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wittyrosebush · 4 years ago

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Dream SMP Reacting to a Witch!Hybrid

Pronouns: they/them

Includes: Dream, Quackity, Wilbur, qnd Tommy (PLATONIC)

Warnings: Meantion of drugs, swearing

A/N: This is based off of the canon characters and is set in the time of the Pogtopia/Manburg war!!! I might write a second part if this goes well. Also, this is the first thing I have written for this fandom, so I hope I get the character personalities correct. This is not beta read, so please don't attack me on my poor grammar skills. 😅

I hope you all enjoy!!! 💙

Dream

He was mining when he first met you

Dream heard a malicious cackle on the dark side of the cave and slowly drew his sword

He decided to charge towards the strange noise and was quickly met with an invisible body under him

He furrowed his brows and felt the body shuffle out from under him

"BEGONE STRANGE MAN"

"... excuse me?"

After a moment, Y/N's potion has worn off

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-"

Dream chuckled and put away his sword, deciding the person in front of him wasn't a threat

After Y/n calmed down, the two had a talk, explaining the situation

Turns out, you had thought of a joke while mining for redstone (hence the laughter)

"So where is your hat and huge nose? You are really attractive for a witch."

"Luckily, I got my attributes from my father. What was that last part?."

"Wait, what about your hat?"

"I haven't done laundry in a few days.... hold up did you just say I was attractive?"

Ever since then Dream has had you by his side partly because he is a little clingy creating potions for him and the rest of the dream team

"How do you feel about cursing children?"

"I'm not that kind of witch, Dream."

"But what if he was being a little blonde bitch?"

"DREAMWASTAKEN I SWEAR TO GOD-"

Loves bringing you stuff to use for your projects

Need blaze rods for a new brewing stand? Done.

Need lapis lazuli so you have a chance for better communication? Done.

Anything you want? Done.

He will literally go to the nether for a few hours and come back with his arms full of whatever you need

And if you don't need anything or just need to take a break, he'll spend the day taking you anywhere that he think you would be happiest

He has you make him a lot of potions, bragging to everyone on the server how much better at creating potions you are

"Y/n's potions last longer, are more effective, prettier-"

"Are you sure? I think-"

"Tell me what you think, I fuckin dare you >:( ."

Overall, he is your #1 supporter

Quackity

The day had been long, dealing with Schlatt definitely tires a guy out after 5 minutes

On his walk on the outskirts of the Manburg wall, he spotted a suspicious row of blaze powder leading to the woods

Dawning his armor and a sword, he followed the trail to a small hut

He could see the outline of someone in the hut nervously pacing around

Deciding what he thought was the best possible option, he knocked on the door of the hut

There was immediately the sound of glass bottles falling on the floor and muffled words

Soon, the door swung open to reveal a disheveled being with a nervous grin

And Quackity went from tough to awkward

"C-Can I help you with something?"

"Uh, do you waNT SOME DRUGS?"

"ExCuSe Me?!"

Everything was going to shit

After a moment of awkward staring, a glass bottle tumbled off the brewing stand

Upon focusing on what was going on behind the two people trying and failing to act normal, they both saw that every brewing stand was on fire

"ARE YOU ACTUALLY MAKING DRUGS?!"

"NO I'M JUST REALLY BAD AT THIS POTION."

Finally putting the fire out together, the two looked at their now soot stained clothes

The witch hybrid ran a hand through their hair and sighed

"Well this is completely ruined."

Quackity frowned a little hesitant to offer his help

"If you need to you could borrow some brewing stands-"

"Really? *-* "

On the walk back to Manburg, you explained who you were

Quackity was still a little confused

"Wait but what potion were you even brewing?"

"Fire resistance."

He immediately burst out laughing, which ended up with you slapping his arm repeatedly

Eventually, you two became the definition of the "friends to lovers" trope

You often helped him de-stress after stressful days in office with Schlatt

He'd try whatever you recommended

"I'd suggest putting quartz on your nightstand."

"Cool!"

Later that night, you forgot something at his house

Once you walked into his house, you could see stacks of quartz next to his bed.

He really trusted any advice you could give him

And on days where people would criticize you for being part witch?

Big Q will attack anyone

Even if he knows he will lose

And at random parts of the day he'll just tell you oddly inspirational thoughts

"You are a bad bitch, dare I say a bad witch. Own that shit."

"That is oddly motivational, thank you. :) "

Wilbur

The former president was strolling along the side of a river, trying to form a coherent plan of action

Upon noticing a person trudging out of the water fumbling with glass bottles, Wilbur jogged over to them and put a careful hand on their shoulder

"Are you okay?"

The person moved the soggy hat out of their face and smiled

"Yeah, I just fell in the water while trying to fill up some of the bottles, but thanks for checking on me!"

He hummed in response, wondering why he was already so interested in the being before him

"Well I should probably get going, but thank you!"

"Wait! What's you name?"

"It's Y/n, and you are..?"

"Wilbur Soot, it was an honor meeting you, Y/n."

This man spent the rest of the night thinking about you and who the hell you were

He didn't know much about the mysterious person, but he did know that they were one of the most alluring people he had met in a long time

It was weeks since he saw you, Wilbur nearly gave up searching

That was until you walked into him on a rainy day

The brunette immediately went in defensive position and pulled the stranger to his chest, despite the dampened clothes

"Um, Mr. Soot?"

He looked down to see you and his face lit up

"Y/n! It's a pleasure to see you again."

He took a small step back and kissed your hand

No one can convince me that Wilbur "Gentleman" Soot does not flirt by giving hand kisses

The two went into Pogtopia and Wilbur almost immediately wrapped his coat around you

"What were you doing out there? The rain is coming down so hard you must not have been able to see well."

"I was going to ask if I could borrow a few golden carrots for a potion I'm making."

Wilbur nodded and walked towards the stared and whisper shouted down

"TOMMY BRING ME SOME GOLDEN CARROTS!"

"BUT WILBUR, I-"

"PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME LOOK BAD IN FRONT OF THE STUNNING WITCH!"

The boy at the bottom of the stairs grumbled and the tall man sat next to you once more

After a few minutes of Wilbur fawning over everything you did, a blonde male walked up the steps and glared at Wilbur as he handed you the carrots

"Simp..."

Wilbur dramatically gasped as you chuckled next to him

You eventually started coming over to Pogtopia practically every day

Most of the time it was to see Wilbur, but the rest of your time was spent creating potions for the war

As the nation grew, you were brought out of your shell more with Wilbur introducing you to everyone

He didn't want you to feel uncomfortable in a new place

You often walked along the same riverbank where you met

You have definitely pushed each other off a few times

He keeps small things that you enjoy on him at all times

He keeps a tiny bottle of sand from the river you met at, a piece of your old robe, and so much more in his pockets

Whenever he feels like he's in a dark place or justneeds to ground himself he takes out one of the items and just holds it close.

Mans is so in love

Tommy

He met you in the nether while you were farming netherwart

The blonde was thrilled to find a new fortress and decided to raid it before reinforcements came

Seeing a sleeping figure next to a bed of sould sand, he took a few congident steps forward

Once close enough, he poked you with the stick

"You good?"

"I was good when I was asleep."

"AYE I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD SO-"

After arguing for what felt like hours, you both stormed off to find both exits being blocked by wither skeletons

Tommy had gotten beaten up pretty bad after the fight so you took him back to your hut to get all patched up

"I didn't even need your help. I'm tougher than I look."

"You legitimately passed out twice on the way here."

"HOW DARE YOU, I WAS RESTING MY EYES!"

After a few hours of healing and a ton of laighter, you two became the most chaotic duo in the smp

This british raccoon child would often steal small potions to pull pranks

But unless they were really important and you needed them back, you'd always join in on the pranks

He tried to get you to make a potion using the 'Tubbo Bath Water' one time

It did not end well

At the point in your friendship where you revealed you were a hybrid, Tommy was so confused

"That makes no sense, witches are still humans, right?"

"Yeah..?"

"So how does that make you a hybrid?"

👁👄👁

"Listen here you little shit-"

He likes to show you off to anyone that can listen

"You think you're special? HA! I have a best friend that is part witch and they will kick your ass. >:)"

He is really interested in everything you do but will never ask

But if you tell him about what you're doing unprovoked?

Tommy would get so happy

He is so excited to learn what you have to teach and would be one of the best friends ever

#dream smp x reader #tommyinnit & reader #wilbur x y/n #wilbur x reader #wilbur x you #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot x y/n #wilbur soot x you #quackity x you #quackity x y/n #quackity x reader #dream x you #dream x reader #dream x y/n

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rubykgrant · 4 years ago

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(Y’all want a tiny sample of Grif and Simmons being all domestic for the first time once they start to actually be boyfriends? Sure you do~)

“I should have just done what I always do and changed into something else before coming back here… and YOU should have taken all your armor off in one place. Now you’ll have to carry those pieces back with you when you have to wear it again,” Simmons teased him as he started to take off his undersuit.

“Dammit, you’re right… but I REALLY wanted to get back here first, and you change so fast!” Grif told him. He undid the little clasps so the armor fell off him, bit by bit, section by section, then kicked it under his bed.

“Pff, WHY?”

“Oh, I was gonna wait for you on your bed with a rose in my teeth, and-”

“You were NOT!”

“Yeah, no, I wasn’t…” Grif admitted. Now that they were both changing and talking casually, he felt himself relax. “My actual plan was to get under my covers and pretend to be asleep, then jump up and surprise you,”

“You probably would have fallen asleep for REAL if you did that, and then what?”

He heard Simmons chuckle, and Grif glanced over in that direction. Simmons had already gotten his sweatpants on, and was now pulling on a t-shirt. Grif had almost the same sweatpants, but his were bigger and more worn-out (Simmons’ were still a dark black, while Grif’s were faded to a dingy gray… showing a few stains from where he had once spilled some chili in his lap). Grif pulled a tank-top from his clean-clothes-pile, slipping it over his head, unable to stop looking at Simmons. Sensing Grif was watching him, Simmons looked over and smiled at him. Grif smiled back, and he didn’t have to look away, or pretend he was just spacing-out, or make some joke, or insult Simmons as a distraction; this was his boyfriend now. He could look at him. Actually, he could do a lot more.

Grif walked back to him, and Simmons opened his arms to embrace Grif. For a moment they stood like that, holding each other, feeling the way they both breathed in and out.

“If I DID fall asleep before you got back… you could just, y’know, come over and… get into bed with me,” Grif told him, pressing his face into the crook of Simmons’ neck (this was quickly becoming his favorite place to nuzzle; he could feel Simmons’ pulse, the muscles twitch when Simmons swallowed or talked, and it was so warm right here).

“Yeah?” Simmons asked.

“Yeah… not like it’s the first time we’ve ever slept together. Now we can actually cuddle, though. Um, we could just go do that… right now… if you want,” Grif didn’t want to sound too much like he just wanted to sleep… true, that was one of his favorite things to do, and he was tired from racing through the ship, but his actual motivations revolved around being able to keep holding Simmons as long as possible.

“Well, I don’t know… your bed is all the way over THERE. That’s WAY too far. My bed is right HERE, though. How about we just crash at my place?” Simmons laughed at his own lame joke before letting go of Grif, leaning over so he could pull back the blankets. “You get in and get comfy, I’m gonna go get something…”

Grif hopped into the small bed; they would pretty much have to sleep right on top of each other… Grif felt overwhelmed by several different emotions. One, his natural laziness was indignant over the running incident, and now very content to simply pass-out. Two, he was incredibly endeared by the fact that Simmons was not only willing but looking forward to sharing a bed with him (and even appealing to his laziness by offering the closer bed). Three, he was just ever-so-slightly aroused… because Simmons was being far too cute, and all this casual intimacy was deceptively hot. Four, he was still a bit awkward and unsure about what to do, because he didn’t want this to somehow go wrong, he wanted this to be GOOD, he wanted them both to be happy together (and whole thing about being in the closet on Chorus was in the back of his mind. That had been too fast and too blurry… whatever they did next, Grif wanted it to be slower and sweeter).

The laziness and the awkwardness were drowning out the arousal, but the endearment was making up for it all; Grif was happy to do this, sleep and snuggle with Simmons. Maybe they could do this every night…

Simmons returned, sitting down on the side of the bed. He had a few small objects in his hands.

“Here, disposable tooth-brushes. They have this coating of tooth paste, so they get foamy while you use them. Oh, and see? I’ve got a bottle of water right there on the nightstand. Here’s a little paper cup you can spit in to rinse when you’re done,” Simmons explained as he handed Grif one of the tiny tooth-brushes.

“Haha, dude, seriously? I was just gonna skip it tonight…”

“NO, you need to brush every night, Grif! Ugh, how can you sleep with plaque on your teeth? I can’t stand it,” Simmons shook his head in mock-disdain. “And I have more of these, too… I know you don’t have your own tooth-brush here,”

Grif had to smile at that; Simmons was still sore about all the times Grif had used his tooth-brush in the past, but clearly not genuinely mad. Grif did as he was told, grateful at least that Simmons had brought all this to him instead of making Grif get up and walk outside to one of the bathrooms in the hall (no personal bathrooms on this ship… not even for important space heroes). Once they were both finished, Simmons threw the used tooth-brushes and cup away. Finally, he turned off the light, and slipped into the bed with Grif.

“You good, dude?” Grif asked as he settled.

“Yeah… you’re even softer than the bed, so this works out just fine for me!” Simmons had practically draped himself over Grif. “What about you, OK?”

“I am way beyond OK…” Grif sighed, enjoying that was once again able to press his face into Simmons’ neck. Oh yeah, he was great… this was perfect…

“Oh, I just remembered something I wanted to tell you!” Simmons said. “I figured out how to access the satellite signals for this place without disrupting any of the important information messages,”

“Mmm… yes, that sounds very impressive… good nerd, smart nerd…” Grif patted his head.

“That means I can get us Spaceflicks on my helmet,”

“Oh, what? For real?” that got his attention.

“Yep. We can do a movie marathon when we both have the time. Now, say it like you MEAN it!” Simmons smiled smugly in the dark.

“Good nerd, smart nerd!” Grif repeated with more emphasis, running his hands through Simmons’ hair. “Clever nerd, cute nerd, funny nerd, sweet nerd, MY nerd…”

Simmons damn near purred at all the praise.

#writing #red vs blue #dexter grif #dick simmons #grimmons

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toosicktoocare · 4 years ago

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so I Loved that ficlet with grogu calling friends when mando is sic and passed out, and immediately I imagined the same thing but What If,,, Grogu just, freaking, force calls Luke, and Luke recuses them? Idk just fun to think about great prompt and great work!

I’m going to twist this prompt just a little, but hi, yes, I love it a lot! Just let me have Luke and Din interactions, okay?

Alone.

It’s familiar and was once quietly normal, but now it’s cold and hollow, and Din’s starting to wonder if there’s still a man underneath his armor, of if he’s broken down to an empty husk.

He could have stayed with Cara and Greef; he could have travelled with Boba, but, in a desperate attempt to find any semblance of dated normalcy, he left on his own. His task, one he willingly gave to himself, was fulfilled. He delivered Grogu over to a Jedi, and now, he’s grasping frayed strings to get back to his life before the child.

He throws himself into work, stalking off on his own to fetch bounties for coin that once would brought a smile coated in saisfaction to his lips, but he can’t find the same enegry now. However, he still does it because he feels that’s what he’s supposed to do, but he can’t recapture his rhythm. And, without the Crest, he’s taken to hitching rides and travelling by foot.

Everything’s taking longer without consistent transportation, leaving him with more time in his head, guard down. He still keeps his helmet on, still abides by the way of the Mandalore, even though he knows he can no longer shoulder that responsibility as he’s gone against his faith. He doesn’t regret it; though, he tried to at first.

The days following Grogu’s departure, Din cursed himself endlessly for displaying such uncontrolled vulnerability, but though his mind was always running in a tight, hot circle of shame, at the end of each day, it always died down to a warm glow. Seeing Grogu’s eyes for the first time with his own, not through the lens of his visor, is something he knows he’ll hold so tightly to his heart that it will continuously toe the line of painful.

It’s almost funny, he thinks, how he once considered his heart as nothing more than a necessary organ, but now he knows just how capable it is of feeling, of directing his entire being.

He shakes his head, far too gone in his mind, until his surroundings build back into his present vision. He blinks slowly, neck craning up the mountain only a mile’s walk in front of him. He knew his current bounty was close, but...

In front of him is the same mountain he climbed with Grogu. His bounty was east; he should have turned east an hour ago, yet, he’s here, staring down memories square in the face. He knows he should turn around because that would be the right thing to do, the normal thing to do, but he presses forward, walking, climbing, slipping, and more climbing until he’s dropping down beside the dome-shaped stone, winded and faintly light-headed despite his heavy helmet.

He wraps an arm around his waist, wincing. Because of his fleeting focus, he let last week’s bounty get in a few good hits that his armor should have sustained. Maybe because he was tired, still is, but every kick to the side of his armor, right above his ribs, hurt, his bones practically vibrating under the force. He’s had so much worse, and yet, his entire body is aching. Every inhale feels like a dagger slipping past his rib cage to his lungs, leaving his exhales worn and shaky.

He slips his helmet off, hoping it will help ease the pressure in his chest, and leaves it on the ground beside him, one hand planted atop it while the other smooths across his plated chest. The air he breathes in slowly is cold, chilling his lungs. He tilts his head back, faintly frowning at the dipping sun that casts the sky in a splash of water colors that’s nothing more to Din than a signal that he needs to move before the light pinks and oranges give way to a merciless black. He’s exposed; he should move, protect himself, secure his bounty. Still, the mere thought of moving enhances the dull throb against his temples.

Instead of leaving, he sighs around a hollow cough and gives in to the fatigue that’s edging sleep across his mind.

He wakes what feels like only seconds later to a cold palm brushing his bangs back and cupping his forehead, and in a motion that could rival the quick speed of a blink, he slips his blaster from his belt and digs it into a firm yet clearly unarmored gut. Worried, blue eyes crowd his vision, and he jams the blaster harder into the person before him, hand steady, prepared.

“Din Djarin.”

The voice is passively soft and familiar, and Din frowns, hesitantly pulling his blaster back. “Jedi?” he croaks out, the word breaking under illness when it leaves his lips. He turns to cough, and the same hand, still pressed to his forehead, drops to his shoulder.

“Easy, Din. You’re running quite the fever.”

He ignores this, instead bringing blurring eyes back to the Jedi’s, frowning sharply. “Grogu?” The small, cheerful giggle that follows has Din shoving around the Jedi to see Grogu waddling toward him, dark, endless eyes meeting his glassy, drooping ones.

The relief comes in the form of a sharp gasp that hits the pressure in Din’s chest, leaving him coughing more. He ignores this as well, instead struggling to stand, but then pain bursts white hot against his side, and he staggers, blindly reaching out until he’s clinging to the Jedi’s shoulder, breathing harsh around barking coughs.

“You’re injured as well.”

Din wants to focus on the fact that the Jedi’s words were nothing short of a statement; he wants to prod his intrusive abilities, but neither holds a candle to what he does instead. He gathers himself with the Jedi’s grounded stance as support, makes it until he’s just before Grogu, and then he drops to his knees. He doesn’t move; he just watches, breath held tight in his lungs, and then Grogu shuffles toward him until his small hands are reaching out into what Din can only assume is a hug.

“Hey, kid.” Din breaks, his eyes stinging behind closed lids, and he hugs Grogu back with such gentle force. He’s shaking with he knows chills he can only pin on his apparent fever, his side’s a raging fire, and his chest is tight enough to suffocate him, and yet, Din feels nothing but light, blissful relief.

They stay like this for an endless moment, two broken halves slowly stitchng back into some sort of whole, and then the Jedi clears his throat behind him, and Din looks back, frowning.

“Why are you here?”

“Grogu’s been very anxious over the last day, and he led me here to you.”

Din looks back to see Grogu looking up at him, cooing lightly. He nods, and then the Jedi’s helping him to his feet, an arm going around his waist the moment he staggers under the heavy pain.

“My ship isn’t far. Do you think you can make the walk?”

Din nods, but only three minutes into their trek down the mountain, he blacks out, going slack against the Jedi, and when he wakes, he’s indoors and lying in a cot. His armor’s gone, leaving him only in his dark pants and long-sleeve, grey shirt. There’s a damp cloth draped over his forehead. It’s warm to the touch, and he yanks it off with a frown.

“You’re awake.”

Din sits up sharply, his arm immediately going to wrap around his waist at the tightend pain.

“Your ribs have been wrapped,” the Jedi starts. “There isn’t much I can do for the fever, I’m afraid. You’ll have to wait it out. Grogu insisted he help with your ribs. They’ll still be quite sore, but the worst of the damage has been mended.”

Din’s hand softens above his ribs, and very faintly, he can recall waking once in a cold, fevered haze to feel a strong, pulsing warmth spreading over his side. He smiles, small, but then, his frown returns, and his eyes shift to see Grogu sleeping in a small crib of sorts beside the Jedi. He knows how much Grogu’s powers take out of him.

“Grogu... Is he-” Din starts, words fading as Grogu sits up, blinking slowly around a small coo, his smile widening when his eyes find Din’s.

“His training is beginning to show,” the Jedi says as he helps Grogu out of the crib and into Din’s lap, where he sighs smally and snuggles his face into Din’s shirt.

“He’s stronger,” Din finishes, more for himself, but the Jedi nods anyway.

“He’s progressing quickly.”

Din’s hand finds Grogu’s back, and he smiles, warm and very real. He wants to stay stuck in this moment forever, he decides- this comfortable feeling of complete rightness. Yet, he can’t hinder Grogu’s training, not after all he’s done to get him here.

“I should go,” Din mutters to the Jedi once he’s sure Grogu’s fallen back asleep. The words are heavy on his tongue.

“You should.”

Din whips a sharp, side gaze to the Jedi, who’s busying himself with a large cloak.

“However, your wellbeing is an apparent factor in Grogu’s training,” the Jedi starts, draping the cloak around Din’s shaking shoulders.

Din hadn’t realized he started shaking, but now, with the added fabric bringing warmth, he shivers, and with his free hand, he tugs the cloak tighter around himself, draping some over Grogu.

“As long as you’re in this condition, I fear Grogu won’t be able to concentrate.”

Din’s brows furrow. “What are you saying?” He coughs lightly, wincing at the pain in his chest.

“It’s in everyone’s best interest if you stay until you’re well. I’m afraid I don’t have much to treat what appears to be a nasty chest infection quickly, so I think you’ll be confined to bed rest for at least a week.”

“I’m staying here for a week?” Din questions, his hazy mind struggling.

“I won’t force you, but I think that would be the best,” the Jedi says, “for all of us. Will that be alright for you?”

Din brings his gaze back down to Grogu curled up in his lap, and he smiles, exhausted and worn but mutely happier than he’s been in weeks. “Yes,” he mutters. “Thank you.”

#the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu #star wars #sickfic #whump #whumpfic #luke skywalker #baby yoda #fanfic #mandaddy #look i genuienly can't remember if Luke introduced himself in the end of season 2 okay?#but i loved how Din was so cutely clueless about Jedi stuff #so i headcannon that he refers to Luke as only Jedi for a while #even after he learns his name #also i really don't know a whole lot about star wars so pls don't @me #but if anyone wants to request more Luke and Din #I'd be super down for that

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yandere-sins · 5 years ago

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Since your request's open, I was wondering if you could do a geralt yandere where he's in a village with darling, when the pair sees a pregnant couple. Darling makes the mistake of gushing over how lovely couple looks and how their child would look just as lovely. Geralt then takes this as darling wanting a child of their own. Since witchers can't technically have children, this frustrates him and makes him go a little feral back at home and just breeds darling into oblivion.

Thank you for requesting! Hope you enjoy ^-^

Rated Lemon

»»————-———— ♡ ————————-««

You were no newbie to the topic of sex. And surely no rookie to the feeling of Geralt’s cock buried inside you.

Still, he usually wasn’t as ferocious as he was that night. You two barely made it back to a tavern, his hands constantly all over you, grasping at what his gloved fingers could reach. Throwing you over his shoulder and navigating Roach into a designated spot, he only grunted, “Room,” at the innkeeper, throwing way too many coins into his direction before staggering upstairs in the next best private room with an open door.

Geralt was many things. A witcher most of the time, murderer to some. You’re always doting, a little possessive partner usually, and on some nights a lover. He’d never let you become what he was, but you were thankful for the guidance that he gave you after you traveled so long to meet him. To you, he was a legend, somewhat of a hero - even if other people didn’t see in him what you saw.

Perhaps, you were a little blinded by the holiness of traveling with the person you were praising to the heavens and back. Maybe it would have done you good to see the truth more clearly, realize what really was going on. It’s not like the love and admiration you felt was something you expected him to reciprocate, but you liked to imagine that the hints he showed you were his form of affection only for you. He cared, always keeping other people who gave you lecherous sideglances a good scare. And despite you being a burden and sometimes too rowdy for the companion of a witcher, he did his best to keep you around.

Surely you could do without getting strapped to Roach ever so often, so that he could keep you where you were and not follow him into dangerous areas. And admittedly, he took your words a bit too serious sometimes, buying you whatever you deemed ‘fancy’ and taking more than the usual odd job to pay for it. You also really couldn’t remember a night anymore without him watching you falling asleep, laying on top of you all night, and then greeting you even before you opened your eyes. It was intense some nights, where you insisted on sleeping on the floor or at least as far away as the bed allowed, Geralt just sighing and pulling you closer again. A war of tug that only ended with you back in his arms, suffocating by his embrace, standing no chance against muscles and knowledge of what would make you subdue to his strength.

Geralt also tended to misunderstand you - a lot. That morning you had sighed longingly at a small family of three, so happy as they taught the little toddler to walk. Not like you wanted a child or a to settle down, but you might have joked about how cute it would be if the two of you did build a family of your own someday. Had you known it would have caused the pressure in his pants, your hips grinding against his as he turned around and urged Roach back to a city with an inn, you would have worded it more carefully for sure.

But this way, you were out of options other than complying. Geralt always had a need for efficiency, and he usually did not waste time on minor things. While he still worked to strip himself out of gear and armor, his fingers were already tugged under your undies, freeing one leg of any hindrance like clothes. Part of you was well aware of what was happening, but it felt different than usual. Latest by the force he tugged at your ankle as you tried to move up the bed and make some space for him, you knew this wasn’t what you could expect from laying with him.

Parting your legs, this clearly wasn’t the love-making you were used to, glove barely off his fingers as he pushed his digits in to test the waters. You flinched, self-lubrication being a wonder of nature, but not always the most reliable form of self-help. Reaching for his wrist, you tried to pry him out again when his second hand snaked behind your neck, pushing you forward and against his lips, rough and demanding.

He at least changed the number of fingers to one as he pumped it in and out of you, trying to arouse his hole. Still wearing more clothes than usual, the fabric brushing up against your thighs with the harshness of worn-out cotton, sending stings of pleasure up your nerves. His hair fell in your face, and before you knew it, you were breathing him in more than you were getting air to supply your body with, falling victim to the man.

When he finally laid you down, you were enticed with his touches, seduced by the feeling of his lips and tongue crawling down your skin from your lips to your collarbones, nipping at your shoulder. Hands came up to caress your nipples, pushing the annoyance that was your shirt aside for access. You couldn’t notice the goosebumps that appeared on his skin when your first moan escaped you, no one else but you bringing this kind of tickle over him these days. It was a desirable sound, urging him on, telling him that what he was doing was right, and he was quick to free his stiff member from his trousers, having waited long for the meal you were to his troubled desires.

Because truth be told, after all this time, you were only the fourth person ever to bring quite this joy into his life. And Geralt was planning to taste as much as possible from it. His rational brain told him that the idea you had put into his head was absurd, but maybe the faintest hint of hope came from his heart, that, perhaps, he might get you pregnant if he tried hard enough.

When his hips approached yours, your legs willingly parted further, though the feeling of his tip entering you still forced you to whine. Luckily, he was well-endowed, but with your body calling out that something wasn’t right, you weren’t quite ready to accept him yet. Most of the time, you were at least a bit drunker than that night. One time you two did it to get rid of an awful spell when one of his potions broke. There was always something to relax you - just this time, you were bareback and well aware.

Not heeding your ragged breaths, he forced himself inside, groaning over the tightness of your cunt as he spread your walls. You bit your lip in the weirdest feeling of pain and pleasure, legs flinching as if they were ready to kick him off. This feeling was new, and you weren’t all to sure you liked just how little he seemed to care as he began to pull out and push in right away. Hands pushing against his chest, you pleaded for him to give you a moment, his movements hurting you internally. “H-Hold on, give me a moment!”

But no matter how hard you gripped the shirt he was wearing, Geralt didn’t slow down, much less stopped. Forced to fold your arm, the witcher leaned down, bodies rubbing together, and stealing your breath as he kissed you again, tongue slipping in. It only got more unbearable as he caged you in between his arms on both sides, stinging eyes looking down at you, showing you your miserable reflection, an expression on your face that clearly wasn’t as willing as it sounded when you did a half-moan, half-sob.

However, no matter your attempts to stop him, he wasn’t one to stray away, too deep in it, and in you, to stop anymore. In an inefficient wiggle to get free, you heard the low rumble of a groan in his chest, followed by a couple pulsating pushes into you. Before you knew it, he shifted, pushing himself even deeper inside of you. Warm spurts of hot cum shot right into insides, coating your walls, adding some fake lubrications to the already irritated flesh.

You were relieved once he took a few breaths and proceeding to sit up again, thinking it was over. But the sudden grip on your thighs was something you did expect, and you struggled as he pushed your legs back, never having excited your pussy completely. Legs over his shoulders, he used them to continue to fuck you, holding on to them roughly with his fingers digging into your skin.

Geralt’s cock slit in and out easier of you now, cum bubbling on your entrance and spurting out with every hard thrust he did. Altering his technique a little, he started to grind his cock into you, his tip pushing up against your abdomen and low into your bowels, making you squeal whenever he managed to hit a new and sensitive spot.

“W-Wait, at least give me a break!” you demanded, but his answer was an inaudible mutter, followed by his grunts and the smacking sound of your hips. You were given no break as you couldn’t help a toe-curling orgasm as his member forced it’s way up to your cervix, kissing the entrance with force upon every push into you.

In the blink of an eye, Geralt spun you around, a moan escaping you as he gripped your asscheeks hard, pulling your entrance smack against the end of his shaft. With force and diligence, he wiggled his way forward into you, knowing that if he wanted to make any difference, he had to bring his semen as far as he could. Your body too recognized the breeding position, but you were to weak to resist under him, victim to his hips smacking and grinding into you, cock threatening to burst its way into your womb. And at least the hot strings of cum managed to get inside, despite if they’d impregnate you or not.

“Don’t say you didn’t want this,” he mumbled into your ear as he hovered over you, giving you little personal space or time before he resumed his grinding. Lips pressed down your shoulders, smothering them in pecks and kisses while you rode the waves of pleasure. “You know I’d do anything for you. You shouldn’t test me by saying you want a family.”

All he needed to do was pull you up by your arm to turn you onto your back again, satisfied eyes watching him through the shine of tears. “Next time, just be honest if you want to be bred so badly, no need to hide it behind the idea of a family that you know we can’t have.”

It was a low effort to slip into you again, your walls instantly clenching down hard on the overstimulation. “I-” he grunted, pulling your hips onto his, not minding the bruises his hands will leave on your skin. “-would do anything for you. Just say the word.”

And with his final orgasm, Geralt finally pulled out, having to watch all his effort slowly beginning to drip out and stain the rented bedsheets. Maybe, so he thought, plugging you up and hoping for a wonder would do well, your abdomen lovingly swollen under the multiple cumshots he had put into you. Reaching for an empty glass bottle for his potions, he pulled out the cork in it, opening up your hole with two fingers before slipping it inside under the weak protest of your mouth that ended in a sigh.

You were pulled snug against his body as he settled down next to you, taking a sip of wine he found at the bedside table, and making a mental note to give another tip to the innkeeper later just so you two wouldn’t be damned for all eternity. But with a sense of satisfaction did he watch the little swelling under your tummy, caressing it with his hand under your shallow gasps. Kissing your temple, he pulled a blanket over you, happy with just holding you in his arms that night while you lost conscience. You were unable to think for yourself anymore as you sighed in his hold, just relieved to have someone to lean on after going through such a carousel of emotions, unsure how you two would be able to proceed after experiencing this.

Unsure if he had other plans with you, once you woke up again even.

#Geralt #Geralt of Rivia #Geralt The Witcher #yandere geralt #yandere!geralt #The Witcher #yandere the witcher #yandere!the witcher #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere fanfiction #yandere writing #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #Yandere TW #Lemon #Anonymous

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scarletaire · 4 years ago

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homeland (Chapter 6)

A/N: Here we are at the end! And Cardan isn't quite done surprising Jude just yet.

Fandom: The Folk of the Air

Genre/s: Contains Fluff, Slight Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, Smut

Rating: E

Tags: Post-QON, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Protective!Cardan, Bewildered!Jude, Jude and Cardan discuss the Undersea, but they get a little Distracted

Description:

Cardan’s eyes flash open.

“Why?” he repeats, and Jude feels the power shift between them. “Don’t you remember, wife?” he croons. “It was the Undersea who stole you away from me.”

And Jude has only enough time to think, danger, before he lunges at her.

or:

Cardan and Jude work on removing their armor. Taking off this particularly stubborn piece happens in varying states of undress.

Links: Masterlist | AO3

“This is a stupid idea.”

“Have you known me to have any other kind?”

He has her there. Jude tugs at the blindfold around her eyes. “Where are we even going?”

“To the beginning and the end of all this.”

“What does that –” Her voice cuts off as the boat rocks precariously beneath her. “I really don’t like the sound of that.”

“You like very little, Jude, and that is a problem of yours.”

I was stupid enough to like you, she almost says. Instead she asks, “Why did we have to take a boat? More importantly, why are you the one rowing? You’re the king.” The boat rocks again, and Jude finds herself thinking longingly for a ragwort steed. Steady, secure, reliable — or, well, as reliable as Vivi’s magic allowed them to be.

“Crossing the water myself proves a fine reminder of my position to those who yearn otherwise.”

“A power play? That’s what you woke me up so early for? Cardan, there are a thousand more things that need my attention back at the brugh.”

It was still light out when she’d felt lips behind her ear, nuzzling her awake. They had probably been asleep for a mere few hours at most. She’d woken up slowly and sweetly, like dragging a spoon through thick syrup, with Cardan curled around her — arms, legs, and tail — and his mouth soft on her neck. It was such a stark contrast to how she’d woken up the previous night that Jude melted right back into his embrace, her body heavy and worn out in the best way possible.

But then he was pulling away, coaxing her to get dressed, murmuring into her skin that he had something to show her.

Promising that she would like it.

The fae cannot lie, but that last part has yet to come true.

“I’m taking this blindfold off.”

“Jude –”

She can hear the petulance in his voice and that just makes her rip the stupid thing off even faster.

It turns out that “crossing the water himself” doesn’t much include actual rowing on his part. Instead, iridescent, aquamarine scales flash across the surface of the water underneath them, their movement rippling and propelling the boat forward.

Merfolk.

Pulling their vessel on his whim.

A power play, indeed.

Jude raises an eyebrow at him, impressed despite it all. He continues to pout at her and the blindfold in her hand.

Then, something catches in her mind.

“Salt and seafoam…”

“Hm?”

“Your nightmare.” She’s staring at him now, understanding how it fits together but not quite believing it. “You said that when you dove into the sea and couldn’t find me anywhere, it was because there was nothing left of me but ‘salt and seafoam.’”

“Yes.” The word is like water on burning coals.

“You –” The sentence is inconceivable even when she tries to form it in her mouth. “Have you… have you been reading fairytales? Human fairytales?”

He scoffs. “Nothing Faerie about them.”

A yes, then.

“So –” She’s known about him reading Alice in Wonderland and even wondered at the way he had kept the mortal book in his rooms. It boggles her mind like this next thought does. “So…” How does she say this? She has no clever ruse with which to coat her words, and so she gives up and goes for direct. “The Little Mermaid. That’s what caused your nightmare?”

He cuts her a look, like she’s being stupid. “No, Jude, your kidnapping and prolonged torture at the hands of my brother and the Undersea while I waited powerless and unable to help you was the cause of my nightmare. And many more of its kind before it.”

She doesn’t much like how he speaks to her like he’s explaining something to a child, but she holds her sharp tongue and wields her silence against him.

“But fine.” He doesn’t meet her eyes. “Yes. The mortal tale about the moronic mermaid and her wayward prince may have… exacerbated any woes I may have already been carrying. Don’t know why I bothered,” he grumbles under his breath. “I hate stories.”

“No,” she says, thinking of the way he fancies himself a villain even though he hasn’t truly been one in a long time, “you don’t.”

He looks pointedly over her shoulder. “We’re here.”

And Jude turns her head to see where it is that he has brought her this morning.

She has to shield her eyes a little from the amount of sunlight that refracts off the massive stretch of sparkling sand in front of her.

No, not sand. Ash.

She knows where they are.

Insear.

The beginning and the end of all this, he said.

When they disembark, Cardan holds out his hand to guide her from the boat.

She doesn’t need his help.

She takes his hand anyway.

There is still something of last night humming underneath their skin, and so if they lean into each other’s warmth and stumble across the shimmering shores of the Isle of Ash, a little lovedrunk while they walk — well. There is nary a soul to see.

It’s somehow even more beautiful in the daylight. And with Cardan here, the island seems to unfurl even further, coming alive just a little bit more the moment he steps onto the soil. The air turns sweeter the farther inland they go, the blues and ivories and blacks of the native flowers populating everywhere they turn. When Jude looks back at their footfalls upon the ash, she sees little sprigs of myrtle springing up from the indents they leave behind.

“There’s something I want to check on,” she says when they reach the thicker parts of the forest. “I’ll come find you again.”

“As you like.” Cardan’s gaze is caught on something up ahead. “Dally not, wife.”

When Jude returns to the clearing where they had encountered the fallen falcons the previous night, she finds no trace of them save a single, tawny feather in their wake.

A token.

She pockets it with a smile.

That same smile fades far too fast when she comes back to find Cardan reaching out a hand towards a shrub of suspiciously familiar, dark-petaled flowers.

She’s between him and the shrub in seconds, pushing him away a little too violently.

In that moment, she was more seneschal than queen. And in the next, when her fingers tighten around his lapels out of their own accord, she is more wife than seneschal.

“Did you touch it?” Panic raises her voice. “Did you get any of it on you?”

“No. I didn’t recognize the flora –”

“Idiot, that’s probably the flower that poisoned me.” She’s checking his hands, his clothes, for traces of shimmering, black pollen.

“Is it?” He plucks one and raises it to his face before she can stop him.

“Cardan –”

“Peace, Jude. It cannot harm its maker.”

And Jude pauses, because it’s true. This flower, this island and everything on it, is Cardan’s creation. He is the root, and as he has proven last night, he is also the remedy.

A beat passes between them, and then: “Did it really have to take a noxious, mood-altering flower for you to tell me about my brother?”

Jude scowls at the insinuation. “I was going to.” She weighs the next sentence in her head. “It’s just… easier to talk to someone when you don’t give a crap what they think.”

The human word is out of her mouth before she can reel it back in, but Cardan nods.

“Yes, I think I can understand that.”

She watches him twirl the flower in his hand. With his dark hair and eyes and clothes, it is without the shadow of a doubt that he created it, that it sprung forth from him and his magic. It belongs with him; it is him. She can imagine it pinned to his collar, petals of black glitter, an extension of his essence.

“We should inform the Bomb. Tell her that an antidote won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Cardan grins at her like they are old friends trading a secret joke. “I can think of a few ways that an antidote could be useful.”

And Jude feels a thrill up her spine, because there is something conspiratorial in his voice, like he’s letting her in on his plan, like they are in it together, and maybe she enjoys that more than she thought she ever would. Having a partner.

“Scheming, are you?”

“I learned from the best.”

He is always more than what she thinks he is.

“That flower is connected to you. This whole island is, actually.”

“To us,” he corrects immediately, and she marks the strange note in his voice. “The island is connected to us.”

“Me, by extension,” she concedes. “But you raised this island with your own magic.”

He sighs then, as if a great burden has befallen him. “I suppose it now falls to me to name this flower, doesn’t it?”

“Well, you don’t have to name it now. We can always come back later –”

“Bitterblack,” he pronounces solemnly and somberly, and with a swiftness and surety that couldn’t possibly be borne of extemporization.“This bloom, flourishing upon the Isle of Ash, the land raised from my own bitterness, shall henceforth be known as bitterblack.”

“Um.” Jude blinks at his pomp. “Okay. Raised from your bitterness?”

“The birth of Insear marked the moment I deemed the crimes of the Undersea – against you, and against the crown — unforgivable. It was a bitter heart that sowed the seeds of this land. Perhaps it is only fitting that it was a full one that healed its poisons.”

Cardan casts her a sidelong look. He has a way of almost smiling, like the edge of moonlight peeking through the spidersilk canopy of their bed. A gossamer thing, but the light shines through.

A shame that this island will have to go belong to someone else, when she will forever remember Cardan here with her, looking at her like that.

“You brought me here to show me something.”

“Yes.” And oddly enough, his smile freezes a little. Jude narrows her eyes at it.

He leads her towards another clearing among the birches, tucking the bitterblack behind one pointed ear. There is more space here, and the air is crisp and clean, threaded through with the scent of salt and sunshine. The birches stand tall, but the sun reaches high enough to set the ash dusting the tops of the trees afire with crystal brilliance.

“What is this?”

His tail flicks once behind him. “The solution to the Insear claim.”

“What? Wait. You mean you knew how to resolve it all along? Randalin was right. You have been putting it off.”

“Not putting it off, waiting for the right time.”

“It’s been going on for weeks.”

Cardan shoots her a look. “I was supposed to ask you during the revel.”

The events of the revel — and the way it had ended, with Randalin bleeding in her chokehold — play out in her head. “Oh.”

He waves his hand. “No matter. It wouldn’t be the first time you caused a scene in front of the entire kingdom anyway.”

Jude crosses her arms. “Alright, let’s hear it, then. Tell me now so that we can put this whole thing behind us.”

He hesitates.

“Come on. Explain your solution.”

“This isn’t how I planned for this to go.”

“Planned for this to – Cardan. Just spit it out already.”

“Alright, fine,” he hisses. “I want to build a home with you. Here, on Insear.”

For a long moment, Jude wonders if she heard him right.

“Are you drunk?” Even though he couldn’t possibly be.

“I wish.”

“But the claim –”

“Is ours. Rightfully.” He raises his brow at her. “This island is connected to us, raised by my own magic. Isn’t that what you said?”

She stares at him.

“You know how this works, right?” Exasperation is clear in his voice. “I ask you to make a home with me on a new magical island, and you set yourself upon me, your acquiescence falling delightfully from your lips –”

“I do nothing delightfully, Cardan.”

“Oh, I could make a good argument otherwise.”

The entirety of last night, every sordidly delightful detail, flashes behind her eyes.

She clings to any rational thought she can find. “We already have a castle.” She thinks of the brugh, the entire sprawling mass of it. “A really big one.”

“Yes. And the Palace of Elfhame is the first place the High King and Queen should be. But often, it is also the last. A royal castle is just as much a royal warground.” He gives her a meaningful look. “As you and the rest of my family are well aware.”

Jude swallows. “What are you saying?”

“Our brugh will be the first place we make a home of, as monarchs. But it doesn’t have to be the only one.”

He turns her to face the clearing. His arms come around her from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder as they gaze out into a landscape stolen straight from the pages of a book.

“We could build something. Right here, in this glade. Where we don’t have to worry about anything. Where nothing else can touch us. We’ll close it off. We’ll come whenever we want. No spies, no interruptions, no watching our backs.”

And Jude recognizes the way he is holding her, because it’s the same way he held her in their secret room behind the throne, confessing the truths of his nightmares. “This is about protection.”

She feels him shrug. “A part of it, yes. Mostly I just want us to never be interrupted again. But there is power in protection. Wouldn’t you like that, Jude?”

Her head is swimming, because he’s put ideas into her brain, of waking up to the smell of birchwood and of walking along a glittering, moonlit shore — and they’re wonderful, damn him. If she’s being honest, those ideas came to her the moment she first stepped foot on Insear, like something in her had taken root in its sparkling soil, but she hadn’t let herself linger over them, knowing that the land would soon be treatied away.

But now, it’s like Cardan’s words have opened the floodgates, and her entire being, connected to Insear through his magic – their magic – thrums with the song of I could live here, I could thrive here, I belong here, and she aches with the rightness of it all.

“It’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had,” she admits, and doing so feels like she’s left her flank vulnerable during an open duel. She twists around in his arms quickly, before she can dwell on it. “But let’s get one thing clear.” Her fingers fist into his collar. “This nonsense about my being your weakness, that’s your problem. Not mine. I refuse to be held back by your fears.”

He nods with more gravity than is probably required. “And I could never ask it of you.”

“Then what do you ask of me now?” And because so much has changed between the two of them, because of everything that has led up to this moment, she adds, “What do you ask of me now and forever?”

He cups her face in his hands even as her fingers tighten on his shirt. “That you stay by my side. Through it all.” His mouth crooks self-deprecatingly. “And that you do not begrudge it too much that I miss you when you’re gone. That I worry. That I fear. Not because you are human, but because I hold you in my heart.”

She hates how swiftly her breath leaves her.

“Okay,” she says, more to steady herself than anything else, because this is a lot, and she’s never been good with dealing with a lot of feelings all at once. “Okay. I –”

“The rest of the kingdom belongs to the crown.” He presses closer, as if he can see her weakening. He takes a breath. “This… this could be ours. Just for us.”

“This island is too big for just the two of us.”

“No, Jude.” The look on his face is a little pained. “Us.”

A breath. A slice of time separating this moment into a before and after.

He isn’t talking about just the two of them. He’s talking about –

“Oh,” she breathes. “Us.”

“Only –” He’s scrambling a little now, she can see it. “Only if you want them.”

Them. Plural.

Jude sways a little. She’s not prepared for this. He should’ve warned her or something, because she doesn’t know how many surprises she can take in such a short amount of time.

Cardan is looking at her funny and she realizes she’s been quiet for too long. Something moves at the corner of her vision, and she realizes it’s his tail, flicking back and forth with the nervousness that he doesn’t show on his face.

“I want –” she begins, and he stills immediately, as if he could live or die on the next words that leave her mouth. “Okay. I don’t actually know what I want. I haven’t really had time to think about it. I want to talk about this. I do. And we’ll have to talk about it one day. But today, I don’t know if — if I know how, today.”

“Very well.” He says the words like he’s learning the shape of them on his tongue for the first time.

“It’s not a ‘no,’” she says quickly, before he gets the wrong idea. “It’s a ‘someday.’ Someday, you can ask me about children again. And in the meantime, I’ll think about when I can say yes. Deal?”

He touches her cheek, gentle, too gentle. “Deal.”

And all too late, she remembers the rule that she’s lived by all her life, the rule she’s broken time and time again when it came to this bewildering, beautiful boy that has made a place for himself between the stained-glass shards of her heart — never make a bargain with a faerie — because really, really, he shouldn’t be smiling like that, not like she’s given him the world when she’s barely even agreed to anything.

“Did you really plan a revel just to ask me about all this?”

“Yes. And you ruined it by taking a slice out of the Minister of Keys.”

Jude can’t help it. She throws her head back and laughs. “You’re a disaster.”

He glares, but there is no heat to it. “Only because you render me into one.”

Then something clicks into place. Something Tatterfell said while lacing her up in the dress he designed for her. For the king’s sake.

“Tatterfell knows.”

“She was most knowledgeable in your living preferences. How you like your room. Your furnishings. Your floors. I decided that I might know them, too.” He glances at the open space before them, at the sheer potential of it all. “Just in case.”

“We’ve been married for months. You could have asked me.”

“Would you have taken me seriously?”

She changes the subject, because he has her there. “How long have you been planning this?”

“A while.” Another shrug, less carefree this time. “Almost as long as the nightmares have come to me.”

Something hard glints in his eyes, and Jude recognizes the sharp lines of revenge if only because she has worn it too many times on her own face.

“All of this was as much a scheme,” he admits, “as it was a proposal to you. For to take a land borne of bitterness and remake it into a land of bliss, it would be –”

“The ultimate power play,” Jude finishes for him.

He grins down at her. It is heady, the realization that only she knows the true, full depths of her husband’s wickedness.

“I don’t have a lot of experience with blissful homes.” She feels the sudden urge to make sure he knows this. That he understands. It’s as much of a promise as she knows how to make. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about keeping one.”

“Nor I. We’ll have to learn together. Knowing you, there’ll be plenty of knives involved. But I think it starts,” he says, gathering her closer, “just like this.”

And when Cardan kisses her, Jude is sure that this is what conquerors must feel like. Because for years, she has fought for her place in Faerie, fought and bled and killed to belong somewhere.

And here it is.

Here it is, and she could dream entire worlds in his arms.

But she doesn’t have to. She has a whole world spread out before her already.

It’s a land of magic, raw and untested, ready to be discovered. A land of possibility, of infinite potential, waiting to be shaped by their hands. A land where sunlight grows and wayward falcons find peace. A land where the future blooms in full color, one amongst the thousands of flowers.

And it is theirs.

Their homeland.

______

Chapter Visuals:

Myrtle. (Love and partnership, marriage.)

End Links:

Everything: an edit.

His Door. (Cardan POV drabble, post-homeland.)

_______

End Note:

This fic represents a lot of firsts for me: my first completed multi-chaptered story, my first time (heh again) trying my hand at smut, but most importantly, my first time encountering some of the nicest, most thoughtful people as readers.

If you’ve read and followed this little fic of mine up until the end, let me thank you from the bottom of my heart. It’s been an absolute honor to have readers like you. ❤️ I've learned so much from writing this little fic that could, and I hope to continue to grow as a writer. Thank you for coming along with me on this journey and bringing so much value to the fic writing experience – kudos, comments, and your wonderful insights and all.

As always, you can find me and my open ask box on tumblr.

Much love to you, always!

________

Tagging: @ireallyshouldsleeprn @nahthanks

* Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future fics (Jurdan or other fandoms!) and it would be my absolute honor to do so!

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aceofwhump · 4 years ago

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The Weeping Monk’s attire- a summary

Okay so I may have just spent two days studiously researching medieval clothing and comparing it to images of the Weeping Monk (thanks to farfarawaysite and danielsharmanews.com for those great hd images!!), trying to figure what exactly he's wearing so I can accurately describe it in this very small scene in my Cursed wip in which Gawain has to take off some of his clothes in order to assess the man's injuries after he passed out from pain. #noregrets

I found out some interesting things (at least this history nerd found it interesting) so here it all is under the cut. (It’s more interesting than it sounds, bare with me. This got looooong.)

I apologize that this is not at all remotely whump related but I’ve been talking about him a lot on this blog and it’s related to the whump fic I’m writing so.... yeah.

Under a cut for the length

Note: I am by no means an expert so I apologize if anything is incorrect

First up is your base layer consisting of a linen undershirt, as seen in this on set photo of Daniel wearing the cloak and undershirt (photo courtesy of farfarawaysite.com), and historically linen underpants (called braies). This was typical “underwear” for the medieval period.

You can also see that undershirt in this photo (from danielsharmanews.com) if you look inside his sleeves

Next would the medieval equivalent to trousers, called hose, which would look something like this. The hose were attached to the braies with leather or cloth cords.

Sexy am I right? But because this is a tv show, he’s actually wearing trousers as seen clearly in this shot (from danielsharmanews.com)

And in the video where the weeping monk aka daniel sharman teaches us how to make a cup of coffee in medieval times

And this collage of him kicking the crap out of arthur and gawain (photos from danielsharmanews.com)

Then throw on a pair of boots over that.

Next up is the arming doublet/gambeson/aketon

This part was kind of tricky. At first I thought he was just wearing a tunic but upon closer inspection I could tell he wasn’t. The sleeves we can see appear to be thicker than a typical tunic. So I did some research and found these three garments (the names of which are debated on as they seem to be used synonymously at times)

I believe Lancelot is wearing an arming doublet over his linen undershirt instead of the gambeson or aketon.

What are those things you may be asking? Good question! Let me explain.

A gambeson was a thickly padded garment meant to be worn as standalone armor. It was made of either linen or wool and made with a quilting sewing technique so that fabric could be added in it to make it padded, usually 10-20 layers thick.

Meanwhile, an aketon was a thinner padded garment than the gambeson, about 5 layers thick, and was made to be worn under maille as padding against blunt trauma. An aketon might have also been worn under a gambeson and these two names are sometimes used interchangeably.

They look like this:

Since what Lancelot is wearing clearly isn’t that thick, I am under the impression that he is wearing an arming doublet which was much more popular in the 15th century while the gambeson and aketon were earlier.

Arming doublets were typically thinner and worn underneath plated armor. Arming doublets were not quilted like the gambeson or aketon and looked more like civillian tunics or jackets. Maille could be attached to most doublets or you could wear plate armor over it. It was also shorter than the gambeson or aketon. They weren’t too different from typical civillian tunics just made a bit thicker. That also meant that they didn’t provide too much protection without the plates attacked. Still, it was something.

An example of an arming doublet:

You can see Lancelot’s doublet better in this photo (from farfarawaysite.com). You can see the color difference and the thickness of the sleeves here.

And I’m posting this photo again because you can really see the thickness of the doublet sleeves in it

And with this one you can see the shoulder seams better (photo from danielsharmanews.com)

For comparison’s sake, Gawain wears an aketon, the type of quilted padding that goes on under your plate armor, with removable sleeves. You can see the thick padding, quilted sewing technique, and the difference in shape versus what Lancelot is wearing.

(photo from farfarawaysite.com)

Next up, Lancelot has on a surcoat (also spelled surcotte or surcote). A surcoat is a long sleeveless outer garment that goes over your head and reaches just below your knees. It also has slits in the bottom front and back so the wearer can move and ride easily. It is typically worn over your plate armor and depicts your coat of arms but it was also worn as civilian clothing.

Example of a surcoat:

Lancelot is clearly seen to be wearing a surcoat over his arming doublet.

(photo credit: danielsharmanews.com)

(photo credit: farfarawaysite.com)

And if you look close enough, you can see that there is a cross on his surcoat

And here’s a shot of the ties on the side:

And then, to finish up his ensemble, The Weeping Monk dons his signature cloak and straps on his swords (One long Paladin sword and a shorter dagger).

(photo credit danielsharmanews.com)

In summary, The Weeping Monk wears:

Linen undershirt and pants (called braies)

Hose/trousers

Boots

Arming doublet

Surcoat

Cloak

Swords

So the feels I got from all of this is that the surcoat and the arming clothing were most commonly worn not by your average dude and definitely not by monks. They were worn by.....

*drum roll*.....

KNIGHTS!

That's right! Knights are the ones who wore a surcoat over their armor and a gambeson/aketon/arming doublet went under your chainmail or plate armor. Most recognizably the knights during the crusades wore bright white surcoats with big red crosses in them on top of their plate armor. They are the ones who made them popular and afterwards knights began to wear them and had their device emblazoned on the front so people would be able to identify them. That's what led to the medieval coat of arms btw.

So the weeping monk is out here wearing garments that knights typically wore, with a cross emblazoned on the front so people could id him as the weeping monk as if the hood and eyes wouldn't already do that, instead of typcial monks robes. He’s wearing an outfit that

But if that's not foreshadowing I don't know what is.

THE WEEPING MONK IS WEARING THE TYPE OF GARMENTS THAT A KNIGHT WOULD WEAR AND I’VE GOT FEELS OVER IT!!!

It makes sense that he would wear something that offered a bit of protection since he's a master swordsman and needs to be able to move efficiently and be protected but come one. Knight’s garments. Lancelot. In knight’s garments.

And then I got to thinking about how he’s wearing a doublet but is not wearing any maille or armor which makes the doublet pretty ineffective and I got to wondering why. Like Father Carden gave him the doublet but nothing else because “If your enemy is able to land a blow then you deserve the pain from it” or something and then I got sad.

And thus concludes my extremely long and unnecessary ramble on clothing.

#long post #not whump #cursed #cursed netflix #the weeping monk #lancelot (cursed)#clothing #costume #the weeping monk's clothing #fic writing #writing research #mod post #mod rambles about her favs #adventures of fic writing #ace writes stuff #the weeping monk's attire #ace does research

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studiousmusings · 4 years ago

Text

What if Dream Won?

AU Fan Fic of the Dream SMP final showdown between Tommy & Tubbo vs Dream

Warnings: Angst / Major Character Death / All the heart break

Words: 2619

A/N - I just binge watched all of tommyinnit’s vods and am in love with the lore and story line of the Dream SMP (just starting to get into Ranboo’s Arc). I had this stuck in my head and just needed to get it out there. Hope you enjoy!

__________________________________________Tommy's heart was pounding in his chest. Lungs burning for air as he hid behind the pile of dirt, a half eaten golden apple in hand.

"Tommy."

Dream's voice echoed over the mountain top, ringing in Tommy’s ears and sending a shiver down his spine. Every moment he could ever remember the green clad man saying his name overlapped in his mind. Never had his tone been as ice cold as it was now.

“T-tommy…” Tubbo. enemy traitor YOU EXILED ME NO! His friend, his best friend. His first friend ever since he arrived on the SMP. This was just Dream getting into his head again. Tommy shook clear the haze and memories and froze as a cry came from the other side of the mountain's summit. Tubbo was sprawled across the grass, trapped under Dream's boot, sword tip resting against his friend's throat.

The disc burned in his pocket, the weight of it was like a thousand pounds. Everything he and Tubbo worked for. Every war, every skirmish, every death. Wilbur... L'Manburg. BURNT TO THE GROUND . The smell of sulfur and smoke filled his nostrils, the blasts of TNT and the Wither's cries ringing in his ears.

Dream sighed, "Come out Tommy" his sword moved, stabbing into Tubbo's shoulder as the teen pleads.

"Please, NO! DREAM! STOP. You're killing me! TOMMY!!"

"STOP!" Tommy stood, dropping the apple as he gripped Techo's axe his axe. The worn leather cutting into the skin of his palm "just stop."

"Tommy. Tommy. Tommy" He could hear the crazed smile behind the blank white mask. the soulless eyes and smile mocking him. "You're nothing! I haven't even gotten started yet! Look at you, your armor is falling apart and I haven't even brought out my potions. I had our poor Mr. President crying within three hits!”

“I have one of the discs Dream” Tommy can hear his own voice wavering.

Tubbo yelped as Dream withdrew the sword, bright red blood coating the glowing metal and slowly dripping onto the grass. “Give me the disc Tommy. Or I’ll kill Tubbo. I’ll even count you down”

“Ten”

“Don’t give it to him Tommy!” Tubbo tried to surge forward, hand gripping the wound as blood continued to spill past his fingers but Dream just kicked him down again.

“Nine”

“I… Tubbo….”

“Eight”

What does he do? What does he do? What does he DO!

“Seven… Six”

Thousands of thoughts rushed through Tommy’s mind. Heat building behind his eyes, as his free hand wrapped around the circular bit of metal. The memories behind it, the history… Then he looks into Tubbo’s watery gaze. The strength behind them, telling him it’s ok. BUT IT’LL NEVER BE OK!

“Five.”

Tubbo flinched as the sword cut into his cheek, leaving a small trickle of blood to run down his chin. “Four.”

Tommy’s heart stuttered, moving before he could even think the disc soared through the air and clattered at Dream’s feet. He could feel the man’s surprise as he stepped away from Tubbo, letting the teen scramble to Tommy’s side. Bending down he picked up the disc, a manic laugh bubbles past his lips. “I- I didn’t think it’d be that easy. No, I should have known. You’re such an idiot Tommy.” the thin metal shattered in his grasp.

Tubbo gasped “wha- no!” and Tommy felt like the world had disappeared beneath his feet.

“They were FAKE TOMMY!” Dream threw down the other disc, Mellohi and stomped on it, the thin metal shards cutting into the earth. “Did you really think I would bring the real discs with me!? Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think this is a game! It’s not!” he laughed, high and crazed. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He cocked his chin, the green glow of his eyes just barely peeking out from behind the mask.

“Drop your armor and items Tommy.”

The familiar phrase made Tommy freeze. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding, the pain lancing through him. The rush of emotions almost sending him to his knees, this was it.

“You too Tubbo” He raised his sword, nearly slicing the teen’s other arm.

“OK! Ok…” Tubbo moved quickly, tearing at the leather straps with shaking hands and dropping his apples and potions. “Tommy...” he looked between them nervously.

“Now Tommy.”

He moved like a man on strings, a movement that was well oiled and familiar. How many times had Dream made him do this while in exile? He had lost count truly. He dropped everything, even the seeds he had no idea why he had grabbed in the panic of battle. Ghostbur’s crossbow and pickaxe… all the pearls and potions. Dream picked up the Axe of Peace before tossing the dynamite down, letting all the items go up in flames. Hours upon hours of work, mining… farming… all of it gone. Left in only his clothes, still slightly singed from Doomsday as the sun began to set, the freezing wind burning his skin as it whipped around them.

“You’re a bastard Dream.”

“I know. And now, we’re going to take a trip. I’ll even show you the real discs.”

Held at sword point, Tommy gripped Tubbo’s wrist as Dream marched them towards the edge of the summit, the waterfall they had used to climb the sheer cliffs was now their trip down, death hung above the two teen’s heads.

“Go” Dream shoved Tommy’s back, nearly making him tumble over.

“Ok! Ok!” he helped Tubbo into the water, with his shoulder useless he would need help to safely get down. At least the spring water would somewhat clean out the wound.

Dream stops them at the mountain’s base, a stretch of rock too flat and uniform to be anything but suspicious. “I’ve been one step ahead of you two the entire time. Tubbo thought I was his friend Tommy. You thought I was your friend.” He laughed and knocked Tommy up against the wall, pushing Tubbo aside. “What an idiot, right Tommy?” he whispered, sword waving dangerously in Tubbo’s direction.

“You’re evil Dream… do you know that? I gotta wonder how you sleep at night.” Tommy couldn’t help the words flowing from his mouth even as the back of his head stung from knocking against the stone. The white mask darkened for a moment, the taller man stilling, his frame rising to block out the moon and cast an angry shadow.

“I sleep just fine. L’Manburg’s gone, I have the discs, I have you two at my mercy.” The glee returned, and Tommy’s heart nearly stopped when the pickaxe came swinging at his head, the metal breezing past his cheek, as it smashed into the stone behind him. A warm trickle of blood drips down his cheek a matching pair to Tubbo's.

“Go in Tommy,” Dream bent over to whisper into his ear.

“What the fu-” the cavern had torches haphazardly scattered along the walls, the dim light just barely illuminating a section of the floor made of obsidian.

“Get on the platform.”

Tubbo’s fingers intertwined with Tommy’s, helping pull him to the black stone. His eyes were pleading as he whispers, “just do as he says Tommy, we might still get out of this.”

The sounds of pistons filled the room as Dream hits a button, and with an almighty lurch the platform began to lower. There’s a moment of tense silence in the dark, only the glow of Dream’s armor reflecting off of his manic mask to see from. “Listen Tommy,” from all the thick stone it sounds like Dream’s voice is coming from every direction. “Ever since you arrived here, you’ve been a headache! You’ve brought war… terrorism. And above all else, you’ve brought the reason for all the violence, you brought attachment. Your attachment to the discs, to friends, to pets, lands, countries, items.” he laughed short and loud as the platform finally lowered into a huge underground cavern.

The walls made of thick, black obsidian towered high over them as they slowly lowered to the floor of bedrock. On the other side of the room, illuminated by glow-stone lamps the discs sat on pedestals on either side of a Nether portal.

“What the fuc-”

“You brought attachment Tommy.” Dream continued, even as the platform stops at the bottom and an eerie gong rings throughout the room. “It took me a long time to realize just how important attachment could be. But when I did, it made me stronger. And I realized you- you’re important. Come see, come see you’re discs. They’re right there… you could take them.. Run through the portal… but then I’ll just kill Tubbo. See, they don’t matter anymore.” he looks at Tubbo, “because I know what your real attachment is.

I’ve cut my attachment, I became free. I lost my friends, blew up my house… my crossbow… everything that was important to me. I cut everything because that’s what gave people power over each other, attachments. I had to lose everything, to gain control.” The manic tint to his words made Tommy shiver, Dream was becoming more and more twisted with each word. Or maybe he was always like that and Tommy just never noticed.

“You’re a sick bastard!”

“If I can control the things people are attached to... then I can control the world again." He laughs gleefully, scowling "This isn’t Tommy SMP or Tubbo SMP. it’s DREAM’S SMP! I can control it all if I have everything anyone’s ever cared about. I’ve already started my collection.” a wide sweep of his arm drew Tommy’s attention to the other pedestals around the edges of the room, and signs labeling them. Dream put Techo’s Axe on one with a glass case. Another podium had a bucket with a little clown fish in it, the label said Beckerson.

“LOOK! LOOK TOMMYINNIT!” Dream spun on his toes, green glow all but erupting from behind the mask. “I have a spot for everything, and room for more! I will take it all and no one will be able to go against me again.”

“You’re a terrible man!” Tubbo spat, “wha- what have you done…”

Tommy could feel himself shaking, looking over the few items Dream had already collected. Ghostbur’s friend… Henry for god sake. He thought Henry was DEAD! “You are sick Dream! A fucking psycho!”

Tommy pulled Tubbo behind him as Dream marched into his space, towering over the teens all while still glowing that ghostly green. “Everything I’ve done is for a reason!” he snarled. “To take back control of the world!” he lent back, a smile growing in his tone again, “and it’s all thanks to you Tommy.”

“Just kill us already!” Tommy screamed, behind him Tubbo was shaking. He couldn’t tell if it was because of the panic or because he was feeling the same anger that burned in Tommy’s stomach.

“You’re the KEY Tommy!” Dream scoffed, “You bring the attachment, so no… I can’t kill you. I can’t let you free either. Your exile was perfect! People could visit you, not that I didn’t do my best to stop them. But you were out of the way… just how I wanted, and then you left. You disappeared and wrecked EVERYTHING.”

Dream spun, sword back in hand it’s cold metal caressing Tommy’s chin, making him look up into the mask’s painted eyes. “So I made a prison.” He tilted his head, letting the mask focus on Tubbo. “I’M GOING TO LOCK TOMMY AWAY FOREVER TUBBO. I need him, but I don’t need you. You’re just a pawn, a follower who has lost his usefulness”

Tommy shoved the man back, not that it moved him much. Pure fear ran through his system, at the anger that was directed at Tubbo, at the blatant threat. “Tubbo isn’t a follower! You’re a monster Dream, evil… just pure evil!”

“Evil…” Dream laughed, dark and gritty that echoed around the vault. “Evil is in the eye of the beholder. So if I’m the evil in your story, that means you’re the hero Tommy. And every hero needs and origin story.”

“NO!” the fear that soaked Tommy to the bone gripped at his throat, his voice breaking and wheezing. Even as Tubbo grasped at his hand, clammy skin with a heartbeat fluttering fast under his touch. “Absolutely fucking not! NO! What do you mean.” Tommy desperately looked around the hall, they were trapped, Dream stood between them and the portal. The platform had long risen back to the surface. They had no tools, no supplies, no way to break through the impossibly strong obsidian.

“Tommy. I want to give you your chance to say good-bye. I’m not the monster you think I am.” Dream said lightly, like he was giving a present on Christmas day, “It’s Tubbo’s time to go, so say your good-byes, because after this… you’ll never see him again.”

“Keep the discs!” Tommy panicked. “I don’t care about them, let Tubbo and I go.”

“I don’t give a shit about the discs Tommy. I care about power, and Tubbo is the power over you that needs to go. Say you’re good-byes.”

“FUCK YOU BITCH! NO! Wha-what the h-hell…” Tommy resisted the urge to pace, to move so he could think, try and come up with something that could get Tubbo out of here. But the small hand clutched in his kept him rooted in one spot.

Dream tilted his head, like Tommy was some sort of interesting painting “You’ll miss out on your chance to say good-bye to your best friend? I’m not kidding, I am going to kill him!” The anger was back, the flip flopping of emotions coming from the older man was like two sides of a coin, one moment blistering anger, the other a child filled with excitement.

“Tommy…”

“NO!”

“Tommy!” Blood soaked fingers grasped onto his shirt and spun them so Tubbo stood in between Tommy and the green man.

Tommy’s muttering continued in full force, “if we run, if we get to my old base, we could make it Tubbo, we could make it…” He gripped Tubbo's sleeves, anything to ground himself.

“It’s alright. This is it…” Tears streaked down the slightly chubby cheeks of his best friend.

“Don’t just accept this Tubbo! We- we- you can’t….”

“Tommy, it’s over” the smaller teen pulls Tommy into a hug, arms wrapping around him like a lifeline. “All good things must come to an end. We had a good run” he mutters into the fabric of his shirt, tears soaking through, “I didn’t think this would be the end for me, but we had some fun times.”

“...What am I without you?”

“Yourself. Your amazing, funny, and brave self. I believe you’ll get out of this on your own, it won’t be the end for you Tommy.” Tubbo pulled back, eyes roaming over Tommy like he was trying to memorize everything about him.

“Tubbo...even though, ever since I met you, I've always regarded you as my sidekick.” Tommy ignored the hot tears stinging the scratches across his cheek. “But really Tubbo I was your sidekick.”

Tubbo takes a step back smiling, arms dropping to his sides. “You’ll always be my best friend Tommyinnit”

The sword erupts from Tubbo’s chest with a wet sound of singing metal. Blood bubbling up past pale lips. Face still stupidly stuck in that small smile, eyes never leaving Tommy’s even as he watches the light fade from them.

“NO!” Tommy feels his world fall apart. Catching Tubbo as he falls, like a puppet with its string’s cut. Dream stands over him, blood dripping onto the stone as he wipes the blade clean. Clinical and oppressive.

“Time to go Tommy.”

Hands still stained, and blood soaked shirt and jeans sticking to his skin, barely dry unlike the cold body of his friend. Tommy feels the rage fester and build as he looks up at the maniac, the murderer. Even as the lava slowly falls over the cell’s doors, blocking his view and locking him in the obsidian room with only empty books for company. Tommy makes a promise, a declaration. Whatever it takes, Dream is going to pay.

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jj-scottsbee · 4 years ago

Text

Ghosts

Prompt: You were the wife of Thorin Oakenshield, you died during the Battle of Moria. Though when Thorin needed you most, you figure out a way to be there.

Warnings: mentions of death, attempted domestic abuse

Translations: yâsûn - husband amrâlimê - my love Ukrad - greatest heart Mizim - jewel Kurdu - heart, Melhekhul - my king Men lananubukhs me - I love you

"I will have war," Thorin growled from atop the front wall of Erebor. He stared down coldly at the three leaders who spoke to him, a disgusted look covering his face. He stared at them as if they were nothing, but ants that he planned to step on.

The entire Company had flinched at his words, all of them knowing Thorin was not in his right mind, but all of them too loyal to oppose his wishes. They all sat silently keeping their thoughts and emotions to themselves, Balin simply shaking his head is disappointment and Bilbo staring at the back of Thorin's head in shock. The small hobbit finally realizing that there was no living creature, that could show him his wrongs. Thorin refused to listen to anyone, but the voice in his head.

Everyone could see their King's mind slowly slipping, the dragon sickness taking more and more from him each day. The greed and darkness overcame him quickly, sparing him no time to realize how cruel his actions were.

Even after Thorin had tried to throw Bilbo over the wall, Bilbo prayed for his lost friend. That very night he prayed to Mahal for help, to send Thorin a sign. He prayed that Mahal takes mercy on the astray king. The rest of the Company secretly prayed for the same thing, hoping that Mahal would help Thorin fix the wrong of his ways.

~ ~

Thorin stood in the throne room. He stood tall, admiring the mounds of gold that covered the floors. He wore his Grandfather's crown and fur coat. His stance was filled with pride and lust for more, impossible plans of how he would defeat the armies that stood just outside the walls brewing within his clouded mind. He was slowly descending further and further into madness.

"My, my look at you." Thorin froze as your voice rang through the silence of the throne room. His eyes darted around the room looking for you. He contemplated whether he had truly heard your voice or if his mind was simply playing tricks on him. "Over here, darling."

Slowly, Thorin turned his head his body following. He turned until he faced the opposite direction of the main doorway of the room. His ice blue orbs carefully falling onto your body. Thorin stared at you in awe and shock, there you stood, clothed in the armor you had worn into the Battle of Moria. The clothing that you had died in. Your hair was carefully braided into that of a warrior, your marriage braid still hanging out proudly. The only wound that your body held, was a small bloodied scratch that lay just under your right eye. You looked nothing near how you had the last time his eyes had seen you.

"Y/N, you live? But h-how?" He choked out his words, not knowing what to say. His mind struggling to believe that you were there, you looked so real, but he had held you in his arms when your life had slipped from your body. He had watched your life die from your delicate, e/c, eyes. The look of death on your face had been engraved into his mind, the image never leaving.

"I live on in your heart, amrâlimê (my love). I wish to be in your mind, but that seems to be a little more occupied at the moment." You teased, watching as his face still contorted into confusion.

"You lie. My wife has long since been dead, she died in my arms. You should leave before I strike you down where you stand." He hissed, his emotions immediately changing. You had believed Thorin to have a little bit of a temper, but this sudden mood change was not your husband's.

"I would love to see you try." You challenged, "I have indeed passed on. However, I have found it rather difficult to find peace." You paced slowly, circling Thorin carefully getting closer and closer to him. You spoked with confidence and authority, yet you held a gentle tone. Your voice soothed Thorin each time you spoke, but he still fought with himself on what to do.

"It is not possible. My wife is gone." He continued to argue.

"Thorin. I may not be with you physically, but I have never left your side. I have watched you, throughout this journey. I have watched over the company, begging Mahal not to bring any of you back to him. I have seen the change in you, just like the rest of the Company. And may I add, if you dare touch that poor hobbit as you did earlier, dead or alive, I will kill you myself." Your voice became more powerful, you lost much of the softness that you held previously. You watched as the anger returned to his eyes, his stance that had softened only slightly, had tensed once again. You now stood only feet away from him, his face hardening, fire burning in his eyes.

"My wife would never threaten my life over such a pathetic creature. You are simply a trick of my mind, or are you whore that my enemies have sent to seduce me into peace?" He mocked, thinking himself smart as he believed he had solved the mystery. Anger rose within your body.

"I believe you are calling the wrong person, pathetic." You looked Thorin up and down, suggesting the opposite. He immediately started towards you, anger burning in his face. His body was tense as he marched forwards. You could feel the arrogant anger seeping through his pores. You refused to move, standing your ground. You would now see how much of your husband was truly left inside of the body that charged you.

He reached you quickly, his ego was hurt and he planned to make you feel the pain as well. He wound up his hand, bringing it to the opposite shoulder. Immediately he swung the back of his hand at your face, his eyes narrowed at yours. To his surprised, you caught his wrist, as if it were nothing, but a ball of yarn. You watched him, your heartbreaking if it were even possible.

"You are not the king you claim to be. You were once my Ukrad (greatest heart), but who stands before me now I do not recognize this dwarf. He seems to be no better than the Pale Orc himself." You spit. Regret washed over him, as he felt the softness of your touch, the feeling of your severely familiar skin. His heart sank as the realization of his actions hit him, as he realized what he had turned into. His armed fell limp to your hold, as tears rose in his eyes.

How was it possible? You stood, holding his arm. No matter the circumstance, the feeling of your hold made him yearn for you. The nights that he had cried for you, the nights that he wished so desperately to hold you again, the dreams he would have of a future that was no longer possible, all came flooding back to him. Just as his arm had fallen limp to your touch, his knees began to shake. Only a moment later, he fell to his knees, your fist still grasped tightly around his wrist. You watched him, disgust still evident in your eyes.

"You have come back to me..." He whispered, his glossy eyes staring into yours. Your expression softened as you slowly broke through to him. "My mizim (heart), my kurdu (jewel), how have you come back to me."

"As I said, I have never left you, my love. But I can not stay as I have come to you now, we have only but a small while together. You must promise me before Mahal calls me back, you must promise you will end all of this." You begged, you now sat on your knees across from him, both of your hands resting on each of his cheeks. Both of his hands gripped your wrists, hoping that if he never let go, you would stay with him forever. You felt the hot tears hitting your small hands, as they slipped from his eyes. "You must fight the sickness that this gold has cursed you with, you must become the king that I know you are."

"I promise you, my loving wife, I will fix what I have done. I will fight no one, but my true enemies. I know they do not lay just beyond these walls. I promise you this, but please you must stay. I am no king without my queen." He cried softly as he gripped at your arms, he had lost you once, he did not want to do it again.

"Thorin, I wish more than anything that I had more time to spend with you, but my time has already come. I must go back to Mahal, but you will win any fight you must. You take care of the Company for me. You must tell Fíli and Kíli that their auntie misses them dearly, tell Dwalin he must find a wife soon, and everyone that I miss and love them. You tell that little hobbit, Bilbo, that I am thankful for him, he has done so much for my love." You began to cry, as you felt your time running out. You knew Mahal had only given you a little while to see Thorin, only a little bit to save him from his mistakes.

"I am no one without you, please if you must go take me with you." He breathed out frantically, as you began to stand. You could hear the strong voice of Mahal calling to you, you had only minutes before you would disappear from him again.

"You are Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, the love of my life and death. When Mahal decides it is your time, then we will be reunited in death. I have lived, I have fulfilled my purpose in the land of the living. There are still tasks you must complete, your time will come and I will be waiting there for you." You both stood now, tears still spilling down your face. "I will see you soon Melhekhul (my king)...Men lananubukhs me (I love you)."

You whispered your last words, quickly crashing your lips onto his. Thorin kissed back, wrapping both of his arms around your body. He kissed you with pure passion and longing. His heart soaring as he felt the soft, smoothness of your plump lips once again. They were so warm and welcoming, he longed for the moment to never end. All of the happy memories he had with you flowing through his head, engulfing his mind, letting him relive some of the most cherished moments of his life.

Just as he had felt your lips, kissing him so deeply, you were gone. Your body that only seconds before he had held in his arms, was now replaced by nothing, but air. His eyes slowly opened as his face fell into agony, as he fell to his knees. Tears poured from his eyes, like a rushing river about to flood over its banks. He sunk to his knees, grabbing the crown that he wore, from his head, and hurled it away from him. He then ripped the fur cloak that sat on his back and tossed it away from him.

"Let me see her soon Mahal." He begged, his head falling limp as he leaned forwards. He braced both his hands on the gold that sat below him, sobbing as the pain of losing you washed through him. He felt as though he was nothing without you.

Dwalin, Balin, Fíli, and Kíli, watched Thorin from the doorway of the throne room. They had heard him calling your name, they saw him talking to himself, he had acted as though he was holding onto you. Thorin's two nephews's feared for their Uncle's sanity, but Dwalin and Balin knew this was a step towards the better.

#the hobbit movies #the hobbit imagine #theHOBBIT #the hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Thorin's Company #thorin x reader #thorin durin #thorin oakenshield imagine #thorin imagine #the company #wife!reader #husband!thorin #lort #battle of the five armies #the hobbit: the battle of the five armies #dragonsickness!thorin

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merelliahallewell · 4 years ago

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An Order of Embers Roleplay Primer

Hello, friends. A while back I wrote a not-so-brief guide to Order of Embers roleplay that seemed to help a few people. MG’s Kul Tiras community has been growing lately and I’ve also founded a new guild and RP project set in Drustvar, and so I figured I would update this for clarity and ease of reading. In other words? I... am back on my bullshit.

This primer will be headcanon/fanon free, and only reference quest text or other information that can be found in-game in Drustvar. If headcanons are your thing, I’ll be releasing an in-character guide to Kul Tiras’s monsters and dark magic soon. I hope. It is the endless writing project.

Drustvar’s Woes

On Kul Tiras’ western side lies the mountainous region of Drustvar. It provides most of the island kingdom’s ore, some food, and some of their strongest warriors.

In recent times, a civil war raged across Kul Tiras. A secessionist, N’zoth-aligned faction run by Lord Stormsong in the north and an attempted coup led by Lady Ashvane in Boralus itself nearly toppled the Proudmoore Admiralty, but were stopped by brave souls. Drustvar was strangely absent from these conflicts, and many refugees spilled out into the rest of Kul Tiras telling frightening tales of “wooden demons” who had driven them from their homes.

Most of the land west of the mountains had fallen to a group of terrifying magic-users who enslaved the minds of all they came into contact with... if they didn’t kill them for sport or use them as reagent for foul and perverse rituals. The land east of the mountains was on the brink, as well. Corrupted wildlife roamed the woods freely and witches practiced their dark spellcraft freely, driving the remaining desperate souls into worship of the wickermen or into frenzied attempts to prosecute innocents for the crimes of the terrifying Heartsbane Coven. All of this happens before the player even arrives in Drustvar.

The Order of Embers

During the zone’s storyline, the player and Lucille Waycrest discover that the magic being used against the people of Drustvar is that of the ancient Drust, who were defeated thousands of years earlier by a group known as the Order of Embers. The Drust were a seafaring clan of Vrykul that eventually settled on Kul Tiras sometime after the Sundering. They developed druidic ways that brought them in tune with the land and even earned them the blessing of nature spirits, but those ways were perverted by a sorcerer-king who set the Drust upon the path of death and domination.

The old Order were comprised of those who took up arms against their far more powerful foes, exploiting weaknesses in Drust magic uncovered by scholars. The Waycrests were members of the ancient order, and it was Arom Waycrest himself who led the charge to defeat the Drust king Gorak Tul. In the cavern Gol Var, once a Drust stronghold, they recover an ancient tome known as the Tome of Silver and Ash, a treatise which contained all the old Order’s knowledge on combatting their magic.

In the town of Arom’s Stand, some of the Waycrest Guard’s finest remaining soldiers were recruited to become the reborn Order’s first Inquisitors. The newly-anointed inquisitors brought the fight to the Heartsbane from there.

The Order’s battles with the Heartsbane Coven play out over the latter half of the Drustvar questing experience and also the zone’s world quests. They add new members to their ranks, create new weapons for use against the Coven, and push back against them on all sides. Eventually, they storm Waycrest Manor, cutting off the head of the snake and defeating the Coven’s leadership. Gorak Tul was forced back into the death-realm of Thros, prevented from returning for the time being. (Tul was later killed in Thros during the Pride of Kul Tiras questline.)

It’s unclear how long it took to purge the Heartsbane from Drustvar- if the task was truly completed at all. Blizzard rarely addresses zone stories after the fact, which means the plot thread has been left hanging and was not addressed in any subsequent patches in BfA. The Order of Embers also assisted with the fight against the Horde during the Drustvar invasion.

It may be a reasonable inference that Drustvar is being repaired and de-cursed in the aftermath of the war, but that is not an easy task.

Who leads the Order of Embers? Does it have a hierarchy?

Lucille Waycrest- now the ruling Lady of Drustvar, and the last of her house, is in charge of the Order. All inquisitors are raised to their stations by the authority of House Waycrest. Other important figures are the remaining original inquisitors (Sterntide, Mace, Notley, and Yorrick), the quartermaster Alcorn, and Marshal Joan Cleardawn, a former inquisitor that was given new leadership over the Waycrest Guard.

The Order seems to lack much of a formal hierarchy- most of the named NPCs are simply titled with inquisitor, working together as a team rather than issuing commands to one another. They also seem to be adept at handling missions alone and on their own or with the aid of local allies.

Can I roleplay an inquisitor or other member of the Order of Embers? Is it lore-abiding to do so?

Sure! The Order didn’t stop at five inquisitors- a world quest boss for the Horde during the invasions has them facing off against a new Inquisitor named Erik. They also have a quartermaster and a cleric, which means there may be support staff involved that do not bear the big title but are still part of the group. The Order is probably not handing out inquisitor garb like candy, but there’s no reason to assume that a worthy and trusted individual wouldn’t be made an inquisitor.

However, it is worth mentioning that the Order of Embers might not be too trusting of those wielding or even infused with darker powers, given the devastation of their homeland by spellcasters wielding terrifying magic. That is just a guess on my part, but an educated one. Drustvar as a whole has a very low-magic culture.

Could a non-human join the order?

I don’t see why not, but there are no non-human methods ingame. I would never say that it is lore-breaking to roleplay a nonhuman as an Inquisitor, just that there’s no real in-game basis to make this judgement on either way. If you want to roleplay an inquisitor that’s not human and you think you have solid IC reasoning: go for it!

Obviously, the Order of Embers may be more hesitant to accept, say, a void-infused elf with tentacle hair or a worgen warlock as an inquisitor than a race they’re more familiar with such as a sturdy dwarf or genius gnome. Ability to serve House Waycrest and being of aid against the Heartsbane are likely strong factors in joining up- they may not make a person an inquisitor if they’re a night elf sorcerer that’s been in Kul Tiras for two weeks and hasn’t ever seen a witch in his life.

Initiation Ceremony

To become a member of the Order of Embers, the initiate undergoes a short ritual where they are presented with their garb.

Brothers and Sisters, today you become the searing fire that burns away the darkness.

Today you become the shining blade that cuts through the wicked.

Today you become the beacon of hope against the endless foe.

By the authority of House Waycrest, I name you inquisitors of the Order of Embers!

Clothing and Armor

Upon being appointed to their new stations, inquisitors are offered a set of garb inspired by drawings in the Tome of Silver and Ash of what the ancient inquisitors wore. This armor seems to be dark brown leather gear and also has a feathered cap involved- though only one of the inquisitors seems to have chosen to wear that accessory. The specific in-game set is the “Armor of the Dashing Scoundrel,” which comes from Antorus. It drops from the heroic difficulty of the raid. It should be noted you don’t need the whole set- each inquisitor wears different pieces of it and matches them with other clothing or armor pieces. The hat also has a chance to drop from the Commodore Calhoun rare in Vol’dun. Not sure if it would drop for non leather users, so be careful.

Don’t feel like you have to be a rogue to play an Inquisitor- going for tones of brown with some silver or grey mixed in will likely net you a pretty good-looking set. There are Kul Tiran questing and dungeon plate sets that look fantastic and are worn by Waycrest Guard/Marshal NPCs that would work great as an inquisitor’s battle armor.

The Order also has a tabard, which is worn by the quartermaster who sells it. While no inquisitors actually seem to wear it, it’s one of the better-looking tabards added that expansion and has a distinctive look. It matches well with just about any gear that has brown or tones of silver/grey.

If you’re looking for some transmog ideas, this is a link to the Order of Embers mogs on /r/transmogrification. There is a super sweet plate set OoE set on there that actually won Best Dressed of 2018 for that armor class.

If you’re looking for a great Order of Embers-type transmog, the Leather PvP set from Shadowlands’ first season really hits those vibes. It has a very witch hunter theme to it, is colored largely brown, and the belt has fucking potions and silver spikes on it for use on... enemies. I cannot understate how badass this set is. The best part? It is not class locked, meaning that this armor is available to anybody that can wear leather gear, if you toggle the vendor pane to show “all classes.” However, it does cost Conquest points (and a lot of them), so you may want to be picky with what you grab unless you don’t intend to gear through PVP this season. We don’t know if it will be available after the season ends, so you may want to pick that up soon if it’s your thing. Also, it’s just a nice-looking coat and we don’t have a lot of those in-game.

Weaponry

The inquisitors of the Order of Embers wield a number of different weapons, taken from their prior occupation as members of the Waycrest Guard. Everything from two-handed swords to crossbows are used by them- and that’s just primary weapons. Their armor features throwing knives as well. Inquisitor Mace even carries a trio of daggers sheathed at her belt- it seems they have no shortage of tools for dispatching foes with.

Players who have completed the zone’s Bleak Hills Mine quests also have a buff called Silvered Weapons. Silver can disrupt the magics of the Drust, and stun abberations, elementals, and undead in the zone. This is an inference, but it may be because all of those monster types in Drustvar are powered by this magic. The silver recovered from one of the region’s mines was used to begin producing weapons for the Order such as the silver-plated hand cannon Witchrend, which seems to shoot silver shrapnel to great effect against the Heartsbane.

It should be pointed out that silver is a shitty metal to make a weapon out of. It is not half as strong as steel or whatever else they make weapons out of in Azeroth. The original Order of Embers got around this fact by making weapons with a steel core and covering them with a layer of pure silver- you find one of their long-abandoned knives out in the world.

Other universes have done similar things with silver weapons- D&D has a ruling about silvered weapons, and The Witcher series has a whole class of silver swords created with special forging techniques. It may be wise to take a page from the latter universe, as Witchers face the same issue regarding silver’s weakness as a weapon. They get around that by carrying two swords- one for men, the other for monsters. I’m not telling you that you should roleplay a Witcher but I am saying that’s kind of half the reason we’re here, so it might be okay to borrow that idea since they face that very legitimate problem with a smart solution.

Storm Silver is a metal found abundantly in Kul Tiras, and is used for building ships, making armor light enough to swim in, and consecrating for various uses by Tidesages. It is likely not the same as pure silver, but we don’t have explicit confirmation either way.

Alchemical fire is also a potent weapon against witches and Drust alike, crafted by Master Ashton. The original text specifically says it was used to “burn away the Drust.” This concoction is tricky to make, requiring the reagents Heartbloom, Saltpeter, volatile sap, and Sulfur. The fire is carried in a reinforced flask that is made to withstand the test of time, able to hold the volatile components without igniting. Inquisitors use alchemical fire to pour over dangerous objects or to shift into more breakable containers for throwing. This is seen in the Gorak Tul fight, when alchemical fire is put into flasks which are shattered over the corpses of his minions to prevent them from rising again.

It isn’t addressed whether magical fire has the same effect as this alchemical concoction. A fire mage, destruction warlock, or priest wielding holy fire might be a neat character concept to bring to the table for an order that doesn’t have a lot of magic.

Rowan wood is also useful against Drust magic. However, it is not specified how exactly it is helpful. Rowan trees don’t grow in Kul Tiras, so an inquisitor seeking that wood would need to travel overseas for such a reagent. It could, however, be extremely helpful and far cheaper than making a silver weapon.

Non-inquisitor Roles

If you find the Order of Embers cool, but don’t think you like the idea of hunting witches all day, they have more than just inquisitors. The witch hunters rely on specialists to help them get the tools they need to beat back the Heartsbane, and even simply through the questing experience they gather new allies. The blacksmith Angus Ballaster and the alchemist Master Ashton both are essentials. As mentioned before, they are also joined by a cleric, Loriette. A skilled smith or alchemist could find work alongside the Order of Embers, perhaps helping to craft more weapons for them or concocting potions for use in the field.

Allies

The witch hunters are not the only ones out to defend their homes- they are joined by a plethora of others trying to protect the region. Whether you believe the Coven is still an active threat or not, these are still the most common friends an Inquisitor may find in the field.

Waycrest Guard - The Waycrest Guard are Drustvar’s chief protectors, but lost many of their members to the mind-enslaving curse of the Heartsbane. They work alongside the Order of Embers in the Drustvar quests. The original inquisitors are all drawn from the Waycrest Guard, so the Order has deep ties with them. It appears largely as if the Guard protect the settlements, and the inquisitors are the ones striking deep into enemy territory. They could be called to do heavier lifting when the Order alone cannot do the job.

Town Militia - With much of the Waycrest Guard falling under the control of the Coven, the towns of Drustvar were forced to look to their own defenses, such as in Falconhurst and Fletcher’s Hollow. Ordinary citizens have bravely taken up arms in defense of their homes, and the aid of a skilled inquisitor would likely be welcomed. Even with the witches defeated, it’s likely some militia still protect their towns.

Thornspeakers - The Thornspeakers are a faction of Drust and human druids that live out in Drustvar’s woods and mountains. They are led by Ulfar, the last living Drust and the leader of the faction that sided with the humans against their own kind. The Thornspeakers seem to congregate at Ulfar’s Den along the eastern side of the mountains, but watch over all of Drustvar and Tiragarde. They work hard to maintain the balance in nature, and have allies in the mysterious pair of stags that roam the forests...

Drustvar Rangers - Though they only appeared in a few brief quests supporting the Thornspeakers, Drustvar seems to have a number of woodsmen trying to do their part to protect their home. They do not seem to be magical or anything, just some normal folks

Notes, RP hooks, Excess Lore, etc

The Order of Embers is based out of Arom’s Stand in central Drustvar. The building Lucille occupies is possibly their headquarters. They also may use Gol Koval as a base of operations.

Onions seem to be anathema to the witches and their servants.

Witches have been observed to call upon Drust magic without the Coven’s assent- once by a rejected witch in Drustvar, and again in Tiragarde at the Algerson Yard. This could open up the possibility of inquisitors venturing outside Drustvar to battle new threats. Additionally, it seems as if there may be some witches left as of the Shadowlands quests that take you back to Drustvar, so the hunt may not be over.

The Drust themselves have invaded Ardenweald from Thros. Whether it’s Drust artifacts/contraband making their way into Azeroth of the Drust themselves trying a full-on invasion through the yawning portal into Thros that was left unresolved in BfA, there’s a ton of possible plot threads that can be picked up related to them. A journey into the afterlife wouldn’t even be out of the question, since common citizens make it to Oribos and there is talk of mortals being able to join covenants. The Night Fae would be in dire need of a bold soul bearing flame and silver to drive back their foes and protect the cycle of life and death.

The Holy Light may be used by some members of the Order of Embers. Inquisitor Erik uses holy spells for his attacks when engaged by Horde players, and Cleric Loriette casts a fiery blessing on players who have unlocked her, a spell type usually reserved for priests. She’s also a cleric which usually implies the Light in this universe. A Light-wielding inquisitor is not out of the question, it seems, especially since Drustvar seems to have some ties to the Light if you look into it.

Despite the possibility of Drustvari Light-wielding inquisitors, this is not the same situation as the Scarlet Crusade. The Order of Embers is not a holy or religious order. It owes allegiance to House Waycrest. Religious zealotry is not on their menu. Per the faction description, the Order of Embers fights with knowledge guiding their blades.

It’s unlikely the Order would be suspicious of magic-users such as druids or shamans, given that they share a continent with Thornspeakers, Tidesages, and even mages (even if those are offscreen). They would have to be a pretty poor inquisitor to confuse the magics of their allies with that of Drust magic, so don’t go inquisitioning random magic users.

This isn’t really anything to do with canon, but please don’t use the Order of Embers to live out really fringe stuff with purging ‘heretics’ or being racist at elves or what have you. The community has a history with seeing that sort of stuff in inquisitor characters and it is unlikely to earn you a super great reception if you choose to roleplay that.

Further Reading (Fanon and out-of-WoW information)

This blog post goes over some potential processes for silvering and what happens when these weapons are used on creatures averse to silver.

Matt Mercer has created an interesting Dungeons & Dragons class called the Blood Hunter (which used to be called Witch Hunter.) It provides some interesting ideas that could be brought into an inquisitor character, especially one that might be interested in wielding darker magics to counter evil powers. You can view the class on D&D Beyond, or read the old Witch Hunter PDF which is a prior draft.

I recently did a huge series of writeups on the Drust, the Order of Embers’ perennial foe. If you’re wanting something to face off against or just want to know your lore, you can give these a read!

The Drust Background - - The Drust in BfA - - The Drust in Ardenweald

Night Fae Campaign (1) - - Night Fae Campaign (2)

- - - - - -

I hope this post was helpful to anybody who’s feeling like trying out this sort of roleplay! It’s terribly long-winded but I wanted to do my best to cover all of the information out there. If you’d like to reach out to me about this topic or roleplay with an inquisitor, I play the character “Inquisitrix” mainly on both Moon Guard and sometimes “Merciella” on Wyrmrest Accord.

If you’re looking for Order of Embers-themed roleplay and you play on Moon Guard, the guild <Silver and Ash> might be what you’re looking for, as they roleplay a group of inquisitors! On Wyrmrest Accord, there is a small interguild community called the Hex Hunter’s Society that I believe may be active still. If you’re looking for other Kul Tiran-type roleplay or want to put an inquisitor in a different environment, there are a few other guilds out there that utilize Kul Tiras on both Wyrmrest and Moon Guard. Happy hunting!

#Drustvar #Order of Embers #Roleplay Guide #Lore Dump #Please come roleplay in Drustvar #Join Autumnhearth too #Kul Tiras #Drust #Heartsbane Coven

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cicada-bones · 4 years ago

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The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 19: The Ring

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Aelin was quiet through the long walk up the side of the mountain, not speaking a word of complaint as they climbed higher and higher, the trees fading into mounds of lichen-covered rock, which soon were covered by snow and ice as they approached the crest of the snow-capped peak of Bald Mountain.

But before they’d have to start clambering through snow drifts, Rowan turned, delving southwest, where the gaping maw of a massive cave lay hidden.

“What in every burning ring of hell are we doing here?” Aelin asked as the cave came into view. Her tone was derisive, but the effect of her scorn was somewhat lost in the sound of her out-of-breath panting.

Rowan ignored the question, instead striding through the entrance of the cave and saying, “Hurry up.” The hike had taken them longer than he had thought it would, and he was starting to get just a little bit worried.

Rowan had to hold in a grimace as he strode through the darkness. The cavern smelled horrible, of mold and rust and rotting things. But he kept his path straight, heading towards the lake he knew waited for them, his icy power keeping its surface frozen solid.

Though his steps were quiet, the ground was rocky, littered with small stones worn smooth by water, and the sound of his feet on the loose rock echoed unnervingly. Especially since the stones weren’t the only obstacles that lay before them. The cave was also strewn with rusted weapons, armor, and clothes. Relics left by Fae long since dead.

Fae such as Brannon of the Wildfire, and Athril the Healer.

It was Emrys’ stories that had reminded him, that had shown him the answer. Rowan didn’t know when he had first heard the tale of Maeve and her love, the story of her great tragedy. But he did remember the day he learned the lie at its heart.

The tale told throughout the land was that Athril, beloved of the dark queen, had died in obscurity, in some long-forgotten conflict. But that was untrue. Maeve had killed Athril. Killed him for spite or hate or some hidden strategy, Rowan did not know. But she had killed him, forcing Brannon to flee these lands with his sword, Goldryn, and Athril’s family ring. But he did not cross the ocean with them.

Brannon escaped Doranelle, traversed the mountain paths and even passed through Mistward itself. But when he arrived at the fortress, he came empty-handed, the only explanation being that he’d abandoned the sword and ring somewhere between Doranelle and Mistward.

Maeve had no idea where Brannon had left them, though she had searched high and low. Searched through the long years, until decades became centuries. But Rowan knew. Or at least, he thought he did.

Goldryn and the ring lay among the weapons beneath Bald Mountain, where Athril had once carved out the eye of a great water-demon. It was a story no one else knew, a story his mother had once told him. The story of Athril and Brannon and the lake-monster.

Maeve didn’t like tales of Brannon, kept them from being told within her borders. So Rowan’s mother had whispered it in secret, beneath the bedcovers and behind closed doors. It had been one of his favorites.

Rowan had always liked tales of Brannon, of his fire and his fierce heart. Just as he had always loved Mala, Rowan had wanted to grow up to be exactly like the ferocious Fae warrior. But Maeve hated Brannon, had raised up a city of water and stone as protection against him. Protection against Brannon’s wrath from murdering his beloved friend.

It had taken Emrys’ reminder to connect the dots, to realize that the only plausible resting place for Goldryn and the ring was this cave. The cave where the lake-monster had once dwelt, slain long ago by Brannon and Athril.

Rowan walked briskly through the darkness, Aelin staggering after him. Soon, his eyes adjusted and a figure came into view across the frozen expanse of the ancient lake. A figure he had left chained there barely an hour before.

“Tell me I’m hallucinating.” Aelin’s tone was hard, unyielding.

Sitting on a blanket in the center of the lake, the chains around his wrists anchored under the ice, was Luca.

Aelin’s motivation, and her distraction.

Luca’s chains clanked as he raised a hand in greeting. “I thought you’d never show. I’m freezing,” he called, and tucked his hands back under his arms.

“What is this place?” Aelin asked.

“Go get him,” Rowan answered.

“Are you out of your mind?”

He only smiled. Rowan could feel the heat of Aelin’s fury from nearly five feet away. She stepped toward the ice, but he blocked her path before she could get any farther. “In your other form.”

“He doesn’t know what I am,” she murmured, still looking out towards the boy. A small curl of fear and shame wafted from her.

After all these weeks, she still feared her other form. Had learned to hate it. What had happened to her in Adarlan?

“You’ve been living in a fortress of demi-Fae, you know. He won’t care.”

Aelin clenched her jaw and turned to face Rowan, anger once again overpowering all other emotion in her scent. “How dare you drag him into this?”

“You dragged him in yourself when you insulted him – and Emrys. The least you can do is retrieve him.” A convenient excuse.

While Rowan had hauled Luca up the mountain, the boy had explained what’d happened in the kitchens that morning. The princess had been primed to snap, but still, Rowan couldn’t help wondering what an Eyllwe knife meant to her, why it had broken her from her slim mask of control and caused her to explode on the three demi-Fae males. It didn’t matter though; Rowan would’ve used Luca for this regardless. Making things up to the boy was just another motivating force he could try to pull in his favor.

Before the princess could retort, Luca interrupted. “I hope you brought snacks! I’m starving. Hurry up, Elentiya. Rowan said you had to do this as part of your training, and …” the prattle continued but Rowan shut it out, focusing his gaze on Aelin.

She was hesitating. Finding a way to justify, to avoid having to confront her identity. Not only as an Heir, but also as Fae. Still, she clung to the guise of pure humanity.

“What is the gods-damned point of this? Just punishment for acting like an ass?”

Rowan almost flinched. If anyone deserved punishment, it was he. “You can control your power in human form – keep it dormant. But the moment you switch, the moment you get agitated or angry or afraid, the moment you remember how much your power scares you, your magic rises up to protect you. It doesn’t understand that you are the source of those feelings, not some external threat. When there is an outside threat, when you forget to fear your power long enough, you have control. Or some control.” He pointed at Luca. “So free him.”

As he spoke, the anger leeched out of her scent, replaced by a fear so strong, so deep-seated and visceral, Rowan was surprised her knees weren’t shaking.

“What happens to Luca if I fail?”

“He’ll be very cold and very wet. And possibly die.” Rowan smiled at her. Making her think that he would actually let the boy come to harm. He might let them fall in, but he would never let the boy drown. Emrys and Malakai would kill him.

“Were the chains really necessary? He’ll go right to the bottom.” Her voice was faint. Aelin turned to look out over the icy expanse, her eyes surveying Luca and his chains. Then, she held out her hand expectantly, silently asking for the key.

Rowan shook his head, there was no key. She would have to melt the chains, or break through the ice. “Control is your key. And focus. Cross the lake, then figure out how to free him without drowning the both of you.”

Aelin nearly snarled, baring her teeth. “Don’t give me a lesson like you’re some mystical-nonsense master! This is the stupidest thing I have ever had to – ”

“Hurry,” Rowan interrupted with a wolfish grin, sending out a tendril of his power to weaken the ice ever so slightly. It groaned loudly, and Aelin flinched, her eyes widening.

“You are a bastard.” She stared him down, as if resolving to make his life a living hell. Rowan’s grim smile didn’t shift one inch. If this worked, he would take whatever she threw at him.

Then Aelin transformed, the change quicker and more in control with each time she shifted. She blinked through the discomfort, then scowled at Rowan, saying, “It gives me comfort to know that people like you have a special place in hell waiting for them.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

Aelin just turned, giving him a particularly vulgar gesture as she took her first cautious step onto the ice.

Though Rowan was confident she wasn’t going to fall through, he strengthened the ice beneath her feet, creating an ironclad path between her and Luca. But before turning to begin his search for the ring and sword, Rowan hesitated, watching as she placed foot after tentative foot on the thin layer of his magic.

The Heir of Fire walked above the frozen lake, striding over the clear ice in an image straight from a fireside tale. An ember dancing atop the still water, a lick of flame burning in the deep dark.

As she drew farther and farther away from the shore, her terror swelled, and her power grew right alongside it. Until the layer of ice began to shudder and groan under the pressure from her magic.

And Rowan let it, let the ice crack and spiderweb beneath her feet. Allowing it to complain just enough for her to be forced to reign in her own power. For her to have to find the control to prevent an icy plunge.

“Stop it,” she hissed at Rowan.

Aelin took another tentative step, and the ice cracked again. Rowan could feel the ice melting, could feel her blistering heat like a bonfire in the middle of the lake, beginning to carve its way through the thin barrier between her body and the icy water below.

“Elentiya?” Luca asked, worry coating his voice. Despite his original intentions, Rowan began strengthening the ice, the tension forcing him to wield his magic. But then Aelin began to breathe, slow and deep and even.

Her hands clenched, her muscles tensing, and Rowan could feel the heat slowly fading. Just enough to allow the ice beneath her feet to re-freeze, leaving it white and cloudy. But panic still clouded her scent with its copper tang, and her magic still writhed in a great cloud around her.

Aelin slid one foot forwards, slowly, hesitantly. A soft humming sound emanated from her closed lips, a lovely, lilting tune. At first it seemed to calm her, but then her advance slowed until it stopped completely. And she stood, staring at the ice as if it were her worst enemy, as if it was everything she feared in this world.

“Elentiya?” Luca’s voice was even more anxious.

Aelin’s magic flickered in response, expanding once again until a violent crack splintered through the air, echoing off the walls of the cave.

Worry curled in Rowan’s gut, but his voice was steady as he said, “You are in control now.” He took a step closer to her, once again strengthening the path between her and Luca. “You are its master.”

Aelin took another step, and the ice cracked again. “You are the keeper of your own fate,” Rowan said, his voice soft.

Even if he didn’t understand why she feared herself so, why she hated her magic when couldn’t even imagine not loving his, Rowan knew what it was to not be in control. He understood how it felt to be helpless before the plots and desires of others. To have forces out of your control shape your life regardless of want or will.

Aelin hummed some more, and the flame receded. Rowan could feel the heat dissipate from the surface of the ice, could feel her magic spooling back into her form until its pressure had almost completely withdrawn.

Aelin’s advance quickened, becoming steady and confident. Rowan barely held in a triumphant smile.

He turned away from the princess, who he was now sure would make it across the frozen lake without incident, and strode along the shore, his eyes flicking over the stony expanse, searching intently.

It had to be here, it just had to be…

Rowan carefully catalogued each of the blades resting on the beach, and then dismissed them. None were of fine enough make to be the sword he sought. He looked out over the clear water, where he could see the metallic glints that indicated that many more blades lay at the bottom of the lake. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Rowan could hear the princess and the boy talking quietly from the center of the lake, along with the clatter of chains as Luca shifted on the ice. Rowan thought he could feel Aelin’s anger from all the way on the other side of the cave.

Rowan turned back to the shore, glancing over the weapons he had already dismissed, and then looked up to examine the cave wall. And there it was, a small crevice concealing the object of his search – a sword with a golden hilt and a ruby the size of a chicken’s egg on the pommel, with a plain gold ring hidden just beneath the scabbard.

The objects that were Aelin’s only chance of walking out of Doranelle free and unharmed.

Rowan reached into the crevice and removed the ancient blade, almost marveling at the power he could feel curling from it, a golden mist of ageless force.

But before he could properly examine the exquisite sword, Rowan felt Aelin begin to reach for her magic once more, pulling out a small, burning thread. He turned back to face the frozen lake just as the ice splintered around them, and Luca yelped in surprise.

“Control,” Rowan barked at Aelin, while reaching within, readying his own power to rescue the pair of them from the icy water if necessary. But Aelin remained in control, and a small hole melted where her palm had been.

She took several long breaths, and then rallied once more, drawing out a tiny thread of power and using it to burrow into the ice. There was a clank of metal, a hiss of steam, and then –

“Oh, thank the gods,” Luca moaned, and hauled the length of chain out of the hole, while Aelin closed her eyes and pulled her magic back into her body, slowly wrapping it around the invisible spool deep in her chest until the world was cold and empty once more.

“Please tell me you brought food,” Luca whined.

“Is that why you came? Rowan promised you snacks?” Aelin’s voice was bitter, but her ire wasn’t directed at the boy. Rowan wondered if they would even make it to the trees before Aelin started yelling at him for this one. But it had been worth it, so worth it – on both counts.

“I’m a growing boy.” Luca grumbled, then winced as he glanced at Rowan. “And you don’t say no to him.”

Rowan almost winced himself. Now he definitely could feel Aelin’s fury pressing in on him, burning cinders and grinding pepper. It choked in his throat.

But then, before he could so much as flinch, Aelin’s scent shifted. Copper and ash coated his throat as Aelin’s fear exploded from her in a great torrent, and Rowan froze on the shore, a hundred yards away and completely unable to help as a bright red eye peeked through the hole Aelin had made in the ice, violence and death and hate leeching from it like poisoned wine.

Aelin cursed violently, her hand pressing against Luca’s small form. “Get off the ice now,” she breathed, her body still as she fought to control the fear that coursed through her blood.

Rowan breathed, eyes wide and muscles tense as he did exactly the same, drawing his sword in one hand and clutching Goldryn in the other.

That creature was not supposed to be here. The cave was supposed to be empty, the monster long since dead, killed by Athril and Brannon centuries ago. But here it was, ancient and furious and filled with such violent malevolence it was a wonder how it remained so still and quiet when all it wanted was to rip and tear and roar.

“Holy gods,” Luca whispered, “What is that?”

“Shut up and go,” Aelin hissed, slowly standing from her crouch before the hole.

But the boy still didn’t move. “Now, Luca,” Rowan growled.

Rowan ached to run onto the ice, to get between the princess and the monster, but he couldn’t move, could do nothing at all. If he ran out there, he would just put more stress on the ice, and make it all the more likely that the creature would break through and send them all tumbling into the freezing depths together.

The creature drew still closer to Aelin and Luca, its massive white teeth gleaming in the faint light, it red eye glowing with an ageless fury. And Rowan could only stand on the shore and hold the ice in place, a bridge back to land and out of the dark cave.

Rowan sent his power towards them, strengthening and thickening the ice that connected them to the shore. But the consequence of shifting the focus of his magic was that the rest of the ice covering the lake began to weaken under the pressure of the shifting water. It was a risk he would have to take.

“Don’t look down,” Aelin said, then gave the boy a shove. “Go.”

Luca finally began to shuffle down the path of ice, moving slowly backwards, looking towards where Aelin still stood motionless. Towards the creature that now hovered only a few feet below her. But Aelin did not move.

Rowan wanted to shout at her, to demand that she flee, but he understood. The princess was letting the boy get ahead, was guarding his back. Rowan almost cursed himself. The princess didn’t even have a weapon, and still she waited, curbing her terror, to protect the boy he had so recklessly endangered.

“Faster,” Rowan growled at Luca, who was only halfway to the shore. Aelin still wasn’t moving.

The lake-monster floated even higher, and now Rowan could see every detail of its mutilated face, of its massive, scaled body. Not a dragon or wyvern or serpent, but some monstrous creature in between. A creature even Brannon of the Wildfire had failed to kill. And Aelin still hadn’t moved.

Rowan almost shouted again, but then she finally broke into a shuffle. But before she could make it more than three steps, a bone-white flash snapped up through the depths, twisting like a striking asp.

It was the creature’s long tail, and it whipped against the thin layer of ice with the force of a storm-driven rockfall.

Rowan kept it together through sheer force of will, his muscles straining as the magic took its toll. The surface of the lake rippled and arched, but the icy bridge did not break.

Aelin fell to her knees as the world bounced. Then scrambled, frantically forcing down her own magic as she lurched to the side to avoid the scaled head that hurtled towards the ice just beneath her feet. And once again, the surface quaked.

Rowan’s muscles tensed as he contained the force of the creature’s massive body, his iron will facing the monster’s ancient strength. Sweat began to drip into his eyes, and he blinked it away furiously.

Rowan could feel little pieces of ice breaking off at the edges while he focused on maintaining the ice that protected them from the monster. But no matter how much he pushed, how tightly he wove his magic, those cracks drew ever closer. Invisible tendrils caused by stress. Inevitable and inescapable. A ticking clock.

“Weapon,” Aelin gasped, and Rowan slid Goldryn across the bridge, propelling the blade towards her on a brisk wind.

“Hurry,” he growled at Aelin, drawing his hatchet to replace the lost weapon. If this came to a fight, no matter her skill with a blade, she could not win. And she would drown in the icy water if he couldn’t keep the ice intact.

Aelin scooped up the weapon, swiftly unsheathing the sword and wielding it comfortably in her right hand. But as she freed the blade, Athril’s ring fell onto the ice at her feet. Before Rowan could curse through the struggle of holding the ice in place, Aelin leaned down, grabbed the ring, pocketed it, and ran. Just as the creature’s tail whipped up once again and the ice shuddered.

Except this time, the princess didn’t fall, gracefully sinking onto her haunches to offset the motion of the bucking surface. But Luca did, slipping on the slick surface and landing on his face, motionless.

Aelin didn’t wait for the surface to steady, instead running to protect the vulnerable Luca. She reached the boy in a few more heartbeats and hauled him up, gripping him tightly as she continued their frantic flight, just as the creature began to pound away at the ice, the bridge lifting and stretching again and again and again.

Rowan strained, sweat dripping down his face, his power leeching away as he fought back the immense force of the creature’s massive body.

And then enormous talons joined the tail, gouging deep lines into the rapidly weakening ice. It was all Rowan could do to keep the path between him and Aelin intact, the bridge narrowing and thinning until it was only a slim barrier that melted behind Aelin’s pounding feet like a rippling cape.

The seconds passed like hours until finally, finally, they reached the shore and Rowan could let go, and the ice exploded in a shower of freezing water.

They were now all on dry ground, but they were far from safety. The creature could likely move on land, could pursue them out of the cave and down the mountainside. Their blades were barely toothpicks to a creature so large, and now that the ice was gone, so was their thin layer of protection from those claws and tail and teeth.

So Aelin did not stop, hauling the boy over the rocks and towards the cave entrance where they could just see the pale light of day flickering through the darkness. But before Rowan turned and fled with them, he caught a glimpse the monster trying to crawl onto the shore, its one red eye wild with hunger, its massive teeth promising a brutal, violent death.

And they were running, sprinting out of the darkness and down the side of the mountain, Aelin barely a few feet ahead of him as she dodged rocks and trees, stumbling under the weight of the boy in her arms.

Rowan stayed behind, his sword and hatchet still drawn, guarding their backs just as Aelin had done earlier. They hit the murky trees, leaving the rocky paths behind, and then –

A roar shook the stones and sent the birds scattering into the air. But it was a roar of rage and hunger, not of triumph. Rowan turned to look back up at the cave on the crest of the hill, and saw the swish of a tail, the glint of scales.

After millennia in the watery dark, the monster could not withstand the sunshine.

But Rowan did not relax as he turned and sprinted down through the forest, following after the princess and her young charge as they fled down the mountainside and towards the fortress that was their only protection when night fell.

···

Aelin didn’t slow her relentless pace the whole way down the mountainside. Rowan spent the whole time silently cursing himself.

You complete gods-damned fucking idiot. Gods. Fuck.

He’d almost lost both of them, Aelin and Luca. And if he had, it would’ve been entirely his fault. He’d left Luca alone in the cave for over an hour for godssake. If the monster had come then, if it had been a bit quicker…Gods help him. You fucking idiot.

And Aelin…she had barely escaped with her life. She’d stayed behind, to protect the child he’d endangered in his reckless folly, and nearly been killed herself. If she had died there…Rowan didn’t let the thought complete in his mind. It would have been an undoing of all he had tried to achieve. The hope he tried to foster.

Once Mistward was in sight, Aelin practically threw Luca down the slope, shouting at him to keep his mouth shut about what happened in the cave. Rowan halted a few steps behind her, panting.

She waited until Luca had disappeared into the underbrush, then turned, throwing Goldryn to the ground and snarled at him. “I will kill you.”

Then she launched herself at him.

He dodged her assault automatically. Even in her Fae form, he was faster than her, and instead of slamming into him, she ran headfirst into the tree at his back. But he didn’t have time to get much farther than a step away, and now she was close, too close.

Aelin whirled and lunged once again, teeth bared, and he was trapped between her and an oaken bough. She grabbed him by the front of his jacket and slammed her fist into his face.

Rowan snarled as the pain lanced through his jaw, and threw her roughly to the ground, the breath whooshing out of her. Even so, triumph lined her face, wicked pleasure joining the fury in her scent despite the blood choking her throat and dripping from her nose. Rowan moved to pounce on her chest, but before he could pin her to the ground, Aelin got her legs around him and shoved.

Surprise and fury wiped away the remains of shame and guilt as Rowan lay on his back in the dirt, immobilized by the assassin with ease. There weren’t many Fae that could get the drop on Rowan, and though Aelin had been well-trained, he hadn’t thought that she might be one of them. She moved with a fluid ease, like a snake, or a water-reed. Born and bred for combat. If he hadn’t been so furious, he might have marveled.

Her thighs crushed into his sides as she slammed her fist into his head again, pounding at his tattoo.

“If you ever again bring someone else into this,” she punched him again, mangling the marks still further, “If you ever endanger anyone else the way you did today …” her blood splattered onto his face, joining his own. “I will kill you.”

Rowan had gone still, had stopped fighting. He deserved it. Deserved far worse than a beating for all he had done in this life.

Another strike. “I will rip out your rutting throat.” Aelin bared her canines. “You understand?”

Rowan turned his head to spit out a mouthful of blood. His cheekbones ached. He knew he would have to fix the damage to his tattoo in the morning. And that, more than anything else, had Rowan’s fury pushing back through the apathy, his blood roaring.

It took him a moment to notice, but then he felt Aelin’s power surge. She turned inwards to fight it back down, and Rowan lunged, flipping them over on the grass until she was pinned beneath him.

Rowan spoke without thinking, “I will do whatever I please.”

“You will keep other people out of it!” she screamed, so loudly that the birds stopped chattering. “No one else!”

She thrashed against him, grabbing at his wrists. Her power broke its leash and began burning his arms like hot irons. Though her fingers crisped his skin, his flesh blistering through his burnt shirt, Rowan made no move to remove her hands.

She was too far gone to even notice. The terror of their flight, and then the anger and release of their short brawl had unleashed something in Aelin. Something teased at the edges, aching to be let go. And Rowan wanted to hear it, wanted to understand.

“Tell me why, Aelin.”

“Because I am sick of it!” Air rasped down her lungs, the words escaping her body like uncaged birds. Frantic and desperate and wild.

“I told her I would not help, so she orchestrated her own death. Because she thought …” She laughed, a horrible, painful sound. “She thought that her death would spur me into action. She thought I could somehow do more than her – that she was worth more dead. And she lied – about everything. She lied to me because I was a coward, and I hate her for it. I hate her for leaving me.”

The words barely made sense, but as she spoke them, Aelin’s fury leeched from her, a wave falling back into the sea. She let go of his scorched wrists, though Rowan made no move to get off her.

“Please,” she begged. “Please don’t bring anyone else into it. I will do anything you ask of me. But that is my line. Anything else but that.”

Rowan looked at her pain-wracked face, those golden eyes lined with silver, and slowly, he let go of her arms, his wrists screaming in pain.

He had once thought this girl heartless. A killer. Thought her spoiled and cowardly and spineless.

“How did she die?” Rowan asked, peeling away from her still form, the space between them now a tangible thing.

Her words were cold. “She manipulated a mutual acquaintance into thinking he needed to kill her in order to further his agenda. He hired an assassin, made sure I wasn’t around, and had her murdered.”

“What happened to the two men?” a wry question.

“The assassin I hunted down and left in pieces in an alleyway. And the man who hired him …” Aelin paused, a ghost of memory haunting her face. “I gutted him and dumped his body in a sewer.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Good.”

Good that they had died, good that justice had been served.

But more than that – good that Aelin was the same, that she fought the same monsters, that the same darkness writhed beneath her skin. Good that he wasn’t wrong about her, not a second time. She was his reflection, she was his mirror.

The prince and the assassin, the warrior and the embers.

She stared back at him, and then finally seemed to take in the damage she’d done to his body – her eyes settling on the handprint shaped burns on his forearms.

She stood, her eyes wide and her scent filling with remorse. “I am…so sorry – ” she started, but Rowan held up a hand.

“You do not apologize,” he said, “for defending the people you care about.”

Rowan stood as well, wincing slightly as he flexed his arms. Aelin strode over to where she had abandoned Goldryn and picked it up, saying, “I’m keeping the sword.”

Rowan pursed his lips at her demanding tone, “You haven’t earned it.” No Fae he trained was allowed their own weapons until they were deemed worthy of possessing them.

But then Rowan reconsidered. It would be far more difficult for him to give her the sword later than to let her take it now. The blood oath wouldn’t let him unless he found some way to subvert his intentions. For as long as he intended it as a weapon against Maeve, he couldn’t give it to Aelin outright.

So, though it went against every rule of training he held, Rowan let her keep it. “Consider this a favor. Leave it in your rooms when we’re training.”

Aelin turned her head to look back up the mountain, her brow furrowing. “What if that thing tracks us to the fortress once darkness falls?”

“Even if it does, it can’t get past the wards.”

Aelin just raised her brows in confusion.

“The stones around the fortress have a spell woven between them to keep out enemies. Even magic bounces off it.”

“Oh,” she replied simply, and they began to walk back to the fortress.

“You know,” she said slyly after a few moments of silence, “that’s twice now you’ve made a mess of my training with your tasks. I’m fairly sure that makes you the worst instructor I’ve ever had.”

Rowan gave her a sidelong look. “I’m surprised it took you this long to call attention to it.”

Aelin snorted, and while she didn’t smile exactly, her lips twitched and her expression became warm and open. Though they were both complete wrecks, aching and limping and blood dripping from their faces, the air between them was light, peaceful. And after all that had happened between them, both this afternoon and last night and every night before then, Rowan could still make her smile.

···

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#WatE repost

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karkkidoeswriting · 5 years ago

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Historical Ancient Norse Clothing vs. Pop Culture

I have a bone to pick with movie and TV costuming of vikings. It seems like pop culture has it own surprisingly consistent (but very wrong) idea of history. As someone who is really into historical clothing and also into Ancient Norse, it brings me physical agony. I’m going to explain with examples. I’ll use three recent shows, Vikings, Norsemen and Last Kingdom. Now keep in mind that I have only watched bit of Norsemen and I actually really liked it, so this has nothing to do with the overall quality of the shows, only the costuming. I picked these shows because they all seem to present themselves very “realistic”, which is why I leave movies like How To Train Your Dragon be, because clearly they are not attempting realism or historical accuracy.

Also, I’m not a historian, and even if I were, there is no way to know what people at that time were actually wearing. There is archaeological evidence and a little historical evidence too, but for some things even historians just have to give their best guess. I’ve done casual and no way academic research for my own projects. If you want to read more yourself, my best resource is Viking Answer Lady. The articles go very into detail and have a lot of historical and archaeological sources.

Okay let’s go. This is going to be long.

Gripe One: “We want to make our show seem gritty and realistic, so clearly we should make our vikings dirty and wear only back and muted colors so they look edgy”

Yes, those pesky vikings, who had bad personal hygiene, wore ripped clothing and hated colors with passion. They were, after all, Menly Men (in 21th century standards). Okay, jokes aside, maybe from my sarcastic tone you can tell that indeed Norse people had very high standards for personal hygiene. According to contemporary records, they washed their faces every morning and bathed regularly in their warmed bath houses. Every man and woman had a comb with them all the time and men also combed their beards and mustaches. Sewing was also a standard skill (especially for women but probably also for men) and people generally in most periods and places before industrialization, including Ancient Scandinavia, were very skilled at it. The wool they used was very high quality and tightly woven into sleek fabric. They also used linen and if they were rich they might have worn silk.

The picture is from The Last Kingdom. The person in the middle is a son of an earl (a local chieftain, so pretty important nobility). Nobles could afford high quality wool, dyes, embroidery and good armor (not yet, but we’ll talk about it soon), and of course nobility wore those things to distinguish themselves from other classes. Norse people wore actually quite a lot of colors, and very bright colors too, especially the richer ones. Probably only slaves didn’t have their fabrics dyed.

And another note about Norse people’s concept of masculinity. Their concept of manly man for example was a very talkative, social and funny guy, who was a good leader, laughed easily and had many friends, brooding dudes were not the ideal. Being fashionable and presentable was also very important for men. They trimmed their beards and mustaches to be neat. Some carvings have men with very dapper mustaches and goatees. Noble men had long hair. Though they would braid them somehow for battle.

The other two shows have same problems. This is from The Vikings and the guy in the middle is a son of a king* and he wears literal rags.

*Apparently Ragnar in the show is farmer rather than royal lineage like in sagas, but farmers dressed well too, though not as well as kings.

More dirty clothes without colors in Norsemen.

Gripe Two: Okay let’s talk about armor

Armor is certainly not only problem in historical shows about vikings, but in most historical shows and movies, period. Let’s start with what people really wore into battle back then. It would of course depend on their wealth and social standing so let’s start with the absolute minimum.

First they wore underclothing, usually linen tunics. Over that wool tunics. Linen is very easy to wash so it gathers all the sweat and the wool is preserved in better condition. Over that they would wear padded armor. It was armor made from cloth and padded thick with usually horse hair. It was actually very good armor and shielded well from cuts, though not so well from stabs.

Helmet and a hood under it was a must. Battle without helmet would have been a death sentence and helmet without hood did very little to actually shield head. The hood would also shield neck which was just as important. Also leather gloves. It would be hard to hold your weapon and defend yourself, if you’d get hit on fingers.

This would have probably been a basic armor for a peasant. Warrior class and nobility would have better armor though. Padded armor was used combined with other armor. Plate armor was not really a thing back then, but chain mail was probably the most used one. It was expensive to make so peasants couldn’t afford it, but it great against stabs and slashes, and on top of that was flexible and didn’t restrict movement. You couldn’t use it without enough padding under, just try to think about the iron rings sinking into your flesh... A chain mail hood also might have been used over the softer hood.

Other options for chain mail were lamellar, an armor stitched from small plates of metal, and leather armor. Lamellar gave great protection, but since it was a bit restrictive, it was probably only used as breast plate, so if a warrior was rich enough to get that, they would also get a chain mail under it. Leather armor was not very good alone, but combined with other types of armor it gave some extra protection. A really thick leather with fur (for example reindeer fur) would have been used like padded armor. Leather was probably made in the form of a tunic. Basically it would been only used alone if it was really thick or had fur too. Lastly they would have used a cloak or a coat depending on weather.

Now, after seeing the couple of shots from the shows, you may start to see a problem.

I tend to forgive movies and shows the lack of helmets, since it makes it harder to know who is who and what is happening in a battle scene, which after all, is much more important for a story than historical accuracy. However, they have literally no excuse for the lady warrior to have ONLY a leather top (????) on. Norsemen is comedy, rather than historical drama, but the aesthetic is realistic, so I’m not going to let them of the hook. (And may I point out the dude behind the lady warrior? Is... is that supposed to be a chain mail? I’m confused.)

My dude, your hands will get chopped off... Please don’t wear a leather top or a t-shirt into a battle. Unarmored arms would really get lost. If you got a deep cut into your arm in that period, you had a really high change of loosing that arm.

This is from Vikings and I wanted to include it as a slightly positive example. He is wearing leather armor (which looks weird but let’s ignore that) over chain mail, so it’s actually very good protection!

Gripe Three: Women’s clothing is all over the place

I have yet to see a remotely accurate Ancient Norse women’ clothing on screen.

Most of these from Norsemen look like 12th or 13th century dresses, the way how they are very fitting on hands and upper body. Most bizarre is the girl on gray clothing on the background. What is it? Why it looks like weirdly ripped and like it’s sewn by someone who’s never before touched a needle?

Then Vikings. Let’s ignore the guy in the picture (he is a king but wears no colors and some weird looking leather armor, moving on). Both of these ladies are queens and they should have bright colors (also hair up, only unmarried young women and children wore hair down). The lady on the right has a little better outfit. The cloak looks actually really good, though not sure about the texture. The dress however is pretty bad. The lady on the left is just wrong. The neckline would have never been this low. Why is it brown? And what is that belt thing? Norse people used a lot of layers, and it was also kind of a status symbol to have a lot of layers of bright clothes. Let’s hope she has a very well hidden under-layer for her hygiene. And lastly the jewelry looks more from 16th century or something for both of them. Viking ladies used a lot of jewelry, and queens would have had very showy jewelry. Let’s look at a lot more historically accurate clothing.

This would have been something a noble lady could wear. They wore of course under-layer, then a dress long tunic over that, over that, a usually slightly shorter dress with shoulder straps and then a narrow apron which was attached into the shoulder straps with showy fasteners and between them was usually hanging some jewelry. The outfit might have had a long twined belt around the whole thing too. And as in the picture, a lot of embroidery for the rich people.

I know they think edgy black clothing is inherently cooler, but...

Really I think the accurate clothing is really cool and badass. Like let me show you some pictures of reenactors to prove it.

Bonus Non-Gripe

Also lastly I just want to say, this outfit from Vikings slaps. It’s gorgeous, it makes little sense, but I love it. Let’s pretend he has padded armor under the tunic, okay.

#history #historical clothing #costume history #viking #armor #viking armor #historical accuracy #historical fiction #costuming #tv costuming #historical drama #ancient norse #ancient norse clothing

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molluskwritesfic · 4 years ago

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Between Rivers: Chapter Two

A Mandalorian can't show their face to anyone - with the exception of immediate family. Although they haven't known each other long, there's definitely something growing between them. But is it enough? When an ex-spy must look beneath the helmet to save Din Djarin's life, there's only one option that allows him to continue following his Creed. Marriage.

This story can also be found on fanfiction.net and Ao3.

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Next Chapter

Chapter Two

The rest of the day went by in a drone of insects and snuffling of wolves. Din wasn’t really sure what to do with himself while he waited. She hadn’t told him not to, but going inside without permission felt… rude. If nothing else, he didn’t want to make her think he was sabotaging the home she’d built for herself or snooping for things to steal.

Eventually, he settled on sitting on the porch in one of the wooden rockers. But despite the constant hammering coming from somewhere above his head, all was peaceful. Warmed by the late afternoon sun, he caught himself nodding off.

Not that dozing in a situation like this was inherently a bad thing. On the contrary, learning to rest whenever you could was an important technique of the hunter lifestyle. But today the idea lost its appeal when he was startled back into consciousness by something cold and wet jutting in under his helmet and bumping into his chin.

Waking up to a gigantic wolf trying to smell under your helmet did not encourage peaceful slumber.

For a few moments, he sat stock still, worried that one wrong move would lead to him getting his throat torn out. But despite its size, the wolf seemed friendly. It’s tail waved slowly from one side to the other, its sharp yellow eyes round and curious. It’s fur was mottled brown and white, still halfway between its summer and winter coats, serving to make it look a bit rumpled and shaggy, but underneath, muscles rippled, strong as steel and born of the hunt.

The wolf continued nosing at his face, sniffing loudly at his clothing and armor.

“No,” Din grunted when the beast tried worming its tongue under the rim of his helmet. He tried to push its great head away, his glove sinking deep into the patchy fur. “Go… go somewhere else.”

The wolf wasn’t at all perturbed. In fact, it seemed to take it as a sign that the strange faceless newcomer wanted to play. It tossed its head back and planted paws the size of Din’s hands against his shoulders, knocking him back and making the chair rock as it did its level best to climb into his lap. Thankfully, it was too big to fit, and settled for draping the upper half of its body across his legs and mouthing at his gloved hands.

“Get… off…” Din struggled to his feet. Excited, the wolf leapt off his lap and danced in circles, almost knocking him down when it bowled into his legs.

“That’s Nana.” Din stiffened at the sound of the quarry’s voice. She stood on the edge of the porch, pulling off her work gloves and tucking them into her belt. She was sweaty; strands of auburn hair that had fallen out of the braid fanned out around her face. Her pale eyes gleamed as brightly as the wolf’s. “The babysitter. She cares for the pups. She likes to make friends.”

The Mandalorian responded with a single curt nod. If the woman noticed his sheepishness at being snuck up on while struggling with the glorified dog, she didn’t show it. Instead, she knocked the mud off her boots and vanished inside the house.

Din hesitated a moment, then followed - but not before knocking some of the mud off his boots as she had done.

The inside of the quarry’s cottage was rustic and homey. It was built for function and maintaining heat during the winter months, but Din appreciated the decorative carvings in the tables and door frames; depictions of wolves, flowers, fish, and some of the megafauna that could be found on Movet.

The Mandalorian’s hand twitched with the instinctive urge to catalogue his weapons when his eyes found the carving of an olarba; a great predator with the likeness of a bear, but twice the size and armed with razor sharp tusks.

The front of the house consisted of a seating area with worn green suede furniture surrounding a hearth. From there led two doors, one into a kitchen, and the other down a dark hallway.

The quarry jerked her chin to the hall. “Second door on the left.”

She went in the direction of the kitchen, but stopped to kick aside a rug made from the same green fabric as the couch and chairs, revealing a trap door.

Din paused long enough to see her open the trap door and descend down a flight of stairs, presumably into a kind of cellar. He made a note of it, but didn’t ask.

The second door to the left led to a small bedroom. It wasn’t much, but more than adequate for his purposes. The covers were made of silky furs and the pillows were feather stuffed. There was a polished hardwood desk beneath a window looking out over the meadow, pale evening light filtering in through the thin curtains.

The Mandalorian took stock of everything in the room. A closet stuffed with winter boots and furs. A few penknives in the drawer of the desk, as well as some paper and matches to go with the small wood heater in the far corner. The door he originally thought led to a second closet yielded a small refresher, which he made use of.

When he felt certain the quarry hadn’t left him any surprises, he eased down on the edge of the bed and tugged off his helmet. Sitting it carefully on the furs beside him, Din took a few moments to just sit and breathe. Although the day hadn’t been particularly tough - long hikes weren’t uncommon for someone in his profession - he felt drained. Maybe it was knowing that he could probably be back at the Crest by now and not at the mercy of a stranger.

Though to be fair, if he wasn’t here, he’d probably be wolf-food by now. The other beasts didn’t seem as overly-friendly as Nana.

Helmet off, he caught a whiff of cooking meat. His stomach growled. Night was falling, and he hadn’t eaten since he left the Razor Crest around dawn. Remembering her promise of food, he replaced his helmet and made his way silently back into the main foyer.

The quarry had returned from the cellar, the entrance to which now closed and hidden by the rug. She stood by the stove over a large pot, stirring. On the counter was a slab of still frozen meat wrapped in cloth. Venison, at a guess.

She must have felt him looming in the doorway, because she didn’t so much as glance his way before addressing him. “Top shelf, left side. The jar of peppers.”

Din complied, finding the jar and passing it to her. She hummed in assent. He spent the next ten minutes or so fetching - and in once case cutting - the odds and ends that went into the pot, which was now brimming with a thick, hearty stew.

If the quarry thought it were odd to have a large armoured man in her kitchen, she hid it well. Din certainly thought it bizarre. He was armed to the teeth; still wearing his blaster with his rifle slung over his shoulder, but he was cutting potatoes and tossing them into the pot (after her insisting that he take off his gloves and wash his hands, of course).

Din was quietly proud of how neatly he was able to dice the potatoes, and was glad for the privacy his helmet offered when the quarry nodded her approval of the tidy little cubes - they would ‘cook even’.

It was weird.

Unexpectedly nice, but weird.

Domesticity was foreign to him. There had been some elements of it built into the communal lifestyle of Mandalorian barracks; taking turns cooking and cleaning for the group and caring for foundlings. But he hadn’t spent much time in the covert since he’d come of age and set out on his own.

Din was more than a little bewildered at his own disappointment when the quarry turned off the stove and set the pot to the side. She fetched a large bowl from another cabinet and filled it with a heaping portion of stew.

She passed it to him along with a spoon and a large empty glass. “If you want more, help yourself. There’s plenty.”

“Thank you,” Din said.

The quarry nodded, the barest hint of a smile twitching up the corners of her lips. Instead of making a bowl for herself, she kicked off her work boots and padded back to the door in her socks. There were a pair of rubber boots sitting by the door, caked in mud and what appeared to be dried blood.

“Where are you going?” Din asked before he could catch himself.

She toed on the boots. “Guests aren’t the only ones needing fed.”

The quarry vanished into the night.

Of course she would want to feed the wolves before sitting down to dinner. He had been listening to their impatient barks and yelps growing louder over the last few minutes. Maybe it was a side effect of being so violently blindsided by home-making, but he felt the urge to set his bowl down and wait for her to come back before he settled in to eat.

It was ridiculous, of course. Also pointless. Not that he could sit and eat with her anyway.

Reprimanding himself for foolishness as his gut twisted in a way that felt suspiciously like loss - or even worse, regret - Din filled his glass with water and banished himself back into the guest room.

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benes-diction · 5 years ago

Text

bricks in the wall.

Tagging @adrian-tepes666 for the inclusion of his tol and his assistance with beta-reading this to make sure I got the Wall’s personality down.

Again and again and again.

It was a living nightmare, not knowing what was going on, who was behind everything. There was no way a lone woman in Eorzea could have known about her family escaping without someone informing her. Celia knew she’d been careful. There was no godsdamned way someone could know unless they had people in the provinces still under Imperial rule or someone in Garlemald proper.

She couldn’t help her family where she was, but she could find who put them in danger.

For all intents and purposes, she was no spy, but still, she somehow managed to hide herself in the Thanalan brush overlooking a camp she’d followed that woman to.

She hated the desert nights. Compared to the heat of the day, it was like stepping into Ishgard. Before, it had been a relief. But now… Now, she was worried the cloud of her breath might alert someone below her. And as though that wasn’t enough… it did nothing to quell how overheated she felt, how the anger twisted and turned in her chest.

Her breath escaped her lips in a tiny puff. They could go after her all they wanted. They could hurt her. Hell, they could even hurt Caius for all she cared. But her parents? Her aunt? That was unacceptable.

That was war.

In the little circle of tents, very little was going on, as far as Celia could tell from her vantage point. The woman she’d attacked before had ducked into one of them with a small group—with a hat covering that decent-sized bald spot, Celia noted with a smirk—and had been there for… a few bells, if her internal clock was correct. A few other people—all members of that woman’s group, she assumed—milled about, doing menial tasks.

“Come on,” Celia hissed under her breath.

She just needed proof. Proof of who the rat was. Proof of… anything, really. Anything she could get.

She was drawn taut like a wire about to snap, she mused. She was desperate for a target to direct the fallout on.

Perhaps a better spot? Her eyes glanced over the rocky outcrops around her. Sure, they provided less cover, and put her more at risk of being caught, but if they were all hiding their true actions out of her sight…

Celia gnawed on her bottom lip, weighing the risk as she shifted her weight on the balls of her feet, and once she made up her mind, she began to slowly edge away from her hiding spot, knees scraping in the dirt, rocks and pebbles jabbing into her skin. The dry thicket latched onto her clothing and arms, leaving small, red scratches in its wake.

As quietly as she could, she clambered down the mountain path that had led her up there to begin with, the moon shining bright in the sky above her. The almost-vertical trek left her with even more scraps and scratches, and briefly, she was almost grateful that to some extent, she’d kept up with the fitness regime Arduro had showed her, even if her eating habits hadn’t received the same amount of attention.

Once her boots were on stable, horizontal ground, she dared to pause a moment, brushing the dust and grime from her clothes and skin. A soft breeze picked up, rustling across the sand, and the short ends of her cropped hair tickled the back of her neck, reminding her of what she’d done, what she’d begged Audrey to do.

It was vanity that made her eyes sting with tears, she told herself. Vanity and sand. Hair would grow back. It was just a precaution. Once everything was taken care of, she could furiously scrub all that dye from her hair and see about coaxing some sympathetic mage to jumpstart the growth so she wouldn’t feel…

No. She wouldn’t think like that. If anything, forcing herself to cut her hair, to convince Audrey to take her precious pale locks and turn them dark as night… It was a punishment. Punishment for not knowing that someone was feeding information about her family into the wrong hands, for not knowing that she was being stalked like prey, for being… herself.

An imbecile. A broken doll.

It always came back to that, didn’t it?

At least she had far more self-control with her self-loathing than Caius did.

With another huff of air, she straightened up, forcing her thoughts back to the task at hand and pushing her hair back from her face.

It was then, with her face lifted to the night sky, that she heard the crunch of gravel.

Her hand went to the push dagger sheathed at the small of her back, listening to the sound as it got closer. A sentry? A patrol? Some innocent, unaffiliated passerby?

She could handle one person—and judging by the steps, it seemed to be only one person—and if she truly had to, she could outrun someone, surely. At the least, she could squeeze herself into a small space and prevent them from following her. Had she seen any small crevices on her way there from Ul’dah? She couldn’t remember. But she’d deal with it. She’d deal with anything that got thrown at her. She was a Benes. She was a Benes. She was—

The source of the steps finally appeared over the nearby hill, just in her peripheral vision—a hulking figure in dirty, worn armor.

Familiar armor, weathered by battle, and coated in the grime of the road, rustling with a familiar, determined stride.

Just like when she’d met him once again in Ala Mhigo, it was not unlike watching a ghost march his way back to her.

Celia let her hand fall from her knife’s sheath as a small fraction of the tension eased from her muscles, watching as Arduro’s steps faltered as he took a good, long look at her.

Eorzean gods… Would he even recognize her, changed as she was? Was she no more than a stranger to her tol? Her hair was short and dark, and she knew that the bruises and scratches on her face from fighting with that woman had yet to heal. And not just that. She’d lost weight. The stress, the fear, the paranoia had sapped the appetite from her almost completely; even sweets had failed to tempt her.

Even as some part of her racing heart leapt for joy—her told had returned to her—the rest of it leapt into her throat. In fear? she wondered. Out of shame for him seeing her like that? Revulsion at how damned weak she really was?

As her heart and mind raced and raced, Arduro reached up and pulled off his helmet, tucking it under one arm as he raked stray strands of his hair from his face. Did he have more gray streaking thorugh that jet black? Gods, it had been so long since she had seen him, it felt, she couldn’t remember. But she remembered the steely gray eyes that focused on her. They’d haunted enough of her dreams, after all, scorching her very soul. Those pale eyes darted over her, taking in every detail, it seemed, but revealed nothing.

The silence felt like an iron curtain between them. Some tangible barrier that kept them in their separate worlds. And the longer it persisted, the more she wanted to scream.

Say something, she wanted to shout at him. Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me my body is ugly or that I’m stupid for getting hurt. Tell me you’re shocked. Tell me you’re disappointed or that I’m weak.

Most of all, she just wanted to run to him and tell him all that had occurred in his absence, to have him take the burden on his shoulders so she could no longer have to suffer it alone.

But that was a luxury she didn’t have. Not now.

This was her fault. It was her family. Her family, her burden, her punishment. If she couldn’t handle one thing on her own…

“Celia?” Arduro finally asked, rumbling voice gravelly. “What are you doing out here?” A faint layer of dirt from the road mottled his chiseled face, and sweat had created small streaks through it.

She attempted to straighten her spin, glaring at him. “It’s none of your business.”

Even to her, she sounded defensive, and from the chiding look in Arduro’s eyes, he thought so, too.

“What happened, then?” he continued, stepping closer.

“It’s none of your damned business!”

She could deal with it. She had to deal with it by herself. She had to rely on herself.

His shoulders shot back, his whole demeanor stiffening as his brows drew together. She blamed his prolonged absence for not being able to read the emotion on his face, but deep down, she knew it was just because… he was himself. The Wall, unbreaking and unyielding.

He took another step toward her, boots grinding into the loose sand. They were caked with mud and… something she could only assume was the spattered blood of some unfortunate fool who had tried to rob the caravan he’d been protecting. “Celia,” he said again, voice lower, more commanding, but still rough. She wondered briefly how often he’d had to bark orders at people or other guards, directing them to hide or alerting them to threats on the road.

Had he been making sure his canteen was filled with clean water?

It didn’t matter. It… mattered a lot. But there were more pressing things for her mind to focus on.

“I’m not one of your soldiers who will just jump to attention and follow orders at a moment’s notice,” she snapped at him. Why was she letting her venom loose on him? He wasn’t the object of her rage. He hadn’t even been around for anything that had happened. He didn’t…

Eorzean gods, he didn’t even know that Audrey’s pimp had made a move on her.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t need to know. He didn’t need to worry about her. She had everything under control.

“I have things handled,” she muttered under her breath.

As she started to storm around him, he held out an arm, blocking her path. She felt his eyes like a tangible heat on the side of her face. Part of her wished he’d draw her into his arms like the love interests in all the novels she’d read, but that wasn’t his way.

The Wall didn’t crumble like that.

“Why are you avoiding my questions?” he asked her. With how close she was now, she imagined that she could feel that deep baritone rumbling in his chest like thunder.

“Let me pass.”

“Celia—”

“Let me pass, or I will move you myself.”

“Benes,” he snapped, gripping her by the arm as he spun her slightly to face him. “What happened to you?”

“Something I took care of. Something that I am taking care of.”

He shook his head. “I need more detail from you than that, Celia. Talk to me.”

Why was everyone coddling her so? Everyone who had seen her now all seemed to just… scold her. Scold her for being stupid, or taking things on by herself.

Why couldn’t they just let her deal with the consequences of her own inadequacies by herself? She’d ask for help when she needed it. Hadn’t she done that already? Hadn’t she practically gotten on her knees and begged Audrey to dye her hair to give her an added layer of security? Hadn’t she suffered through Caius looking at her with that pitying expression, like she was some kicked puppy that had happened to crawl onto his doorstep? Hadn’t she endured Laelia’s scolding, the ice in her tone? Sure, the good doctor had apologized later, but… apologies didn’t change the past. And Jac… She’d even had Jac shoot down her protests, and he and his growing family had far more to deal with than little old her.

Why couldn’t they all let her live out her just desserts and stay the fuck out of it?

The hatred toward herself bubbled up in her chest, the wire drawing tight within her, and as she tried to tamp it back down, she yanked her arm from Arduro’s grasp, feeling her heart once again jump to her throat.

“I told you, I have this in hand. Now let me through.”

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on, Celia?”

The wire tightened.

Snapped.

“Because I can’t rely on you!” she half-shouted, whirling on him.

For a brief moment, she thought she saw hurt flash through his eyes, but just as quickly as it came, it was hidden behind that wall.

“You can’t rely on me?” Arduro echoed, voice low and dangerous now as he once more gripped her arm. She wondered if he took that tone with Caius. It wouldn’t shock her. But unlike how he was with Caius, he was careful with her. He didn’t hold her tight enough to hurt.

“No. I can’t.” She couldn’t rely on him. She couldn’t rely on anyone. How was she going to learn not to let her guard down if she just let everyone else deal with her problems?

The curtain of silence fell between them once again as he simply… stared. No… Glared. His eyes were burning. He had a dusting of stubble across his face. She wondered if he knew. But of course, he knew. It was Arduro. The Wall didn’t crumble like that.

“You think I’ve been out here doing nothing?” he demanded after it seemed the silence had stretched on for eternity. “That I’ve been out here because I want to be out here?”

“I—”

“No,” he snarled, interrupting her, and Celia half-shrank from the cut of his voice. Had he ever taken that tone with her before? “I have been out in this damned desert for moons now, working myself to the bone for your family, when most of my own doesn’t even give a damn whether I live or die. I could be getting money to get them out of Garlemald. But no. I’m working to protect yours. And you think you can’t rely on me?”

“Let go of me,” she hissed.

And he did, releasing her in favor of pulling a large pouch of gil from within his coat, dropping it into the dirt at her feet. “It was all for you. Do with it what you like.”

As she stood there, momentarily stunned, he began to stride off, armor clanking, and she could only stare after him. And that wire tightened and tightened.

She bit her lip hard enough that she tasted blood.

“I didn’t ask for this!” she shouted at his back, scooping up the pouch from the ground to launch it at him, hitting him square between the shoulders. “I didn’t ask you to do anything!”

With all sense of stealth thrown to the wind, before she even knew what she was doing, Celia was in motion. She was running at him, the heat of her own failings burning in her as she launched at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, squeezing as tight as she could, attempting to get him into a chokehold.

But she should have known better.

He stumbled for only a moment, perhaps taken aback at her… well. If she was honest with herself, it was a mindless, angry assault. It didn’t make sense, really, to the part of her that clung to sanity. To the rest of her… it was proof. It was an attempt to prove once and for all that she didn’t need to rely so heavily on her tol. But her little victory was short-lived. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw motion, heard the clamor of his helmet as he threw it aside, and before she could react, his gauntleted hand had closed around the collar of her sleeveless jacket, unceremoniously pulling her off his neck and over his head.

She hit the ground harder than she ever had in any of their previous sparring matches, the air leaving her in a whoosh as a sharp rock dug into her shoulder, and she actually thought that she saw stars before she focused on her new position, glaring up at him. She’d managed to dislodge some of his hair from its binding, and the locks brushed against his face.

Gods, why did he have to be handsome when all she wanted to do was punch him hard enough to make him think she was strong?

“I told you,” she spat at him, pushing herself to her feet, “I can handle this by myself.”

He didn’t say a word to her, but she could almost imagine him scowling at her and telling her to prove it.

She flew at him again, drawing upon all the things he had ever taught her, seeking out the parts of him that weren’t armored to hell and back, seeking out any place where her little fists could find tender flesh that could be bruised or harmed.

But gods… Damned Eorzean and Doman and Dalmascan gods…

How could anyone that large move so fast?

No matter where she struck, he was moving to block her. Like his namesake, he played defensive, dodging her, raising his arms to protect himself from her frankly flimsy blows. But she kept on.

She kept trying to land one solid blow.

And the more he got the better of her, the more frustrated she became.

Why was she weak? Why couldn’t she just take care of things on her own?

Why couldn’t she just win, dammit?

Without thinking, she reached behind her for her push dagger, and it was then that Arduro actually made a move rather than just defending. Before she knew it, he had twisted her wrist unless she couldn’t help but yelp in pain, but still she tried to hold on to her blade, desperate to prove her point, to prove anything at all, to him and to herself.

But down it fell, clattering onto the rock.

On instinct, she whipped her other fist around, landing a solid sucker punch against his cheek.

And—on instinct, too, she assumed in the fraction of time afforded to her—Arduro responded with one of his own, hitting her with an uppercut to her jaw hard enough that she thought her entire skull rattled.

For a moment, she actually blacked out, but when she came to, she was there.

On the ground.

She was sore. She was dirty and covered in scratches. She was disgusted with herself.

And worst of all, she was defeated.

She didn’t try to get back to her feet this time. Instead, she stayed there, giving Arduro the victory, curling into herself as she fought away the tears that came unbidden to her stinging eyes.

She couldn’t even win a fight against her tol. How did she expect to singlehandedly save her family when she couldn’t even beat someone who tended to go easy on her? Perhaps it was because he was an armored behemoth and she was… not. But that didn’t matter. She’d end up having to defend herself against someone bigger and stronger and with far more resources than she did, one day. She had to learn.

She had to.

So much for her original plan of actually accomplishing something. Instead, there she was. Lying in the dirt and crying, likely with any semblance of stealth thrown out the door like refuse.

She felt a gentle touch against her shoulder, the rasp of a gauntlet against her skin, and she finally dared to push herself to a sitting position, keeping her eyes on the ground, on her scraped knees, as Arduro knelt beside her. Even when she attacked him with no sane reason, even when she was losing her damned mind, he was gentle with her.

She didn’t deserve him.

Celia bit down on her lip, managing to keep from sobbing even if she couldn’t stop her damned tears. And Arduro didn’t say a word. She was afraid to look at his face, lest she see something she didn’t want to—anger, hatred, disgust… Anything that meant he would leave. She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want to be abandoned.

Too many people had left her behind because of who she was, what she was.

“It’s my fault,” she breathed, afraid to speak any higher. She curled her hands into the dirt, watching the sand slide between her fingers. “It’s all my fault. I have to fix it myself. I have to learn to rely on myself.”

She heard Arduro softly exhale, his hand briefly tightening on her shoulder. “Your choice of wording leaves much to be desired sometimes, marshmallow.”

Marshmallow. He called her marshmallow again. She could have sobbed with relief. Even as she knew she had to grow up, to toughen up, to stop being soft and remind herself that people were terrible and cruel, she couldn’t help but want to hide herself in Arduro’s arms. She wanted to be his marshmallow, a safe place for him to go to, not another battlefield he had to navigate.

And even after all that, she wished for more.

Eorzean gods, why did things have to be so complicated?

Biting her lip harder, Celia reached up, grasping Arduro’s forearm tight, trying to sap his strength, his steadiness, from the limb through her fingertips. “A lot has happened since you’ve been gone.”

“Clearly.”

“Will they be leaving again soon?” The caravan. Of course, the caravan. He had a job, and even if he had thrown the money to her feet like it was nothing, she knew him. He didn’t leave things half-finished. Even if she wanted him to shield her, he wouldn’t move on until his job was completed to his satisfaction.

“My contract ends when they get to Ul’dah tomorrow. After that…” His hand tightened on her shoulder again, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw his other arm raise, drawing her close. Celia’s nose wrinkled. He didn’t smell like ceruleum and armor polish like he usually did. He smelled… like someone who hadn’t had the opportunity for a decent bath in ages. “You’re going to tell me everything.”

Don’t tell him anything, some part of her hissed. Bundle it all inside and deal with it yourself. Don’t reach out. Don’t beg for help. Don’t be weak.

But the world—her world—was crumbling apart around her. And her tol was going to be home again.

She really was a weak, soft marshmallow, wasn’t she?

“After you take a good, long bath,” she relented, finally looking up at him. Something in her chest ached as his face, those stormy gray eyes, came into view. “You smell, old man.”

#my writing #long post #Celia Benes #Arduro Vocitus #{ Benes Blues }#the next not-so-exciting episode of Benes Ball Z

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d3-iseefire · 5 years ago

Text

Princess of Shadow Chapter 2

Master Chapter List: https://d3-iseefire.tumblr.com/post/187613581372/princess-of-shadow-master-list

Link To My Other Stories: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ISeeFire/works

Thorin was in a particularly bad mood.

As he'd been irritable since the start of this whole thing, Frerin felt he could be excused for not immediately noticing.

“Problem?” he asked in what he hoped was a mild voice as he dropped onto the bench where Thorin sat aggressively cleaning his weapons. It was a long running joke that the shine of Thorin’s blades were directly tied to his mood. The cleaner they were the fouler his temperament.

Currently, they shone brighter than Frerin had ever seen them.

Thorin’s eyes cut toward his and then, with a violent motion, he yanked a crumpled paper from his inner coat pocket and thrust it out toward Frerin. “A raven arrived this morning with this.”

Frerin took the paper with trepidation. Not all the ravens of Erebor had gone into exile, and what few had weren't all that willing to place themselves in danger. For one to brave a battlefield meant it was news that couldn’t wait.

Frerin steeled himself and spread the paper out on his knee. Whatever it was, he told himself, he’d handle it. Mahal knew he'd handled worse over the last winter. His eyes scanned the words on the page, and a mixture of relief and sadness washed over him. Relief that the news wasn't actually bad, and sadness that it spoke of loss all the same.

“Congratulations." He handed the paper back and Thorin shoved it roughly inside his jacket. He placed his sword across his knees and stared out unseeing into the camp laid out about them.

“I missed the birth of my son.” His voice was hoarse, and his lips twisted with a grimace. “Was it worth it?”

“You know it was.” Frerin rested his hands on his knees and dug his fingers into the worn fabric of his trousers. His eyes went to several dwarves walking past and he could see their clothing was no better than his own. They were a patchwork army, filled with mismatched armor, faded and torn clothing, and inferior weapons. The siege equipment belonged to the elves, the tents to the Men of Dale. “There was no other choice. Even if the cold hadn't forced our hand, your son deserves better. They all do.”

Thorin had hesitated when Gandalf had urged them to retake Erebor, but Jayde hadn't. Frerin could still see his brother's wife, hand resting on her swollen stomach and voice barely wavering as she'd announced that of course Thorin had to go. "Have you told Vili or Kili yet?"

"No." A slight, wry smile pulled at Thorin's lips for a moment. "I'm still trying to decide whether or not to tell Dis about Kili's injury."

Frerin suppressed a shudder. The fight over whether one, or both, of his nephews could come had been legendary. Dis had been adamant against it, while her sons had been just as passionately in favor.

Frerin had been dragged into it entirely against his will. He'd been born late in his parents' lives, long after his siblings, and was only a handful of years older than Fili and Kili. Other than it creating a relationship that was closer to siblings than uncle and nephews, it had never really been something he gave much thought to.

Or at least he hadn't until his sister tried to insist her sons were far too young to go to war. Frerin had no choice but to take their side, since arguing with Dis would have been arguing against himself as well.

He'd have taken their side regardless, not that he was stupid enough to tell his sister that. Fili and Kili were adults, as much as Dis sometimes struggled to see it, and had as much right to fight as anyone else.

In the end, it had been Thorin who'd intervened and managed to reach a compromise. Fili stayed behind to lead Ered Luin while Dis supported Jayde in her final stages of pregnancy. Vili and Kili had gone and Dis had personally threatened the three of them if anything happened to her youngest son.

"I wouldn't mention it," he said now. "You'll write that Kili was grazed by an arrow and she'll decide--"

"That he must have lost an arm and I'm minimizing it," Thorin said with a chuckle. "You're right. We can let Vili tell her when she arrives."

"Perks of her being married," Frerin agreed cheerfully. Thorin's eyes went toward the mountain and Frerin's good mood sobered a bit. "Maybe we should try breaching it," he suggested with hesitation. "There can't be many left capable of putting up much fight."

"None of them were capable of putting up much fight," Thorin said in irritation. "We should have done this years ago." He was silent for a few moments, contemplating, and then finally shook his head. "No, we've lost enough. I won't lose more to impatience. We can wait a little longer."

Frerin clasped his brother on the shoulder. "And that's why you are, and will be, a great king."

Thorin sent him a tight grin and returned to cleaning his weapons. Frerin settled in next to him, rested his hands in his lap, and studied the mountain. It was only a matter of time. Until then, the least he could do was ensure his brother didn't inadvertently start an entirely different war with the elves or men while he was in a poor mood.

***

Bilba sat quietly while Josie worked on her hair. The routine could take an hour or longer and that wasn't adding in the time it took to do her clothes, jewelry and makeup. According to her grandfather, princesses had two purposes. Gaining favor or alliances and looking pretty at court. Another of his possessions he trotted out to show off before sending her away to her room again the way a child might replace a toy on a shelf once they were done with it.

Bilba was always miserable. She had to wear layers worth of underclothing in addition to corsets and stays and whatever her grandfather thought could force her body into the perfect form. Over all that went heavy velvet or silk dresses dripping with pounds of gems that made her feel as if someone were constantly pressing down on her shoulders.

She was grateful for the warmth in winter but in the summer the heat she was forced to endure had caused her to faint more than once. Carrying a small pouch of smelling salts helped, but there was still a widespread belief in the mountain that she suffered from a weak constitution.

“There we go, Your Highness.” Josie stood back and clasped her hands in front of her. “What do you think?”

Bilba forced a weak smile at the other woman. Josie had taken Bilba's hair, which usually fell to her waist in a thick mass of chestnut waves, and painstakingly curled it. She'd then worked it into an elaborate braid that wound along the side of her head, and over her shoulder. The entire length of it was studded with diamonds, emeralds and rubies.

The jewels matched the velvet, emerald gown Josie had already helped her get on. It was practically dripping with jewels and brocade, particularly along the off the shoulder neckline. The edges of the stones irritated her skin and she was forever fighting the urge to adjust it in a futile attempt to find some semblance of relief.

She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and hid a frown at the makeup Josie had put on that made her appear years older.

She barely recognized herself.

In the main hall leading to the dining room there were portraits depicting past kings and queens of Erebor. All were dressed in their finery and posed perfectly, the absolute definition of royalty. The paintings were all Bilba really knew about them. She didn't know their personalities or what their hobbies had been. She couldn't say if they'd feared the dark or if they would sometimes sneak to the kitchens to get a snack in the middle of the night. They were simply royals, flat images on canvas with the person behind the title long lost to history.

It was how Bilba often thought of herself after Josie got done with her. She was a princess, a living portrait walking about the palace. She doubted anyone could name her favorite color if asked, or state what her opinions were on living in the mountain, or even what made her laugh.

Sometimes, Bilba was afraid she didn't know the answers to those questions herself.

"It looks wonderful, Josie," she said quietly. She kept her voice soft and modulated, devoid of anything resembling a personality. Proper according to her grandfather.

She turned to leave, slow and graceful so that the earrings dangling from her ears barely twitched where the tips brushed her shoulders.

Josie rushed ahead of her to open the door and Bilba put her shoulders back, straightened, and raised her chin. Her stomach twisted and she resisted the urge to wring her hands together with nerves.

Josie gasped suddenly and clapped her hands to her mouth. "Oh, my gosh, I forgot your tiara!"

Bilba's eyes widened fractionally. She had several tiaras, and quite a few circlets, all of which were quite heavy and very uncomfortable. They also needed to be woven into her hair, usually near the beginning of the process, not the end and certainly not after.

"That's quite all right, Josie," she said, trying to hide the sense of panic at having to undergo the process all over again. "I'm sure grandfather won't mind."

He most certainly would mind, but Bilba was hoping he'd be too preoccupied with the ongoing siege to notice.

Josie frowned. "I don't know. I could probably do it quick."

Bilba had no desire to sit in that chair again for any length of time so she simply smiled and started toward the door. "I'd be late. You know how my grandfather feels about me being late."

Josie grimaced. "True." She pulled the door open with flourish and grinned. "Have a good day, Your Highness."

"Thank you, Josie." Bilba let out a slow breath, arranged her hands in front of her waist and glided out of the room.

Well, glided as much as one could glide when one could not, in fact, float and had to rely on their feet. The action required a surprising amount of control in her legs and usually left them stiff and cramping.

The corridor outside her room was cold, and shadowed. The dwarves had been careful in their design of the mountain, placing the living areas in locations that allowed windows and balconies to let in natural light. For the rest of the mountain they had cut shafts fitted with perfectly cut and polished stones capable of refracting light in a multitude of directions.

Together, in what must have been a masterful feat of engineering and design, they provided light and fresh air to nearly every part of the mountain save the mines where lanterns and other methods had been used.

It was one of the many things the hobbits had taken for granted. Over the years many of the shafts had become blocked or occluded. No one know exactly how to clear the shafts, or replace damaged or missing stones, which had left large sections of the mountain shadowed or in near total darkness.

Bilba had never entirely understood the dwarven resistance to helping keep the mountain in repair, or why they'd left in the first place. Certainly, having a hobbit in charge rather than a dwarf must have been rankling to some, but surely it had been better than what they'd had before?

By all accounts Durin had been a brute and his son little better. Were the dwarves just so xenophobic that they couldn't stand the thought of a non-dwarf on the throne no matter that it was a significant improvement? Every one of them had left and, since then, not a single dwarf had willingly set foot in Erebor even when offered significant amounts of money for needed repairs.

A noble and his wife rounded the corner toward her and Bilba gave a slow nod of the head in greeting. They returned it but, just as they passed, she saw both their faces twist in derision. Her stomach twisted inside her and she clasped her hands together until the knuckles shone white.

She didn't know what she was doing wrong. Usually when she passed she'd get vague nods or greetings but, since the war had started and especially since the siege, she was increasingly getting snide comments, looks of disgust or outright cuts.

She'd tried harder, sat longer in that stupid chair, allowed Josie even more liberty with her hair and clothing, worked harder on the pleasant smiles and pleasantries her grandfather insisted were proper for a princess. Still the slights continued and, if anything, grew worse.

Nothing she did seemed to matter, and she couldn't even ask because, as her grandfather liked to say, a princess was primarily to be seen, not heard. Unless she were making simple greetings or directly responding to a question posed to her, in as succinct a manner as possible, she was to remain quiet.

The only times she'd ever broken that rule had been with Sigrid, who insisted it was idiotic, and, to a lesser amount, Legolas. She'd trusted them and look where that had led. Perhaps, had she kept her mouth shut as her grandfather had taught her to do they wouldn't have betrayed her. At the very least she wouldn't have the sick feeling in her stomach as she recalled the times she'd opened up to them. All the things she'd said, and all only to now realize how they must have been silently mocking her the entire time.

The doors to the dining room loomed ahead and Bilba's spirits flagged further. Her grandfather's favorite pastime during meals was to watch her and criticize her every movement. From the way she held her spoon to questioning her weight, nothing was off limits to him and it was all generally done in front of whatever councilmembers or lords he'd invited to dine that day.

He'd begun to ignore her somewhat since the Durins had arrived, but she still faced each meal with trepidation that this time would be when he took notice of her again and started up the endless critique. There had been several times she'd been driven close to tears. Sometimes she had the suspicion that was what her grandfather wanted, a game he was playing or a test of some kind.

The guards in front of the door leaned over in concert, grabbed the handles and pulled them open. Bilba took a deep breath, tried to center herself and then swept into the room exactly as she'd been taught to do.

It took her all of ten seconds to realize the room was empty.

Her footsteps stumbled to a stop and her eyes widened. Usually, when she walked into the dining room it'd be to the sight of the massive table near to groaning under the weight of food piled upon it. Servers would be darting about filling the plates and goblets of her grandfather and councilors, and the delicious smells from the multitude of dishes would have her stomach growling in a most un-princess like way.

Today, there was nothing. No sign of her grandfather, or any councilors, no food set out on the table, not even the musicians her grandfather insisted on having in the back corner to play serene melodies while he discussed politics.

Bilba turned toward the doors, but the guards had shut them behind her, leaving her alone in a giant, cavernous room. She'd never realized just how cavernous until this very minute when she was in it alone with nothing but her own silence for company.

She knew she wasn't late. Had something come up? There'd been no sign of panic or rush in those she'd passed in the corridors, and no one had come to her room to alert her to anything.

A shiver ran over her and, since there was no one to see, she crossed her arms over her chest and began to chew nervously on her lower lip.

Her eyes went back to the table again and, this time, lit upon the fact that it wasn't quite as empty as she'd first thought. There was a piece of paper, folded in two, sitting on a small tray at her customary spot. She hadn't immediately noticed it as her eyes had gone naturally to where her grandfather and his councilors usually sat, and not to her seat at the far end of the table.

Bilba tried to swallow down a suddenly dry throat. Dread settled over her and she could feel her body growing tense. Digging her fingers into her arms, she forced herself to take a step, and then another one and another. It seemed to take ages to get there and, once she had, she regretted it not taking longer still.

She picked up the letter with the tips of two, shaking fingers and, before she could talk herself out of it, opened it in a quick motion.

The first few words had her breath freezing in her lungs, while the rest caused her to sink into a chair as her legs buckled beneath her.

On the page the words seemed to burn into her eyes, and she swore she could almost hear her grandfather’s voice.

The mountain is lost.

You will delay the fall as long as possible to allow Erebor's court to retreat to a safe harbor. You will keep your silence on the manner of our escape so that we may use it in the future when we return to take back what is ours.

You will not fail me.

Bilba read them again, and again after that. She closed her eyes, opened them again, and pinched herself, doing everything and anything in her power to wake up, or to somehow, someway make the words change. Go away. Be something different than what they were.

But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself she was asleep, or how much she wished for things to change, the truth remained stubborn and unyielding.

Her grandfather was gone, and with him most, if not all the council.

Her grandfather had just effectively declared her Queen, which meant the only thing standing between the wolves gathered at Erebor’s gates and those hiding within...was her.

#Hobbit #The Hobbit #LOTR #Lord of the Rings #writing #my writing #fanfic #fanfiction #Female Bilbo #Frerin #Thorin #Erebor #Fantasy #Adventure #angst #romance

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spartanguard · 6 years ago

Text

savage garden, 1/?

Summary: Killian Jones was, by far, the worst, weakest, most ineffectual Dark One ever. (According to the Darkness, at least.) And he was fine with that. He was just a slave, a deckhand—what use did he have of dark magic? And even less want. But the Darkness has vowed to firmly get him under its grasp, one of these days. He finds respite in a beautiful secluded garden—and the amazing woman he eventually meets there. The question remains, though: is it—is she—enough to keep him out of the dark completely? One can only hope...

4.4k | rated T | AO3

A/N: I totally thought this was going to be a one-shot; so much for that. This stemmed from a conversation at least two years ago with @thesschesthair and @fergus80, wondering what might happen in Deckhand Killian became the Dark One. I picked at it for a couple years, then signed up for @csmarchmadness to force myself to finish it—and now it's sprawling, so we'll see how long it goes! All the thanks to @optomisticgirl for looking this over and talking me through stuff. Also, I'm not as huge a Savage Garden fan as the title/chapter titles might imply but I absolutely suck at creative titles so this is just where we ended up. Hope you like 90s pop!

1: until the sky falls down on me

Killian Jones was, by far, the worst, weakest, most ineffectual Dark One ever.

(According to the Darkness, at least.)

And he was fine with that.

While he was by no means the first to take on the curse unwittingly, he was certainly the only one to outright reject the power—hate it, even. But the feeling was mutual.

That hadn’t stopped the Darkness from wrapping itself around his bones, though; seeping into every pore and taking up residence in the dark corners of his mind. But the one thing Killian had managed to do was keep it away from his heart—his soul—even though it was a daily battle against the dark voices tempting him down that terrifying path.

More than once, he had thought of finding a way out; but he was far too much a coward to actually do anything about it. The darkness taunted him about that, too.

Where’s the man who murdered in revenge? Who was so angry at blood shed that he shed more on his own?

“That was a one-time thing,” he’d mutter back.

But didn’t it feel amazing? To hold the power of life and death in your hands?

“No.”

Imagine what you could do; especially with that hook! Oh, the fun we could have, the torture we could execute—the screams you could draw!

There was a reason he hadn’t worn that prosthetic much since this whole thing started, as utilitarian as it was.

Come on, Jones; just a bit of murder!

“I said no!” he shouted, drawing the attention of far too many people around him in the market. Most had been politely avoiding his gaze, but now they couldn’t help but stare, and Killian wanted nothing more than to become invisible.

You can, you know.

He ignored the suggestion, instead opting to pop the collar on his leather trenchcoat and make haste in exiting the village, abandoning his planned shopping trip after the outburst. But now, of course, all eyes were on him, and he couldn’t say he was surprised.

He knew what he looked like—that he was considered to be exceptionally handsome. The darkness certainly thought he was. Throughout his life, his pretty face had done nothing but garner the wrong kind of attention, from men and women alike, but now it drew even more in, with its sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, and the silvery-cyan sheen that sparkled in the sun—the only physical manifestation of his curse.

The wide open shirts he wore weren't by choice—in his previous life, he lost the buttons to his tunics, clumsy fool he was, and couldn't easily repair them one-handed; the darkness liked it, though, and showed off his chest like he was some harlot or ponce. The leather slacks that were customary for sailors like he had been were perfect for showing off his “assets,” apparently, and clung to his skin in a manner that was nearly obscene.

So he’d taken to wearing the long jacket to hide himself and what he was. The darkness thought it was imposing, and it was the lone thing it was proud of him for; but really, the coat was his armor against the world. Though it didn’t seem to be working now, as it billowed around him in his hustle to get out of town.

He reached the end of the high street and turned down an alley to cut to the road that ran along the shore. He’d barely rounded the corner when a small voice cried out in pain, followed by a deep chuckle.

Though the alley was in shadows, it was easy for him to see the prone form of a boy, no more than ten years old, sprawled on the cobblestones with a large, sneering man standing over him. The lad’s dirty face and clothes, dark mess of hair, and wide, terrified eyes were like looking in a reflecting glass to the past. How many times had he been in that position as a child? How often had one cruel captain or another blamed him for a wrong or punished him for clumsiness?

Now’s your chance to enact revenge, the Darkness whispered. All that pain, all that suffering—you can take it all out on this piece of scum.

He wouldn’t take the bait, if only because the way the man was spewing insults at the boy—over what appeared to be something as inconsequential as a stolen crust of bread—brought back that feeling of helplessness he knew too often in his youth, and had never quite shaken as he’d grown into adulthood. The urge to run and hide in Liam’s arms prickled in his spine, but Liam was long gone, and there was certainly no one around to protect or comfort the Dark One.

He was brave once, right? Perhaps he could be again, for the sake of this boy. Especially as he watched the man place a scuffed boot on the boy’s shoulder as the lad attempted to stand, sending him back to the ground with a thud.

Swallowing, Killian spoke. “Surely there’s someone closer to your size to battle. You can’t claim much victory in defeating a child.” The Darkness had even managed to tint his voice, an edge seeping into it that he’d never thought himself capable of before.

The man finally drew his attention away from the boy, rising to his full height and turning to face Killian. For a brief moment, fear flashed in his beady eyes, but quickly disappeared when he realized who was there. Not all were intimidated by the Dark One, especially not anymore.

“Or what?” the man sneered. “I’ve heard all about you. The Cowardly Dark One. Can’t even kill a chicken for his dinner.”

Are you really just going to stand there and let him insult us? the Darkness crowed. May as well hand over the dagger and put you out of your misery.

That thought honestly scared him more than any alternative—the thought of what this cruel man could do with such wicked powers was enough for Killian to straighten his spine and approach the man.

“Clearly, you know who I am. But you underestimate just what I’m capable of.” In a rare moment of indulgence, he called on the magic that had attached to him like a parasite and let it loose, shaking the ground around them, rattling the rafters of the surrounding buildings, and threatening to roll a parked cart their way.

“Please.” The villain was unimpressed, and spat at the ground. “Your magic tricks are empty; you won’t do nothin’ to me. You ain’t no hero—all you are is a one-handed coward.”

A one-handed coward...sounds about right.

It wasn’t the nasally, polyphonic voice of the darkness this time, though—no, it was his previous captors, Blackbeard and Silver, and all the other men who’d cruelly used him and abused him in the past. Killian’s normally cool head and blood suddenly ignited with anger and frustration that rarely boiled to the surface, so buried as they were under his typical timidity.

“That’s enough!” he roared, sounding even less like himself. “Leave him alone!”

Looking back on the scene, it was like he watching it from a grimy spyglass—the picture was muddled and distorted. He wasn’t quite sure who was in charge and who made the move—he hated moments like that, though he could never decide if it was because he’d let the darkness take over, or because he was disgusted at the thought that he’d been in full control.

Regardless, he didn’t waste a moment in thrusting his hand toward the vile man, sending a blast of magic that threw the brute off his feet and into the brick wall behind him with a sickening thud.

One of the side effects of being the Dark One, Killian had discovered, was enhanced senses. So he heard the exact moment the man’s skull collided with the stone, how it shattered, and the snap of the bones in his neck. The coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils. And he watched with grotesque clarity as the corpse collapsed against the cobblestone, leaving a dark red trail on the wall as unseeing eyes stared back at him.

That was all it took for Killian to come back to his senses and regain control over the darkness. Bloody hell, what had he done?

Exactly what that man deserved and you know it. Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.

“I didn’t,” he muttered under his breath, and turned to face the lad. But where he’d earlier seen himself as a boy reflected in his visage, he now only saw the way he looked at himself now: with horror and fear. Wide eyes gawked at him as the boy continued to shrink away from him, gaze flitting between the murder and the murderer. “Are you alr—” Killian started to ask, but the boy jumped at his voice.

“Please, sir, don’t kill me, too!”

“I won’t—”

“I’ll never steal again—promise!” he shouted, scrabbling away on his rear.

“No, no, I’m not going to—you’re not in trouble…” Killian tried to explain, but trailed off when the boy flung an arm over his eyes, cowering at the sight of what must be a demonic visage.

Though his heart served little purpose anymore and was surely black and rotting, he still felt it crack at the boy’s reaction, and his entire body sagged.

“I...I’m sorry,” he murmured, and with a wave of his hand, let the red smoke of his magic carry him away, leaving nought but a fresh loaf of bread in his place; hopefully, the boy would take it.

Killian reappeared a few miles out of town, on the empty, forgotten road that led to his equally secluded home. He spent many days wandering the tree-lined path that wound up the coast, watching the dappled light play on the leaves in the summer and counting each snowflake that fell on the tangled branches in winter. More than once, he intentionally got lost in the woods, just to delay returning to the silent walls of his home—and maybe to irritate the darkness.

Useless sailor! Aren’t you supposed to know how to navigate? it would taunt. At least let us translocate home—just need to flick your wrist!

But he never gave in, tempted as he was at times when he was hopelessly off the beaten path. Perhaps that was what he needed now, to quell the storm raging in his soul.

His body was still vibrating from what happened in town, adrenaline and magic flowing through his veins, battling for power. He could almost feel the violent clash between the two within him, as if every molecule was fighting the one next to it; it would have been enough to turn his stomach, were anything in it, but given that Dark Ones didn’t need sustenance to survive—and he’d gotten quite good at subsisting on very little while aboard the ship—he ignored the Darkness’s calls for decadence each day and went without.

Maybe he’d find some wild berries, he thought, if only so their sweet flavor could let him focus on something else—or perhaps their poison would be a fitting punishment for what he’d just done. He nearly stumbled on a root almost immediately after stepping off the dirt road and into the thick trees, and slipped down the incline leading away from the lane, but he merely stood and brushed it off while ignoring the Darkness’s outrage over his clumsiness.

Instead, he tried to listen to anything and everything else—the breeze through the trees, the song of the birds, even just the crunch of detritus under his boots. But it was like the creatures of the forest could sense his dark aura and fled, leaving him with just the sounds of his own footfalls and heaving breaths.

Still, as long as he focused on those, it kept the other voices at bay. Which was what made it so much more jarring when another noise filtered in: the sound of water falling, babbling like a brook.

It stopped him in his tracks at first; the trees were much too dense for any sort of body of water, even a small one. But, to one side, he could see through the thickets a stone wall; the water was sounding from that direction.

He followed it, noting the moss and dark age spots on the bricks that made up the seemingly ancient wall. He’d no idea what could be hidden out here, in such a dense, practically unreachable part of the forest.

And yet, someone, at some point in time, had essentially constructed a fortress. Perhaps the trees weren’t so thick when it had been built, but this region had never been a hive of civilization. He strolled along the walls, still hearing the gurgle of water from within, and even the tweets of a few birds who were blissfully unaware of his presence.

On the far side of the structure, there was a rectangular gap where a door had likely once stood, now rotted away with time and the encroaching vines that covered this part of the edifice. With his hook, he slashed away at those covering the opening until he had a wide enough path to get through, and slipped in.

The light inside the walls was nearly blinding, with fewer trees to filter it; but once Killian’s eyes readjusted, the view before him stole his breath: it was a garden, clearly long abandoned, but no less stunning.

Roses of nearly every color grew in each corner and along the walls, nearly drowning the space in their light fragrance and giving it a hazy, warm glow. Flowering vines draped over the walls, their tendrils reaching across the stone walkways that followed the circumference of the garden. Beds of all sorts of flowers, most he had no idea how to define or describe, sat in blocks in the middle, with rusty iron benches scattered around. And the centerpiece was a stone fountain, its details long eroded away, but still happily bubbling.

It was so lovely, so full of innocence and light, that Killian felt like an intruder, tainted as he was. He daren’t touch a thing. But he couldn’t help but look.

Slowly, he meandered around the space, taking in every petal, every leaf, each blade of grass underfoot. It was an eden—an oasis from the shadows that clouded and dogged him day in and day out.

You really think escape is this easy? The Darkness ridiculed. You’re dumber than we thought.

He ignored it, though, too enamoured with the beauty all around him. He noticed the shadows changing as the sun moved across the sky, but he couldn’t find any desire within him to leave. Was it possible to make this his new residence? Be permanently surrounded by such ethereal elegance? It was clearly long-forgotten; surely, no one would notice…

But he knew there was no shortcut in his path; no easy way out of his fate. He’d have to leave eventually, like all sinners must. Still—perhaps he could take some of the essence of this place with him.

The rose bush in front of him was colored the lightest, softest pink; it reminded him of his mother’s cheeks when she’d laugh. The memory was muted but he could still see her clearly. Cautiously, he reached out and grazed his finger over the silken petal.

To his horror, as soon as he touched it, the entire bud turned to ash and crumbled away; the rest of the plant followed suit. He stepped back in horror and stared at his hand; he could see the blackness coursing through his veins, then disappearing back to wherever it came from.

All around him, darkness was claiming the vibrant place. “No, no, no!” he cried, falling to his knees as the flowers withered and died, the vines fell limp—even the fountain started to bubble a black ooze not unlike the one that had wrapped itself around him when he first took on this curse.

Don’t you see, dearie? The Darkness taunted. Everything you touch is ruined. Your mother...your brother...your dear Milah….

“No, please no,” he begged, memories of their deaths flashing through his mind unbeckoned and breaking his heart all over again.

Face it—you’re still a coward. But now, you’re too craven to even accept your fate.

The world around him continued to darken and the shrill laughter of the Darkness’s many voices drilled into his brain.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He gave in. With a wave of his hand, he disappeared again, back to his lonely cabin on his desolate cliff, overlooking the sea. That was the only place for him, it seemed.

A year goes by. Five, ten, fifty more; the passage of time loses its meaning when the reflection in the mirror stays the same day after day. Killian retreated even more into himself, using solitude as a shield—though he’d often wonder if he was keeping the world safe from the Darkness, or himself from the temptations of the world.

Oh, he’d still venture into town from time to time; once or twice a year, perhaps. Enough to remind himself why he stays away; enough for the Darkness to have a respite from its usual taunts and complaints. Honestly, it’s like caring for a pet in some ways—a feral animal that followed him home and now won’t leave, and if he doesn’t give it a change of scenery, it’ll eat him alive.

The fact that Killian hadn’t gone completely mad was a miracle unto itself. If anything, the Darkness’s changing tactics when it came to verbal (mental?) abuse kept him on his toes. Other than the view of the sea and the massive library, it’s all that kept him sane.

The library had been a project—or, more likely, distraction—in itself. He had to assume it’d taken him nearly 10 years to compile, making the three-day trek between his home and the former Dark One’s gaudy castle repeatedly until he was sure he had enough reading material to last him decades. The tomes on magic were largely ignored, and on those, he left whatever enchanted locks the previous owner had installed in place.

Anything else, whether it was fiction or nonfiction, as long as it held some interest, he arduously took back to his cottage once he had built an adequately sized room. Working with his hands like that kept the demons at bay, and the many long trips between the two dwellings gave plenty of opportunity to bask in the solitude of the forest and the call of the sea.

The trip took him up the coast and back down it, over a path that had become slightly worn down over the decade or so he was making his trips—little more than a gap in the shrubbery to the mortal eye, but enough for him to keep track of where he was going. It wasn’t the easiest route, to be certain—cutting straight through the wood held more even terrain—but this way, he was constantly on his toes and alert.

And the crash of the water on the rocks below was a better soundtrack than the empty trees, devoid of the birds that were still frightened of him.

After a few trips on foot, he attempted to make the journey by sea; he knew how to sail, of course, and the castle sat in a similar position as his home, overlooking open water. He’d spent weeks gathering wood, forming and carving the vessel, sewing the sails, and setting the rigging. He even went so far as to name it: the Jewel of the Realm—the name of the ship his brother had captained some years after he left Killian behind, now long since lost to a violent storm, its captain with it.

The day Killian set sail was one of the best in memory. He’d so missed the clap of a sail and the salt spray on his face; for the first time in perhaps fifty years, he felt truly free—not even the Darkness had anything to say.

But he knew it was too good to last, for he’d hardly traveled a single nautical mile before the waves grew tempestuous, crashing over the railing of his small ship. Even with his leather coat, he was soaked to the bone in an instant as the sea tried its damnedest to bring him down.

The odd part of it all was that the sky was clear and the headwinds were on his side—it was a perfect day for sailing; no sign of storm anywhere on the horizon.

And yet, the sea itself was being the cruel mistress, beating him over and over again with waves several meters high. His muscles ached with his fervid attempts to steer out of the mysterious squall, but it was no use: the largest swell yet cracked the mast and gouged the hull, with successive waves turning the rest of his handiwork into driftwood and dragging him to the depths.

His heavy jacket weighed him down, and as the world above faded into the navy blue of the water, he found he’d rather stay under the surface. Let himself drown in his regrets and failures, and keep the Darkness away from the rest of the world even more.

But the sea truly didn’t want him, and so dragged him up and spat him out on some lonely stretch of beach not far from another port town—the exact sort of place Killian didn’t want to be. He gave himself a few more minutes to wallow before summoning the energy to begin the trek home; he expected the Darkness to have some quip at his disastrous adventure, but it seemed satisfied with his own self-loathing.

The journey back took him past a familiar set of walls. He had returned to the garden on occasion, but only very rarely, and took care not to touch a thing—other than the door, which he had rebuilt and put into place perhaps 5 years or so after his first ill-fated afternoon here. By then, it had slowly started to recover from the damage he’d wrought, but it was still mostly lifeless.

On this particular visit, there were green shoots of grass struggling through the dead overgrowth, and though the fountain no longer bubbled with life, the tar that had marred it was at least washed away by years of rain.

A lone flower was blooming on one of the vines—a bud a bright shade of orange-red like the sun just before it sets, and it glowed in much the same way in the comparative colorlessness of the rest of the space.

Killian was too scared to touch it, lest he curse the oasis anew. But the fact that there was some bit of light in this scarred place gave him hope—something he clung to like a parched man in the middle of the ocean with only a bit of fresh water in his canteen.

When he was closing the door behind him, the back of his hand brushed against a thorny branch near the threshold; he hissed as the skin was torn, more out of habit than true pain.

The cuts would go away quickly, but he looked at the thin, jagged lines before they healed. One barely scratched the surface, but the other was deep enough for blood to well. Despite what many would have thought, the sight of blood didn’t alarm him or turn his stomach—he’d seen far too many gruesome injuries, his own included, to be scared of it.

What alarmed him, though, was how much darker his blood was than usual. Fresh blood wasn’t the crisp, bright red most people assumed—it was a deep garnet color, assuming it was from someone healthy, and dried a brownish color. (It was hell to get out of white fabric; with how clumsy Killian was, it was why he preferred to wear black.)

However, one thick drop of blood started to run down the back of his hand, and it was so dark, it was nearly black. The blink of an eye later and it was gone, the wound healed and flesh as flawless as it had been a moment before.

But that color—that did terrify Killian, more than he could admit. And it wasn’t the first time he’d noticed it, no—he’d sliced himself open more times than he’d like to admit sawing planks for his ill-fated ship, and the number of papercuts he got while reading was depressingly high.

As the years wore on, he’d seen the color get darker and darker; he truly worried for the day it would be fully black, but he knew it was coming. More and more often, he’d have fits of rage he couldn’t explain, or even fathom; and he found himself using his dark magic without even thinking about it. (To be fair, these occurrences only happened once a year or so, but with all of eternity laying ahead of him, that was often enough to be of note.)

One day, the Darkness would win—but he’d be damned (quite literally, in all likelihood) if he let it have its way easily.

By the time he arrived home, late into the night, his clothing had dried but his heart was still a bit waterlogged. He tried to seek some solace on the back porch of his home, which sat right on the edge of the cliff. The moon’s dappled reflection on the waves of the horizon was certainly a balm, but he was distracted by the angry waters directly beneath him.

He looked down, and could see the waves clawing at the rocks, as if they were trying to grab him again; perhaps they’d decided they weren’t yet done with him.

It’s not them—it’s you, you idiot, the Darkness snarled. It’s a warning to all others—keep away; keep far away. It knows what you are.

“That’s not me,” Killian murmured back, but it had less fight than it used to.

Not yet...but it will be.

thanks for reading! hope you stick with me on this!

tagging some friends: @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @selfie-wench @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @fairytalesandtimetravel @word-bug @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @queen-mabs-revenge @killianmesmalls @flipperbrain @pirateherokillian @sherlockianwhovian @effulgentcolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @jscoutfinch @nfbagelperson @stubble-sandwich @killian-whump @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis

#cs ff #killian jones ff #cs march madness #dark killian #my ff #fic: savage garden #(don't want that to end up in the band tag)

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