genres from multiple decades into a unified, cohesive masterpiece. The sense of melody was magnetic, tying the experimentation together beautifully.

2. Gillian Welch, David Rawlings - Woodland Two of my all-time favorite songwriters deliver again, this time with a relaxed, playful energy. Their trading of melodies and songs, coupled with the warm embrace of pedal steel, made this one unforgettable.

3. JD McPherson - Nite Owls Dark, cinematic, and literary, this album hooked me from the start. JD McPherson's storytelling shines, with rich melodies taking you on an atmospheric journey.

4. Vampire Weekend - Only God Was Above Us A surprising delight. This album struck a balance between their early sound and new experimental horizons, with a strong nod to the Beach Boys' influence.

5. Waxahatchee - Tigers Blood Katie Crutchfield's voice becomes an instrument in itself, carrying haunting, modern Americana tunes. Every song here is deeply felt and carefully crafted.

6. Laura Marling - Patterns in Repeat Raw, heartfelt, and achingly beautiful, this album dives deep into universal emotions with a parent’s perspective. Marling continues to prove she's a true musician and storyteller.

7. Bonny Light Horseman - Keep Me on Your Mind/See You Free This double record doesn’t quite reach the heights of their previous work, but it's still a melodic treasure trove. Each song feels lived-in and lovingly crafted.

8. Futurebirds - Easy Company A return to form with melody-first songwriting, electrifying country-rock guitars, and pedal steel. The album’s driving energy is balanced by its undeniable heart.

9. Advance Base - Horrible Occurrences Few albums make me stop in my tracks with their lyrics like this one. Melancholic yet oddly funny, the songs are like mini-movies wrapped in perfect melodies.

10. Mount Eerie - Night Palace Phil Elverum's cinematic sensibility is unmatched. The spacious soundscapes on this record create an otherworldly listening experience, rooted in poignant emotion.

Other Albums I Enjoyed (Alphabetical):

Adrianne Lenker - Bright Future

Allegra Krieger - Art of the Unseen Infinity Machine

Angelica Garcia - Gemelo

Babehoven - Ella's From Somewhere Else

Beachwood Sparks - Across the River of Stars

Ben Seretan - Allora

Beth Gibbons - Lives Outgrown

Beyonce - Cowboy Cater

Billie Eilish - Hit Me Hard and Soft

Chetes, Calexico - Polvo De Estrellas

Chuck Johnson - Sun Glories

Cindy Lee - Diamond Jubilee

Father John Misty - Mahashmashana

Friko - Where We've Been, Where We Go From Here

Gabby Moreno - Dusk

Good Looks - Lived Here for a While

Heley Heyndreickx - Seed of a Seed

Hermanos Gutierrez - Sonido Cosmico

h. pruz - No Glory

Hovvdy - Hovvdy

Hurray for the Riff Raff - The Past is Still Alive

Jake Xerxes Fussell - When I'm Called

Jessica Pratt - Here in the Pitch

John Moreland - Visitor

Johnny Blue Skies, Sturgill Simpson - Passage Du Desir

Johnny Cash - Songwriter

Khruangbin - A La Sala

Laura Marling - Patterns in Repeat

Lord Buffalo - Holus Bolus

Minor Moon - The Light Up Waltz

Nick Cave and the Wild Seeds - Wild God

Phosphorescent - Revelator

Rosali - Bite Down

Sam Outlaw - Terra Cotta

Sarah Shook & the Disarmers - Revelations

Shannon & The Clams - The Moon is in the Wrong Place

Sierra Ferrell - Trail of Flowers

Sierra Spirit - Coin Toss

St. Vincent - All Born Screaming

SUSS - Birds & Beasts

The Decemberists - As It Ever Was, So It Will Be Again

The Deep Dark Woods - Broadside Ballads Vol. III

The Makers Out - Bloodlines/Hope

Waxahatchee - Tigers Blood

Wilco - Hot Sun Cool Shroud

Wild Pink - Dulling the Horns

Willie Watson - Willie Watson

Thank you for reading through my 15th annual music revue! If you find something here that resonates with you, let me know! What were your top albums of the year? I’m always looking for new recommendations. Until next year—happy trails and happy listening!

[roxsannel]

Lucky Stars by Fantasia Yu.

Princess Mora is a young woman with a bright future, but that future is not necessarily the one she wants, but her royal duties come first and so she heads off to meet her future and the ones who were in charge of organising it, but Mora cannot stand convention and is always looking for an adventure. This time, the adventure finds Mora when she meets someone who works on the Moon she is visiting, but this person is much more interesting than the official events she has to attend, so on a whim, she decides to go on a tour to somewhere which was not on the official itinerary.

It is on this tour that she meets the dashing pilot Darin O’Joy, a rapscallion of the highest order, a bad boy and someone born with charm by the bucket load and Mora is immediately drawn to him, so when he agrees to take her sightseeing, she is overjoyed at the prospect of spending more time with him. Unfortunately, the rest of her party want her to come back to the Moon Palace and continue with her duties, but when opportunity knocks, Mora is more than inclined to take it.

Amid tours of the Moon she is visiting, attacks by space pirates and discovering fantastical people, beasts and places, Mora is torn by her official life and her current more adventurous one, not to mention that she hasn’t actually told Darin that she is a princess, which could cause some issues if she isn’t careful. What will Mora do, follow her duty, or follow her heart? This is a fantasy romance in a space age world which is full of excitement, adventure and space based shenanigans which will pull you in and leave you wanting more.

[why-what-no]

Morpheus Having A Sweetheart!God Spouse Would Include

Pairing: Morpheus x God!Reader

Warnings: None

Notes: You got the sweetheart!human headcanons, now you’ve got the sweetheart!god headcanons

Requested By: @miraclesabound @mahirublue @agomeangelcat @jar-of-moondust

Morpheus's lover, the completely opposite of him in every way. 

You were cheerful while he was cold, full of life while he looked down on so many things. With an aura of sunshine, always trying to positive. 

None of Morpheus's friends thought it would work out between the two of you, knowing how he was. 

However, they failed to realize how much happiness your presence brought him. How you could always make him smile

That while you wouldn't make him change his ways, despite the fact that you were as different as the moon and the sun, the two of you loved each other for who you were. 

You came up to him one day in the palace, a bouquet of flower's in your hand. Handing it to him with a grin, he took them gently. 

"What are these for, my love?" He asked, looking at the pretty plants quizzically. "Have I forgotten a special occasion?" 

But you just shook your head, looking delightedly at your beautiful lover. "No, I just wanted to give you flowers."

He kept those flowers in his office since then, using his powers to make sure they wouldn't wilt. 

When you were gone visiting friends in other realms, Morpheus was grumpier that usual. And when he was gone, you were a little less bright than usual.

But when you were with him in the Dreaming, he always enjoyed your company. Everyone throughout his realm always had happier dreams whenever you returned. 

He even didn't mind your habit of bringing things back with you, usually potted plants, or pretty objects, and even stray animals back to the Dreaming

The pets was where Morpheus would attempt to draw the line, but he had an impossible time saying no to you

You arrived in the dreaming, a handful of baby ravens in your arms, speaking to them like you would for a small child.

"Dearest?" The exasperation was clear in Morpheus's voice. But also, you could tell he was having a hard time trying not to chuckle. "What do you have in your arms?" 

"Baby ravens. Their mama was hit by a car." You tilted your arms to show them to him. "I figured Matthew could help with them, since he's a raven too." 

"Matthew is a raven of the Dreaming. Those, are wild animals." Morpheus responded with a raised eyebrow. But at the disappointed look on your face, he smiled softly and continued. "But I'm sure there's a place for them somewhere in the Realm."

The look on your face when he gave in was worth it. And he would admit, the birds were sort of endearing. 

Not nearly as endearing as he thought you were, however.

Taglist: @stygianoir @minetticatinwonderland , @fangirlmary , @absbdbshhs @kiki13522

[aphroditesmoon]

what about being jace's childhood crush, then to disappear for a few years only to return to dragonstone as a full-fledged noble lady? i know it's a really common concept but the idea of shy Jace trying to approach his former (and current) crush makes me all giddybdkdkdndn

go as a dream

jacaerys velaryon x reader

warnings: none

a/n: sorry I took so long!! I've been so busy these days w school

°°°

The first time he met you, he caught you stealing lemon cakes made for his mother in the kitchen and you punched him in the face before running away with a basket of lemon cakes when he threatened to tell the kitchen maids.

From that moment onward, he was a man in love, a man of age ten and two.

The next and last time he met you was during his thirteenth name day. You had all of your hair up in braids and a deep blue dress that seemed almost black in the dark. Luckily the moon shone bright that night, illuminating on your skin as he finds you by a lake outside the palace feeding fishes.

"They bite you know." His attempt to suprise you had not work, his shoes have already alerted you of his presence moments ago.

"They bite you, my prince." He snorted at your response as he moves to sit next to you.

"Give me some?" He offers to help.

Your head snaps at his direction and your eyes meet, for the first time ever, he has the opportunity to really study your face.

And you were more beautiful up close compared to the incomparable sketch in his dreams that appears every night when he sleeps.

You frown at first, not understanding what he's doing here with you instead of inside the feast laid out for him.

"You should be inside, I'm sure many efforts were put into this feast for you." You suggest casually, turning away from his stare.

"Only if you come with me." His boldness was admirable, you almost had a sense of respect for him because of that.

"Is that an order from my prince?" You raised your eyebrows and he sighs.

"For a little girl you are quite stubborn." You reel back suprised.

"Me-? Well for a little boy you are quite up your own arse." He bursts out laughing and buries his face on his knees.

His reaction was unexpected but contagious as you can't help laughing along.

Soon both of you went back in, meeting the gaze of his worried mother, the princess Rhaenyra.

"Will you dance with me?" He asks suddenly.

When you only stare at him he continues; "My mother is going to drag me somewhere to lecture me about my duty or something, but she can't if I'm already occupied."

Understanding fills you in as you nod slowly. "And if your mother is willing to wait until we're done to lecture you anyways?" You question.

He grins at you mischievously while pulling you to the center to dance. "Then I hope you're prepared to spend the whole night with your feet on the ground and arms in mine."

His mother was in fact, willing to wait until the whole feast was finished to scold him for disappearing. She unfortunately did not forget about it like he hoped she would.

But he could not care less about it, not when the warmth of you palms on his shoulder still burns through. His mother would laugh if he told her, and his brother would jest about it.

But he really did believe she was the most amazing girl in the seven kingdoms, the smartest and prettiest, your beauty rivaling the moon's, and your sharp tongue that never fails to put him in his place while making him feel butterflies. He would find you tomorrow again, he swore.

Though unfortunately, the promise was never fulfilled, as that was the last time he ever saw you. As entranced as he was to you, He did not know or asked of your family house, therefore couldn't find you.

Years passed and he finds himself grown and over his silly infatuation as more concerning issues starts to present himself. Yet some nights he admits, you cross his mind as a part of his happier youth.

And today was one of the moments. He had woken from dreaming of you. a jumbled confusing dream, but of you nonetheless.

Your face plagued his mind longer than he would like, distracted by the memory you two shared, he couldn't get a single task done.

A whole day wasted of his head being plagued by the memory of his childhood crush. Reminded of lords arriving to dragonstone tomorrow for renewal of their pledges and alliance, he forces himself to clear his mind and fall into sleep.

°°°

His brother stormed through his room running towards his peacefully sleeping body and shook him awake.

"Go away you rat" He whines as Lucerys kept shouting something he can't be bothered to listen to.

Pushing a pillow on his face triggered Lucerys to become louder, earnings a groan from Jacaerys.

He removes the pillow and looked at him with puffy eyes.

"Hm? What'd you say?" He asked groggily earning an annoyed sigh from his brother.

"I said, They're here Jace, mother's waiting for you!" Immediately his eyes widen and he scrambles for the bath to clean himself as he curses himself for his irresponsibility.

°°°

He barges into the council room muttering an apology as he takes his heat. His mother sent him a disapproving look before continuing as if she wasn't interrupted by his entrance.

"As I was saying, the oath pledge ceremony will take place this evening, I've already had my maids make accomodations for yours and your daughter's room, I hope you will find it adequate enough my Lord."

The lord laughs and waves her off. "Of course of course, we are indebted for such hospitality, our house will always side with you Princess."

Jacaerys' felt in awe of the loyalty shown in front of him, seeing how many allies have pledge themselves to his mother proved how much his mother deserves to be Queen.

The council was dismissed and as everyone leaves, Jacaerys rushes to get up and join them before Rhaenyra calls out to him.

"Sit here Jace."

He sighed, defeated.

°°°

The lecture has drained him to be honest, but the feast tonight must be attended, it's in the honor of the lords that has come tonight,

It would be unseemly if the crown prince didn't attend.

As he walks inside the hall, heads bow at his direction, he greets some lord's before taking his place at the dinner table.

His mother stands up to make a toast thanking and reassuring the lords of their alliance while he scans the crowd and spots a particular lord from the council meeting this morning and who he assumed was her daughter.

His daughter.

Jace stands up abruptly, his chair making a loud screech noise, and all eyes turns to him in an awkward silence.

His mother looks confused as she asks her son if he's alright.

"I.." He relaxes his heartbeat before waving off the concerned eyes of his mother.

"I apologize, I thought I saw...a bee." unconvincingly he states and sit back down and the eyes slowly leaves him.

All eyes except yours. Directly looking at him, you gift him with a kind smile, one he reciprocate before turning his attention back to the toast.

As the feast official starts, Jace barely eats anything but some cake and wine, wanting to hurry to find you. His brother notices his odd behavior and frowns at him.

"What the hell is wrong with you today, you're acting like you got a bug in your pants of something."

"I'm fine." He says without meeting his eye, basically chugging down his wine, for confidence, he assures himself.

His eyes scans the dancing crowds and stops at the sight of you and ser Erryk Cargyll together.

He had his arm linked with yours as the two of you danced together, and Jace almost jumps off the table to drag ser Erryk away from you.

Of course , he contains himself and walks towards you instead.

Your gaze met his and you didn't look suprised, almost as if you've been waiting for him.

Ser Erryk excuses himself leaving the two of you together.

You give him a small smile and he beams at the sight of it.

"Well, you're going to dance with me until my shoe falls off again or what?" Your voice sent shivers down your spine. The same teasing tone and sarcasm still runs through you. He was glad.

"I will, though, I suggest you prepare yourself, I don't plan on letting you go so easily like last time."

Your smile softens and you take his hand in yours as the two of you slowly move more to the center.

"I should hope not."

His eyes does not leave yours once, and you revel in his attention.

"I looked for you. After you left, but I didn't know who you were, so I couldn't find you." He confesses as the two of you dance in slow turns, arms linked like old times.

"You did?" You asked suprised and he nods.

"I had to leave back that morning, I didn't know you would come to find me, or else I'd ask to say goodbye first." You assured him.

"I know, but it doesn't matter, we're both here now, all grown up, yet still in our old ways. And you should know that now I have you, you'll never be rid of me ever." You laugh at his words and shook your head.

"Oh you still have your head up your arse is it? Well you would do well to know I don't plan on leaving, We'll be residing here from now on, and you'll be seeing so much of me you'll wish you'd take your words back " You jest, wiggling your eyebrows.

He looks at you with such intensity you feel your heart speed up.

"I would never tire of you."

[velidewrites]

Waterfire | Chapter 1

Summary: An unexpected request from the new High Lord of the Autumn Court unravels a series of events that are sure to leave Tarquin's heart changed forever.

Pairing: Tarquin x Eris Vanserra

Word Count: 5k

Note: Dedicating this to @abraxos-and-ataraxia who put me onto this elite ship <3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

The waves crashed softly against the shore, carrying the salty breeze that molded the castles of Adriata.

With the sandstone city spread below him, Tarquin allowed himself to linger in the moment, content to let the fresh scent of the sea caress the power that coursed through his veins. Standing on a balcony perched on one of the the lower levels of the palace, he could still take in the view in its entirety, hear the happy squeals of gulls as they flapped over the gleaming stone and bustling streets.

It was comforting to see Adriata like this—tranquil, undisturbed by war. Even the sky was cloudless above it, as if determined to cast as much sunshine as possible over the healing city. Indeed, soft, afternoon light was draped over the buildings, making it seem as though their tan stone had been replaced with nothing but pure, iridescent gold. Stretching onto the half-moon bay, the sun shimmered off the sea, playing with the turquoise water in the final hours of daylight. Adriata seemed to bask in peace—the sounds of battle long gone, replaced by the gentle whisper of waves. 

The thought shimmered deep inside him—a sun of its own, giving life to the High Lord of the Summer Court. Tarquin could only hope the rest of his Court would heal as quickly as Adriata had—and that happiness would be restored at last.

Over a year had passed since the war with Hybern, though Tarquin had been High Lord long enough to know it would take years—if not decades—for the world to forge itself anew. With the advantage of being in a position of power, he’d been working tirelessly to ensure Prythian would not only recover, but progress. 

He’d be lying if he’d said working hadn’t helped him, too. Focusing his efforts on helping his Court—the people under his protection—had been gratifying to say the least. It was the knowledge that his rule would make a difference, Tarquin supposed. That when his time came, he would leave the Summer Court—and perhaps, the world—a better place.

Uniting his people was the ultimate goal. He dreamed of a Court where all Fae—High or Lesser—would work and exist together as equals. Only then Summer would thrive, in nothing but blissful peace. Tarquin believed in leading by example—and so, he’d started by opening his borders to all those seeking refuge after the War. Encouraging his citizens to welcome whoever was in need of help, and accommodate them in the Summer Court—with the full support of its rulers.

Now, after months of work, pride filled his very soul as he watched his lands become the place that Fae from all over Prythian considered home—or at the very least, a safe haven where they could lead their lives in undisturbed peace. Tarquin could only hope it was there to stay, that no storms would plague the sea that enveloped his borders.

A tingling sensation around his feet pulled him out of his thoughts as the sea breeze carried the sand onto the balcony, warm and golden as it settled on the stone. Tarquin did not mind the intrusion, finding himself wishing for the wind to carry him to a beach somewhere far away instead.  A much more appealing option than being forced into the meeting that has been on his mind ever since he received the request a week ago.

As if conjured straight out of Tarquin’s thoughts, a servant entered the office, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight that poured into the room from the open doors of the balcony. “My lord,” the male bowed before announcing, “the High Lord of the Autumn Court is here.”

Stepping out of the balcony, Tarquin sighed. “Send him in,” he ordered. Once again, the servant bowed before making his way out, leaving his High Lord to the distant crashing of waves outside.

With a single motion of his hand, the balcony doors shut with a soft click, the room instantly a shade darker with only the windows to allow in the light. Fixing the sleeves of his tunic, white and lined with golden thread, Tarquin noted a few grains of sand grazing the stone floor, undoubtedly brought in under the soles of his shoes. The thought of having a piece of the beach with him brought unexpected comfort, and he rolled the tension back from his shoulders, silently promising himself to go for a midnight swim once this was all over.

Too soon, the servant returned—this time, with company. “Eris Vanserra, my lord.” 

“Thank you, Ilios,” Tarquin offered in dismissal. With a deep, final bow, Ilios was gone, and the High Lord of Summer turned his attention to a guest he’d never thought would enter the place he called his home.

Eris nodded, his bright, red hair catching a glimpse of the afternoon sun. He’d cut it short since he’d last seen him—short enough to display the arched ears. He had a small freckle just near the top. “Tarquin. It’s been a while,” Eris said in a manner of greeting. After so many months, he’d had forgotten the sound of his voice—rich yet smooth, like fresh honey dripping down the comb.

“Indeed,” Tarquin agreed, gesturing to the centre of the room, where two armchairs had been set up for their meeting. Draped in velvets of deep blue and purple, the chairs sat opposite a round coffee table, coated in tinted glass that reflected light of too many colours to register at once. The room’s interior had not been one he’d choose for himself, but there was a reasoning behind opting for Cresseida’s office for this particular meeting. His own space was situated on the higher levels of the palace, and he’d had been reluctant to allow Eris to see into rooms that could potentially hold secrets Tarquin did not trust his visitor with.

Taking the blue chair, Tarquin took the opportunity offered by their momentary silence to finally take in his guest. Eris had only been High Lord for little over a month, but Tarquin knew from personal experience it could take mere days to carve the effects of such responsibility in the features of one who bore it.

Usually twisted in cruelty, as Tarquin had so well remembered from Under the Mountain and long after, Eris’s face now betrayed signs of the kind of tiredness only a fellow High Lord could notice. The slight furrow of his brows, for instance, drawn together in constant worry. The circles under his eyes, a shade darker than his pale skin, begging for sweet rest that could not be satisfied by sleep.

His lips. The last time he’d seen them, they were curved up in a mocking sneer—Eris’s usual manner of carrying himself through conversation, one that Tarquin had readied himself for all week since the High Lord of Autumn had requested an audience. Now, those lips formed a thin line as Eris’s eyes landed on his, their shining amber the only thing that seemed not to have been affected by his new role—amber, watchful and full of focus.

“I understand condolences are in order,” Tarquin finally spoke.

A small gleam of those sharp eyes, barely noticeable as Eris leaned back in his seat. “Yes. Quite the tragedy.”

Having personally observed Beron’s cruelty Under the Mountain, Tarquin could hardly express such sentiment. Instead, he forced out the only truth he had to say on the matter. “High Lord or not, an assassination is an atrocity that has no place in an era of peace.”

He truly had believed that. Tarquin would hate to admit an exception to the rule. Though, he supposed, the act had already been done, and some cruel part of him knew he’d be lying if he said Beron’s death hadn’t brought him some relief.

Amber eyes surveyed him watchfully. “Trust that I have my best spies working to uncover those responsible.”

Tarquin may have been a pacifist, but he was hardly a fool. There was no doubt in his mind that the person responsible was sitting right in front of him. Still, he played the game, offering whatever truths he could scrape to satisfy the conversation. “I do hope your mother is doing alright. After centuries by Beron’s side, it must be a painful loss.”

“We were all quite shaken,” Eris agreed, though not a shred of sorrow lingered in his gaze. Nor did remorse, for that matter.

Tarquin tensed, drawing his focus aways from the eyes that clearly offered nothing but lies and fake pleasantries. Eris may not have been High Lord for a long time, but growing up and serving under Beron had seemed to have done its job. He hated this part, Tarquin thought. The scheming and pretending. The way it had become such an integral part to politics. No world of peace could be built on the foundation of lies. They were too weak, too loosely woven to offer any stability. Any truth in happiness.

Instead, Tarquin turned his attention to the sea breeze beyond the walls that had now seemed too tight, sheltering the room from the world beyond them. Beneath invisible hands of his magic, the windows opened, letting the salty scent infuse the air, a flicker of comfort under the stiff atmosphere that had managed to fill the room.

He let his eyes shift back toward Eris. “Still, I feel compelled to offer my congratulations. You’ve been Second to your father long enough. I am sure you’re looking forward to your certainly lengthy rule.”

Amber eyes gleamed with challenge. “It is a responsibility I do not take lightly, High Lord,” Eris warned before adding, “I do hope both of our rules are as lengthy as they are fruitful. I would hate to see them ended as abruptly as my dear father’s had been.”

Tarquin’s jaw tightened. “Is that a threat, Vanserra?”

Finally, that mocking smile he’d been waiting for, the sight enough for Tarquin to grit his teeth. “On the contrary. It is merely an extension of my best wishes.”

“Is that what you’ve come here for, then? To offer your best wishes?”

Eris leaned forward in his seat. Pleasantries were over, it seemed, as even the seagulls behind the closed terrace doors had gone quiet. His gaze fixed on him, gleaming like a sizzling flame, and Tarquin was suddenly reminded that with his new role, Eris acquired more than merely a title. Fire, the thought burned inside his mind. He commanded the element, almost as cruel and unpredictable as his kind was known to be. As if in answer, Tarquin’s power rushed through his body with the force of waves rising from an ocean, ready to put out any fire that threatened burn his Court to the ground.

Red eyebrows jolted in surprise, and for a second, Tarquin wondered if Eris could hear the magic that screamed to flood the room around them—an ability that should not have been possible, and yet…

The fire died out, and Eris merely propped himself up on the soft arms of the chair. “Times are different now,” he said, fingers caressing the purple velvet. “As you said, this is an era of peace. I only wish to return the Autumn Court to what it once had been.”

Feeling his power settle back to a steady course, Tarquin asked carefully, “Which is what, exactly?”

“Let’s not pretend my father’s best interest laid in the well-being of his Court,” Eris drawled. “Autumn deserves a ruler that looks after his people, not himself.”

Tarquin said very quietly, “And I suppose that ruler is you?”

Eris cocked his head, red hair glinting with unruffled grace. “I’m the only choice left, aren’t I?”

“I’m sure there are a lot more Vanserras out in this world, Eris.”

For the first time since he’d set foot in Adriata, Eris smiled, amber eyes shining with unfeigned amusement. “You are not what I expected, High Lord of Summer.”

He didn’t know why, but he corrected, “Tarquin.”

Eris hummed, as if weighing the word on his tongue. “Tarquin.”

He leaned back in his seat, a new sensation tingling in his chest, much like the sand that had caressed his feet earlier. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s say you are what your Court needs—”

“That is not something for you to question,” Eris interrupted.

His mouth twisted to the side. “You have come to my Court for a reason, High Lord,” Tarquin said. “Clearly, you want something from me. I will question whatever I please to decide if you’re worth my help.”

Eris’s smile sharpened. “I’ve got to say, this visit is far more enjoyable than I anticipated.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” Tarquin only said.

Amber eyes studied him for a moment. “I haven’t decided yet.”

A fresh wave of salty air whooshed into the office, clearing his mind and grounding him in his seat. “What do you want from me, Eris?”

Eris leaned back. “I told you. I’d like to ask your help in rebuilding my Court.”

Tarquin suppressed a huff. “How do you plan on doing that? You and I both know your father had not left much to rebuild. Beron was blinded by power and poorly chosen alliances. His mistakes left your citizens in search for a new home, well away from Autumn’s borders. Many of them found it in my own. I cannot blame them. Your Court is known for cruelty like no other.”

He watched as Eris’s smile faded. “Autumn and Summer are neighbours. With your pacifist ways, I thought you’d be the first to wish to strengthen the relationship between our Courts.”

Tarquin clenched his jaw. “There is no relationship to strengthen. Your father made sure of that.”

Eris’s face tightened. “I am not my father.”

“I’m not sure your people would agree. There is a reason they had chosen to stay in the safety of my borders rather than returning to their home.”

Utter silence filled the room as the ever-present fire died out from Eris’s amber eyes. For a moment, Tarquin wondered if he had gone too far.

“Eris—”

“Don’t,” he only said, rising from his seat. “Your lack of trust is misplaced, but understandable. With time, you might see a worthy ally in me and my Court, rather than a reflection of Beron and his pitiful choices. I only ask that that you hear me out. You don’t need to give me a chance, but perhaps you may extend that courtesy to the Autumn Fae you’re so graciously harbouring within your borders.” Tearing his gaze away from Tarquin, Eris turned to the door before adding, “I’ll take my leave tomorrow. If you change your mind before then, you know where to find me.”

And with that, Eris left.

He cursed himself for it, but Tarquin wished he’d stay.

***

The Princess of Adriata found him lingering in her office minutes after the sun had set under the horizon.

“You’re still here?” Cresseida asked in her usual manner of greeting.

Tarquin sighed, turning away from the balcony to face her. “I needed to think.”

A shadow played on the corners of her lips, teasing to curve them up in a smile. “Vanserra give you a hard time?” she mocked.

He grimaced. “Something like that.”

“Oh?” Cresseida mused, plopping down on the purple chair. Tarquin’s eyes followed, as if they could still see the way Eris’s form stilled in the velvety seat, his eyes dimming upon hearing the harsh words leave Tarquin’s Cauldron-damned mouth. He blinked the image away, returning his focus to the female before him.

“He wants us to ally with his Court. Offer our help in rebuilding it.”

Cresseida’s white brows furrowed. “By doing what, exactly?”

Shame washed over him as he admitted, “I don’t know. I didn’t give him a chance to explain.”

Blue eyes widened in shock. “What?”

“Look, I—” Tarquin sighed. “I don’t like this situation. Beron was known for his scheming, and Eris is no better. You should see the way he talks, Cresseida. He’s too calculating, too secretive. Plus, I’m pretty sure he killed his father.”

His cousin rolled her eyes. “So? Someone had to do it eventually. Kudos to him for having the guts.”

“Cresseida—”

“No, Tarquin,” she pressed. “You keep talking about your equality, your peace. It’s a noble sentiment, but open your eyes. This is no peace. Adriata was destroyed twice in less than a century. If—when—another war comes, we will not be ready to protect this Court again. We could use an ally.”

“There are other Courts to ally with,” Tarquin countered.

“Oh, please,” the Princess scoffed. “No matter what undying promises of allegiance they lay at our feet, the Solar Courts will fight for each other before they bother to look past their mountains. Winter is still in ruin after Under the Mountain. Spring has already fallen, Tamlin alive or not. Most of the Court lives in Summer now. Autumn is our neighbour. They could be useful.”

Tarquin’s lips pressed together in a tight line. “Forming an official alliance with another Court could send the wrong message,” he argued.

“So don’t make it official,” Cresseida offered. “Help him rebuild his Court or whatever it is that Eris Vanserra wants these days. A favour for a favour. I do not care if you don’t trust him, Tarquin. You’ve been High Lord long enough to understand that peace is temporary, and that in times like this, your duty is to your people first.”

He considered for a moment before he said, “I still don’t know what favour it is he wants from me. Rebuilding his Court could mean anything. Sending resources, establishing trade routes…”

“So find out,” Cresseida demanded. “And don’t let those pretty eyes distract you this time.”

Tarquin’s brows rose. “Pretty eyes?”

“What?” she protested, a faint blush now staining her cheeks. “Eris might be a Vanserra, but he’s as attractive as he is cruel.”

“Cauldron, Cresseida,” Tarquin sighed. “Please don’t tell me you did not just make this whole speech because you want Eris to visit Adriata more often.”

She huffed. “I didn’t. I actually care about the future of this Court, you asshole.”

“Careful, cousin,” Tarquin warned, though a smile began forming on his lips. “I still am your High Lord, you know.”

She rolled her eyes at him once more. “Then be a High Lord and find out what it is exactly that Eris Vanserra wants from you. Or, more importantly, what it is you want from him.”

The image of those amber eyes sparkled in his mind again.

Mother spare him.

***

For a city of the shining sun, golden beaches and shimmering seas, Adriata was nothing less than exquisite as it basked in soft, pale moonlight.

The view from Tarquin’s bedroom offered the most spectacular views of it all, yet he found that not even the gentle caress of silvery light over the sleeping sea could calm his raging mind.

I am not my father, Eris’s words hummed in his head with every loud thud of his heart.

I only ask that that you hear me out.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

You don’t need to give me a chance.

Oh, but he wanted to.

You know where to find me.

“My lord?” a voice sounded behind him.

Taquin whipped back, torn from the honeyed voice that seemed to stick to his lungs, blocking the air out until he could hear it again.

“Ilios,” he sighed in relief. “What are you doing here at this time?”

“My apologies, High Lord,” the male bowed. “It appears you have a visitor.”

Tarquin’s brows furrowed; it was nearing midnight. “Who is it?”

Ilios’s brown eyes seemed to avert his blue ones. “It’s Eris Vanserra, my lord.”

His stomach clenched.

You know where to find me.

It seemed that Eris had found him first.

“Send him in.”

Stepping out of the small balcony of his bedroom, Tarquin couldn’t shake the feeling that some cruel fate was echoing their meeting from hours ago—only this time, it would take place in a room veiled in darkness, with the moon’s pale light peering weakly through the shadows. Suddenly, he became very aware of every limb of his body, his hand hanging awkwardly at his sides. Was he supposed to cross his arms? Tie them behind his back? Prop them on his hips? No, that would have been ridiculous.

The choice seemed to be rendered meaningless as Eris entered the room, stopping only under a soft ray of moonlight that shone upon the cool stone. Gone were the immaculate clothes he’d worn earlier this afternoon, his carefully combed hair now disheveled as it hung loosely over his face in soft waves. Tarquin decided he liked the way the red looked under the silvery light of the moon—a deep, wine-like shade unlike its usual crimson.

He swallowed hard, suddenly very aware they were now in his bedroom. “What are you doing here, Eris?”

Amber gaze, darker somehow in the night, fixed on him, unwavering. “I know what you are afraid of, Tarquin,” Eris said.

He ignored the shiver that rippled through him at the sound of his name on Eris’s tongue.

“You have every right not to trust me,” he continued. “But I need you to know that I would never hurt your Court. That I would never hurt you.”

Stunned, Tarquin stumbled back a step. “Eris—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. In two, quick strides, Eris closed the distance between them, his mouth crashing against his, stronger than the waves of a raging sea.

His tongue was like hot fire dancing in his mouth, all-consuming and unafraid to dive deep past the shore. Strong fingers tangled into his white hair, and Tarquin found himself mimicking the movement, dying to feel its softness against his skin. Flames licked at his body hungrily, begging to devour him whole as Eris’s hands came up to frame his hips, guiding him back step by step until Tarquin felt his calves hit the soft mattress of his bed.

His veins pulsed with a mix of shock and lust as Eris broke free from his mouth, from a kiss hotter than a summer’s day. Any sound of protest died on Tarquin’s tongue as Eris ripped the shirt of his body, revealing strong arms and a pale, defined chest.

Turquoise eyes went wide as Tarquin scanned the toned muscles that formed his stomach, the V that peered from beneath the soft linen of Eris’s pants. His hands were on him in an instant, pulling him down, pulling him closer until there was only a breath between them.

“Do you want this? Want me?” Eris asked.

“Yes,” Tarquin gasped. “Yes.”

Those red brows furrowed, and Eris pulled away an inch. “Tarquin.”

“Yes,” he repeated, fingers digging into his lover’s arms.

“Tarquin!”

Tarquin’s eyes shot open.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Cresseida shouted, hovering over his heaving body in exasperation.

The dream began fading away as reality sank in, as tangible as the waves of seawater that surrounded his bed.

Tarquin blinked. Waves—

“Shit,” he cursed, sending the water that flooded his room away to the balcony, his racing heart steadying as he heard it descend down the walls to hit the ground beneath.

“What is wrong with you?” Cresseida demanded. “You can’t just summon the sea while you’re sleeping! Unless you were planning to die and take this whole palace with you.”

A dream. It was only a dream.

By the Mother.

“Why are you in my room, Cresseida?”

She let out a heavy breath, stepping away from his bed at last. “Vanserra is leaving. If you still want to catch him, you better go now, High Lord.”

Shit indeed.

***

Entering the room, a small office on the ground floor of the palace, Tarquin ran his fingers through the knots in his hair, wondering if he looked as disheveled as Eris had in his dream.

Mercifully, Eris was there, standing by a small table of light wood. His hair was nowhere near a mess, combed as immaculately as he’d remembered it from the day before. A jacked of deep green rested on his shoulders, the golden threads woven through the fabric accentuating the knowing gleam of his amber eyes as they rested upon Tarquin’s form.

Feeling his cheeks begin to burn, Tarquin prayed to the Mother, Cauldron and any gods that would listen for his dream to fade away from his mind, for the image of Eris’s bare chest and burning eyes, darkened with desire—desire for him—to blur out from his memory forever. But watching his red hair glisten with the Summer sunshine, Tarquin realised he was in a shit deeper than the seas of Adriata.

Eris’s gaze dragged up his form, lighting a fire in every spot where those russet eyes lingered for longer than a second. His skin prickled, taking his mind back to the way broad hands traced every inch of his body, slender fingers digging into his muscles with every hot breath. Feeling the heat rise through him, Tarquin wondered if the High Lord of Autumn’s powers included igniting a hunger inside him, burning brighter than a living flame.

Shit, shit shit. He needed to get it together. Eris was here on Court business, and his dream was nothing but a trick played on him by his treacherous mind and a direct result of Cresseida’s teasing the day before. A figment of his imagination, roughed up after the long day he’d spent out in the scorching sun before his meeting with Eris. The sun—and nothing more—was the only reason why his body felt as though it was lit on fire.

He enjoyed it, though. More than he’d like to admit.

Mother spare him.

“Aren’t you going to sit?” Eris finally asked, his voice somehow deeper than Tarquin remembered.

Shit.

Feeling his composure hang by a thread, Tarquin asked, “You’re telling me to what do you in my own palace?”

Eris’s eyebrows rose. “Would you rather stand?”

He had no idea how, but he could swear a shadow of a smile curved up the corner of Eris’s lips. It made his body burn even hotter.

Anger, Tarquin told himself. It was anger that sent fire into his veins and made his blood boil. This male was aggravating. Nothing more.

Tarquin sat down, though.

“Let us begin,” he said, gesturing to the chair opposite his own—a rather pathetic attempt to regain control of this meeting.

Eris smirked openly now as he gracefully dropped onto his seat. “Right.”

Eris might be a Vanserra, but he’s as attractive as he is cruel, Cresseida’s voice sounded in his mind. But Tarquin was a High Lord. Attractive or not, he would not let Eris toy with him in his own Court.

After all, water would always put out fire, no matter how hot it burned.

“You said you need Summer’s help in rebuilding the Autumn Court,” Tarquin began. “But frankly, I don’t see how our aid could boost your internal strength. After all, the true strength of a Court lies within its people.”

“That’s exactly it,” Eris said, lacing his fingers atop the wooden surface. “But as you pointed out so perceptively yesterday, most of my people seem to have found a new home beyond my Courts borders. Most of them had left just before Beron returned from Under the Mountain. Others followed during the War.”

Understanding dawned on him like the rising sun. “You want me to send the Autumn Fae back to your Court? The same ones that found refuge within my borders, ones that offered safety when yours could not—” he accused, feeling anger stir deep inside him. Was that what Eris wanted? To reclaim Tarquin’s people after years of suffering they’d been forced to endure?

As if reading the thoughts off his face, Eris spoke calmly, “They are my people, Tarquin.”

Beneath the table, Tarquin gripped his chair tighter, ignoring the sound of his name fall from Eris’s lips.

“Like you said, the people are essential to the Court’s functioning. Look what happened to Spring. Its lands are deserted, with their High Lord the only beast left to roam around them. I do not want Autumn to share Spring’s fate.”

“I’m not going to exile my citizens and betray the trust they put in my Court,” Tarquin said, his tone unyielding.

Eris’s lips tightened. “I’m not asking you to exile anyone. I am asking you to encourage them to consider returning home.”

Paint a picture of a reformed Autumn, safe under new leadership. That’s what Eris truly wanted. But how was Tarquin to know that Autumn was truly safe? No matter what Eris had said, those Fae were still his people—whether they’d been born in Summer or not. He would protect them at all costs.

“What if they already found their home here?” he asked.

For a moment, there was only silence.

“Please, Tarquin.”

Eris Vanserra never pleaded. Perhaps that is why Tarquin now searched his face, and, for the first time today, truly allowed himself to take it in—take in the tiredness that perhaps carved deeper than he’d originally thought. A part of him, one that was not the High Lord of the Summer Court, wanted nothing more but the believe Eris had truly cared for those people—had truly wanted to create a home for them that his father had taken away.

Tarquin leaned back in his chair. “I will tell the Autumn Fae of your visit, and of my impression.”

Eris nodded, the barest of creases smoothed out from his forehead. “Thank you.”

“But I refuse to lie to my people when I have no certainty that the cruelty of the Autumn Court has been put to rest along with your father.”

Eris had gone quiet. Seconds had passed, each one longer than the other, and Tarquin found himself holding his breath.

“Then come with me,” Eris finally said.

This, Tarquin did not expect.

“What?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“Come with me. To the Autumn Court. Let me prove my Court is worth becoming a home to my—to our—people again.”

Water had the ability to put out any fire—he could end this there and then. But looking into Eris’s eyes, Tarquin decided he would let his fire burn for a little longer.

“Alright.”

[bloodycassian]

reader x azriel - azriel takes reader to a bakery.

Azriel's cool charm filled the room, his shadows snaking the floor and receding as the meeting quieted. Without a word, he nodded in dismissal at the group and they continued debating again. He sat back, stone faced while the high lords discussed what there was to be done about The Middle. More specifically, the mountain and caverns underneath that had hosted the horror show for forty nine years. 

Guards stationed behind each high lord and their company, Azriel devoured the information his shadows brought back to him. There wasnt a single person in the room without at least two daggers on them. 

You leaned back in your chair next to Thesan, resting your chin on your hand. The plush amenities of Day court and their pastel colors had taken some getting used to over the last week, but you grew to appreciate the massive table in front of you. Large enough to fit all seven high lords and their company around it, along with a few extra chairs. If it wasnt for the lofty ceilings and open windows into several balconies you would have thought such a harty table to be gawdy, but in this instance it seemed utterly necessary. Especially when Rhysand's cousin slapped a giant map of Pryhtian down on it and the high lord's power shifted pawns throughout. Mapping each court's armies and defenses. 

A few of the leaders adjusted pawns, moving a few troops from one side of their court to another. Azriel perked up from his darkened corner at this, stepping forward and taking a glance at the map. He glared in your direction, catching your eye. He was utterly breathtaking, even with such a malice filled look on his face. You broke his stare to glance at your court's pawns on the map. A moment's hesitation after each high lord had stopped moving their pieces made your stomach drop. You glanced toward Thesan, seeing if he would move.  Rhysand seemed to be waiting as well. Azriel slowly, threateningly moved two of Thesan's pawns further south. He crossed his arms and walked back to his corner, his shadows almost hiding him completely. You felt Thesan tense as he shot Rhysand a charming grin.

You met the dark eyes of the spymaster, and rose from your seat. Stepping between a Beron and Kallis to move two more pawns east. You met his eyes again and winked, turning and going back to your seat. Thesan had ordered you before you left for the meeting to disperse your forces throughout the land, so it would make sense that the spymaster didnt know if the extra changes.

The room was tense, each high lord looking to each other to see if anyone else was hiding their foces. Helion suddenly let out a booming laugh, makin you jump slightly. "Rhysand have you been keeping your spymaster too busy perhaps?"  Rhysand chuckled, leaning forward in his seat and purring his reply "I'll have to send them back to training camp." His general's wings flared slightly and you fought to hold back a smile. Azriel revealed nothing, and said nothing until the meeting was over.

You were cleaning the scattered pawns from the map when Azriel approached. He was silent, but pushed the figuines from his side over to you in a pile. You nodded thankfully, eyeing him as he moved to roll up the cloth map still laid out over the grand table. You felt your hands get clammy, the silence in the room was palapable. The only other sounds were the hushed rustling of the trees in the slight breeze outside. The balcony doors were still open, and a cool wind slithered into the room. You opened the cloth bag for the pawns, there was a sudden clattering against the marble floor. You sighed, setting the bag down. Before you turned to pick it up you noticed the darkened atmospehre of the room. Then bumped straight into Azriel's chest in your distraction. 

"Sorry I-" You felt your face turn hot and made to step back, only to find yourself slipping on the damned pawn. He caught your arm, stablising you. "Are you normally this accident prone?" He asked, a small smirk on his lips. You looked to where his hand held you, and noticed the textured skin there. He cleared his throat and lowered your arm. 

"I guess you could blame it on the wind." You stammered. What you meant to say was 'I guess you could blame it on the fine Illyrian shadow master in the room'. His smirk seemed to say he knew exactly what you were thinking. And maybe with those shadows he did know. His build seemed to fill the room standing this close to you, broad shoulders -t support the massive wings no doubt- and muscles and the hair was immaculate. He smelled of pine and leather, sea salt and something darker. Maybe that was the shadows themselves. 

"You dont like the cold?" He asked, head tilting slightly. 

"Should I really be telling a spymaster anything that I'm afraid of?" You challenged, smiling at him. His eyes seemed to light up. He nodded and stepped back. You forgoe the groan of displeasure at the empty space between you. 

"Have you ever really been in the cold before? Dawn court and all.." He trailed off, sauntering towards the balcony and motioning you to follow. You obeyed, dropping the cloth bag on the table. You took your time approaching him, marvelling at the wings he bore. How thick the outer edges were, and how delicate the inner folds looked. In the dull darkness you could barely make out the inky black forms of them as he stretched them out. They flared and tilted, and you understood why they were so hard to see. 

His shadows had melded into the darkness, shielding them and his lower half completely, Blending him into the night. Becoming a shadow himself. You felt a chill run through you at the sight. He was darkness, and all the whispers on the wind. The epitome of pure silence, but not pressing, a soothing darkness, silence and comfort. Liek a comfort of sleep. 

"Are you going to stare or come for a ride with me?" he asked, folding his wings in tight and turning towards you. He leaned back on the balcony confidently, the column of his neck exposing a few scars behind his ear. You shuddered to think of what kind of beast could make such an impact on someone who was mist and shadow. 

"If someone sees us Thesan will know immidea-" He cut you off with a stare, and you felt coolness begin creeping up your legs. You felt nervous, heart hammering in your chest as he stood so close to you, eyes knowingly glancing to your chest briefly. His shadows danced around you like a fog, asking permission to cover you further. And you were sure they were reporting back to him how badly he had riled you.

 "No one will see us." He promised, holding a hand out to you. You took a steadying breath and nodded nervously. As soon as you touched that scarred hand he had you covered in the snaking darkness, the tendrils weaving around you protectively. It felt like being in a heavy ocean mist, and it brought goosebumps to your skin. Azriel huffed a small laugh as he bent to scoop you up.

Before you could protest and come up with some sort of excuse, he had you cradled to his chest and he was summoning those shadows even more around the both of you. 

And then you were falling. Your stomach leapt into your throat, fingers clawing into Azriel's shoulders. You were sure you were dead when the feeling stopped. "Open your eyes." The shadow master squeezed you a bit extra, getting your attention. "I dont think I can." you muttered, but slowly peeked through your lashes to see the millions of tiny lights below. 

The breath was stolen from you as your eyes flew open, gazing in amazement at the city below. Dawn court was built more upwards than any of the other courts, so you were used to seeing castles towering above and lights shine from them. But you'd never seen the city from this high. You wondered how he had flown so high in such a short time but decided you didnt want to know the answer even if he could tell you. The enormous archways of the high lord's palace was visible from the sky. The stars above were dull, as usual in Dawn and Day court. You never found much pleasure or satisfaction at night in either  territory. It only made you wonder what Night court's stars were like. If the moon beckoned and blessed the land like the noon sun seemed to make everything in Day court shimmer. 

 "You can stop trying to claw me to death at any time." His voice rumbled softly, almost scaring you. You loosened your grip on him, only enough so he wouldn't complain. He banked slowly, you could only tell so because the spires coming closer to you as you approached the center of the city. The streets below were lit with clear bright lights that showed off all the boutiques of main street and the patio areas for bars all around. The stained glass windows of second story balconies reflected pastel lights on to the sidewalks, painting them in pastels. 

You could smell the bakery below, churning out different treats of pastries and breads for the late night drinkers. The sweet warm smell of it made your mouth water. "Would you like to stop in somewhere?" Azriel asked as he whisked you upward again, avoiding the tall lights as the city rose up hill. 

"I think you might be recognized a bit too easily." You chided, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. He was watching the sky, his face unlike any expression you'd ever seen him wear. At peace, it seemed. He didnt have the clenched jaw or stern eyebrow look anymore. His hair ruffled slightly at the small breeze that came through the shield he had placed around you. 

He considered his fame as Spymaster for a moment, then nodded. And plummeted you downwards into the city. You fought not to scream, only digging your nails into his skin again, hoping it hurt. He landed in a narrow alley, hidden from the blinding lights of the street. The smell of sweets hung in the air. You still held tight on to his arm after he set you on your feet. You then shoved him, palm straight into his shoulder and sent him a step back, his wings flared and balanced him before he could falter any further. "You could tell me next time!" You growled at him. A clever grin graced his features, smoothing out his surprise at the shove. 

"Only members of the night court get free flying privileges." He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "I expect my payment with a side of cinnamon." He nodded towards the street. You glanced back and he was gone, likely shouded in the darkness somewhere. You whispered curses at him while heading to the bakery.

"Why do you like cinnamon so much?" You asked around a mouthful of sweet bread. Azriel had devoured his chocolate and cinnamon twist, along with the extra side of cinnamon. He still had evidence of it on his face and shirt despite the windy takeoff before he put his shield up. "Why dont you?" He retorted, his powerful wings gliding you around the east side of the tower where the week of meeting had taken place.

"I just wouldnt expect the Shadow master of the Night Court to have such a sweet tooth." You grinned at him, absently wiping the sugar from his face. His eyes went to yours in an instant, and your heart hammered being pinned by that stare. He landed gracefully on the balcony, eyes still locked on you. He merely stood there, holding you. Both frozen.