#and walking away from people like Dorian who have been your ride or die

[andrastesgrace]

man getting older hasn't changed my ships but it has changed the way I think about them and my reasoning for the ones I don't love

[anyoneseenadam]

The Moon Spirit - two

Dorian x reader, Fenrys x reader (throne of glass)

Description: When you’re taught to be a queen from such a young age, nothing could go wrong. But when the king starts to fear your growing power you find yourself thrust into a world of faeries, evil magic and powerful men, learning to stand on your own can be harder than it seems.

warnings: blood, graphic descriptions of violence, objectification, gross old men, Dorian is a ball of love and niceness however, angst, fluff, possibly smut in later chapters

word count: 2.9k 

a/n: oof the plans i have for this series omg!! i hope you like this pls comment and tell me what u think and also feel free to give any ideas/ theories i love getting that sm!! ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

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Finding a place to get a drink was easier said than done.

You had ridden along the cold, barren road for hours – your only company being the birds singing above you, the horse moving below you and the small bundle of content wrapped in your arms who had fallen asleep in your arms in seconds, occasionally yawning widely. And through those hours you had met no one and seen no place to stop.

You eventually had to stop, exhaustion slowing you down. You moved off course and tied your horse to a tree next to a small stream, running a comforting hand through its mane as it drank slowly. You slowly stripped off as well, taking your time as you removed the blood-soaked layers from your skin. Once you were bare, shivering in the cool morning air, you stepped slowly into the stream – swearing enough to make a sailor blush.

However, you relented, running your hands over your skin, wiping away the guards’ blood with a heavy heart as the water turned pink. Your whole body ached, yet you were numb. Men were dead because of you, and - if he hadn’t already – Dorian would hear of your disappearance soon. And then the king would pick him a new bride, and you would be forgotten.

Just as intended.

Amaris was mewling behind you, hungry and cold, wondering why you had left. Or maybe that was just you, maybe you were projecting. You climbed out of the water, pulling your undergarments back on as you found a sunny patch to sit in, allowing the newly risen sun to cleanse away the remnants of the night, drying your skin slowly.

After half an hour of silent tears you picked yourself back up, pulling on your stiff clothes and climbing onto your horse as you set off again. You couldn’t just lie down and die, no matter how much you wanted to, you had to look after your last gift from Dorian, and you had look after yourself.

--

You ended up riding for hours more before you wandered into a small town. Dismounting, you led your horse through the town as you searched for a place to get food and maybe clean clothes, glaring down your nose at anyone who stared to long. Much like Dorian used to.

No. You tried to expel the thought of him from your head, not needing to be swept up in the thought of his forget-me-not eyes, nor did you need to remember that you may never get to look into them again.

What you needed was the tavern you could see at the end of the street.

You pushed through the street, ignoring the townspeople as you moved to the stables beside the tavern, giving your horse rest, food, and water. You hid Amaris in your coat as you moved into the tavern – back straight and head high as you walked.

The bar quietened down when you moved in, a small sprout woman pausing handing out drinks as she stared at you over a high skew nose. The bar smelt of sour whisky and piss, the surfaces barely visible beneath the dirt that covered every surface – the only source of light coming from tall candles that had been stuffed into wine bottles. The curtains over the windows were drawn tight, not allowing any other light in and the people in the bar all looked remarkably similar, tired. The woman behind the bar was petite, with a face alike a weasel and when she spoke you discovered her voice was just as shrill as you expected.

“And who do you think you are?” she moved in front of the bar, walking towards you as you levelled your gaze.

“I’m no one.” You replied, the answer vague enough that she hopefully wouldn’t try again.

“Then what do you want?” she was exasperated as she spoke, and you allowed yourself a moment of reprise as you glanced down at your clothes.

“A drink would be nice,” your voice was curt, tired. The small lady rolled her eyes, moving away as you approached the bar, allowing her to pour you a glass of cheap, hard liquor.

She slid it towards you, and you knocked it back quickly. “Do you also have fresh clothes and maybe some food for me and my cat?”

As she left with an eye roll, a man approached you, his hairline receding and breath fowl as he slung an arm around your shoulder, leaning far too close for your comfort as you trained your eyes forward.

“I can offer you a job,” he nodded his head and you looked over to see his eyes trained on the prostitutes in the corner, “I’ll even offer a free trial. To get you started.”

You felt panic rise like bile in your throat, your entire body tensing as you shoved this man’s arm of your shoulder. You calmed your face – unwilling to let any emotion show as you faced him.

“You couldn’t afford me,” you snarled, pushing down the heat growing in you as the curious eyes of the towns’ folk were once again turned on you.

“You bitch!” the man began shouting but was cut off by the shrill woman’s return. She unceremoniously dumped a pile of clothes in your lap, along with a small loaf and some fish, her gaze expectant.

You loosened the bracelet around your wrist, dropping it into her hand as she stared at the large jewels adorning it.

“That should cover it.” you muttered as you stood, keeping your gaze angry and forward as you shouldered past the burly man. You bundled the clothing and food in one hand, the other still holding Amaris tight to your chest as you left the dirty tavern.

You found your horse again, offloading the goods you had received into the worn satchels on its side – leading it out of the barn slowly, desperate to get out of this town.

--

Dorian was a mess.

He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, could barely speak anymore. It was enough to lose you, but to then realise that his own father had driven you away. His own father had made you feel so unsafe in your own home that you couldn’t even run to him, his father had made you feel so completely isolated that your only choice was to flee.

Chaol was trying to coax him back into civilised life, his brother mourning the loss of his friend, yet itching to find you. And level-headed as always, Chaol knew that wouldn’t happen with Dorian spending his days drinking or in bed – often both.

But Dorian didn’t know how to cope, he didn’t know how to plaster on a smile and pretend everything was okay. That was your specialty.

Almost a month had passed, and you certainly were nowhere to be seen. You weren’t coming home anytime soon and he was going to have to learn how to live without you eventually.

Every morning he woke up, a part of him hoped it was a bad dream, that you would be asleep in his arms, or giggling and pressing dizzying kisses into his jaw. He hoped one day he would just wake up and you would wrap your arms tight around his shoulders, tell him it was just a nightmare and stroke his hair until he fell back asleep.

But he knew that couldn’t happen, that life wasn’t kind enough to return his bride to him and so instead he chose to numb his thoughts. He ignored the flirty eyes of other woman, unable to look at them in their expensive dresses and jewels without his mind returning to you.

Everyday that passed without you hurt that much more, so when he sat on his throne as Chaol approached him with a beautiful but deadly woman, he decided since he couldn’t have his perfect woman, he must find her opposite. He couldn’t be who he was before – so he must become someone new.

--

You weren’t faring much better. The day you had left the bar, you had ridden all the way to the coast of Terrasan and had climbed onto the first boat to Doranelle. By the time you arrived in the city you had just about sold anything of value on your person and all you had left to sell was the poor horse you had taken away.

By the time it was just you and Amaris, you had acquired a small flat in the city – the walls were bare and there was only simple furniture in it, the mattress on the floor next to large windows, and worn cushions on a makeshift sofa next to a wooden table.

Every night Amaris crawled into bed next to you, licking away salty tears from your face as you pulled the thin, scratchy sheet closer over you – hoping to replicate even a shred of Dorian’s warmth, or the feeling of his arms wrapped secure around your waist. Most nights you didn’t sleep, the bags growing under your eyes as your heart slowly numbed. Amaris would bury himself in the warmth of your chest as your eyes blurred, watching the city move outside of your flat – the noise subdued and calming.

On the third day in the new city you set out to find work, desperate to find something that could numb the thoughts in your mind and make the days easier. Plus you were sick of grabbing the easiest food you could find. You found yourself walking to a library, deciding it would be the perfect mixture of solitude and work for you. And it helped that you had spent most your life reading, many nights curled under Dorians arms as you read your separate books – occasionally reciting a line to the other.

The old man at the front of the library was kind, his face wrinkled from easy smiles, and you could understand why his long, long life seemed so pleasing. The bookshelves were tall, dizzyingly tall, and filled with countless books that you wished you could search through for hours. There were also tall, stained windows lining the walls, letting in the beautiful morning light and showing how the dust danced around the room.

“So what brings you here?” he asked, moving around the desk he sat at and motioning for you to take a seat on the small, cushioned seats next to him.

You sat down gently, back straight but keeping your eyes trained on your neatly folded hands. “I need work, sir. I have very good qualifications and have been educated by the best.”

He laughed slightly at that, “That much is clear, my child. But I asked what brings you here? What is your story?”

You looked up to meet his eyes, unable to stop the pain that they revealed, and he took your hands gently in his warm ones, “The world has treated you poorly I see.”

You felt tears build in your eyes – this kindness so alien to your battered heart you couldn’t help yourself as you let out a soft sob. The man smiled kindly at you, squeezing your hands gently as he urged you to talk to him.

“I was f-forced to leave the man I loved,” you choked out, “his father tried to… hurt me.” Your explanation was an over-simplification, but you feared what may occur if you revealed the truth.

“Was he your mate?” the man asked kindly, and you shook your head.

“I am not Fae,” you explained, and he frowned, passing you his handkerchief as he stood.

“Are you sure about that?” he asked, retrieving a small, hand-held mirror, and handing it to you. You took it with a confused expression before looking in, gasping under your breath as you saw your ears had taken on a delicate point.

“I, I don’t- that’s not possible.” You shook your head, eyes wide as they met his.

“Where do you come from child?” he voice was gentle as he took in your shock.

“Adarlan.” You whispered and he smiled sympathetically.

“Then I believe a glamour has been removed recently.” You could feel yourself shaking, the weight of the knowledge hitting you. “Let me take a name dear, you can start work tomorrow, we’ve been needing some extra hands around here.”

“(y/n) (y/l/n)” your voice was small as you stood, shaking his hand lightly. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s no problem and remember when you work you can have a read through any book you like. Aisle sixteen contains many on the ancient spirits.” He looked down to your necklace pointedly and you bit your tongue so hard you tasted blood, desperate to not reveal any more than you already had.

“Thank you…” you trailed off and he smiled,

“Albert,” he finished for you. “And make sure to take care on your way home, this city is filled with powerful people, you would be smart to not mix with them.”

You nodded, pocketing the information in your mind, ready to add it to your list of rules.

--

Fenrys was tired. He had just gotten home from a month-long mission and all he wanted was to sleep, however he wasn’t quite ready to face Maeve yet and instead he decided to take a trip to his favourite library before she realised he was back.

He was walking in when he saw you, your eyes red but hopeful and he almost fell over at the sight of you. You were wearing common clothes but held yourself like royalty, head high and gaze ready to tear down a man who so much as looked at you wrong.

What he did next he wasn’t exactly proud of, but he needed an excuse, so he was willing to play his hand a bit. “Excuse me miss, do you happen to know where I could find the tilted goose?” your eyes widened when you saw him, fuelling his ego slightly.

He knew where the tilted goose was of course, it was one of his favourite bars, but you didn’t have to know that.

“Oh yeah, it’s just down this way. I’m walking that way I’ll show you,” your voice was like music to his ears, and he smiled, revelling in how you avoided his gaze, clearly intimidated by his stature.

“Thank you so much…?” he asked, and you smiled, softly, subdued.

“(y/n),” you stared walking in the correct direction, and he grinned.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful lady. Fenrys.” He placed a hand to his chest as you laughed lightly.

“Quite a flirt aren’t you?” you asked, eyes sparkling.

“Can’t help myself, I’m not sure I’ve ever met such a beautiful woman.” He looked down to you as he fell into step beside you, noticing that you were taking a much longer way than needed. “You new here?”

“How’d you tell?” your tone was self-deprecating, and he laughed.

“This way takes about five minutes longer.” He stated and you whirled around, pointing a finger accusingly.

“You know how to get there.” He felt his face heat up as he raised his hands sheepishly.

“Maybe…” he grinned, and you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you began to storm off.

“See you around princess!” he called after you, almost missing the way your shoulders stiffened momentarily before you called over your shoulder.

“You’d be so lucky!” you replied, pace quickening as he watched you climb a set of stars that led to some run-down apartments.

He laughed, the smiled on his face coming naturally and surprising him. Oh his life was about to get much better.

--

You shouldn’t have enjoyed the pretty man’s company. And you hated yourself for it.

But he was so kind and for five minutes he made you feel normal again, loved again. See you around princess! The words wouldn’t stop replaying in you head. You weren’t allowed to be a normal girl; you were a princess, and you were on the run, and you definitely had no time for handsome men who flirted with you.

You couldn’t betray Dorian like that, he was probably waiting for you to come home. And you planned to. You would build your strength and you would learn to fight, and you would tear the king to shreds.

But for now, you had to settle for getting through each day, and that meant you had no time for handsome distractions. As you steeled your nerves you felt the loneliness settle on your shoulders, wrapping around you like a shadow, and you fought to reach deep inside yourself, finding the sliver of magic that was curled up – dormant – inside of you.

You found it and fought to awaken it, only receiving a shard of the true power. You stood in front of the dirty mirror in your bathroom, taking in your newly pointed ears and watching as your necklace glowed gently, your eyes turning silver as you released a small amount magic, watching as the bright light shattered the mirror in front of you.

Your eyes widened at the loud noise and with a flinch the magic was gone, the only proof it was even there was the shattered mirror in front of you.

You stared back at the cracked reflection and squared your shoulders. You were going to train, you were going to fight, and you were going to win. Even if it broke you.

[rufousnmacska]

Only You

A Manorian arranged marriage fic requested by an anon.

Huge thanks to @itach-i for her help and advice with plot and beta reading! ❤️

Previously, in Part One

Previously, in Part Two

*

PART THREE

*

Manon jumped at the knock on her door. She’d sat up all night watching the fire slowly die, unable to sleep. Stiff from sitting in a chair in a cold room for so many hours, she moved slowly to the door. Expecting Glennis, she was surprised to find Yrene waiting to come in. The healer’s smile disappeared when she got a good look at Manon.

“I’m sure I look how I feel,” Manon said by way of greeting. She turned and went back to her chair.

Shivering, Yrene tried to get the fire going again, adding some kindling and blowing on the few stubborn embers that remained in the fireplace. The flames caught, but it would be a while before any heat radiated from it. She sat opposite Manon, watching her carefully.

“Just say it,” Manon said.

“Say what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

She’d come to consider Yrene a good friend over the last two years. The woman was kind and an exceptionally talented healer, helping Manon overcome some of the darkest moments of her grief. Yrene also helped her navigate her way through the complexities of her relationship with Dorian, giving her advice and translating some of the human customs she didn’t understand. Like exchanging gifts. Manon had never given or received a birthday gift before. Yrene not only helped her find one for Dorian, she listened without judgment as Manon explained how foreign the concept was to her. The idea for the memory book had come to her after imagining what Yrene might get if Dorian and Manon were marrying.

Yrene sighed, resting her head back and staring up at the ceiling. “I’ve never seen this room before,” she said, absentmindedly. “It’s quite lovely.”

Manon glanced up. The ceiling was painted like the sky at twilight. A deep, rich blue turning black with stars scattered across it. It was beautiful, and it reminded her of those frozen nights she and Dorian and the Thirteen spent camped in the Fangs in search of the Crochans. She recognized a constellation or two and realized it was likely the same night sky. She didn’t think there was enough time for him to have commissioned the mural between her accepting the invitation and now. But she’d learned long ago that it was foolish to underestimate Dorian’s love of grand romantic gestures. Whether it had been completed for this visit or not, the intention was the same. She leaned back to examine the stars, smiling slightly as memories came rushing back – Asterin teasing Dorian about his pretty blue eyes, Vesta’s shameless flirting that often came dangerously close to provoking Manon’s jealousy, Sorrel gifting Dorian an Ironteeth blade that he still carried, Ghislaine getting caught up in talking about books with him. They’d only traveled together for a couple of short months. And yet despite the hardships, there was so much good to remember. It made her think of the memory book, and how much she wished to be sharing it with him as his wife.

“Josie asked for you the other day,” Yrene said, drawing Manon’s attention back down from the ceiling.

“She said my name?” Yrene and Chaol’s daughter had just begun forming complex words the last time Manon had seen her.

“Well,” she said with a shrug, “it was close enough that we knew who she meant. She mixed up the words a wee bit, so it came out Ma Nauntie instead of Auntie Manon. She’d seen one of Adarlan’s wyverns flying over the castle and thought it was Abraxos.” Yrene was grinning at the memory. “I’m afraid she butchered his name. But we’ve got her trying Brax for short.”

Manon was returning Yrene’s smile, but she didn’t know what to say. For as fond as she’d grown of Yrene, she’d come to care for Josie just as much. Would she ever see them again after today?

As if reading her mind, Yrene said, “I know it might be hard for you. To come here again. So I was thinking, maybe someday we can visit you?” Tears spilled from Yrene’s eyes and she pulled out a handkerchief.

“Of course! You can come back with me tonight if you wish,” Manon said, stretching out a hand. Sometimes it still felt strange for her to offer comfort to others. But it was something Yrene knew about her, something she never called attention to. And now, the healer leaned forward to take Manon’s hand in hers.

Yrene tried to smile but it just made her cry harder. She stood and walked away, taking a moment to blow her nose and dry her eyes. When she returned, she said, “Please don’t marry that fae prick. He’s not good enough for you. And I don’t trust him.”

Manon laughed, part of her shocked at the possibility, the other shocked at hearing Yrene swear. “No need to worry about that,” she said, further amused by Yrene’s exaggerated relief. “I no longer have plans to marry anyone. A consort isn’t required either. So, when the time is right, I shall only be in need of a … What was that word you so eloquently used just now? I will only need a prick.”

Yrene’s cheeks reddened as she laughed. “Is it not the best word for him?”

Manon grew serious, thinking about her evening with Fennick. He’d been too flirtatious and self-absorbed, and a bit rude towards the others at the table with them. But based on her experiences with fae males, Fennick’s behavior was typical, with Rowan being the exception. Yes, he was arrogant, but he’d also expressed sympathy for the Thirteen, and shared his past heartbreak with her. She knew what Dorian thought of the prince and wasn’t surprised that Yrene would also dislike him.

“Why don’t you trust him?” Manon asked.

Yrene sighed and bit her lip as she searched for an answer. “It’s mostly a gut feeling. He barely addressed Dorian. And him telling us about coming here to find a mate didn’t endear him to anyone. Even Eveline thought he was an ass.” At Manon’s expression, she offered an apology for mentioning the young woman.

“No, don’t worry about that. I’m more interested in what you said about Fennick. He came here looking for a mate?”

“That’s what he said. Some tale or superstition of his grandmother’s claiming fae would find their mate at a wedding. It sounded made up. And when Eveline told him there were no other fae invited, he said he could have a bond with a human or witch.” Yrene shot her a wicked grin. “Dorian wanted to hit him, I could tell.”

Her own lips twitched upward at the thought. But her mind shifted quickly back to Fennick. She’d known of his intentions from the letter. But why antagonize Dorian? Yes, the male was conceited, but he hadn’t struck her as stupid. Yrene was watching her expectantly, but Manon just said, “Well, regardless, you don’t have to worry about him. I don’t intend to see him after today.”

“Thank the gods,” Yrene said, apparently letting the subject go.

Manon knew Yrene had an extra sense about people. Whether it was her healing magic or just her ability to read others, Manon didn’t know. But she trusted Yrene’s opinion and knew it wasn’t clouded by jealousy like Dorian’s. Yrene’s relief set off warning bells. Manon needed to think, and she welcomed the distraction it offered as she waited for the ceremony later today.

“Where is Josie now?” she asked.

“With Chaol. Actually, I should be getting back.”

“Do we have time for an early lunch before the ceremony? You could bring her up here.”

Yrene beamed at the offer, promising to return with her child in a few hours.

After the healer left, Manon bathed and dressed. She sent her guards off on separate errands, giving them the names of castle staff who might know the gossip that was most difficult to come by. Then she set out on her own search for information, something she should have done sooner.

***

Dorian heard shouting from the main stable and poked his head through the door. The head groom was sending stable hands off in every direction, calling out reminders about the diets of certain horses. She saw Dorian and walked over to greet him.

“Apologies, Your Majesty. One of my lead grooms didn’t show up for work this morning and we’re scrambling to get the horses fed.” The woman grabbed hold of a young boy and turned him around. “Other way, lad. And be careful. That horse bites.”

Dorian smiled. “Don’t mind me. I’m just headed for the wyvern paddock. Have they been fed yet?”

Only half listening, she nodded, then turned back to the chaos surrounding her. “Last time I give so much responsibility to one person,” she muttered.

Continuing around the main stable and towards the far end of the yard, he saw a figure standing by the building that housed the wyverns and stopped. But it was only Glennis. The white hair had fooled him for a split second. She was feeding a small, bluish gray wyvern.

“I thought you’d never give up your broom,” he said, holding out his hand towards Abraxos. The little wyvern snuffled against his palm and Dorian rubbed his snout.

Glennis waved a hand, feigning irritation at her new mode of transport. “Neither did I until this little trouble-maker hatched out of an egg.” She tossed a chunk of meat to her wyvern, then moved on to the next one. Apparently Abraxos had already received his breakfast. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” Glennis said, “the wyverns are more comfortable to ride. Especially for old witches like me.”

Dorian laughed, giving her his best smile. “Who are you kidding? You’re still young.” She snorted and waved him off again. As she fed the other wyverns, he turned back to Abraxos.

Fearing this would be his last chance to see the wyvern and hoping no one else would be here, he’d gotten up early to visit. Not that he’d actually slept. He couldn’t remember the last time he got a full night’s sleep. “Hey, Brax,” he cooed, stepping through the gate into the stall. The wyvern curled his long, barbed tail around Dorian’s feet as he continued petting his snout. Dorian pulled a small bouquet of flowers from his cloak and laughed as a low, contented sound rumbled from Abraxos’s chest.

“He’s not like that with just anyone.” Glennis was standing behind them. “Flowers or no flowers.”

“I know,” Dorian said.

“She’d be mad to see you spoiling him so much.”

He huffed a laugh. “I know.” But he didn’t stop.

Glennis knew why he was here and went back to spoil her own wyvern, giving him privacy.

After a while, Dorian inhaled, long and ragged, his breath pooling in the morning chill when he released it. Abraxos watched him, seeming to know this was a goodbye. The wyvern let out a sad whine and Dorian tipped his head forward to rest against Abraxos. “You take good care of her for me, Brax. All right?”

Abraxos huffed in agreement, enshrouding Dorian in a cloud of hot air. The pungent smell gave Dorian the perfect excuse for the tears that had gathered in his eyes as he said goodbye to the little scarred wyvern.

Glennis was not so easily fooled. She knew the reason for the shimmer in his eyes, but said nothing as they started back to the castle together. The main stable appeared to be under control and Dorian waved to the head groom as they passed.

“You were married to a Crochan prince,” Dorian said, breaking their silence as they climbed a hill. “Was it arranged, or did you choose each other?”

For all her talk of old age, Glennis didn’t struggle with the incline. “A bit of both. We’d known each other forever, and our parents had thought it was a good match. There was never any formal agreement but they encouraged us. It was a bond forged of love.”

“So, you were mates then?”

“Yes,” she said, pulling her cloak up around her neck as they reached the top and were exposed to the wind. “But witches don’t have mating bonds like the fae.” She stopped walking to think. “It’s not a tether, not a physical thing like it is to the fae. There’s no silent communication, no feral territoriality. It’s just a stronger connection than a normal relationship. Why are you asking?”

Dorian tried to shrug it off. “Just curious.” They started walking again and he moved so he might block the worst of the wind from reaching her. “Then it has nothing to do with witches having fae blood? I mean, Manon must have more than the average witch since she comes from a lineage without much human involvement.”

Glennis frowned. “Hmmm, maybe. I’d never really thought of it like that. Our fae blood is so diluted, I’m not sure that it really makes a difference.” She stopped, and by her sad eyes, he knew he’d failed to fool her again. “You think Manon is your mate.”

He wanted to say yes. How else to explain the depth of his feelings for her? That constant tug in his chest. Light as it may be, it still connected him to her. Perhaps it was the fae blood in her, making a mating bond between them stronger than with other witches. But then, wouldn’t that also make it more possible for her to be Fennick’s mate? No, he wouldn’t allow himself to go down that path. Not after a long night of fighting the worst his imagination could come up with.

Maybe what he had with Manon was just love. A strong love of two people who completed each other, filled in the pieces that were missing and held the other up when darkness set in. That would be enough, Dorian knew. He didn’t need a mating bond to love her.

Glennis was still waiting for his reply. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “I don’t think it matters.” He’d meant the words differently than she took them. But when sorrow crept across her face, so deep it made his chest ache, he knew what she was thinking.

“No,” she said. “After today, I don’t think it will either.”

*****

Manon sat rigid, her eyes facing forward, ignoring all the stares and words whispered in her direction. She and Glennis had blessedly been ushered to a spot with only two available seats, ensuring Fennick could not sit next to her. Giselle and Lara were positioned nearby, but out of the way of other guests. Hearing Fennick’s voice as he took his seat a couple of rows behind them, Manon exchanged a look with Glennis.

After her lunch with Yrene and while they readied themselves for the ceremony, Manon and her guards had discussed what little they could find out about the prince. The two witches gathered minimal gossip from the castle workers. The prince had brought no attendants or valets of his own, and he’d made a show of turning down the head steward’s offer to provide him one. It wasn’t unusual for a noble to eschew servants, even for a long and important trip such as this. But it felt off given his formality and haughty nature. Of course, it kept him out of the streams of gossip among the staff.

Manon had gone herself to the royal library, hoping to find some information on Fennick’s lineage. The Whitethorn clan was old and spread out in the fae lands across the sea. And with his age, she thought perhaps he’d been mentioned in a genealogy or even history book. But the librarian had been unable to find anything substantial. The only occurrence of his name was in a recent book about the fae that included trees of the older families. Fennick was indeed a second cousin to Rowan and Sellene, stemming from a side of the family that Maeve had passed over when it came to titles and lands. How he’d risen to prince so quickly, she didn’t know. Sellene, ever practical and shrewd, had not seemed the type to toss out prestigious titles to just anyone. Nor was she the type, Manon realized, who would send an extravagant gift in an attempt to brag about her kingdom’s wealth.

They’d found nothing, and what little she did know made no sense. And yet, it left her unsettled. Glennis too. But, like the others, her grandmother had hated him from the start. In her mind, Manon had already dismissed him as a possible consort or provider of an heir. Yet she was still more ambivalent about Fennick’s flaws than Glennis and Yrene. His story about the human woman he’d almost given up his immortality for had touched a very raw nerve and stuck with her. Whether it was the faint similarities to her own situation, or just that she pitied him, she was unsure. Perhaps Yrene was wrong. And Glennis.

That was what unsettled her the most. It seemed impossible that both of them would misjudge the male. If only she weren’t here for Dorian’s wedding. Everything from her wits to her instincts were off kilter because of it, and she didn’t trust herself. Then again, if not for this wedding, she’d never have met Fennick and wouldn’t need to concern herself with him. The one good thing to come of it was the distraction it had provided her today.

There was movement at the front of the large chapel and Manon used every ounce of control to keep her face calm as Dorian and Chaol walked out towards the podium behind which the priest stood. Dressed in an azure jacket that brought out the brilliance of his eyes, he looked even more handsome than he had last night at dinner. Damaris hung from his side, and with his crown, he looked like a warrior king of old. This was it then, she thought, praying uselessly for more distractions or delays. Anything to keep her from having to watch Dorian pledge himself to another.

When he and Chaol took their places, the strings began to play a soft, beautiful melody. She couldn’t help herself and looked right at Dorian. He was, of course, staring at her. And for that moment, she pretended that she was walking to meet him. That she would be taking him as her king, becoming his queen, instead of Eveline. The hint of a smile caught his lips and she suspected, hoped, that he was imagining the same thing.

It wasn’t until Chaol lightly touched Dorian’s arm, drawing a frown in response, that she noticed the music had started over. She turned to Glennis and saw confusion, which was mirrored on the others in the crowd. Her grandmother stretched around to look back at the front entrance where the bride should have been standing.

“Maybe she has cold feet,” someone muttered.

In the first row, Lord Frey was turning red with rage. And right before he could jump up to go find his daughter and likely drag her down the aisle, Yrene came running in with a note in her hand.

***

Dorian hadn’t noticed anything. He’d been too busy looking at Manon. She was seated, so he couldn’t see the entire thing, but this dress rivaled the one she’d worn last night. A silvery gray color that matched the shimmering wings of her wyvern, the dress had a neckline that stretched across her collar bones, from shoulder to shoulder. Hanging down over her chest was a single red ruby, large enough to fit within the eye in the pommel of his sword. Her hair was braided into a crown atop her head. Despite their fight, despite everything, he smiled at her, unable to tear his gaze away. Unable to keep from wishing it was her walking towards him today.

Until Chaol tapped his arm and brought him back to reality. Where the musicians were fumbling to begin the processional again. Where Lord Frey was staring daggers at him for admiring Manon. Where Yrene was walking up the aisle instead of Eveline. He hadn’t even noticed Yrene wasn’t seated before them.

Trying to keep her voice low, she handed Dorian the letter she carried and said, “She’s gone. This was all she left.”

With so many eager ears and the heightened acoustics of the building, everyone heard her. Immediately, the chapel was in an uproar. Some guests were shocked, upset to see their king abandoned at the altar. Others were watching the scene unfold with glee, anxious for the tales they could tell afterwards. The priest stood with his mouth agape. Lord Frey was reaching for the letter, sputtering curses and pushing back the lords who’d allied with him. They were gathered around him, clamoring for an explanation. Manon and Glennis both stared wide-eyed at him, unsure how to react.

Dorian spun away from Lord Frey’s grasp and began to read.

Your Majesty,

Please forgive me for the lateness of this wedding gift. I had hoped to have it weeks ago, but my father is a paranoid man with many hideaways, and my efforts were delayed.

My father is not what he seems. He lost most of his gold during the war and has been pretending to be wealthy ever since. He fears nothing more than losing his title and being relegated to a life of poverty. His complaints to his neighbors about your rule were nothing more than talk. Is wasn’t until he was approached from afar that the talk turned into real threats of rebellion.

I was aware that someone was pushing my father down this path, offering to pay a rich reward for his work, but I didn’t know who until just an hour ago. A friend was finally able to procure some messages sent from the foreign party to my father as proof of their plan. They have been placed in your valet’s safe keeping. Ruben was always kind to me, and I believe him to be a trustworthy attendant to you.

I am sure you are curious about who is funding my father’s play at rebellion. I must confess I was shocked and confused to learn that Prince Fennick is behind the plot.

According to the messages, the prince had heard of my father’s money woes and came to him with a plan. My father was to stir up trouble among your nobles then offer up my hand in marriage as the only way to appease him and prevent a war.

I cannot be sure of the prince’s motives, but I suspect he has had his eye on your beloved witch queen for some time. I trust you will be able to get the details out of him.

I must also ask your forgiveness for my dreadful conduct in leaving you like this. The truth is, I am in love with a man named Costis, a groom in your stables. We had planned to run away, but my father pulled me unwillingly into his scheme before we could manage it. Costis was able to acquire the letters just this morning. As I have been freed from my father, we are now off to live our own lives.

I said above that this is my wedding gift to you. Of course, as we are no longer getting married, I do not give it to you as a wife to her husband. Instead, I offer this to my King, who is also now free to be with the witch he loves.

With hope for a long and happy life with your queen,

Eveline

 Dorian wasn’t sure if he was breathing. He rubbed at his eyes, skimmed over the message again and again, making sure it was real and not some figment of his overwrought imagination. Passing it to Chaol, he ordered him to arrest Frey. And then he found Manon in the crowd and ran to her.

Her face held a million questions, but there was no time. They’d waited long enough. Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her. After a second’s hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him back. He thought he heard someone yelling but it faded away, just like everything else around them.

The world, his world, was here in his arms. That’s all that mattered.

When they broke apart, the chapel had quieted down. Manon opened her eyes slowly, as if coming out of a trance. “Marry me, witchling,” Dorian said, letting his wild grin take over his face. “Not today. I want our friends with us. But please, will you marry me? Be my queen? The only one I’ve ever wanted.”

Manon began to laugh, and the sound of her joy was like a balm to his heart, repairing all the cracks and pieces that had broken off in the past months.

“Please,” he repeated. “If you want me to beg, I will.”

She laughed again before cupping his face in her hands and nodding. “Yes. I will marry you, princeling.”

Some of the guests began cheering, others were still reeling by the turn of events. Chaol and Yrene were next to them, hugging Glennis.

Dorian turned to see Lord Frey in shackles, being hauled off by the royal guard. A glance to Chaol told him they still had one other person to deal with. Signaling to his remaining guard and Manon’s sentinels, he walked to where Fennick still stood, an expression of deepest insult on the prince’s face.

“Fennick Whitethorn, you are under arrest for plotting to overthrow Adarlan,” Dorian said. Manon looked between him and Fennick, speechless with shock.

The male was stricken with outrage. “What? What the hell are you talking about? When I return to Doranelle, this will not be forgotten! Sellene will not stand for this!”

“I suspect Queen Sellene is not aware of what you’ve been up to,” Dorian countered, noticing Ruben enter the chapel. His valet waved a stack of papers for Dorian to see. Dorian nodded and motioned for Chaol to fetch them. To Manon, he explained, “Eveline found proof that our good friend Fennick was paying Lord Frey to carry out this sham. He wanted me out of the way to pursue you.”

Manon’s eyes narrowed and he saw the anger and embarrassment rise in her like a flood. It was a level of rage he’d never seen on her before. And hoped to never see again.

She turned and glared up at Fennick. He immediately began accusing Eveline and Lord Frey of lying, accusing Dorian of making it up to escape the wedding. But she said nothing, just watched him grow more pathetic as he spouted increasingly ridiculous excuses. When he had nothing left to say, Manon cocked her arm and punched him in the face, sending him shuffling back and twirling around before he thudded to the floor, unconscious. Her witches picked him up and dragged him out, following the royal guard to the dungeon.

*****

After an abbreviated un-wedding dinner, Manon walked with Dorian to the top of the king’s tower, past her guest rooms to the suite she would now be sharing with him. There was much to be discussed and worked out. While their marriage would be a good alliance for both kingdoms, compromises would have to be made. Including, Manon informed him, splitting their time between the two capitols.

Dorian had agreed before she even got all the words out. “I don’t care where we are, as long as we’re together.”

“We can’t be together all the time,” she said, trying to be sensible as she stood before him, staring in wonder at his proximity, listening to his heartbeat. He was taking his time pulling the pins from her hair, one by one. Manon wasn’t sure if sensible was possible right now. The heartache of the last six months, the explosive revelations of hours ago, she exhaled and let it all go, as if the winds could carry it away across the sea. Right here, right now, it was just them. Sensible talk about kingdoms and politics could wait.

“I beg to differ,” he said, reaching around her head for a pin. The movement brought him blessedly closer.

“There you go again,” she purred. “Begging.”

Her hair was free of pins and he began to undo the braid, letting it fall through his fingers. “Only for you, witchling.”

She continued to watch him, getting lost in the perfect smile that hadn’t left his face in hours. When Manon reached up and ran her fingers over his dimpled cheek, he made a little gasp and turned his attention from her hair. “You said last night that I don’t belong to you, but you belong to me,” she said.

“I did.” His smile faded, his voice a deep whisper.

“You were wrong. I am yours and yours only. There is no one else I would give myself to.”

Dorian took her face in both hands and kissed her, and she felt his smile return. “Only you.”

Clutching her hand, he led her to the bed where they took their time undressing each other. She lay back on the bed, losing herself to the charged heat of his touch, the soft fullness of his lips.

“Only you,” she murmured, feeling his mouth curl up against the inside of her thigh.

Dorian took his time, for they had that now. Time to tease and caress every inch of her, time to nip at her ears, time to shift her hips to sink deeper inside her, leaving her breathless and needy for more. And after an eternity where he sent her spinning over the edge again and again, he joined her, calling out her name as if it were his home.

When their euphoria faded, Dorian fell onto the bed next to her, pulling her close as they fought to catch their breath. “And you say I’m the one who always begs,” he teased.

They slept in the next morning, not getting out of bed until almost noon when Ruben knocked and demanded they eat something. There were other things to see to, guests to say goodbye to, and then finally, that night after dinner, Manon and Dorian went to the dungeons.

The second Lord Frey saw them, he dropped to his knees. “Please, Your Majesty. I only wanted the money to rebuild my estate. I never intended to bring about war. Please, please …”

Manon was surprised by the sudden turn. Just yesterday at the ceremony, he’d been trying to urge his allies to stand in support of him, ultimately resorting to screamed threats that had the opposite effect. And now, he was on his knees, pleading for his life.

“You’re accused of treason, Frey,” Dorian said. The man flinched at the loss of his title. “If you really want to continue confessing, be my guest. But you may want to wait for a judge.”

The man shook his head, befuddled. “You … you’re not going to hang me?”

This man had almost destroyed their lives, bringing Adarlan to the brink of civil war. Dorian had every right to punish him harshly. They’d discussed how to handle these interrogations over dinner, though they had not expected it would be this easy. It seemed that Frey was a coward at heart and had been a poor choice of conspirators for Fennick.

Dorian said, “I won’t hang you. If you tell me why.”

Frey heaved a sigh of relief, though he had the sense to still look nervous. “Before the war, Duke Perrington forced me to help fund some of his work at Morath.” At Dorian’s dubious look, he added, “I swear I did not know who he truly was then. I was acting in the best interest of my kingdom and my holdings. But … he bled me dry, offering promises of future reward that never came. And then he was revealed to be Erawan, leaving Adarlan devastated. I had enough in my vault to maintain appearances, but nothing more. Prince Fennick approached me earlier this year with an offer that would allow me to regain my former wealth. I was to stir up dislike for you and get support from other nobles, enough to pose a credible threat to your throne. When talk of rebellion grew to a boiling point, I would demand you marry my daughter. Her hand in exchange for appeasing your enemies.”

“And what was your payment?” Manon asked.

“Gold,” Frey said simply. She arched an eyebrow in a silent demand for more, and he sank miserably onto the floor. “And the promise that when an heir was born, the king would be eliminated, leaving me as regent.”

The gold was expected. But the threat of assassination came as a shock. Dorian was speechless, trying to process how close they’d come to ruin. Frey eyed him, fearful that the earlier proposal to spare him from hanging would be dismissed.

“What did he stand to gain?” Manon continued. Frey seemed oblivious to the fact that he would be installed as a puppet. Or, more likely, set up as Dorian’s killer and disposed of himself.  

“Prince Fennick would be able to marry you. He told me all about how the two of you met during the war.” At Manon’s surprise, the man hesitated. “He said that he had fallen in love with you, that you were his mate. But you were attached to King Dorian. He believed the only chance he stood was to have the king removed from the mix.”

Manon and Dorian said nothing as they stared at each other. Frey returned to begging for his life, mistaking their silence for anger at the dark depths of the scheme. He was still calling out to them for mercy as they left him with a guard.

When they reached Fennick’s cell further down the dank passageway, they found the fae stretched out lazily on a cot. His eyes were closed, and something about the scene made Manon’s temper boil to the surface. Dorian cleared his throat, and the fae could no longer pretend they weren’t there. He stood and looked between her and Dorian.

She’d thought perhaps Fennick might still be projecting the indignant fury of the night before, or something worse. But he wore the same confident expression he’d had when she first met him.

“I wasn’t lying about that woman I loved. Mortals are fickle. And they die so easily.”

It was directed at Manon, but Dorian asked, “Was that a threat?” She knew he was keeping his magic on a tight leash, but the air still crackled with it.

Fennick huffed a laugh, ignoring the question and Dorian. “Immortals such as you and I should not debase ourselves by associating with humans. Maeve and I rarely saw eye to eye, but the restrictions she placed on who could settle in Doranelle were something on which we could agree.”

“It seems to me your human was the smart one,” Manon said, somehow controlling the urge to maul him. “Escaping your clutches was the best thing that could have happened to her.”

He grinned at her, his sharp canines flashing, a glint of malice in his eyes. “Who said she escaped me?”

Here was the male she’d been worried they might find, the one kept hidden under the fancy clothes and courtly manners. The one who thought he could take their kingdoms as his own.

“So, you hate humans?” Dorian asked, lightly. “That’s what this is all about?”

Fennick finally turned to acknowledge him. “I don’t particularly care for them. But no, Your Majesty, that’s not what this is about.” Dorian’s title came out of his mouth as a sneer. “I had just as much right to Maeve’s throne as any Whitethorn. To simply hand it to Sellene, as if it were some cheap trinket to be tossed at whoever stood nearest was a disgrace.”

“We had nothing to do with that,” Manon said.

“True,” Fennick agreed. “But there were no other kingdoms as vulnerable as yours. Or as valuable, what with all that gold you have hidden in the Wastes. The Witch Kingdom was the perfect place to start.”

Manon growled at the insult, but Dorian asked, “Start what?”

“My rule,” he said simply. To Manon, he added, “Having you at my side was to an extra reward. I understand the valg king wanted you for his queen. I must confess, that piqued my interest.”

She shuddered at the mention of Erawan. It brought back memories of the way his eyes would crawl over her, possessive and hungry. The valg king had planned to keep her as his own. Much like this fae.

Dorian’s restraint was reaching its limit and the air felt suddenly cooler. His voice was just as icy as he asked, “Rule what?”

“Everything.” The word was slick, as if coated in venom.

Something had changed in Fennick’s manner with the confession. Gone were the handsome features and polite way of speaking. Locked in a cell, his hair disheveled and clothing dirty, he looked like a different creature. She’d known fae could be feral, animalistic. She’d experienced it, barely survived it. But watching him speak these words, Manon wondered if she’d truly ever seen the transformation before.

“You searched for a desperate Adarlan noble,” she said, “one with a marriageable daughter, one who could be paid off to extort the king. All to force Dorian into an arranged marriage, seduce me to steal my kingdom, then kill him for his. Do I have it right?”

Fennick’s eyes narrowed on Dorian and he grinned. “The seduction part is right, at least.”

Manon flew at him, her iron nails extended and desperate for blood. Bars or not, she wanted to scratch the bastard’s eyes from their sockets. But Dorian grabbed her by the waist and held her back. She struggled against him briefly before calming down. When he let go of her, she still shook with the desire to hurt the male. This fae prince had truly thought he could conquer Erilea? She wanted to scream in his face that he was a fool. But she kept her mouth shut, not wanting to bring more attention to how close he’d come to setting his plan in motion. And to her own foolishness. She’d let this monster touch her, dance with her. She’d pitied him when he deserved nothing but revulsion.

Dorian stepped up to the cell door, eyeing Fennick with a sly smile. “It’s funny that you think you could try to play us against each other.”

The male shrugged, unconcerned. “It was worth a shot. You are only human.”

“I may only be human,” Dorian said, “but I have something you don’t.”

Instantly, Fennick was slammed backwards by invisible hands, thrown up against the grimy stone wall and held there. He tried to speak but couldn’t. Somehow, Dorian had cut off his voice. The male’s eyes bulged in rage.

Manon watched Fennick struggle against Dorian’s magic, her enjoyment of the spectacle growing with each vein that popped out on the male’s neck. Speaking to Dorian, she mused, “Do you think he’s even a prince?”

“From his branch of the family? The one even Maeve ignored?” Dorian taunted. “No, I doubt it. And Sellene certainly played no part in this. He’s here on his own, likely without a coin to his name.”

“That reminds me,” Manon said, turning back to Fennick. “Your intricate plan had at least two big flaws,” she said. “Your reliance on using the Witch Kingdom’s gold was misguided, I’m afraid. The gold we have is mostly still in the ground, unrefined, and worth next to nothing. And your pathetic attempts to seduce me and make me think we might be mates …” She trailed off, swallowing the bile that had risen in her throat at the words. “My mate stands beside me now,” she said, feeling Dorian’s gaze settle on her. Whatever connection they shared, whether it was love or something more, they were mates in each other’s eyes.

Fennick had gone still, a silent, malevolent rage simmering off him. She glanced at Dorian, who loosened his magical hold and let the fae drop to the floor in a heap.

Jumping up, Fennick sprang towards the bars holding him in, teeth bared, his hands reaching out to strike her. Dorian had them shielded. And when his fists were repelled by nothing but air, Fennick screamed. “You bitch! You don’t know-” The fae was thrown back against the wall, his voice cut off again.

“I’ve heard enough,” Dorian said, his face twisted as he struggled to control his magic so as not to kill the male.

Before they left, Manon said, “A messenger has been sent to Sellene, outlining all you’ve done and what you will be charged with. If she asks for you back to throw in her own cells, we may oblige.” When he didn’t seem to care, she added, “And a messenger was sent north to Terrasen. I’m sure Rowan will be interested in hearing about what you’ve done using the family name.” For the first time, real fear flashed across Fennick’s face. Manon smiled, wicked and slow. “You’re right to fear him,” she said. “But I fought with Sellene in the war. She is just as fearsome as Rowan. Why do you think they made her queen?”

By the time they walked back past Frey’s cell, it had been emptied of its prisoner. In exchange for his promise of testimony, he’d been moved to a cleaner section of the dungeons. And when they started up the twisting stairs, Dorian released his magic. They heard a thud and a string of loud curses.

Manon was silent as they came out into a room just off the main entrance hall. Even though she never fell for Fennick’s advances, had never come close to letting things progress in that direction, she’d excused his behavior. The fact that he’d marked her as a fool, marked her kingdom as vulnerable, marked Dorian for death, left her dizzy with guilt and fear. While Glennis and Yrene were happy to be proven right about him, Manon felt adrift, as if her instincts had abandoned her.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Dorian said, motioning the steward over to them. She didn’t hear what he requested.

“I know. But it feels as though it is.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I was duped as much as you were. Thank the gods for Eveline and Costis.”

“Yes,” Manon agreed. “I wonder where they will end up?”

A boy returned bearing two heavy cloaks. Dorian took them and smiled. “I don’t know. But we should find them and send them a wedding gift.”

He draped a cloak over her shoulders and put the other one across his own. Clasping her hand, he led her out of the castle and in the direction of the stables. Abraxos stretched his long neck and arched his back at the first sight of them, excited for their late visit. Manon hugged Dorian tight, thanking him for knowing exactly what she needed at the exact right time. They climbed into the saddle and with a whoop from his rider, Abraxos took off into the star filled night.

***

The following summer in Rifthold, after a week of festivities that brought the Terrasen Queen and her entire court, the Queen of the Western Wastes, the future Emperor and Empress of the Southern Continent, the newly crowned King of Wendlyn, the Queen of Doranelle, and other royalty from across Erilea, Dorian and Manon were finally married.

That night, after the ceremony, as they lay in bed pointing out familiar constellations that had been painted on the ceiling of the royal suite, Dorian pulled a package from the bedside table. Silently, he presented it to his queen. Manon took it, bemused and unable to tell what was under the wrapping. When she tore it off and opened the box, she found a beautiful, leather-bound book.

Stamped in gold lettering on the cover were their names, Manon and Dorian.

“Is this the same …?” She trailed off, knowing the answer before finishing the question.

Dorian shook his head. “No, but Glennis told me about the one you got. I thought we should have our own. Open it.”

She flipped through and found some of the pages in the beginning already filled in. There was a family tree for each of them. Dorian’s included Chaol, Yrene, and Josie. And Manon traced her fingers over the names of the parents she’d never met, and the sisters she had lost.

Then a page titled How We Met. It was mostly blank, except for where Dorian had written

She saved me.

Manon stared at it for a long moment. Then suddenly, she jumped out of bed and went to his desk. After a moment of searching, she found a pen and bottle of ink. Underneath his words, she wrote

He saved me too.

Over the years, the book was carried back and forth between Adarlan and the Witch Kingdom, never leaving the possession of the King and Queen. Its pages were filled with memories, happy and sad. Memories of theirs and of others. Births, deaths.

And when the book was passed on to their daughter, she read her parents love for her and each other in every word. For they were lucky. Rhiannon’s parents were a love match, and she’d promised them she wouldn’t settle for anything less.

The end.

***

Thank you so much for reading! I hope this ending made up for the pain and angst everyone suffered through! ☺️

You can find my writing master list here or on AO3.

@itach-i  @bookishwitchling  @manontrashbeak  @awesomelena555  @jimetg98  @over300books

[lovingmyselfcore]

I don’t belong and my beloved neither do you

Every time her uncle’s rundown car hit a pothole Elide’s heart lurched into her throat and her mind spiraled.

This is it. He’s even drunker then normal and he’s going to crash and I’m going to die before I get the chance to live my life away from this hellhole.

Her knuckles were white as she clutched her bookbag close to her chest and she was sure that if Vernon was any more sober he would noticed that her bag was not filled for ‘a study session at the local diner’. If only he knew.

Is it romantic how all my elegies eulogize me? I'm not cut out for all these cynical clones These hunters with cellphones

They pulled up to the diner, it was a standard 50s retro diner, the only thing ruining the picturesque scene being the 13 motorcycles parked in the Employees and Owner parking spots. “This is good, uncle Vernon.” Elide said, reaching for the door handle when her uncle grabbed her arm.

Elide froze, her breath leaving her body so quickly she figured she should be dead. He knew. He knew what she was planning on doing today and he was going to stop her, using whatever he needed to. He was going to ask who she was studying with, and he didn’t like any of her friends, there was something wrong with all of them. He was going to ask why she’d been crying for 2 weeks straight then suddenly stopped. He was going to ask why she was never talking to Lorcan anymore, what had happened to him. He was going to figure out what she was going to do, that he was dropping her off. And she wasn’t planning on ever coming back.

“You can’t get a ride home from me,” He leaned very close to her face, close enough she could smell the stale booze and cigarette smoke. She leaned back as far she could without banging her head on the window. 

“That’s okay,” She carefully extracted her arm from his vice-like grip. “I can get a ride from someone else, or I can walk home. It’s only a few miles.” I’ve had to walk much worse when you were passed out and couldn’t take me to school. Was what she didn’t add.

He nodded his eyes unfocused and Elide hesitantly reached for the door again. When he uncle didn’t move she pushed the door open and stumbled out, clutching her bag tightly against her, and slamming the door. She walked across the parking lot, waiting until she heard her uncle drive off before opening the door and stepping inside.

~~~~~~~

The first thing she noticed was the smell. The entire diner smelled like paella, her favorite. Despite that nobody currently in the diner was eating it. They were all talking amongst themselves, eating the legendary (At least in this town) food. They had no clue of the raw turmoil turning over inside Elide’s stomach. They had no idea the agonizing pain she was going through. They had no hope of witnessing the raw hope slicing through her and following her every move. They had no idea what she would tell herself constantly. You will see him again. You will. The world owes you this much. None of them had any idea. They were the same people who had made fun of her in middle and high school.

Elide shook herself out of her thoughts and walked to the bar counter, not stopping to hang her coat on the rack or make small talk with any of the staff or customers like she normally did.

Thea was working the counter, talking to a customer that seemed to be getting pretty nasty. Her face was hard and she looked about ready to snap but that all changed when she saw Elide approach. Her face melted into a sad smile and she cut off the customer to talk to Elide. “Manon’s in the back. They’ve made paella, go on back.”

Elide smiled back. It was very much like Manon to make her favorite. Elide could tell it was a last ditch effort to make her forget Lorcan and stay, but Elide knew (And knew Manon knew) that she couldn’t do that. She had to go, she had to find him. They were Romeo and Juliet. He’d already been cast out, and it was her turn to follow him.

She walked into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind her and gasped. Manon had pulled out all the stops. All of her favorite dishes and drinks were scattered across counters and the chefs seemed to be in the process of making more. She saw Asterin and worked her way through the crowd of chefs and plates of food to her. 

Asterin, for lack of a better term, looked like she’d walked through a cyclone. She was completely frazzled, and looked only seconds away from either pulling her hair out or having a breakdown. 

“Asterin!” Elide called over the clamor and was met with wild eyes. Asterin shoved her way through and grabbed Elide into a tight hug. Elide’s eyes widened. This wasn’t their thing. Asterin didn’t do this. She didn’t show affection to anybody but her husband and son. Elide only hesitated for a moment before melting into it, wrapping her arms around the woman and pulling her closer.

Elide could swear Asterin sobbed as the separated. She held Elide at arms length away from her, looking her up and down. “Is this going to be the last time I’ll ever see you, hermanita?” 

Elide sniffled, “I think so,”

Asterin sighed, dropping her arms to wipe furiously at her eyes. “Make sure to stop by one more time before you leave.”

Elide arched an eyebrow and gestured to the food, “What’s all this?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Asterin sighed and just looked at her, “The Thirteen’s last ditch attempt to get you to stay.”

Elide sighed, casting her eyes to the floor. I don’t want to leave you all behind.

“I know,” Asterin said causing Elide to glance up at her. “I know what it’s like to leave everything and everyone behind for the sake of love.”

Suddenly Asterin seemed a lot older then she looked, her eyes had taken on a knowing gleam and although she was fighting tears Elide knew. Asterin understood, Asterin wasn’t judging her. And that made this so much harder to do. 

Elide sobbed and managed to get out, “I can’t leave him.” 

“I know,” Asterin whispered pulling her into another hug, “I know.”

Take me to the lakes, where all the poets went to die I don't belong, and my beloved, neither do you Those Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry I'm settin' off, but not without my muse

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After Elide got over her little sob sesh, Asterin had shoved a plate of paella in her arms and pointed up.

So now, Elide was eating it as she made her way up to the apartment above the diner, Manon’s apartment. 

This goodbye might be the hardest, Elide decided, taking much longer then necessary to climb the stairs.

When she finally made it to the door, Elide didn’t even have to knock before the door flung open and Manon yanked her into a bone crushing hug. The paella crashed to the floor, forgotten as Elide wrapped her arms around the slightly older woman and broke.

She was a mess of tears and snot but Manon didn’t seem to care as they rocked back and forth, neither of them saying anything, but neither of them having to.

Manon’s voice sounded like the crunching of broken glass when they finally spoke, after what seemed like eternities in silence, finally standing inside the apartment.

“Is he worth it?”

Elide made a few gasping noises as she tried to get air back in her lungs so all she did was nod.

“He’s worth it.” She said finally, “He’s worth it all.”

Manon sighed, flinging her head back, smacking is against the wall but not seeming to care, as a few more stray tears slipped down her face.

“Is there anything I can do to make you stay?” Her voice was small, childlike and that broke Elide more then anything.

This was Manon Blackbeak, gang leader turned diner owner who had tons of nasty rumors flying around about her and was also casually dating Dorian Havilliard. She didn’t get attached. She refused to. (Side effect of her childhood trauma). So seeing her like this, a mess, desperate and in so so much pain. It shattered Elide.

So all she did was shake her head, she couldn’t speak. The words seem lodged in her throat. There was so much she wanted to say, to this woman that had pulled her out of the darkness, that saved her. But she couldn’t say anything.

But that was the beauty of their friendship, they didn’t need to.

Manon nodded slowly, knowing that despite her protests Elide loved him and she knew he loved her. She surged forward pulling Elide into another trapping hug, both of them only whispering ‘I love you’s into each other’s hair, both of them unable to stop crying.

What should be over burrowed under my skin In heart-stopping waves of hurt I've come too far to watch some name-dropping sleaze Tell me what are my words worth

~~~~~~~~

Elide had managed to make it out of the diner without changing her mind. Giving each member of The Thirteen a hug on her way out. Manon had let her out of the back door so nobody would see her and alert Vernon of her departure.

Once outside into the crisp autumn air, Manon and Elide faced each other.

Elide crossed her arms over her chest as she watched the wind ruffle Manon’s white hair. The afternoon sun reflected and bounced off of Manon’s gold eyes as she quickly blinked away tears she didn’t want to shed. Manon also crossed her arms, deflecting the light from her eyes to the sliver chains adorning her jacket.

They stared at each other in silence.

Manon was the first to break it. She cleared her throat. “You really love him.” It wasn’t a question but Elide nodded anyway.

“Look,” Manon started. “I won’t pretend to understand why you love him,” Elide snorted, “But I know you do. And I know he loves you. That man would steal the moon and stars for you if he could.” Elide smiled softly but Manon plowed on, “I’ve known you for a long time, seen you through all the boyfriends and the broken hearts but I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him.” Elide eyes started getting misty and Manon felt herself follow suit. “I know he’ll take care of you in the way this town, and these people can’t. I know you’ve thought long and hard about giving up your future like this for him. I know you decided that you couldn’t survive without him. I just don’t want you to expect me to happy about you throwing away every opportunity you have and leaving, but at the same time I want you to know that I’m happy for you, that you found this. I really am.”

Elide made a noise, “Wow, okay. I wasn’t expecting that”

Manon laughed, “Yeah me neither.”

“Why don’t you like him?”

Manon sobered instantly, “He’s not good enough for you.”

“Is anyone?”

“No.” Manon stated so matter-of-factly that Elide couldn’t help her short laugh.

Manon grinned, all she wanted was that. To see Elide smile, and laugh one last time.

“Just remember, you’ll always have a home here, with me.”

Something shone in Elide’s eyes, “I love you, Manon Blackbeak.”

“I love you too, Elide Lochan. Never forget that.”

Take me to the lakes, where all the poets went to die I don't belong, and my beloved, neither do you Those Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry I'm settin' off, but not without my muse

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elide paced along the riverbank, her finger hovering over the call button. She didn’t want to, she was afraid hearing them would break her. And she couldn’t handle another break today. 

Elide stopped her pacing, staring down at her phone. Through her tears she saw the name, Aelin 👑💋🎂. She knew Aelin, Dorian and Aedion all hung out every other Thursday, usually it was the four of them but Elide had told them a bullshit lie about why she couldn’t today. So unless they’d replaced her it would thankfully just be the three of them. 

They were all childhood friends, Aelin and Aedion were cousins and had first met Elide when they were two, they’d hit it off immediately and when, a few years later, they’d been introduced to Dorian and the four of them were inseparable, going everywhere together, always knowing they could rant or vent to any of the others. Slowly everyone else joined their squad, Dorian had introduced his knew friend Chaol. Lysandra and Aelin had met in 7th grade and became besties much to Elide’s then-jealousy. Aedion and Chaol met Nesryn who occasionally hang out with them, no one really knew where she went when she wasn’t hanging out with them. Aelin and Dorian had a short thing which was weird for everyone, but their friendship came out all the better for it. Chaol and Aelin then had their thing which was cute at the time but they definitely did not belong together. When Elide met Manon, Manon seemed to hate her at first but Elide quickly made herself at home with the Thirteen despite what seemed like everyone’s protests. Chaol met Yrene, when he brought her for the first time Aelin and Yrene realized they already knew each other, and she was in. Then Aelin met Rowan, she started bringing him around more and more until suddenly he was a part of the group. Then they all met Rowan’s friends, and Elide was done for.

She remembered the day she met Lorcan very clearly, it was their junior year of high school and Elide was sitting on the bleachers in Gym class. Her ankle was acting more then usual and it was to the point that occasionally Elide was blinded by the pain. Like usual, Vernon hadn’t signed the slip saying she could sit out but Aelin’s mom Evalin had. Elide was doing what Yrene had told her to do when this happened, rolling the muscles in her leg as much as she could without hurting herself, working her way down to her ankle. Elide stood up, putting the least amount of weight she could on her ankle, and hobbled down the bleachers. She had to walk the gym, or her leg would seize up, which she knew, unfortunately, from past experience.

It was when she was walking that it happened. She didn’t see it until it was in front of her but a basketball went flying, directly at her. All she saw was one of the guys that had been playing basketball sprinting for her before she blacked out.

Lorcan had taken her to the nurse and sat with her the whole times, making sure she was fine. From then on they seemed to have a hate-hate relationship but if anyone insulted one in front of the other, god help them.

Later, when it turned out Aelin was dating Lorcan’s best friend Rowan it was like two of Elide’s worlds collided, nothing was the same.

Now Elide was shaken out of her reverie as she felt a water droplet land on her head. She took a deep breath and finally hit the call button.

I want auroras and sad prose I want to watch wisteria grow Right over my bare feet 'Cause I haven't moved in years And I want you right here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Elliddee” Aelin shrieked as soon as she answered, Elide winced away from her phone but she was grinning anyway.

“Hi, A. Are the boys there?”

“Aedion and Dorian? Yep!”

“Why are you so chipper?” Elide resumed her pacing along the river.

“Because I’ve had two shots of tequila and way too much chocolate cake to be healthy.” Aelin started to laugh at herself, “And, Rowan’s coming over to my place tonight and you know what that means!”

Elide could picture Aelin dancing around wherever it was they were hanging out and she could hear Aedion and Dorian’s retching noises and various exclamations of disgust and protests. 

Suddenly Elide remembered why she had called, why she hadn’t hung out with them today like she normally does, and went silent.

Even though Aelin was tipsy and on a sugar high, she was still an amazing friend and could tell something was wrong.

“El? What’s up? Not that I’m not tickled by the call,” Elide rolled her eyes and smiled, That was very Aelin of her, “But you’re very quiet and you said you had something to do tonight.”

“Put me on speaker please, I want to talk to you and the boys,” She managed to get out without crying.

“I-okay, sure.” Elide heard a small rustle and then she heard Dorian and Aedion chime in with ‘hello’s.

“I’m sorry,” Elide started with. “I’m sorry I never told you.” She broke off, covering her mouth with her hand to hide her sob.

“Told us what?” Dorian asked delicately.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure you had good reason to hide it.” Aelin added.

“What they said,” Aedion chimed in.

Elide took a deep shuddering breath, she seemed to be taking a lot of those tonight, and decided. She couldn’t tell them all of it. If she got into it she would end up staying too long to talk to them, and might be discovered by Vernon before she had the chance to escape.

“I don’t have time to tell you everything but in short, I’m leaving.”

She heard a thud like Aelin dropped her phone and heard their muffled voices rising above one another.

Finally, someone picked up the phone, “What-what do you mean,” Aedion asked, his voice quavering and Elide blinked furiously. This was just like Manon, Aedion wasn’t supposed to be emotional like this. 

“I have to be with him,” Elide said.

She heard the three of them take deep breaths, “Why couldn’t you tell us this in person,” Dorian asked.

“I’m sorry,” Elide repeated.

“Will we,” Aelin broke off.

“Will we see you again?” Dorian finished.

Elide shook her head then realized they couldn’t see her, “Probably not,” She heard Aelin sob.

“He healed you.” Elide heard Dorian say, clearly fighting back tears “After your parents,” Elide closed her eyes, sinking down until she was sitting in in the grass. “When your uncle took you in we all did what we could but he gave something we couldn’t.”

“He proved to you that you aren’t romantically unlovable. And I’ll always appreciate him for that.” Aedion cut in, and Elide heard Aelin’s murmurs of agreement.

“Where are you gonna go?” Aelin asked, her voice pitchy.

“I don’t know. We’ll figure it out, we have the rest of our lives to do it.”

:”So then this may not be the last time we see you?” Her voice was so hopeful Elide’s heart shattered all over again.

“No,” Elide explained, “We’re going off the grid, getting new identities, the whole deal.” She swallowed, “This is it.”

“Just remember we love you, yeah?” Aedion said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Aelin said. “We’ll always support you.”

“We hope you find what you’re looking for.” Dorian said.

“I love you guys,” Elide cried, as she hit the end call button.

A red rose grew up out of ice frozen ground With no one around to tweet it While I bathe in cliffside pools with my calamitous love And insurmountable grief

~~~~~~~~~~~

Aedion, Dorian and Aelin were all standing huddled together in Dorian’s bedroom.

As soon as Elide hung up the dam broke in Aelin. She cried, raw and ugly, sinking down to the floor, pulling the boys down with her. 

I want auroras and sad prose I want to watch wisteria grow Right over my bare feet 'Cause I haven't moved in years And I want you right here

Dorian clapped a hand over his mouth, failing to muffle his sobs.

Aedion simply stared at one spot on the wall, his gaze unfocused and his eyes glassy.

“Why?” Aelin screamed at the ceiling, “Why?” Dorian wrapped his arm around her shoulders and Aelin buried her head in his shoulder.

“You know why.” Aedion said.

Aelin turned to look at him, then at the spot he’d been staring at, “Lorcan and I never really got along but he didn’t deserve this, he deserves the choice to stay in town, or run and get a new identity. But he didn’t get it. So I guess I’m just trying to say I get why she’s leaving, why she’s choosing him over her abusive life with Vernon. If it was Rowan,” She glanced in between them, “I would do the same thing.”

“I would do it for Lysandra.” Aedion offered.

‘I would do it for Manon,” Dorian admitted.

Aelin nodded, satisfied, “So we really are going to support her, we’ll grieve but in the slim chance she comes back, we won’t forget.”

Aedion and Dorian agreed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elide stood up, brushing the grass off her jeans and walked to the edge of the river. She looked down at her phone, tempted to call Aelin back and tell her it was just a sick joke but then she looked up and remembered why she wanted to do this.

She saw his outline in the woods across the river, a dark figure against the dying sunlight fracturing against the trees. 

She smiled at him and took a deep breath, looking down at her phone once more before winding her arm back and throwing it as far down the river she could.

It hit the water with a satisfying splash and Elide drew her eyes away from where it sank to him again.

She took one last deep breath, finally ready to start her new life. Finally ready to be happy.

Take me to the lakes, where all the poets went to die I don't belong, and my beloved, neither do you Those Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry I'm settin' off, but not without my muse No, not without you

[iezzern-ao3]

Something Like Love

Read on AO3

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas

Relationship: Aedion Ashryver/Dorian Havilliard

Characters: Aedion Ashryver, Dorian Havilliard

Additional Tags: Dirty Talk, Loss of Virginity, First Time, Coming of Age, smut in chapter 2, Feminization

Language: English

At the very adult age of nine, Dorian considered himself poised and clever. He was mature and proper, able to look at things with an objective view and did not let his emotions get the better of him. That was until he’d met Prince Aedion Ashryver.

(Smut doesn't start before Dorian is 17)

Chapter 1 under the cut

Dorian always told himself he was a sensible child.

At the very adult age of nine, Dorian considered himself poised and clever; far above the expertise of other nine-year-olds. He was mature and proper, able to look at things with an objective view and did not let his emotions get the better of him. That was until he’d met Prince Aedion Ashryver.

The Prince was an infuriating piece of work, teasing and taunting at every turn, as if he’d never learned proper manners. He was thirteen, the same age as Chaol, and that was even more infuriating. Mainly due to the fact that Aedion liked to lord his age over Dorian like Dorian was less proper because of his young age.

The worst part of it was the fact that Dorian never could think straight when Aedion teased him. He’d have a sarcastic reply on his tongue and then his voice would die, a furious blush replacing it. Usually, Chaol would be around to throw an insult back, but when Dorian was on his own, he usually got treated to Aedion’s smug smirk.

Even with all of Aedion’s bad points, Dorian could never stop himself from anticipating every visit he would have. There was a certain feeling he got whenever the Prince was close by, a kind of rush through his head and a burning through his body.

It was what made it impossible to answer the arrogant prick.

“You lost your tongue, Princeling?” Aedion would laugh and Dorian would blush and stutter until Chaol came to rescue him. Aedion would throw a smile over his shoulder when he left, stirring something in Dorian’s chest.

And then there’s one month until Aedion is coming to Rifthold next and Dorian has set himself a goal to actually talk to him without stuttering, He’s paced his room for hours now, practicing comebacks and lines. He’d outgrown the embarrassment of talking to himself days ago.

Then the maid had opened the door, carefully, and told him that his father was preparing to go out on a campaign. Two weeks later the news had come. Terrasen had fallen to Adarlan forces. The King and Queen were dead, along with their young daughter Aelin. Dorian felt a short flash of pain at that. Even if she’d been borderline annoying, the young princess had taken a special place in his heart.

Instead of expressing this, though, he just asks “What about Aedion?”

The maid draws her lips in a thin line, and Dorian shrinks at her disapproval. “Lost on the front lines, they say,” she answers, short and clipped. Dorian blinks, wringing his hands. “Oh,” he says, voice weak. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so heavy. He quickly puts on a mask, knows that the maid will report to his father.

“Fetch me Chaol,” he says, “I want to go out riding”

Chaol doesn’t comment as they ride across the fields but puts his hand on Dorian’s shoulder when they come back from the stables. Dorian doesn’t understand why he feels so comforted by it; why he’s so upset.

Three years pass. Dorian grows up as much as he can.

He’s twelve when he witnesses his first execution. His mother had protested it loudly enough that Father had sent her away for the last few days. Dorian tries to not make up his thoughts about it; knows that his father will act if he shows any distaste. Dorian lowers his eyes as fast as he can, tries to show respect to the woman’s sobbing husband.

“Drag the filth away,” his father’s rough voice echoes through the hall. The man is dragged away, crying out for his wife. Dorian starts to forge a plan, doesn’t want to stand on the side and watch while is father commits cruelties.

“Is there anyone else who wants to bring matters to the king?” Chaol asks, and Dorian knows he’s the only one who can hear the strain in his voice. To present the King’s matters is a huge honour, of course, but Chaol sounds more like he doesn’t even want that honour.

The Captain of Adarlan’s main army steps forward, cloak dragging on the floor behind him. Callum Selrion, Dorian remembers after a few seconds, that’s his name. He’s greying, his body lagging with age. Father will replace him soon, Dorian knows.

“The raids up North have been more successful, my King,” the old man says, “And we have a few men to thank for it, I would like for them to get the acknowledgment”

Some of the Court people laugh and titter at that. In their opinion, lowly men of the army don’t deserve acknowledgment from the King himself. Why should the King bother with men who haven’t washed in days and will live the rest of their lives surrounded by stinking tents and horse-shit?

None of them have seen even a glimpse of war.

And yet they brag about its profits.

Dorian wants to tell the Guard to shut them up. Father needs to please them, however, and can’t shoot them down. Dorian opens his mouth before Father can even think of what to say.

“Of course, Captain Selrion,” he says, and almost cringes at how thin and plain young his voice sounds compared to the men’s, “My father would love to acknowledge the brave men who fight to keep us proud and safe”

The court grows silent and ashamed at Dorian’s words. Captain Selrion smiles, tipping his head in thanks. Dorian’s father rights himself in his throne, clearing his throat. “Bring forth the soldiers then,” he says, voice hard. Dorian’s blood runs cold. Father never gives in this easily and when he does, it's with an air of amusement. There’s something he’s not seeing. Something Father is holding over him. Dorian’s actions might just backfire on him.

The Captain flicks his hand and some soldiers step forward. Dorian’s breath stops in his throat. His hand tightens in the material of the cape it’s resting on. Father is looking at him, searching for a reaction. Dorian tries to stay passive.

He’s gotten taller, and bigger; his muscles grown larger. His hair is still a glowing golden, windswept down to his shoulders, stark against his winter-sun-darkened skin. His eyes scan over Dorian and his father with such intensity, such confidence. Dorian rakes his brain. Aedion is about sixteen now.

And now, with his slightly older body and mind, Dorian suddenly understands his previous reactions to Aedion. He squirms slightly, blush dusting his cheeks. Father snorts, leaning back in his throne. Dorian shifts and averts his eyes, trying to ignore Father.

Dorian’s eyes connect with Chaol and his friend arches an eyebrow, nodding towards Aedion. Dorian blushes even harder. It’s a relief that only Chaol knows him well enough to understand what his reaction means. He’s been around Dorian enough when he’s stuttered flatterings to pretty girls.

Aedion catches his eye again. He’s knelt down, bowing his head to Father, hair tumbling over his shoulder and catching shine from the light. Dorian wants to run his fingers through it.

The Court murmurs around them and Dorian just hopes it’s not about him and his embarrassing display. Father gives his acknowledgments and the soldiers accept them, Aedion a bit more forced than the others, Dorian notes. “Son, would you be so kind and show the soldiers to their chambers?” Father asks. Payback for making him give them acknowledgments.

Dorian gives him a curt nod, masking his anger, and rises from his throne. One of the young ladies leans over and whispers something to her friends behind her hand as he passes. Captain Selrion shakes his hand as he approaches. It makes Dorian beam with pride until he hears his father’s half-concealed laughter behind him.

Dorian lowers his head, tears burning in his eyes, and quickly walks out of the hall, the soldiers rising to follow him.

Halfway out the door, Chaol catches up with him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let it affect you,” he murmurs, and Dorian takes what little comfort he can find in it. His hand, however, is knocked away by Aedion’s—as the soldier wraps his arm around Dorian’s shoulder. Chaol’s eyes immediately go cold.

“How’s life at court been treating you, Princeling?”

Aedion’s voice hits his eardrum hard and sends a ringing noise echoing through his head. Dorian jerks back, glaring. He begs the gods that Aedion hadn’t seen the tears. He never would’ve been able to live down the shame of it.

“Certainly better than those years in war camps has treated you,” he answers with a hiss. Aedion looks shocked for a small, euphoric moment and then he throws his head back and laughs. His friends follow. Dorian’s cheeks redden again.

“You’ve built quite the spine then, Princeling?” Aedion teases, arching an eyebrow at his friends and inviting them to tease. Dorian quickly shrugs him off, but his boot catches in Aedion’s cape and he, with as much grace as he can muster, stumbles backwards into Chaol’s chest.

Chaol’s hands immediately come out to steady him, but the damage is already done. Aedion and his friends are laughing and Dorian’s cheeks are flaring. Dorian turns on his heels and drags Chaol with him, steps as determined as he can get them. The bastards can find their rooms on their own.

Aedion calls out his name from behind, but Dorian can’t bring himself to turn around. Chaol’s hand slips to the small of his back, comforting. Dorian leans back into it, fisting his hands. It takes him three turns and two flights of stairs to finally calm down. His cheeks return to their normal colour and heat. The tremors stop going through his hands.

He breathes out.

And in.

And out

again.

“That,” Chaol comments, “was a disaster”

Dorian breathes a laugh but doesn’t comment on it further. He leans heavily against the wall, running a hand through his hair.

Father is going to be furious with him, but he can’t bring himself to actually care. It wasn’t only the complete and utter humiliation at embarrassing himself in front of the Terrasen prince, it was the fact that it was the Terrasen prince. Dorian knew, deep down, that his thundering heart wasn’t only due to the embarrassment, either, but he was willing to keep that knowledge to the utter bottom as long as it was required.

Chaol quirks an eyebrow but stays mercifully silent. That stare, though, is enough to make Dorian squirm. “Shut up,” he hisses, without any true malice. “Didn’t say anything,” Chaol teases, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Dorian groans and readies himself to slide down along the wall and curl up into a ball on the floor. Chaol grabs him by the waist and pulls him up again. Dorian immediately slumps forward to rest his head on Chaol’s shoulder. Chaol stiffens for two seconds while he checks if anyone is there to see.

It’s only Dorian that is allowed to act like this towards Chaol. Anyone else gets turned away with either a snarl or mild distaste. Dorian cherishes the fact, even though he really shouldn’t.

“We can’t just leave them to their own devices,” Chaol sighs after a considerable amount of time. Dorian whines low in his throat. “I know,” Chaol answers, a hand coming up to stroke through Dorian’s windswept curls, “But you have to”

Only Chaol.

With a determined huff, Dorian shoves himself off his friend and starts a confident walk down the hallway. “Good luck,” Chaol calls out from behind him.

The gods know he’ll need it.

Read Chapter 2 HERE

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/ Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 27: White-Speckled Dove

Tristan gets trapped in a nightmare. A friend comes to help.

Read here or on AO3! | Read from the beginning

(art is by @le-mooon​)

*******************************

“He saw her clear face lighten on his face

Unwittingly, with unenamoured eyes

For the last time. A live man in such wise

Looks in the deadly face of his fixed hour

And laughs with lips wherein he hath no power

To keep the life yet some five minutes' space.

So Tristan looked on Ethelwyn face to face

and knew not, and she knew not. The last time —

The last that should be told in any rhyme

Heard anywhere on mouths of singing men

That ever should sing praise of them again;

The last that sorrow far from them should sit,

This last was with them, and they knew not it. ”

The soft murmur of the waves as they crashed against the shore and the distant squawks of seagulls melded with the spoken words, whirled about him before they were carried away on a sharp gale. The sand was warm where Tristan lay, warm from the sun that had been beating down on the beach all day. With his arm tucked under his head, he watched the fluffy white clouds drift along the untroubled summer sky while Tilly read from the small leather bound book in her hands.

“Isn’t it romantic?” she said, sighing longingly, closing the book and bringing it to her heart. “They were gazing at each other for the last time before Ethelwyn would be taken, yet neither of them knew it. Oh, what pain would Ethelwyn feel, if only she knew!”

Tristan wrinkled his nose, making a disgusted sound. “Forget Ethelwyn,” he replied tartly. “Think about Tristan. He is the one that will have to travel all the way to Ferelden to pry her from King Brayburn. Ethelwyn will just sit there braiding her hair, waiting to be rescued.”

“My, my, what a cynic,” Tilly rolled her eyes. “Have you no heart?”

“I do have a heart. And a brain, apparently.” He yelped when Tilly smacked him on the head with the book.

“I declare that you have neither.” She grinned at him when he shot her a disgruntled glare. “Now, which part shall I read next? I think Tristan and Ethelwyn’s reunion is in order.”

“Not a chance. Enough with the romance. Read the part where Tristan challenges King Brayburn to a duel.”

“Not that again! It’s boring,” Tilly complained.

“What do you mean ‘again’? We haven’t read that in days!” Tristan said, sitting up. “And it’s not boring. That’s the best part.”

Tilly rolled her eyes again and scoffed. “It’s very, very boring.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll prove it to you.” Tristan hopped up on his feet, picking up a piece of driftwood that had been lying beside him. “King Brayburn of Ferelden,” he declared in an exaggerated Orlesian accent, his body melting into the starting fencing position. “I am Tristan de Lydes. I have come to claim my bride. Prepare to die. En guard !” He lunged forward, slashing at the air before him. His makeshift sabre whistled as he moved through a quinte , then spun around to slash at his imagined enemy with a sixte. “Take this! And that!” he said, piercing his opponent with a septime, then attacking again with an octave . “Know the wrath of a true Chevalier, you fetid Fereldan fleabag!” Tilly giggled as she watched him move through the various fencing moves, laughing outright when he lunged forward theatrically, stabbing his opponent. “There!” he exclaimed in triumph. “Right through your stone cold heart! Tristan de Lydes is victorious once more.”

“What if King Brayburn has a dagger hidden under his cloak? That should be interesting.”

Tristan blinked at his sister, then sniffed, tossing his head back in defiance. “Brayburn doesn’t stand a chance against Tristan.”

Tilly smirked, tapping her nose. “Not if Brayburn takes him by surprise.”

Tristan paused for a moment, then returned her smile with a wink. With an exaggerated flurry, he shoved the piece of wood under his arm, as if he had been stabbed in the chest. “Oh! Whence comes this blade, the one that now my breast transfixes? Though I scarcely believe it so, ‘tis true; my heart is in mortal throes. Woe is me! Death is upon me!” Tilly’s laughter rang along the beach, empty save for them. Tristan staggered back, clutching his chest. “Ethelwyn, my love, my white-speckled dove, forgive me, for I have been defeated.”

“If Sir Tristan were such a pompous fool, I think Ethelwyn would be too busy laughing herself to death to forgive him,” Tilly said, wiping mirth from her eyes.

Tristan didn’t respond as he fell on one knee, putting on an expression of grave distress. “And wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! Speak those words again: yet if they grieve thee say not so- I would not give thy bosom pain.” He bit back a grin, watching Tilly howl with laughter, tapping her feet on the sand. He took a deep breath, raising his arm in a plea towards the heavens. “My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, my blood runs coldly through my breast; and when I perish thou alone wilt sigh above my place of rest. Oh lady! Blessd be that tear - it falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear, To those whose eyes no tear may steep.” Brushing the back of his hand dramatically over his brow, he let himself collapse on the ground while Tilly wheezed beside him.

“Oh, brother,” Tilly said, breathless amidst her sobs of laughter, “you’re a right dafty.”

Tristan smiled, keeping his eyes closed. “I’m no dafty,” he murmured. “I’m Sir Tristan the Brave.”

“He speaks!” Tilly exclaimed, clapping her hand over her mouth. “The dead man speaks!” She turned to him, deft fingers digging in his neck to tickle. “Witchcraft! I sense witchcraft!”

Tristan tried to swat the fingers on his neck away, but it was no use. “Stop it! S-s-stop! Ah! Let me go, you tyrant,” he panted, cackling with the unexpected attack. He rolled away from her, safely out of her grasp. He lay from a moment on the warm sand, catching his breath. “That was cheap,” he said, still panting. “You know how much it-”

He turned around to look at her, only to have his words die on his lips. Empty. The beach was empty, empty space where his sister used to be. Even her footprints on the sand had disappeared. As if she never were. As if the tide had rushed in and washed everything away.

“Tilly?” Tristan stood up slowly, glancing around him. A lone seagull’s cry and the waves crushing on the shore were the only replies he received. He took a few steps forward, scanning the beach around him. He thought he caught a glimpse of something, someone moving at the edges of his vision. “Till?” he called again, but there was no one there. No one save but him. He paused, rubbing his temples as a faint tightness settled about his skull. It didn’t make sense. She was there only a moment before. Maybe she’d gone back home, or…

He glanced towards the path that led back up the cliff. There was no way she could have climbed it so swiftly, but there was no other way she could have gone. There was nothing but rocks and sand everywhere around him. He shook his head, brushing away the pressure that seemed to swell behind his eyes with every second. Home. Yes. That’s where she would be. That’s where he would go. He would walk back home and find her, and if she wasn’t there, he would tell Nelly and they would find her together. Nelly would know what to do.

The old path up the crag was always a struggle to climb, but Tristan knew it like the back of his hand. He knew where to step, which rocks to avoid, where to hop and where to tread carefully. He reached the top just as a red and swollen sun was dipping slowly behind the eastern mountain range. The tall grasses on the cliff edge bent and shivered with the wind, the silver edges of their blades glinting in the waning light. Their calm movement drew him in, hypnotising him. He blinked, blinked again, trying to tear his gaze away, just as the edges of his vision blurred with sudden motion.

The cliff melted away, the beach and the endless stretch of sea beyond it disappeared. A small clearing in a meadow sprung in its place, the same golden sun casting its rays on the soft grass beneath his feet. The leaves of the apple trees above him stirred languidly in the wind, the white petals of their blossoms falling around him like snowflakes. He knew this clearing. He had sat there with Tilly countless times. He would take Sea Spray and she would take Prancer and they would ride all the way there to sit under the trees. A hiding place, of sorts.

A quick shuffling of feet, the susurrus of fabric, drowned out by the sighing of the wind. Tristan spun on his heel, following the sound. Blonde hair, so pale it looked white; a flash of yellow fabric, catching the light as it flitted behind a tree trunk. That bright yellow dress, the one that Tilly loved best, the one she always used to wear in the summer. He chased after it, that bright spark amidst the rain of whirling apple blossoms- and found himself staring into a pair of dark blue eyes, gleaming violet in the setting sun.

“Tilly,” he panted. “I’ve been looking for you.”

His sister grinned up at him, as if she had never been gone at all. “Let’s go back to town,” she said, taking his hand. The everite band on her finger felt cool against his skin. “We’ll miss the fireworks.”

“The fireworks?” he asked, and only then remembered. Yes, it was Summerday. Ostwick would be filled with people, every street packed to watch the procession of young boys and girls wearing their finest tunics and gowns. They would be making their way through the winding cobblestone lanes to the Chantry to get Andraste’s blessing before they came of age. There would be jugglers and musicians on every street corner, and merchants selling corn on the cob and Antivan spiced cakes, and after the procession was over everyone would gather in the grand square to watch the fireworks. It was Tilly’s favourite day. She loved the way the fireworks crackled and fizzled in the air, exploding in a multitude of glimmering shapes. Tristan had promised he would go with her. A promise he intended to keep.

But the clearing was quiet and peaceful. He was oddly drawn to it, and the thought of leaving it filled him with sadness, a dark wave that curled and gripped him, pulling him under like there were stones tied to his feet. He let Tilly drag him forward a few steps before he stopped. “Tilly, wait.”

“What’s wrong, Tris?”

He blinked at her for a moment, the waves within him rising, soaring until he could scarcely breathe. “Let’s stay here a little bit longer,” he whispered through the knot in his throat. “Just you and me.”

Tilly regarded him quizzically, her brows furrowed in confusion before she shook her head. Her blonde tresses rippled with the movement. “We’re late already. Come on, it’ll be fun!” She shot him a bright smile over her shoulder as she ran ahead. “I’ll race you to the horses.”

“Wait, don’t-” he started, but the words wouldn’t come out. His heart clenched as he watched her draw further away, her form disappearing through the trees. Don’t go. Stay with me. Don’t go.

**

The tavern was almost empty. The last patrons remaining were either mumbling to themselves or sleeping with their heads on the tables, their shiny surfaces sticky with dried ale. Tristan took a long draught from his brandy, wincing as he swallowed. It was bad, burning its way down his throat, but it was good enough. The best he could hope for in that sort of place. He idly watched the crackling of the flames in the hearth, brushing his thumb over the ring on his finger. It glided over the letters etched on its dark surface, smooth and continuous save for a band of fresh everite where he had had it taken out. It irked him to see it marred like that, the inscription interrupted, but there was no way it would fit on his finger otherwise. And on his finger it had to be; on his finger it had to stay, until the time came for him to give it back to its rightful owner.

He took a shallow breath, giving the ring a small twist. That was the only thing he could do as he waited. And waited.

The door opened slowly, screeching on its hinges. Tristan glanced at the newcomers from the corner of his eye. A short fellow, dark hair cropped short and beady eyes that seemed to examine the room, taking in every detail even as he pretended not to look in any particular direction. He and the men that came after him took a table at the far end of the tavern. The minstrel, who had been dozing off in one of the booths, sprang to his feet, scrambling to the makeshift stage close to the hearth. His lute let out a pitiful whine as he tuned it hastily, plucking the strings on by one. His voice was just a tad hoarse when he started singing an old song, a bothy ballad from Starkhaven, one that Tristan hadn’t expected to hear there.

The bartender had started preparing mugs of ale before the men had even sat down. Tristan reached for his coin purse, sliding a sovereign to the bartender. “Four glasses of your finest whiskey. For the gentlemen at the back.” The man shot him a sideways glance, his eyes sweeping over Tristan where he sat. A couple seconds passed before he nodded guardedly, picking up the sovereign from the counter. The drinks were served. Tristan waited with bated breath for the men to raise their glasses to him in acknowledgement before walking over to their table.

“Who’s our mysterious benefactor?” the man with the beady eyes said, a heavy Starkhaven lilt to his voice.

“Remy.” Tristan couldn’t risk giving his name to these people, not before he was sure of their intentions. His middle name would have to do. He never used it anyway. It was a stupid name his mother had chosen for him. He hated it. The man nodded towards the seat across from him and Tristan took it, never looking away. “Glad to make your acquaintance.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “No last name, Remy?”

“In time,” he replied. “I’m sure you understand.”

The other men exchanged a glance, but the dark haired man’s gaze remained fixed on him. “Of course. I assume you already know our names?”

Tristan nodded slowly. He knew all their names, had taken care to learn them beforehand. The man with the beady eyes was Vala Norden. The blonde to his right was Herriot, the man with the scar down his face was Hooks and the tall Antivan man at the edge of the booth was Andris. Fake names certainly, but notorious among the Ostwick underworld.

“Very well, Remy. How can we help?” Norden flashed him a smile, the edges curled in a smirk that was vaguely mocking. “I expect you need something from us.”

Tristan didn’t like that smile. It spoke volumes about what the man had already gathered about him; that he was wealthy, probably. Even though he’d taken care to wear his most inconspicuous clothes, the fabric of his doublet was far richer than anyone in that part of town would wear, his coat clean, his shirt freshly pressed. And there was not much he could do about the absence of scars on his face, or the paleness of his skin. Norden had possibly also gathered that he was a young heir, and he might have even guessed which part of Ostwick he was coming from from the way he held himself.

He resisted the urge to bite his lip. He should have given him an entirely assumed name. He cleared his throat, forcing a placid expression on his face. “I have a quest for you.”

“What quest?”

“A jailbreak. Of sorts.”

“A jailbreak?” Norden echoed. “The Ostwick prison has become notoriously tough to get out of recently. Those bastards have tripled their security over the last year. It will cost you.”

“Not the prison.” Norden’s eyebrow quirked with interest. Tristan’s heart was ready to beat out of his throat. He could leave just then, he knew. Just tell them that he had changed his mind, walk out the door and never come back. But he was determined. He had been trying to track this man down for weeks. There was no one else that could do what he wanted them to do. And they had to do it. Someone had to.

From the tales he’d heard, the situation in the Circles all around Ferelden and the Marches was getting from bad to worse. Imprisonments, torture, rapes, executions; anything could happen to a mage that simply glanced at a Templar the wrong way, or so he heard. It had already been five years since Tilly was taken, two since he had spoken to her last. The Ostwick Circle had been the last to ban visitations, but it’d been a full year since it had forbidden letters from family and friends as well. Keeping mages under lock and key, allowing them no contact with the outside world, leaving them prey to whatever madness was happening behind their closed doors. Tristan couldn’t sleep at night, couldn’t eat, could hardly breathe for his worry for her.

He clenched his fist in his lap. All or nothing, he reminded himself. All or nothing.  

“The Circle of Magi.”

Norden’s beady eyes widened so much, Tristan thought they would pop out of their sockets. “The Circle of Magi?” he scoffed. “It seems to me you’ve lost your mind, Remy. Perhaps you should have another drink. To clear your head.”

Tristan curled his fingers around his mug, his lips tightening in a line. “I know how it sounds. It’s difficult, yes, but not impossible. I’ve heard of a way in.” He paused, lowering his voice to a half whisper. “I’ll make it worth your while.”  

Norden’s smirk belied his interest, but his gaze was still hard as stone, and as unyielding as one. “Oh, I don’t think you would have near enough gold to finance such a venture. We would need men, resources, new weapons...” He let his words trail off as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“How much?”

“... information about the Templar’s patrols, about possible ways in and out… That sort of knowledge comes at a price. Not to mention buying the guards’ silence. Just with my brief calculations you’ve gathered yourself quite a hefty sum-”

“I said; how much?” Tristan’s fist was wrapped so tightly about his mug his knuckles were white, and he forced himself to release it. He had to keep his composure. He couldn’t let these men realise he was desperate, or they would feast upon him like scavengers upon a carcass.

“One hundred thousand sovereigns.”

Tristan’s blood froze in his veins. That was… that was… he never thought he had heard of such a sum before. It was certainly much, much higher than what he’d heard Norden charging for a job. Other than his own monthly allowance, his mother gave him no access to the family fortune. If he sold every item in the Trevelyan manor that wasn’t lodged firmly in place, he might be able to gather about two thirds of that amount. If he sold a few of the horses, some of the rare ones they kept in the stables, he might be able to cover the rest. His own horse, Sea Spray, would have to go. Imperial Warmbloods sold well in the Ostwick markets. His stomach tightened at the thought of selling their horses, but he had to. They might be enough to make up the amount that Norden asked. Maybe. If he were able to get a good price for them, and Maker knew he was terrible at bartering.

Just as he was trying to wrap his mind around Norden’s demands, the man spoke again, sending Tristan’s stomach plummeting even further.

“We’re also going to be needing equipment. And horses. And food for the horses.”

Tristan clenched his jaw, returning Norden’s gaze levelly. As levelly as he could while his guts were coiling like eels under his skin. “Fifty thousand sovereigns,” he said in what he hoped was an icy tone. “And five horses.”

Norden blinked at him for a moment, then let out a quiet harrumph. “I don’t think you’re in a position to barter with me. In fact, I don’t even think you’re in a position to barter with anyone. Do you even have that amount of gold?”

“I do,” Tristan said quickly. “I will.”

“You will?” There was a mocking glint in Norden’s eyes before they narrowed, focusing on him like well sharpened blades. “Perhaps I should double it, then. Since you sound so certain. Two hundred thousand? That sounds reasonable, doesn’t it, lads?” His crawlies nodded, sneering.

“No!” Tristan said quickly, and flinched inwardly at his hastiness. He cleared his throat, suppressing the wild beating of his heart. “No. One hundred. I’ll give you one hundred. You’ll have it.”

Norden’s grin widened, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “Very well. One hundred. And twenty horses. Ten pack horses, five destriers, five coursers.”

Twenty horses. Void take him. The Trevelyan manor stables were amongst the largest in Ostwick, and they only held thirty four horses. Perhaps if he was careful, at night, perhaps… He swallowed thickly, nodding. “Alright. Twenty horses. You’ll have them.”

“Oh. And one more thing.” Tristan held his breath, preparing himself for whatever outrageous thing Norden was going to ask next. Norden leaned forward on the table. His eyes flashed oddly in the half light. “You’ll let my boy Andris here do whatever he wants to you for a night.”

Tristan gaped at him. Bile rose in his throat, choking him. He was going to be sick. Surely, he was. The men around him erupted in raucous laughter, banging their mugs on the table.

“You should make it two nights boss,” the man with the scar on his face said. “There might be some left over for us after Andris is finished with him.”

“I say we keep him for three nights.”

“How about a week? A week’s fair.”

“More than fair.”

Tristan could only stare as Norden and his crawlies laughed and jeered, discussing among themselves like he wasn’t even there. It took significant effort to work some saliva into his mouth and speak. “What is the meaning of this?” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as meek as he felt. “I’ve been told that you’re a man that one can make a reasonable deal with. Seems I was mistaken.”

The laughter died down. Norden and his men glared at him. Silence stretched long amongst them, the minstrel’s lute that had gone slightly out of tune the only sound in the room. After what felt like minutes, Norden settled back on his chair, gesturing to his men. “Toss him out.”

“What?” Tristan breathed, eyeing the men that had stood up, looming over him. He fumbled for words as he saw his only chance slipping between his fingers. “No- wait- I-I told you I’d bring the gold. And the horses. I told you-”

“Told me?” Norden laughed, the sound sending chills down Tristan’s spine. “No. You come into my bar, buying me and my men drinks and asking us to storm the Circle of Magi for you. I wouldn’t go into that shithole even if they offered me Queen Anora on a silver platter. This has been amusing, but Vala Norden doesn’t make deals with madmen. Remember that.” He nodded to his men. “Show him out, boys. Rough him up a little on the way, will you? That’ll teach him to come around here again.”

Two pairs of hands, their grip strong like iron, tightened around Tristan’s arms. The minstrel’s tune got louder as Tristan was hauled to his feet. He kicked and grunted swears while Norden’s thugs dragged him bodily across the tavern, to no avail. They were far stronger than he was. Norden raised his drink, downing it in one go just before his men pushed him out the door. “Thanks for the whiskey, by the way,” he called out to him. “A fine choice.”

A heavy autumn drizzle had started to fall, the droplets dampening the top of his head when he was shoved out into the street. Hooks’s fist landed on his cheek before he could regain his footing. His head snapped to the side, ears ringing with the force of the impact. Tristan staggered back, tasting blood in his mouth, just as another fist flew his way. This time he ducked to avoid the blow, shoving his knee into Hooks’s stomach instead. It was almost instinctual, the way his body moved before he could even think to ward off his attackers. The man groaned, doubling over. Andris took a threatening step towards him, pressing his fist to his palm.

“Wanted to make a deal with Vala, did you?” he said, baring his teeth in a snarl. “Came all the way down here from your fancy mansion to take the piss?”

Tristan’s anger flared hot and bright. He dabbed the cut on his lip with his tongue, the strong taste of copper mingling with his saliva. “Fuck you,” he spat, stepping back when Andris swung for his head. He dodged behind him, shoving the flat of his palm to the base of his thick skull, then following it with a good kick at his knee joint. The man groaned in pain, swinging around wildly in his effort to get to him. Tristan almost smiled when he saw him limping. He idly wondered what his Chevalier-trained fencing tutor would say if he saw him attacking someone from behind in a brawl. He edged back when Andris staggered his way, avoiding his fist and landing a hard punch under his chin instead, taking just a tiny bit of satisfaction when he heard the definitive sound of teeth cracking.

He was about to land a finishing strike on Andris’s face when the sound of gravel under heavy boots behind him stopped him. He spun around, ready to pounce on Hooks and release all his frustration on his ugly, disfigured face, when the flash of steel made him freeze in his tracks.

“Like playing it tough, do you, sweetheart?” the man hissed, taking a step closer. His lips widened in a grin when he noticed Tristan’s apprehension. “Will you act as tough after I cut you open and hand you your guts like a fucking Satinalia gift?”

Tristan swallowed, his gaze flicking between the well sharpened blade before him and the man’s face. He looked deranged, eyes gleaming in the dark. He stepped back carefully, his pulse buzzing in his ears like bees in a jar. A buzz that turned into a high pitched ringing when he bumped against Andris’s chest. Trapped. He was trapped. Backed in a corner, between a blade and Andris’s fists waiting to crush him.

“You noble shits walking about like you own the place,” Hooks continued, voice thick with vehemence. His grin got even wider, twisting his features. “I’ll teach you a lesson, duckling. Oh, I’ll teach you. What if I slice that pretty face of yours down the middle? That should scare the ladies away.” He took another step, when Andris’s grunt stopped him.

“No blades.”

Hooks’s eyes snapped to Andris’s, the white in them glimmering threateningly. “Are you joking?”

Andris shook his head. “Don’t want a noble bleeding to death on our fucking doorstep.” The tall man shoved Tristan back, sending him tumbling on the muddy ground. His large booted foot crashed against his stomach, knocking his breath right out of him. A guttural, pitiful groan escaped him as he tried to scramble away, when Andris’s boot dug into him again. And again. The Antivan stared down at him like he was an ant, grinning. “He can squirm on our doorstep, though.”

The pain was blinding. Tristan coughed and wheezed, trying to get some air back into his lungs. Every breath sent his ribs and stomach muscles screaming in agony. He dug his nails in the gravel, slowly clawing his way away from the sneering men. His heart was beating frantically in his chest, banging against his ribcage.

He flinched in terror when Hooks squatted down, grabbing a fistful of his hair and forcing Tristan’s gaze to his. He was an ugly bastard, his face so close to him, his breath stinking of booze and smoke. Tristan bit his bleeding lip, mustering all his courage in an effort to stifle the urge to plead for his life. To beg for mercy. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction. Not if he could help it.

As if he could read his thoughts, Hooks gave him a wide smile. “Goodnight, little dove,” he said sweetly before his fist collided with Tristan’s face, sending his head bouncing on the hard packed ground beneath him. He groaned with the pain that exploded behind his eyelids, winced as a thin stream of warm liquid trickled down his scalp. Hooks stood up, chuckling under his breath as he clapped Andris on the shoulder. The street was bathed in the soft orange light from the inside of the tavern for a moment before the door clicked shut behind them, engulfing the world in darkness once more.

Tristan lay on the ground for a long while. Minutes. Hours, for all he could tell. He lay as still as he could, gasping and sputtering blood, willing the contents of his stomach to stay where they were. It took more out of him than he would have thought to slowly, shakily press himself up into all fours. He crawled to a nearby wall, clawing at the gaps between the bricks to haul himself up. His head was swimming as he leaned heavily against it, panting. There was no other light save for the light flickering from the tavern’s closed windows, and the full moon that was staring him down from its place atop the sky’s velvet canopy. Tristan let out a tremulous breath, pressing his eyes shut in hopes of abating the burn that had built up behind them.

Gone. One more glimmer of hope of getting Tilly out gone, snuffed out like the flame of a candle, one more plan crushed like a butterfly under an anvil. It had taken him weeks to find out how to approach Norden, weeks of asking and begging and gathering information and bribing, all for nothing. All to get beaten up in a back alley. Spat upon. Humiliated. He’d been in bar fights before, but this was… this was different. These men wanted to hurt him. They’d taken pleasure from hurting him. They would have done worse, if it hadn’t been so inconvenient for them. Even if they had, he would only have himself to blame.  

He blinked, angrily scrubbing hot tears mingled with dust and blood from his face. A fool, a damned fool was what he was. He had let those men sniff his desperation, and they had pounced on it like hounds on blood. Never again, he promised himself. Never again.

He peeled himself off the wall, groaning when the world spun around him. The night was still dark and thick, not a soul passing by the quiet street. He had to move. He had to leave that place. If someone saw him there, in the state he was in now, they would probably not hesitate for a breath before finishing what the others had started. No one in their right minds walked about this part of town after sundown. At least not those that didn’t belong there. It’d been a mistake to come there from the start. A mistake, or naivety, or utter madness - Tristan wasn’t sure what it was that drove him anymore. Mad. He was probably mad. Mad, for fighting to get his sister out, when there was no way of getting her out. Mad, for trying again and again, even though every time he failed worse than the last. Mad, for clinging on to hope that he could change things, fix things, make everything the way it was before. Mad. Mad. Mad.

His palm, when he dragged it over his face again, came away wet and bloody. Useless. Stupid and mad and useless. There was no changing things. No fixing things. No hope. He wasn’t a hero, or a brave Chevalier of legend, a knight in shining armour. He wasn’t Tristan de bloody Lydes. He was alone. All alone. And somewhere, in a cold cell in the Circle Tower, she was alone, too.

Despair rose in him in a wave. It was all too much, far too much. His breath came in short and shallow pants as the world closed in around him. Everything was spinning, whirling out of his control. He reached out for something, anything to stop his fall-

His fingers closed about an outstretched hand. He looked up, blinking at the young man before him. Pale blue eyes staring at him through a curtain of light blonde hair, falling messily about a pale face. His features obscured by a wide brim hat.

Those features tugged at Tristan’s memory. He squinted at the man through his haze. “What… who-”

“I’m Cole,” the man said softly. “I’m here to help.”

[griffinsandpeacocks]

Shatter My Expectations And I’m Yours (Shatter Me, Lindsey Stirling Ft. Izzy Hale)

Dorian had a set pattern. He knew that pattern well. If it were a walked path it would be well worn as much as a favored path through the forest, or maybe the faded cobbles under a guard patrol. Yet even so that well known pattern was monotonous and dull even when it had exciting outcomes they were a short reprieve from that same slow turning pattern. He was getting dizzy left to spin in this cycle endlessly. He wasn’t alive anymore with the excitement that came with something considered taboo, now he was so well established in the little steps that it had lost all charm becuase it never lasted and would end only to start again with a new contestant. 

He had no real light in his life. The one driving factor that kept him going was the passion to prove Tevinter could be great, and it need not use blood magic to be that way. It didn’t need constant power struggles, if it’s people could unite then they could prove every other nation wrong, they weren’t blood thirsty maleficar that bled slaves dry by the hundreds, they were a nation of great art, and strength that could prove mages need not be leashed like dogs. They could prove magic and mages specifically could add so much more to the world if treated as ordinary citizens and allowed their freedom. In fact the mages of the south had a much better chance of setting such an example... All they needed was the chance, but first this war and the crazed bastard from Chantry Myth had to be dealt with. 

He’s reading and trying to find the connections they need when the elf walks up to him. At first Dorian doesn’t notice him but when he sits back pinching the bridge of his nose before rubbing at his temples and looks up, all he sees is the lean form of the archer. Alarion was standing back watching him with a soft smile on his face looking slightly concerned. 

“Ah, Inquisitor, to what do I owe this visit?” Dorian says smiling and instantly masking his frustration and tiredness. Alarion isn’t fooled, in fact he rarely is. The archer was sharp eyed, even if his left was blind, he made up for it in his skill in observation. He rarely missed important details of the land around him and the minute shifts of a facial expression he was staring at. He’d learned Dorian’s facial expressions well. He’d done so with every person that followed him into danger. He even could tell you if Harding was nervous, or even if she was or wasn’t paying you actual attention rather than tuning you out. He could even give you pointers on what was giving away certain expressions. Josephine had even tested his skills out against masked Orlesian nobles. It was harder for him but he’d still hit more often than miss a mark. He was an empathetic passionate elf, who though he would focus on elves he often went out of his way to help everyone. 

“I was wondering if you were holding up alright... And there’s an issue I wanted to discuss...” He looks uncertain and Dorian only remembers that expression a few times. When they’d traveled to that twisted future and again when they’d been about to come back. Though he hadn’t just been uncertain then, he’d looked horrified and angry as well. When he’d gone after Alexius Dorian was surprised he’d chosen to spare his life. Alarion had the mage on the ground a dagger at his neck and had chosen to just knock out the mage instead of kill him as the Fereldan king swept in. Upon seeing the elf he went from bristled and ready for conflict to rather calm waiting for the elf to decide the fate of the mages. Dorian had had no idea why until he latter learned the man had to Consorts both elves and both men. Both were talented rouges. 

Alarion had decided to give the mages a second chance as allies, though made it expressly clear they would be around Templars they would need to work together with a semblance of civility and atop all of it, if they fucked up, as in one went and became an abomination, he’d cut them down personally if Templars didn’t first. Dorian later learned Alarion had had to kill his own sister after she’d fallen for an offer made by a demon of lust. The archer took no pride in the event but he was eerily comfortable when confronted by abominations. He’d cut it down rather than flinch. Though they’d learned those stories from a surviving clan member that had been dug out from The Temple. 

Apparently the young elf had been only ten when he’d landed the killing shot on his sister. He’d been in the forest edging their camp when he’d heard the screams start. He’d taken aim and moved through the bushes and taken her down even as he recognized the tattered torn remains of her robes. He’d loosened the arrow in shock and had stopped her before bursting forward and loosing a second arrow that hit her heart. He’d known the rules of the clans, should one of their own fall into the temptations of demons the clan was responsible for putting down the corrupted mage and ending their suffering. Alarion had been confronted by Solas about this and the elf had frozen.

“I did not kill her out of hatred, spite or anger.” He had admit looking down. He placed a hand over his blind eye and looked up at everyone who’d tuned in curious and eager to know more about the elf most adored and some still hated or feared, this had been as they traveled to Skyhold, so it was bound to happen that some personal history would come out for the inner members of the newborn Inquisition. 

“I killed her to end her suffering. Because I knew full well the reason she’d fallen was due to wanting to fix my eye. It was an accident she had felt responsible for that caused my to lose sight in it. Though I will never blame her... Even if it did lose my eye, if she had not done as she had I would have lost my life. Thus it was a small price to pay. She’d been looking for ways to cure the damage in the fade and a demon of lust had offered... She fell for the trap. I regret never thanking her for everything she had gone through... I was a child, but I was then seen as an adult. What better than to bear the mark of Falon’Din? I may as well wear the mark of Death.” He’d said then and Dorian had recalled how Solas had been quite in thought for quite some time after that and had looked lost in thought. 

“You feel guilt on it then.” Solas had said and Alarion had tilted his head lowering his hand and shaking his head.

“Of a sort... I regret not being able to help support her like she clearly needed. Instead I was self absorbed in my own troubles, children no matter their race can be cruel and being partially blind made me an easy target. I feel nothing at the fact I was forced to kill her. I had a choice. Die, and let others die, or kill her before she could kill me or anyone else. I chose the path that had the least blood on it. I just wish their had been a path that would have spared the blood shed altogether. There probably was... I was just blind to it until it was too late and it had become overgrown.” Alarion had said eyes sad like they were now. Dorian watched the other and frowns.

“I’m holding up well enough I suppose, though this library has all manner of volumes on whether Divine Galatia took a shit on sunday I’m afraid it has little on accurate Tevinter histories. Which makes my job difficult.” He groused and the elf smiles but it fades quickly.

“I’m not sure you’ll like this but it is a distraction. Here read this, it’s a letter Mother Giselle received, I’m getting tired of that woman... Sorry, she said it was from your father.” He says and Dorian feels his nose flare as he gets agitated he stands taking the letter and reading it only to scoff. Alarion stands perfectly still and watches.

“I know my son? Pft, he could barely fill a thimble with what he knows about me! Typical... I’d be willing to bet this ‘retainer’ is merely a henchman hired to knock me over the head and drag me back off to Tevinter.” Dorian hisses and Alarion tilts his head curiously, his black hair falls off his shoulder and rests behind him in a fall of braids and lose hair. 

“Could it be Venatori?” He asks and Dorian paused.

“Perhaps... Though this does look like my father’s penmanship. Or... He could have joined the Venatori... I doubt it but anything’s possible. Let’s go and meet this so called, ‘family retainer’, if it’s a trap we get out and kill everyone, you’re good at that, if not we send them back with a message for my father to stick his alarm in his wit’s end.” Dorian hissed and Alarion frowns and paused, he’d flinched, albeit only slightly, at being told what he was good at, he may have shrugged it off and embraced it in the most literal way he could but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. Unless the one dying was a waste of air. Then he might get some satisfaction out of sticking an arrow in their eye. 

“Bad blood between you?” He asks and Dorian snickers a cringe on his face as he grimaced a slight grin.

“Interesting turn of phrase... Let’s just say we have disagreements on my choices and me with theirs.” Dorian says evasively. Alarion frowns.

“Like not getting married or leaving Tevinter?” The elf asks and Dorian shrugs.

“Two of many other things.” He says and Alarion knows he’ll get no where so shrugs.

“Let’s go see what this is all about then.” Alarion says, he paused and looks back at Dorian with his good eye.

“Should I have any others with us? I’d say we should at least have Bull and Varric along, we could even bring Cole. Help us get a read on everything?” He says and Dorian paused.

“Cole and Bull are fine... Varric might use this as an excuse to write in daddy issues to my long list of character traits.” Dorian sighs and Alarion smiles and huffs a soft laugh.

“Alright, let’s gather them up and ride out.” He says and they walk out and over to Herald’s Rest both ignoring the Mother that watches with a frown and disapproving stare. 

“Bull, come on I have a mission I need you for, I’m grabbing Cole and we’ll head out.” Alarion says and Bull nods and stands up from the slouch he’d been in and Dorian waits knowing the other’s watching him and picking apart every little hint Dorian is unintentional putting out that he’s pissed. 

“Something have you in a tiff, Dorian.” Bull says and Dorian growls.

“Someone rather.” He snaps and Bull blinks looking a bit more directly at Dorian trying to find what’s getting his fuse so short. Alarion comes down and he’d asked Cole not to try helping Dorian quite yet. They all head out at fast as they can for Redcliff. Going into the Gull and Lantern it’s empty just Dorian and Alarion, Bull and Cole wait outside. The elf sees someone move before Dorian does. His green eyes narrow and his hands slide behind him one hand on a dagger the other silently clipping the strap keeping the blade in the sheath. Anyone who saw him, and didn’t know him, would just think he had his hands behind him in a respectful pose. 

“No one here... This doesn’t bode well...” Dorian sighs and Alarion steps closer to say something keeping his eyes on the figure but they speak before he can.

“Dorian.” It’s just his name but Dorian feels anger course through him, he knows that voice and it makes his guts turn to ice. Though it oddly brings a tiny glimmer of hope. Foolish as it was. 

“Father.” Alarion drops his hands to his sides blinking at the man and then looking at Dorian.

“So an elaborate smoke screen..? Why?” Dorian snaps steeling his irritation. 

“Then you were told...” Alarion sneers.

“I don’t like having my friends walk into possible traps blind, a shocker that.” Alarion spits hands clenching as he can practically feel the unease radiating off Dorian. 

“I apologize, Inquisitor, I never intended for you to be involved.” He says and Alarion steps up to stand at Dorian’s side.

“You wanted him with that hag that doesn’t care for him you mean.”The elf hissed and Dorian looks over at the elf and sets a hand on his lower back which makes the elf step a bit back and just glower at Halward while a sneer seems to permanently fix itself to his face. Dorian can’t blame him seeing how that disgusted look shows on his fathers face even if barely.

“Of course not, the Great Magister Pavus couldn’t be seen with the dread Inquisitor, what would people say?” Dorian snaps as his head turns back to his father. He might freeze in fear when he might have a chance at someone for more than just a night of mutual pleasure but against his father, his temper peaks.

“What exactly is this, father? Ambush, kidnapping, touching family reunion?” Dorian snarls and Alarion keeps his eye on the man he’s steadily wanting to fire arrows at. Countless arrows. He’d run out of arrows. Several times.

“It has always been like this...” Who the idiot is appealing to Dorian is unsure given he’s certain Alarion wants to tear his father into little pieces and scatter them through the Wastes. 

“Considering you lied to get him here? I wonder why he would be angry?” Alarion scoffs. Dorian piviots keeping himself facing towards his father slightly but looking at the elf.

“You don’t know the half of it! Though... Perhaps you should.” He says thoughtfully and Halward clearly grows uneasy.

“Dorian, there is no need-” Dorian looks up and sneers before looking back at the elf.

“I prefer the company of men, my father disproves.” He says and Alarion paused brain almost blowing smoke out of his ears as several images run through his mind of Dorian in several questionable posses and positions on top or under men of varying races, stature and looks. Though a popular one seems to be himself.

“Ah... I’ve heard a bit about that... And I prefer the same.” Alarion clears his throat and glanced away flushing slightly and Dorian smirks.

“I should have known that’s what this was about.” Halward sneers and Dorian immediately gets back to spitting like an angry cat.

“No. You don’t get to make assumptions, you know nothing about the Inquisitor.” Dorian snarls. Alarion feels that blush get worse and almost wants to just drag him back to Skyhold and see exactly what Dorian preferred.

“This isn’t what I wanted.” The man gripes and Alarion snorts as if he could care what this bastard wanted. He’d known him all of maybe five minutes and wanted him to become a demented pincushion. 

“I’ve never been what you wanted, forgotten that already?” Dorian spits sneering and Alarion sighs.

“Then that’s a big deal in Tevinter?” He asks and Dorian shakes his head and looks back at the elf.

“If you want to live up to impossible standards. Every Tevinter family is inter marrying to distill the perfect mage, perfect body, perfect mind. The perfect leader. Which means ever perceived flaw, ever aberration, is deviant and shameful, it must be hidden.” Dorian snarls and Alarion winced. Every flaw is stacked against you, pressure slowly fracturing your mask no matter how carefully constructed.

“That’s what this is about?” The elf asks softly hating the fact the two were so far apart though he hates the older vint he also hates seeing children with such poor ties to their parents when he never knew his.

“Who you sleep with?” He asks and Dorian scoffs.

“Not all of it.” He says and Alarion shakes his head confused. 

“Dorian if you’d just listen..” 

“Why? So you can spout more convenient lies? He taught me to hate blood magic, ‘The resort of the weak mind’, those were his words. Yet the first thing you turn to when your precious heir refuses to play pretend the rest of his life? You try to change me!” Dorian is pacing now having gotten in his father’s face before retreating looking at the other man his pain is almost palpable. Alarion goes rigid. This fucking bastard did what to Dorian? Alarion hasn’t felt possessive in his life, but he’s beginning to understand what it might feel like.

“I only wanted what was best for you.” Halward tries to appeal but neither of the two in the tavern with him buy it or care. Dorian says what both of them are thinking.

“You wanted what was best for you! For your fucking legacy! Anything for that.” Dorian looks upset now and all the elf wants is to hold the mage. Dorian just feels so trapped and lonely like he’s just spinning in the dark. Alarion moves so he’s standing between the two and takes a deep breath. There’s the smallest chance the man is wanting to reconnect and at least try and fix his relationship with his son. 

“Don’t leave it like this Dorian... I may not like this prick, but... I can see the pain. Just a try.” He says softly. Dorian looks at him and nods. He walks up to Halward. Alarion stands back but is still ready to rip the older human apart.

“Tell me why you came.” Dorian says calmly or at least he is a bit more calm than he had been.

“If I knew I’d drive you to the Inquisition..” Dorian shakes his head and moves back a step.

“You didn’t. I joined becuase it’s the right thing to do. Once I had a father who would have know that.” Dorian turns and starts to walk to the door.

“Once I had a son that trusted me... A trust I betrayed.” Dorian paused turning to look back.

“I only wanted to hear his voice again... To talk to him and ask he forgive me.” Halward says softly and Dorian looks at Alarion who only slightly inclines his head. He sees the deep need in Dorian to fix this one burnt bridge in his past since his others were all beyond repair. The elf would do everything in his power to help the other. Alarion moves to the door and keeps it open barely a crack and waits there listening like a hawk for any sound of a scuffle or sound that isn’t hushed talking. When the mage exits he’s silent and they spend the ride back to Skyhold like that.

“He says we’re alike. Too much pride... Once I would have loved to hear that. Now... I’m not so certain... I don’t know if I can forgive him.” Dorian says staring out the window of his nook and Alarion watches him wanting to comfort the mage and woefully uncertain how.

“How’d he try to change you?” The elf asks softly.

“He was desperate. I wouldn’t play the part and marry the girl, keep everything unsavory locked away and private. Selfish, not wanting to spend my life screaming on the inside. He was going to preform some blood ritual. Alter my mind and make me... Acceptable. I found out and left.” Dorian says and Alarion feels ice run through him and he moves closer subconsciously knowing blood magic and demons were powerful enough that this was fairly possible.

“Are you alright?” He asks and the mage looks back and shakes his head looking back out the window.

“No. Not really.” He says softly. All the elf wants to do is hug the man.

“What he did was wrong.” The elf states stern and certain. Dorian shrugs.

“I think he knows that. Just struggles admitting it.” He says and Alarion can see why... Admitting a mistake was hard especially when they were proud and the Pavus family seemed to have that in spades.

“He’s a good man deep down... My father. Taught me how important principle is, he cares for me in his way. He’ll just never change.” Dorian sighs and Alarion shakes his head and swallows.

“Maybe you’ll work through it, see eye to eye.” He says though he wants to offer to kill the man. Dorian looks back at him with a slight half smile though it’s flat.

“You’re very optimistic, it’s charming really.” He says and Alarion smiles back feeling just as worn thin.

“Maker knows what you must think of me now after that display.” Dorian says as he walks up to Alarion who looks up at him feeling a sudden lightening rush over his whole form. 

“I’ll never think less of you. If it were possible I think more of you.” Alarion states certain to his core and Dorian chuckles looking amused and fond at him and butterflies are dancing in his chest. 

“My father never understood.. Living a lie it festers in you like a poison. You have to fight for what’s in your heart.” Dorian says fire and conviction in his whole form. Alarion feels it spread to him and speaks before he can think.

“I agree.” And he leans up as Dorian leans down to him and the kiss is like fire he never wants to stop. Dorian pulls back though.

“I didn’t think you’d enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor...” He teases grinning stepping back into his safe pattern even as he wants to shatter it and burn. Damn all the consequences with the elf looking at him like he wants nothing more than him back in another kiss. He’s so terribly afraid... If he messes up he’ll fall hard. He doesn’t want to hurt like that.

“Anyway, time to drink myself into a stupor. That kind of day. Join me sometime if you’ve a mind.” Dorian says and Alarion smiles and nods and walks with the mage drinking with him and walking Dorian to his bed when the man is drunk and stumbling. He goes back to the bar after and joins Bull explaining it all and getting absolutely pissed laughing hysterically as Krem tells some ridiculous story of an old job involving tar and feathers. In the morning he wakes up curled up on Bull.

“Morning.” The Qunari says grinning as the elf goes white as a sheet.

“Not sore... Nothing happened I hope?” He asks and Bull shakes his head.

“Nah, I got morals, you were too trashed to leave alone. So... You have it hard for the vint?” He asks and Alarion looks away and curls back up.

“I want to make him happy... I want to skin his father. He’s sweet and soft under that bluster I’ve seen it... I want so much but he’s from a place that taught him it’s a shameful thing to love another man... His own father turned on him for it. Mine died protecting me and my sister. I don’t understand why family would do that.” Alarion sighs and Bull hmms.

“You’ve got work ahead of you then. He’s all tied up and content keeping those ties tight.” Bull says and Alarion hums thoughtfully.

“Let him set the pace.” He says and gets up thanking Bull he goes and the Qunari waves. Over the next weeks the elf shadows the mage and showering every hint he can making every advance and he is glowing when Dorian circles him in his rooms. He get’s flushed as Dorian purrs in his ear and Alarion pulls the mage into a kiss hungry and wanting everything Dorian will give.

“I want everything you’re willing to give me Dorian... I want you to be happy and I definitely want to be part of your life if you’ll have me.” Dorian paused in shock then just kisses the elf so very glad he’d let this elf in and shatter his walls and now there was this brilliant burning, bright light shining for him burning away everything and giving him someone to fall into.

[delirioussirius]

Back again

In the Department of Mysteries in Harry’s fifth year, when coming to aid his godson in the battle against the Death Eaters, Sirius gets knocked down unconcious. When he wakes up, the Ministry officials have appeared and they assume Sirius was there to fight for the Dark Lord. Naturally, they arrest him immediately. And since they need a trophy after this disastrous incident, they decide to give him the Dementor’s Kiss soon after. After spending some time in Azkaban re-living his old nightmares, he gets a visitor. 

The sound of footsteps approaching woke him up from a light doze. Yes, food! he thought, since food was always brought by a human - contrary to two years ago, when dementors were the only guards in the prison (maybe they didn’t completely trust them anymore) - and dementors didn’t have footsteps. But when he sat himself up in his tiny prison cell and listened more closely, he identified two sets of footsteps. Maybe even more. Sirius guessed the delivery of a large banquet probably wouldn’t be the case - unfortunately - so something else must be going on. Maybe a new prisoner? Or were they letting someone out? ‘Cell 311, sir,’ a young squeeky voice said down the hallway. It was the young guard that had brought him food the day before. He was accompanied by someone who only responded with a muffled “Hm”. Sirius moved his head closer to the bars of his cell to try and see who was doing them a pleasure of visiting. “Them” meaning the prisoners, who generally preferred a visit from any human life form with a sane mind gladly over the soul sucking creatures who usually visited them. Ministry people visiting usually meant the dementors would be gone for a while, which was always a pleasant change. In front of Sirius’ cell bars appeared a small group of wizards. Dorian was accompanied by a very familiar face; Cornelius Fudge. With him were three very tall and broad looking men, carrying their wands in a defensive manner, and some pencil pusher carrying a clipboard. Something serious was happening here, that was for sure. Somewhat to Sirius’ surprise the guard, Fudge, and his four men army halted at his cell. Apparently he was the one in cell number 311? Sirius had never bothered to take a look at his cell number. Being a number himself had been bad enough. What was the Minister for Magic doing here? It wasn’t friday already, wasn’t it? Had he miscalculated the days? (The day of his execution would really be the worst deadline ever to misplace in his agenda.) ‘Merlins beard, we can’t show him to the public like this,’ Fudge said with a look of repulsion on his face. ‘We’ll have to clean him up in London.’  ‘I agree, sir,’ the pencil pusher replied, making a note of it. What, London? What was he talking about? Why would he have to be cleaned up and moved to London? Then it dawned upon him: they were going to make this a public thing… ‘Are you giving me my own show, Cornelius?’ Sirius said teasingly but sharply, his voice coarse from not speaking for such a long time. The young guard made a little startled movement, as if scared by the sudden noise from the cell that had been silent most of his shifts. Fudge seemed a little taken aback too, but quickly got himself together and faced Sirius with an unpleasant political smile. ‘Ah, I see you are as attentive as usual, Black,’ he responded. ‘Well, let us just say you might be what the public needs right now. Your death I mean, of course.’ So that was their play. A public execution to show the wizarding community what a great minister Fudge was. ‘And I guess you want me to look extra nice for “the people”, right? Wouldn’t want anyone to suspect anything about how you run this place, wouldn’t you?’ Sirius replied, sitting himself a bit more upright against the wall. Fudge didn’t respond to Sirius’ question, but turned towards the guard: ‘Make sure he is ready for transportation in fifteen minutes.’ And then to the pencil pusher: ‘See to it that you make note of everything that happens.’ He paused for a second. ‘Everything we would like the people to know.’ Fudge gave Sirius one last demeaning look and then vanished into the hallway, leaving his people behind. 

‘So, what are your plans concerning transportation?’ the young guard asked the group of armed aurors hesitantly. ‘Broom,’ one of the aurors answered. ‘Williamson will take the prisoner and we’ll form a convoy. We’ve taken the appropriate measures.’ Measures Sirius obviously wasn’t supposed to know. But now he did know he had to survive a broomflight over the North Sea that probably would last several hours. He knew that was the regular way to visit the prison, since the place was unplottable and not connected to the floo network. But Sirius had hoped he could have travelled by apparition. Well, maybe he would just fall of his broom and have an easy death. It sure would beat being publicly robbed of his soul at the Ministry. His cell door opened and the three men entered the small space in which he had been living the past few months. They grabbed him by his skinny arms and dragged him up. He’d been fasting the past weeks, trying to get thin enough to squeeze himself through the bars of his cell. He realised he really was an idiot sometimes. His legs could barely hold his own weight anymore. ‘Just… Be careful,’ the young guard said. ‘He hasn’t eaten in about a week. I don’t know how well he would survive such a long flight.’ Sirius didn’t know if the boy was actually being concerned with his welfare or if he was just afraid of what Fudge might do if his trophy would die on the way to the exposition. Either way, the aurors seemed to agree with the young guard and loosened their firm grip on his arms a bit. Unfortunately they still made him wear those awful heavy shackles around his wrists. They left the cell, dragging Sirius with them, and left the young guard behind. Sirius gave the boy one last glance and then just let his head hang. So this was it. He was either going to die of exhaustion on his way to London or have his soul sucked out on arrival. Neither was anything he would want. He wanted a warm bed. Some food. Someone to tell him it would be alright. Someone to tell him he was safe and he’d never have to be locked up again. Anywhere. Ever. Even though they’d left the area where the dementor’s roamed, Sirius still felt empty inside. Almost numb, if it wasn’t for the gnawing feeling in his stomach and the heavy irons cutting his wrists. They entered a room with almost no furniture, apart from a rack with several broomsticks on it, all marked with the Ministry’s logo. They were all secured to the rack with chains, so no escaped prisoner could grab one and take off with it. Every auror took a broom and unchained it with their wands. Then Sirius was set upon a broom which had two seats; his seat facing backwards. They shackled his feet now too, and tied the chains firmly to the broom using a binding spell. ‘Why do you even bother?’ Sirius asked. ‘It’s not like I can run off or something. I might fall of though.’ He mustered up a grin, but the aurors only responded by putting a linen bag over his head. Great, now he wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the ocean view. When in the air, a cold wind gave Sirius’ skin a burning sensation. But nevertheless, he could still feel that the sun was shining, even though he could not see a thing. Being sat backwards on the broom, he was able to rest his back against the back of the auror riding the broom. The chap sure didn’t like it; he tried to push Sirius away a few times. But eventually he gave up and just let his prisoner enjoy a semi-comfortable backrest. Sirius had never known how long the flight from Azkaban to main land had taken - technically he’d only ever flown the other way, two times - but it felt like hours. Being away from all the dementors and the constant reminder of his false imprisonment he was able to feel a tiny bit of hope. Hope that maybe the aurors were new members of the Order he hadn’t met yet and they were flying him to the Burrow. Hope that maybe Moody, Tonks and Remus would come to rescue him in mid-air. But no such thing happened, and eventually all hope faded again when he heard the sound of the city and then felt solid terrain beneath his shackled feet. It was nice to hear clear human voices again though. Even when they were shouting orders like “tighten those chains, I don’t want him escaping again” and “Gallopin’ gorgons, he smells terrible. Did you have to put up with that the whole journey?”. Yeah, because a bad smell was so much worse than being wrongfully imprisoned, being held in the worst place on earth for the second time in a lifetime and having your soul sucked out in only two days. But of course they didn’t know they were doing this to an innocent man. Or they just didn’t want to know. ‘Get him inside,’ the voice who’d been complaining about the smell said. ‘And don’t take off the bag until I’ve joined you.’ He was being grabbed by his arms again and guided to another location. Some secret Ministry building, he guessed by the long way he had to walk and the many stairs they had to take. Every once in a while the sound of a lock opening and then closing again sounded. And then Sirius was pushed into a hard wooden chair of some sorts. His shackles were removed, but quickly replaced by manacles that kept his arms and feet tight against the chair. He sat there for a few minutes. Maybe alone, maybe with some very stealthy aurors guarding him. He didn’t know, because that bloody itching bag was still over his head. He wanted to say something witty to evoke a response from any possible life forms that were with him, but he couldn’t come up with anything to say. So he just kept silent until eventually a voice called his name. 

‘Sirius Black,’ it said. ‘I expected you to be… well, more. There’s hardly anything of you left. But I’m here to fix that. Let’s see what we’ve got.’ Footsteps sounded and in a swift movement the bag covering his head was pulled away. The sudden light blinded his eyes and for a moment he could only see light and dark shapes floating around him. Slowly things became clearer: He was in a room made of stone with no windows. Surrounding him were three guards that didn’t seem familiar. And in front of him stood a tall and skinny man with short blonde hair, wearing light grey robes. He wasn’t a guard for sure, but not an official of great significance either. Or Sirius would probably have recognised him. ‘So you’re here to make me pretty?’ Sirius asked with a raised eyebrow. ‘Good luck with that.’ The man laughed with a shrill, high pitched voice. ‘Oh no, not pretty. I’m here to make you look like you’ve suffered just enough but are still a very dangerous man. The suffering part you did great on yourself,’ he said, pinching in one of Sirius’ cheeks as if he was a fat aunt measuring his cuteness. ‘But you don’t look very dangerous anymore. It’s a shame.’ He supposed he didn’t look very dangerous indeed. He had never considered himself to look dangerous. Angry maybe. But he had every right to be. Now he just felt tired. And probably looked that way too. With a whip of his wand, the man changed Sirius’ ragged old prison robes to a set of slightly newer ones, but darker in colour. The man mumbled something and Sirius felt his cheeks glow a bit. Apparently rosy cheeks were the new dangerous? Or maybe it was just to make it look like he was more alive than he actually was. Then the man started tucking on his hair. It was like he was going to a beauty salon. A very uncomfortable beauty salon, though. But that was kind of how Sirius had always imagined beauty salons to be. Suddenly there was a short knock on the heavily guarded door and a moment later it swung open, revealing Fudge who had been standing behind it. ‘Ah, I see you have already started. Excellent. Just make sure all the spells last until friday,’ Fudge said to the beautician chap, who seemed now to be examining the tattoo’s and scars on Sirius’ upper body. ‘Yes, of course Minister,’ the blonde man replied with an almost slimy voice. The beautician was clearly an arse-kisser.  ‘I assume everything else has been arranged?’ Fudge continued, looking at the guards. They nodded and answered with a “yes sir”. ‘Good, good…’ the Minister said, while inspecting Sirius with his gaze. ‘I’ll see you friday, then,’ he then said, turning to the beautician. He then walked back towards the door, straightening his jacket. When stepping over the doorstep, he suddenly stopped as he had forgotten something. As he had turned around again he took a quick look at Sirius’ head and then said: ‘Oh, and could you cut his hair? I’d like for everyone to see his face when it happens.’ The bastard. Like he hadn’t taken enough from him yet. As Fudge closed the door behind him, Sirius clenched his fists in anger. He wasn’t very vain when it came to his looks - he had had the luck to be quite handsome when he’d been younger - but his hair was something he had always liked about himself. Maybe because not every boy or man could pull off longer hair like he could. Maybe because it showed he wasn’t someone you could just dress up and cut like everyone else. Or maybe because it was very convenient when he wanted to hide his face from the world when he was angry or sad. Either way, it was his hair, and Fudge shouldn’t have any say in it with what haircut he was going to leave this world. But apparently he did. And apparently it was going to be short. And short it was. About fifteen minutes later Sirius was alone in a dark cell with only an inch or so of hair left on his head. They had given him a meal and he had gobbled it down like a hungry stray dog. (Technically he actually was a hungry stray dog.) He hadn’t seen daylight in quite some time and there was no clock in here, so he didn’t have a clue how many hours there were left in the day. Nor how many hours he had left in his life. He would have liked to spend his last hours somewhere in the warm sun or at night by a fire, drinking a butterbeer with the people he loved. (Or even better, drinking an actual beer with the people he loved.) Thinking about Harry, Remus and Tonks and the little kid they were going to have, he also started thinking about what he would leave them with when he was gone. They could have Grimmauld place if they wanted, if it was still any use. And Sirius hoped he had given Harry some valuable life lessons to remember him by. (Like: “it’s not breaking the rules if you don’t get caught” and “you can always bribe Remus with 80% dark chocolate”.) As for Remus, he would be giving him a peaceful life with Tonks and their baby. No more annoying Padfoot having a potential bad influence on their offspring, no more whining about being cooped up in the Order’s headquarters. Because even though they had been very best friends throughout their lives, Sirius had to admit that he himself had been quite a pain in the arse sometimes. He just couldn’t help himself. That’s probably why he ended up being single, instead of being with the one he always considered his best relationship option. And it was probably why he was here in this cell, waiting to have his soul sucked out. In the end, all he would leave his loved ones was an empty shell that was once his body. And it wouldn’t even have nice hair.

Thank you for reading! It really means a lot. It’s been a few years since my last fanfic. And this is actually a modified post I wrote for a HP RPG. (In the RPG, Sirius is arrested and imprisoned at the Department of Mysteries, instead of dying like in the books. While he is in Azkaban, Tonks dies in a mission for the Order, not long after giving birth to Teddy. Remus is knocked into a coma at the same mission, making Sirius the acting parent for Teddy. But since he isn’t really in a position to care for an infant - being in prison and all - Harry is the next in line as a godfather. We’re playing the story out from there, the excerpt above being a (modified) post I wrote not too long ago.  I hope it’s not too confusing! And I especially hope you enjoyed reading it :) 

[onceuponamirror]

(1/2) The fact that some people have the perception that Jug was flirting with Toni while Betty has shown zero romantic interest in Archie is a warning sign in terms of writing for this pairing. B is all ride and die for J, but he won't do the same (so far), he keeps things from her, he may had a thing for T, he ignores B while she is being stalked by the BH and he shows little concern when he finds out what is happening.

(2/2) I think I have more sympathy for Betty and I can understand how she ended up kissing Archie because he is her best friend, he was there for her, he told her what she needed to hear “I need Betty Cooper.”. Betty not telling Jughead about those letters does not seem so bad in comparism. The girl who gives her all to a guy who seems to do little in return. That is the writing that has been canon in 2a and it is concerning. The writers are not into it much anymore.

———

hm. well, i think the issue is both in the way that jughead’s serpent arc was terribly paced and written and in the fact that, overall, every episode of 2a felt contained within it’s own vacuum. 

as i’ve said before, i think there are a lot of us who know what this show really is—soapy nonsense, most of the time. there are a lot of us who expect that and enjoy that, but only because it was balanced the solid characterization that defined s1.

(really, in spite of a thematic, campy narrative that was honestly not original, but still made fun because the derivative aesthetics were focused and because the characters were solidly fleshed out archetypes)

and then 2a was a fucking nose dive, because every episode essentially rolled right back to where it started, meaning that it undid whatever character development it was aimlessly trying to establish. and then in turn, the exact same issues in all of the characters just kept resurfacing and everything cycled up again. 

(i mean, besides jughead’s newfound understanding of dorian grey and veronica’s growth of reflection on her inability to say i love you—what character development can we say happened in 2a? is archie at all different? is betty? literally nothing happened that wasn’t aesthetic soup)

it was exhausting, and the narrative, structural solution to that is to pace over time, not write 9 episodes of what is essentially teen groundhog day. 

like, the writers were so excited to throw jughead—jughead, the kid who hid in a garage at this birthday party—into the tiger’s mouth while simultaneously establish him as some kind of de-facto-prince that they expected we could suspend our disbelief that much.

and frankly, objectively, i can step backwards and kind of follow the train of thought. jughead has never fit in on the north side, always been bullied, has huge trust/abandonment issues, but on the south side he is automatically so accepted he has no idea what to do with that kind of attention that he ends up getting sucked up in his desire to feel wanted. he romanticizes his father, therefore the serpents, etc. 

i can get that. i’d been expecting that.

but then they did that in….essentially four and a half episodes. three of which before he was horrified because the serpents brought a very bloodied man into his house. 

and then they follow that up by cutting out any kind of emotional conversation with the girl he loves wherein they actually talk to one another, and all of a sudden this sixteen year old kid wants to slice into a woman’s arm? the fuck? 

i’ve been saying that i believe the intent of 2a, for bughead, was to sell their loyalties struck on opposite sides of town, insofar as to hype them as star crossed lovers for the civil war storyline and to do that, they really needed to firmly put jughead on the south. but they absolutely could’ve reached episode 10 and already been there and not done it that way.

i mean, wouldn’t it have been an amazing midseason finale if jughead became a serpent then? if they’d actually built up to it? made us agonize with him, not just watch him suddenly flip all these switches on and off?

and so—basically, the issue with bughead in 2a was the way that the only scenes they were together were exhaustingly dramatic. the premiere had some great moments where they just acted like the couple that they are, but after that, nearly all conversations they had were about plot. 

that isn’t characterization; it’s just telling, not showing. the interactions they did have about anything other than explaining the plot to the audience, they were breaking up! like?? what??

like, okay, remember that scene in the finale, where they’re walking in the snow, and he admits he’s worried he doesn’t know his place in the town, and she assures him he’s wanted? it was such a sweet, touching moment, one that really highlighted both the insecurities and the strengths of their relationship.

and that scene is a great example of the exact kind of narrative breath in between drama and plot that made the relationships stand out and be fleshed out, and that was sorely missing in 2a. 

and i’m pretty sure i read that lili reinhart insisted that scene not be cut, or fought for it, something to that degree—it’s like, lately, every time i read a cast interview/comment, it’s like “oh well yes we brought that up but the powers that be insisted haha!” 

like it worries me that perhaps what makes riverdale great is the acting alone and the input of the actors on their characters, and that the rabid success of s1 meant that the writers got overconfident and lost sight of what actually made the show popular—which was not just waxing neon cinematography, right? 

so to your specific points, i think you can look at it that way, but it’s kind of only through one glass, right? the glass of bughead, which is fine, but what made them so difficult to watch this season has been the frenetic, haphazard, completely ridiculous characterization of the serpent storyline—and coupled with the fact that the black hood narrative also offered nothing to the characters, i know that i’ve come out of 2a disappointed and underwhelmed. 

tl;dr, i agree, the writing has been bad. very bad. but i prefer to look at why overall, not necessarily going “oh, bughead is now unhealthy” because it’s so much more than that, my frustrations are so much more. lmao

also, the fuck, i got really carried away with this rant. 

[fuzzballsheltiepants]

Chaol: Motivated by Loyalty? Or Fear?

WARNING: TOD spoilers.  Do NOT read if you don’t want to see anything re: Tower of Dawn!!

This was inspired by this post by @my-name-is-fireheart that gave me insight into why so many people dislike Chaol.  I’m going to start with a little review, and then I’m going to go into a long rambling dissertation.  You have been warned.

Chaol is motivated by two things in his life: his love for Dorian, and fear.  Certainly at the end of Heir of Fire, the latter emotion won.  I think that much of what we tend to interpret as rigid morality is in fact fear.  Apparent loyalty to the King when he didn’t warn Celaena about Nehemia being questioned was in fact a result of him being afraid of the King.  When the King first told hime he was going to have Nehemia questioned, he added, “‘I want six men outside the room.  Make sure there are no complications or interruptions.’  The look the king gave him suggested exactly the sort of complication he had in mind - Celaena.  Chaol knew it was risky to ask questions…”  Risky to just ask questions, let alone go against direct orders to keep quiet about it.  He then didn’t tell Dorian what it was about though Dorian asked him directly, nor did he tell Celaena, “though part of him twisted until it hurt.”  He is already beginning to struggle with the strain between what his morals told him to do (tell Celaena) and his fear of what would result (he or Celaena or both likely killed by the King).

At the end of Crown of Midnight, Chaol now knows that Celaena is part-fae and that Dorian has magic.  This could be a death sentence for both of them, and he fears both that and the magic itself.  This in turn is why he sends Celaena to Wendlyn and withdraws quite a bit from Dorian (a process begun by their respective relationships to Celaena but made much more significant by the magic revelation).  He honestly wants to protect them from the King, but he also fears what they are capable of, especially Celaena.  He’s had, after all, a life-long relationship with Dorian but has known Celaena for barely months and doesn’t really understand her and her motivations, and he has seen her mow men down with his own eyes.  Much more powerful than reading about it in a dossier.

Throughout Heir of Fire, he begins to try to find his own morality and he struggles greatly.  Up to that point, his morality had been defined by how he was raised.  He was taught from childhood to trust the King (maybe - ToD hints that perhaps Chaol’s father was not so much the loyal subject), that magic is evil, etc., etc.  It’s a beautiful parallel of people who are raised in a strict religious context, who start to get exposed to people from other religions, or atheists, or whatever, and begin to question their upbringing and try to form their own opinion about whether these “others” are good, bad, or gray.  This is a very difficult thing to do, especially when you’ve come to realize both you and the two people in the world you care the most about (both of whom fit into the “other” category) are in mortal danger.

Chaol demonstrates quite a bit of self-loathing in HoF, QoS, and ToD.  His confidence in his upbringing and moral beliefs has been shaken, and he has found himself making decisions he doesn’t understand out of fear of what will happen to him and the people he loves.  It’s a painful journey to watch, but one that so many of us have to go through.  He is basically the straight person in a supernatural comedy of errors - his experience and reactions parallel what most humans would do, if we’re being honest with ourselves.  We would be afraid of these powers, and that fear would inform our decisions, both for good and for bad.

Here’s where I’m going to go off on a bit of a tangent that I promise relates.  I’ve been a life-long horse person, and several years ago I had a catastrophic accident with a horse that were I a hair less balanced in the saddle, did I have a shade less experience, had the horse involved been an iota less athletic, would have resulted in the death of the horse, myself, or probably both.  Luckily we both survived, but I will live with the repercussions of that accident for the rest of my life as my non-dominant arm was severely injured and I have residual nerve damage and structural damage to it.  However, I still ride, even still ride the horse I had the accident on, who belongs to my very close friend.  

Working with animals ten times my size who could kill me easily either on purpose or by accident (the horse in question absolutely did not want to hurt me, he just had a panicked moment), I live in a constant dance with what I regard as a healthy fear.  A while back I read a brilliant article by a rider who stated that we should replace the word “fear” with “common sense” when talking about horses.  When I throw my leg over a 1300 lb animal who can jump a five-foot fence and run at 30 mph, it is common sense to be respectful of what that animal can do; I have to make the decision every single time to get on, to do something I love, knowing that if something goes wrong I could die.  Likewise, when Chaol is interacting with Celaena/Aelin, especially, there is a part of his mind that struggles to not remember that she was beyond deadly even without her magic, her assassin and fighting skill exceed his own, she has killed many while he has killed only one human (Cain).  He can’t forget her gutting Archer Finn because it terrified him - for good reason.  He didn’t know Archer had set up Nehemia’s death, and Celaena never tells him.  All he saw was Archer beg for his life, tell Celaena she was a “good woman,” and Celaena gut him.  It is common sense to fear someone who can do that if they won’t tell you their motivations.  

Aelin/Celaena’s biggest flaw is her unwillingness to be honest and up front about things.  Chaol is the character who calls her out on that the most, perhaps because he recognizes that same tendency in himself.  His fearful common sense reaction to her is strengthened when he realizes she can set the world on fire.  He both fears her abilitiees and wants to rely on them to save Dorian, save the world, and that’s a tough conflict to live with.  Was he unfair to her when she returned, that he had placed expectations on her that she would come back to save Dorian?  Sure - but he was also heartbroken and killing himself for having left Dorian, and had pinned his hopes onto her considerable abilities.  

Speaking of which…the biggest thing Chaol had to heal from in ToD was for walking away from Dorian when the shit went down with Sorscha and Aedion, and Dorian’s magic showed itself to spare him.  It was fear common sense that made him do so; he knew if he remained he’d be completely unable to help Dorian, while from the outside, with the rebels, he may have a chance.  Likewise it was fear common sense coupled with love that had him fight Aelin so hard when she wanted to (justifiably from her perspective) kill Dorian.  

Fear Common sense is incredibly valuable - until it is paralyzing (pun not intended).  When your fear common sense helps you in your decision-making, it’s brilliant, but when it halts it, it’s catastrophic.  Most people who suffer accidents similar to mine continue to ride at first, but find that their relationship with their horse suffers, and over time, they give up on it, or  their riding becomes much more limited than it was.  They lose the glorious sense of communion with another creature that cannot be matched by anything else; but if you ask them, they wouldn’t say they were afraid.  They often don’t even think about the accident consciously.  But the subconscious doesn’t let go, and the more you try to beat it down, the more it latches on.

Chaol actually doesn’t become overwhelmed in the moment, but over the ensuing months, his self-loathing for his decision making leads to his paralysis, both physically (because he essentially sacrifices himself so Aelin can rescue Dorian) and emotionally (leading him to cling to Nesryn despite his lack of feelings for her due to the safety she represents, leading him to be harsh to Yrene initially, etc.).  The problem he was having, though, It wasn’t until he really was being healed by Yrene that he was able to recognize the fear in himself.  

“He had been so afraid - so afraid of magic, of loss, of everything.  And that fear…it had driven him to it anyway.  It had hurried him down this path.  He had clung so hard, had fought against it, and it had cost him everything…Unmoored and raging, he had not wanted to heal.  Not really…Some part of him had whispered it was deserved.  And the soul-wound…He had been content to let it fester.  Failure and liar and oath-breaker.”

Chaol actually was far from a failure.  He succeeded in escaping sure death at the hands of the King; helped free Aedion; helped Aelin gain funds for the war (by helping with the Arobynn situation); protected Dorian from Aelin, and ultimately gave himself up to save both the magic-wielders.  Was he a liar?  Perhaps, to his father; same with the oath-breaker.  Perhaps one could argue he was to Nesryn as well, but Nesryn had in fact released him from any oath when she left with Sartaq, and he never really lied to her about his feelings.  They were consensual sex partners without commitment in QoS, but never did he really promise her anything other than that he would walk out of the castle (and that was hardly his fault).  But he couldn’t see himself as anything else until he recognized his fear, faced it, and saw it through to the other side.  Until he was able to acknowledge it, and make the conscious decision to love Dorian, love Aelin, despite the fear common sense they inspire in him.  Much as I make the conscious decision to ride my horses every day.

Essentially, Chaol’s role in this series is that of straight man to the supernatural weirdness going on around him.  He feels the same fear common sense that we would.  His responses are natural, and realistic, and human.  He represents the process of getting a moral education, a forced expansion of one’s world, that many of us go through as we mature from children to adults.  And he shows beautifully how healing occurs, both physically and emotionally.

[daihell]

No One Else to Blame Ch6

Dorian wasn’t sure how or even when he had fallen so completely for the Inquisitor. He knew it was incredibly foolish, particularly with the war raging around them, but none of that seemed to matter when he studied Elden's profile or contemplated the warmth of their fingers laced together. Dorian knew this couldn't last but he never could have foreseen just how spectacularly it would all go wrong. Or that he would be the one left holding the knife.  Read More AO3

Interestingly enough, no one barred Dorian’s way as he headed for the Inquisitor’s quarters. He’d need his pack if he was to be traveling out with the Inquisitor’s party and that was where he had left it, so he supposed it made sense. He’d need his staff as well, if that hadn’t been confiscated yet. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if they expected him to face Venatori unarmed. Not that he was helpless without it, but still.

He was so distracted that it wasn’t until he’d grasped the handle to Elden’s room that he froze, remembering what he would be facing by entering. He tried not to remember, but he was fighting a losing battle. This was where it had happened, where he had hurt Elden, betraying him, even against his own will, and nearly killing him. He stood there for a long moment, his knuckles turning white he was gripping the handle so tightly. He kept seeing Elden’s face, so surprised and in pain, and yet still trying to understand, when he’d--

Dorian shook his head irritably. He couldn’t dwell on that now, it was pointless. He had things he needed to do if Elden was to be saved and he needed to remain in the present to do it. He shoved his way into the room so violently that the door banged against the wall. Dorian tried not to wince at the sound as he took the stairs two at a time. He hadn’t meant to, he’d intended to keep his eyes up and on his destination, but of course he found them wandering to that place on the floor where Elden had fallen.

He came to a sudden stop, staring at the bare floor where a rug had once lay. He should have been thankful, he’d half expected to find a circle of blood staining the place, but somehow seeing the bare floor felt worse. Empty, like a piece taken away permanently, leaving a hole in the world he had once known. Of course he found himself looking too closely until he saw the stains on the wood near the wall where he himself had stood, his hand dripping. Would that always be there? A grisly reminder of all that had happened?

Dorian ripped his eyes away, telling himself it didn’t matter and trying to ignore the heavy pit of grief and guilt in his stomach. He’d probably never see it again anyway. How could Elden ever wish for him to return here after everything? That is, if they both even survived this. Dorian was certain that if the Inquisitor died, his life would be forfeit as well, but he wouldn’t let it come to that. Dorian would rather die than see Elden fall again.

He stormed forward, keeping his eyes from wandering as he quickly grabbed his equipment and headed to the library to sort and pack. A bottle was sounding better and better, it was a shame there wasn’t time. He was so distracted that he nearly ran into Varric in the great hall.

“There you are, I was wondering if you’d left yet,” Varric said with a hesitant smile.

“I’m sure everyone in Skyhold knows exactly where to find me at any given moment at this point,” Dorian said, shifting uncomfortably. “I do owe you an apology however. How I responded to you last was uncalled for. You were attempting to voice your support and I wouldn’t hear it.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Varric said dismissively. “I suppose it wouldn’t really be helpful to ask how you’re holding up.”

“Oh I’m quite well, can’t you tell?”

“Apparently I won’t be coming along on this trip,” Varric said, ignoring his sarcasm. “Just do me a favor and watch out for yourself as well as the Inquisitor. You both better come back in one piece.”

“Yes, well,” Dorian said, “as much as I appreciate the sentiment, I’m fairly certain it isn’t my health you should be concerned with. I’ll do what I can for the Inquisitor, however. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I rather think I should be going.”

Varric looked as if he wished to say more, but Dorian brushed past him quickly. He didn’t want to talk anymore. As much as he appreciated the sentiment, it was Elden their focus should be on. And Dorian wasn’t sure he could stomach the sympathy right now with the guilt still churning in his gut.

-

It felt like more disapproving eyes were on Dorian than usual. Of course, it was entirely possible that that was just his imagination. After all, they were keeping what had happened to Elden a secret to avoid panic, so all the people lined up to see the Inquisitor and his party off couldn’t possibly know what Dorian had done. He refused to act as though anything was different so he held his head up high as they rode out. The only thing that could give them away was the distance he kept between himself and Elden. Well, and there was also the suspiciously close eye Cassandra was keeping on him.

Vivienne, Blackwall, and the Iron Bull were also riding with them. To be honest, the entire inner circle would have accompanied them if they could, but their team needed to be small and mobile. Only the bare minimum on this little adventure. With any luck, they’d be able to overtake the Venatori without them noticing. If they’d even stuck around, that is.

Dorian couldn’t help the sick fear in his stomach that they had long since moved on. He couldn't stop himself from stealing a concerned glance in Elden’s direction at the thought. Thanks to the healers and Vivienne’s potions he looked just as vital as usual, but Dorian knew him well enough that he could see the subtle way he’d flinch occasionally. Riding a horse was probably better than walking, but really he should be lying down and moving as little as possible.

Once they were out of sight of the inhabitants of Skyhold, they slowed their pace. Elden was looking more visibly strained the longer they rode, but never once complained. Thankfully, the horses allowed them to cut quite a bit of time off of their journey. Still, it wasn’t long until Vivienne called for a halt. Elden tried to object, knowing it was due to him that they were taking things so slowly, but of course no one would hear it.

Elden looked a tad restless as he dismounted and went to stand at the edge of the path, looking out at the mountains. His movements were stiff, and it was obvious that he was attempting to ignore any pain, as if he could will it away. Dorian couldn’t help but smile fondly as he watched him. Of course he wished he would go easier on himself, but this was who Elden was and, honestly, it just reminded Dorian why he respected him so much; how he had grown to care so deeply. Still, seeing Elden in pain had him wishing he could shoulder all that weight himself. If he could do anything to lighten his mood at the very least, he would.

“The journey has only begun, I’m afraid we still have quite a bit of distance to go,” Dorian said, smiling as he approached. “At least try to take things slow to start.”

Dorian reached out and placed a hand on Elden’s arm. Before either of them could say anything more, however, Elden flinched at the contact and Dorian backed off quickly, startled. But then he felt so foolish. Did he really think everything between them had simply gone back to normal? That he had any right to even try to get close to the Inquisitor after he had almost killed him let alone touch him? It was true that Elden had repeatedly reached out to him, told him they would be fine, but Elden always pushed himself past his breaking point. Dorian should have kept his distance. Who knows if any of this would truly go back to normal.

Elden’s eyes went wide, however, and he looked absolutely horrified. “No,” Elden said, reaching out to take his hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“Nonsense,” Dorian interrupted, trying to brush his concerns aside lightly, stepping back out of his reach. He didn’t want Elden to look so upset but he never wanted to risk further harm. “Understandable reaction, could have happened to anyone. Honestly, I’m rather glad you’ve--”

“What?” Elden interrupted. “Have my guard up? Around you of all people?”

“Well, I did try to kill you.” He was painfully aware of Blackwall watching them closely. Probably had his hand on the hilt of his sword, too, but Dorian couldn’t tell from this angle.

“No, you didn’t,” Elden snapped, taking Dorian completely by surprise. Elden was so very rarely angry. He sighed, as if to calm himself before he continued. “It wasn’t you and I can’t-- If I can’t trust you, who am I supposed to trust? I don’t want to live like that. And I definitely don’t want to push you of all people away. Please”

Dorian corrupted everything he touched. One only had to look at his life, the burned bridges and those left dead in his wake. Elden knew, but of course he didn’t care. Here he was, reaching out to Dorian even after everything that had happened. Elden had almost died, could still die, but he would still risk it all over again, but Dorian couldn’t. He couldn’t see him hurt again. No matter how desperate Elden looked, how heartbroken and upset, Dorian would rather the Inquisitor end up hating him than see Elden injured again. Or killed.

“Let’s move out,” Bull called to the small party and Dorian never thought he’d feel so relieved to hear his voice.

“Dorian,” Elden pleaded, his hand still extended.

All Dorian could do was give him an apologetic smile before he turned to go.“Dorian,” Elden pleaded, his hand still extended. All Dorian could do was give him an apologetic smile before he turned to go.

Next -->

[feynites]

Okay, I know you and Pyrrhy are tag-teaming the Sharkbait companions but... How would Thenvunin react if Uthvir returned from this latest excursion injured?

Heheheh, @pyrrhy, we tag-team sharkbait. *eyebrow-waggle*

…Sorry. I’m filthy.

I think I speak for both of us when I say that other people are always welcome to jump into this ship and sail off into the repressed sunset with us. I kind of filled this where Uthvir was just exhausted in my last bit, but let’s suppose that this is one of those quests where the player character’s choice can cause things to go much further south, and what might happen in that case…

One of Leliana’s scouts brings in word ahead of the returning party. The Inquisitor has been injured, along with several companions, and have been met by a group of Inquisition forces on their way back to Skyhold. But the party has no healer in their ranks; the keep must be prepared to meet that need instead.

Thenvunin feels cold at the news.

Uthvir is a healer.

Not as a proficient as some, granted, but they are. And for them to not be healing the Inquisitor…

The scout does not specify the state of the Inquisitor’s companions. That information was deemed less urgent than the Inquisitor’s own injuries. And while part of Thenvunin, logically, can see where this is the case - the Inquisitor closes rifts, the Inquisitor is Thenvunin’s friend, but moreover, is vital to the entirety of Southern Thedas - he cannot help be feel incensed, that there is no word on the state of Uthvir.

Or Iron Bull, or Varric as well, of course. But… but…

Leliana’s hand lands on his shoulder.

Thenvunin blinks.

“We discussed the matter. My agents will accompany yourself and Solas down the mountain path, to meet with the party before they arrive, and offer what healing you can,” she tells him. “The surgeon will prepare themselves here, if their skills are needed. I know healing is not your area of expertise, but…”

“No,” Thenvunin blurts, swiftly. He shakes his head. “I will go, of course, I know… some things. More than Dorian or Vivienne, at least, and even if my spells are not up to the task, my sword might serve to better ensure that no one tries to take advantage of the situation.”

Leliana nods, and Thenvunin barely takes further note of her as he hastens towards his rooms, to retrieve his gear.

Uthvir. What happened?

They cannot possibly be dead, he tells himself. They would not miss the opportunity to ravish him while saying untoward things about springtime, not after promising to do so before they left. The thought feels brittle, possibly even verging on hysteria, and Thenvunin knows it makes little to no sense. But he still cleaves to it, rigid in the strange assurance it offers him. Uthvir would not die and they would not let the Inquisitor die, and so both they, and Iron Bull and Varric, are all going to be alive when he and Solas meet them.

And Thenvunin will discover what has gone wrong, and if necessary, he will ride out further himself to make certain it does not follow them back to Skyhold.

He takes everything he imagines might be needed, without wasting time on what might not be, and manages to get to the stables, where Dennet has several mounts waiting. Solas takes longer to arrive, and Thenvunin finds himself inordinately impatient with the man. There are injuries! There is no time to waste daydreaming! But when Solas arrives his gaze is sharp, and he seems to have equally little patience for Thenvunin’s frustration, only snapping back at him that there is no point in going to help heal if he does not bring things to help with healing.

Which is a fair point, but Thenvunin does not feel very much like conceding it to him.

The ride down the mountain is tense, and Thenvunin’s mare dislikes it, while Thenvunin also has troubles keeping calm enough to handle the usual unpleasantries of riding. He is stiff and taught and his skin will not sit right over his muscles, and each lurch of the mare’s gait feels like it’s jarring him down to his bones.

What happened?

No one seems to be able to say, though. Just that the Inquisitor was injured. And maybe Uthvir is fine, maybe it’s only that Leliana’s scouts refused to call a blood mage a ‘healer’. Maybe it’s just that, just their disreputability working against them, and when they arrive they will find Uthvir whole and fine and keeping the Inquisitor together as well, and it will still be awful but, in some fundamental way that seems very important to Thenvunin at the moment, less awful.

He knows it’s not true, the minute they meet the party coming back up the mountain. Varric is seated on one of the mules the scouts use, and he looks exhausted, with half his face swollen from bruising. Bull is walking, but just barely, it seems. His long steps slow and deliberate, his massive hammer gone. Leliana’s agents are quick and quiet, the Inquisition party that met with the Inquisitor’s solemn and grave-faced, and there is a wagon.

Two figures. Both red, though only one of them is dressed in the colour. Solas goes to the Inquisitor, and Thenvunin stumbles off of his mare and makes his way to the opposite side of the wagon, to where Uthvir is lying very, very still, with their eyes shut tight, breathing so shallowly that for a moment Thenvunin feels his heart stop. They look washed-out. So does the Inquisitor, but the Inquisitor is awake, at least. Capable of speaking to Solas, of lifting up their green-crackling arm to reveal a torso covered in bandages.

Uthvir is not.

They are not moving at all. They are still in their armour, mostly, but their chest pieces are gone, and Thenvunin is horrified to realise that the only red on their torso is from blood-soaked bandages and their own arms around themselves. But he can feel their magic. Thrumming, like a heartbeat. It’s eerie and awful but it brings him so much relief, that it’s there.

“What happened?!” he demands, not even certain where to start except that there must be a place. 

“Dragon bite,” the Inquisitor manages, before Solas halts the conversation with a spell that makes the air shimmer, and Thenvunin’s teeth itch. It’s aimed at the Inquisitor, though, and while Thenvunin knows why they take priority…

Uthvir still has not so much as opened their eyes.

And by the looks of their injury, if that was a ‘dragon bite’, then the dragon must have nearly bit them in half.

Thenvunin moves, and then hesitates. One hand hovering over them, but he was brought here to help heal and Solas must heal the Inquisitor, first, and Uthvir is just lying there and they are clearly quite hurt, so hurt that Thenvunin can only think of soldiers he has seen die and brigands who have been cut open, staggering through a last few hours of life, maybe, but still just as dead as their colleagues.

He shakes his head at himself.

He has not even seen the wound, just the evidence of it.

His hand lands on Uthvir’s shoulder, and their eyes open. For half a second he could swear their gaze is pure black. But their hair is in it and the cart is shadowed, and when he blinks it is only their usual eyes, of course, looking back up at him. Hazy with pain, rather than sharp and astute.

They do see him, though.

“Just do not move me,” they say, so quietly that he might have missed it. Except that his focus on them feels so acute, he somehow doubts he could have, either.

“The cart has been moving,” he points out.

Uthvir nods, just slightly.

“Do not move me,” they say. “Do not let anyone. I can… but just, let me. Do not move me.”

Thenvunin is not sure what to make of their request, but when Solas finally frees his attention from the Inquisitor, he passes it along. More sharply than he means to; however, Solas scarcely seems to notice that, as he stares at Uthvir in turn.

“You are using blood magic to… keep yourself from bleeding out?” he says, and his tone seems at once impressed and not a little horrified.

Thenvunin’s own gut churns.

Uthvir just nods, minutely, again.

“I can seal the wounds…” Solas begins, but they hiss, and Thenvunin reaches over and grasps Solas’ wrist. Lest he make some move to upset the delicate equilibrium of magic that Uthvir has apparently managed to achieve. It is not like anything Thenvunin has ever seen, though, some part of him thinks it makes sense. They are controlling the blood; but to consciously monitor the flow of it through their veins, that seems…

That seems like much more than anyone should really be capable of doing. Not for more than a short while, at least.

“Everything is very delicately balanced,” Solas notes, pulling his hand away, as his gaze narrows thoughtfully on Uthvir. “My magic might break that balance, and then you would lose focus before you could heal?”

How he is figuring this all out so quickly, Thenvunin doesn’t know. Sometimes he feels like the most backward mage in their bunch, as Solas seems to deduce things in a snap, and Dorian has engineered and reverse engineered magic to break the fabric of time, and Vivienne has performed feats of combat magic that frankly should have shattered her bones - but of course never has - and Uthvir…

Uthvir is holding themselves together with their mind.

But Thenvunin thinks that he can accept being the least extraordinary in this regard, if it means they survive long enough to go back to trying his patience.

Uthvir manages another small nod.

Solas nods as well.

“Do not move them,” he says.

“Of course not!” Thenvunin snaps. “I figured that out myself! Just by listening to them, in fact!” He looks back at Uthvir, and finds that the churning in his gut hasn’t abated.

“If they are succeeding at this, why is there so much blood on their bandages?” he demands.

“Because they got near to clean snapped in half,” Bull tells him. And then, needlessly, makes a snapping gesture with his fingers. It’s a lucky thing he’s injured, Thenvunin finds himself thinking, because it’s just about all that stops him from knocking the man over. Utterly, utterly inappropriate. Perhaps in-keeping with the Chargers and their gallows humour, but even so.

Thenvunin pictures it.

He does, and Bull has the grace to look vaguely apologetic, and everyone is being bizarrely patient with him and he… he, just…

He nearly blasts the cart driver instead when they start moving again. They start moving again and the stain in Uthvir’s bandages spreads, just a bit, as they hold so stone-still it makes Thenvunin ache just to look at them.

“What are you doing?!” he demands. “Stop! The path is too rough, they will move too much!”

One of Leliana’s people gives him a grim look.

“They ain’t for nothing but dying on the side of the road if we don’t move. And the Inquisitor was poisoned. If any soul stands a chance it’s if we make it back to Skyhold.”

“Take the Inquisitor,” Thenvunin counters. “Take my horse, take the Inquisitor, ride them up. The cart and Uthvir can stay here. I will watch over them, until they can heal themselves.”

Solas frowns, leaning against his staff.

“There are low odds on that,” he says. “If it is taking all of their energy to just keep themselves together, then they will get more tired. Not less. This is a delay; not a solution. Eventually they will lose consciousness, and if a skilled enough healer is not close at hand, they will die.”

Thenvunin glares at him.

“You don’t know that,” he says. Solas is the most skilled magical healer in Skyhold, barring present and injured company. If Uthvir does not want him healing them now, and if he agrees, then that means…

That means no one at the keep could manage it, either.

That means Uthvir is dying.

Solas stares back at him for a moment, expression neutral; until it falls, just a little. And that is the worst thing. To see the pity in his eyes. Because it means he’s thinking the same thing that Thenvunin is. 

“Uthvir,” Thenuvnin asks, because there is no one else left to ask. The cart has stopped again, at least, while they debate, at the Inquisitor’s behest.

Uthvir does not respond. Their eyes are still closed.

“Uthvir, what would… what would help you most?”

They are not a normal mage, he reminds himself. They are Dalish. They know elven magics, lost and forgotten, and kept secret even from the likes of Solas. And blood magic. Tevinter magic. All these magics, and surely one of them must have enough to keep them alive?

“Do not move me,” Uthvir says, again.

Thenvunin nods, and pushes down the churning in his gut, and fixes the cart driver with a hard look. And then the Inquisitor, with a more beseeching one.

“I will stay with them,” he says.

The Inquisitor sighs.

Solas helps them onto Thenvunin’s horse, in the end. The party leaves the one pulling the cart, in exchange, and they resume their trip back up towards the keep. The Inquisitor’s consciousness wavering, skin flushed and eyes clouded from fever. Solas saying things, and Varric saying things, and Bull looking at both Thenvunin and Uthvir for a moment, before pushing his own way along.

“I’ll come back, soon as they finish putting some stitches in me,” he says, gruffly.

Thenvunin hears it, in his tone.

Back to help with the body.

He stands over the cart, and almost expects someone to rush back and threaten Uthvir. It is the worst feeling, he thinks, knowing that this is not even the problem; that the problem is a thing that has already been done.

He listens, and then he watches, as the rest of the party carries on up the road. Staring at Uthvir’s shallow breaths, and tight features, and rigid hold on themselves. The hum of their magic is more obvious and more reassuring than the scant rise and fall of their chest, though. There is a certain amount of bite to it. Blood magic. 

It must, he thinks, be very, very painful.

“Should go, too,” Uthvir says, after the sounds of hoovebeats have passed beyond their hearing range.

It takes Thenvunin a moment to realize that they are referring to him, and not expressing some regret over their choice.

“I am not going to leave you here alone!” he snaps. “What do you take me for?!”

His voice cracks, and almost at once he regrets snapping. Raising his voice at someone in such straits, what a terrible thing to do. But Uthvir is Uthvir, and so of course they do not flinch or blink or anything so disastrous. They stay put, lying in the back of the wagon, with their arms around their torso and their magic lying over them like a blanket. Eyes closed shut.

For several long minutes, then, there is silence again. Thenvunin stands by the side of the wagon, and calls healing spells up to his fingertips. Calls, and then releases. Again and again, in case he needs them, in case there comes a moment - maybe even just a second - where his magic can help.

An icy breeze blows around his ankles.

They must be so cold.

But he cannot even use his magic to warm them, cannot put a blanket on them. All he can do is stand there, uselessly, as the moments pass and Uthvir lies in the black of a cart and just-barely doesn’t bleed to death.

And then, at some point before Iron Bull and a handful of guards come back down the path - but some point after Screecher lands in one of the nearby trees - Uthvir sucks in a deeper-than-normal breath, and the entire cart goes dark. As if someone poured liquid pitch straight into it. Thenvunin barely has time to panic before the shadows warp and waver and sink away again. He can taste Uthvir’s magic on the air.

They exhale, and some of the rigidity leaves them. Some of the magic wrapped around them abates.

Thenvunin is terrified that they are dying.

He reaches down, fingers tingling because if their ‘delicate balance’ of spellwork has already broken then there is nothing left to lose, and he casts the best spell he knows for sealing lacerations. His magic bursts through to the bottom of the cart, lighting the whole thing up for a moment as Uthvir’s eyes fly open, and through the spellwork tied to his will, Thenvunin can feel that their wounds are already closing.

Somehow... somehow that dark, strange moment, it wasn’t them getting worse.

It was them getting better.

He has no idea what kind of magic might do that (doesn’t he?) and no energy to second-guess it, either. All he feels for a moment is visceral relief, so potent it makes his throat close and his eyes sting, and his hand tremble where it’s grasping Uthvir’s arm so tightly.

Death is frightening.

Such a frightening, awful thing, and Thenvunin would not wish it upon them, and that is so fundamentally true that it merits no further consideration, either. Like strange magic from a strange mage. 

Uthvir reaches up, and closes a blood-encrusted hand over his wrist.

“It’s alright,” they say. “It’s alright. You can move me, now.”

Thenvunin swallows, hard, and watches as two spots of rain land on Uthvir’s cheek. In the hand that is not on his wrist, he sees, the are holding something odd. Something purple, against the wealth of red.

A sprig of lavender.

He sucks in a long, hard breath, and keeps casting healing spells until help comes, and they get Uthvir back up to the fortress.

[trulycertain]

Reprise (3/7)

Part one | Part two

In this chapter: a difficult reunion.

III. where we were

Gal expected Sera to leave after bollocking him, and she does - but then a few months later, she comes back. People keep talking about seeing a slip of an elf in the tavern and sneaking into the undercroft, and soon afterwards he looks up to see her sitting on the edge of his desk, smirking at him. “So. Funny thing, right? Heard some messengers chatting about a letter to Fancypants.”

He glares back. “An official one. About the Venatori.”

She snorts. “Yeah, pull the other one.”

He frowns down at his correspondence, and when he looks up, she’s gone. 

But she stays in Skyhold. He hears her laughter echoing round corners and none of his socks match anymore - and then she’ll sit next to him and prod him. It’s almost like the old days, before all this, but he’s used to another voice gently mocking him, too. Then a hand under his chin and But it’s all in fun. I actually think you’re rather marvellous, you know. A smiling mouth against his.

Fuck. He can’t, not if Dorian’s going to be here, going to be talking to him… He can’t think like this. He has to stop.

He has to.

He can’t.

Josephine is the next to come back, after a letter in swirling copperplate that tells him to meet her off the horse. She strides through the gates and smiles at him. “It is good to see you again, my friend.” 

He nods. “Same to you. But why - “ He pauses.

“I heard you were going to speak to the Lucerni. It seemed the Inquisition needed its liaison.”

The words he isn’t saying block his throat and weigh heavy on his chest, until he can’t keep them unsaid. “But the Inquisition’s gone.”

Her smile doesn’t shift; she just watches him, shrewd. “Not entirely. It is as gone as we wish it to be. And I thought, perhaps, you would need a friend.”

He tries to find the words and fails. Instead he hugs her.

She makes the smallest sound of surprise before wrapping her arms round him too, tightly, resting her head on his shoulder - even if she has to tiptoe to do it.

He manages, after a second too long, “Thank you.”

“Oh, Galahad,” she sighs.

She’s not the only one. “I fucked it up, didn’t I?”

“It’s far from that simple.” She draws back, and the light in her eyes almost makes him believe her.

He ducks his head, because he’s not sure he can look at her. “I…”

Putting a hand on his arm, she says, “Come, let us speak inside.” She’s too gentle. It nearly breaks him.

  The call goes up the next day, and Gal nearly jumps from his desk. He feels like he’s going to be sick, but… he has to make himself slow down as he takes the stairs. This is a formality; Dorian’s probably stayed in Tevinter and sent a few of the Lucerni. Not like it matters. He asked for the party’s help, not -

His thoughts quiet as he rounds the corner and sees the group coming off the drawbridge.

He counts four mages, two men and two women, as they stride through the shadowed space under the portcullis. Three of them are in conversation; Gal catches the shape of gestures and the waving of robe sleeves, so it must be animated. The other…

Gal doesn’t recognise the man who strides into Skyhold like he owns it. Has to be a magister: he has a magical aura that could topple walls, he’s carrying an impressive staff, and he’s wearing black robes with enough embellishments that he should be jangling as he walks. Must be some kind of silencing charm. Gold chains and enchanted rings shine dully against dark silk - audacious for Ferelden but probably normal in Tevinter, from the stories Dorian used to tell him. The mage’s hair is long and immaculately coiffed, brushing his shoulders and falling into his face slightly, even with the proud tilt of his chin. There might be a beard - no, stubble; might be from the ride over. He’s pretending to be relaxed, but there’s a prowl in his step, that tightly coiled tension that’s almost familiar from when Gal had done something stupid and Dorian -

Gal’s heart stops in his chest. He takes a step forwards and realises he’s about to start craning his neck.

He looks again, as the mages step into the light. And he sees the green lining of the mage’s cloak, a flash of brightness against all the black. A familiar birthright, glinting gold in the afternoon sun. Storm-grey, kohl-lined eyes, looking round with recognition and something else, quickly hidden.

Those eyes meet Gal’s, and Gal… needs to run and ask Josephine to deal with this. Needs to stay. Needs to cross the courtyard and do something stupid. At least he’s kept the moustache, Gal manages to think, stupidly.

Dorian’s face stays impassive, until one of the women, tall and blonde, leans to speak to him. Then something like frustration crosses his face. Gal catches the end of a conversation: Dorian sighing, “Must I?” and the woman saying something about him knowing this place better.

Then Dorian steps forwards and gives Gal a silent, assessing look. The afternoon sun casts shadows onto sharp cheekbones, throws a shine onto the jewellery and chain. He looks dangerous, like the kind of magisters the Chantry used to warn about, stinking of Tevinter nobility. He looks… good. Really good. The kind of good where Gal’s barely seen the outfit and already wants to peel him out of it. (Once, Dorian would have let him. Laughing and preening a little, giving smug commentary, eyes bright and watching his every move.)

Dorian’s face is still unreadable; he might as well be wearing a mask. But the tilt of his head says that Gal’s been assessed and found wanting. “Inquisitor.”

Gal tries not to think that Dorian hasn’t called him that - not in that level, cold tone - for years. And he tries not to think about how much he’s missed that voice. “Retired. Magister Pavus.”

Dorian nods, conceding that. “Ser Trevelyan.”

Still doesn’t sound right. I remember when they disowned me, Gal thinks. You saw the letter. Gal drags his eyes away from Dorian and guesses, “Magister Tilani.”

She smiles, but there’s a cool edge to it. If Gal hadn’t met Dorian before, he’d wonder if all people from the Imperium were this… sharp. (No. He remembers Dorian smiling at letters. Mae extends her well-wishes. And she says to do her a favour and ruin my hair, because she can’t ruffle it from across an ocean.) She says, “Ser Trevelyan. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She gestures to the others, and says, “These are Lucia and Marius.”

Gal nods to them. “It’s good to meet you.”

Lucia has the coolness right, but Marius looks slightly wide-eyed and gives an awkward nod back.

“You wanted to discuss your findings?” Dorian says, pulling Gal’s attention back to him.

Gal tries to regain his footing, hoping his thoughts don’t show on his face. “We should do that in the war room.” He moves to lead them.

Dorian’s only a step behind him, and unusually silent. Gal wants to turn and look at the stranger he knows. The man he love - loved.

The few people in Skyhold stare at the former Inquisitor leading a bunch of Tevinters through the castle. Gal doesn’t much care. They lived with one, they can live with four.

  “It started with trouble on the outskirts of the Hinterlands, but it’s moved to the Storm Coast.” Gal touches the map. “Three incidents there, in the past couple of months.”

Dorian tilts his head, surveying the map with a hand to his mouth, and Gal remembers that first time, before Alexius: how surprised the war council had been when the sarcastic mage listened to their plan with an intense, quiet focus and then gave them the suggestion that probably saved Gal’s life. Suddenly Gal can see the politician who faces down Senates, and it makes his throat dry. 

Dorian says, “Do you remember the red templar base we raided?”

Yes.

 He remembers wiping out Venatori and templars with the roar of the sea in his ears and the hilt of his sword getting damp. He remembers creeping past a dragon and tensing at every clank of mail.

He remembers afterwards, too. Remembers being lulled to sleep by the sound of the waves and then dreaming of walks in Ostwick by the sea, of his mother - He remembers waking so homesick he could hardly breathe, for a place and a time he’d hated, and then a quiet voice. “Amatus?”

He’d frozen. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, no, I wasn’t asleep.” A hand carrying a small magelight had entered the tent, then so had the rest of Dorian, as he ducked in almost sheepishly. Strange from a man who never apologised for himself. He sat next to Gal’s bedroll and continued, “Between the humidity and… well, the cold, I don’t know how anyone manages to shiver their way into the Fade. Unless they die, of course.” He paused. “What?”

Gal realised he was smiling, and only shook his head.

Dorian peered at him from underneath hair that was almost dishevelled, by his usual standards. The rain and sea, probably. “You were mumbling. I took it to be either a very good or very bad dream. Either way, I was curious.”

Gal sighed. “Ostwick.”

Dorian’s “Ah,” was a soft, regretful inhale. “One of those dreams.” 

“Are you still cold?” Gal asked. Changing the subject, he told himself.

“Are you not?” was Dorian’s retort.

With a snort, Gal lifted a corner of the blankets. He left the rest to Dorian. Just to conserve warmth. Even if he could do with the company.

Dorian blinked at him, almost startled. And then at the blankets, his face turning thoughtful. After a moment, he crawled into Gal’s bedroll and slid under them, not looking surprised when Gal tucked the blankets round him and then got an arm round him and pulled him closer. “Better than a fur rug,” he muttered. “How do you do that?”

“It’s a gift,” Gal said, shrugging the shoulder that Dorian wasn’t on top of.

Dorian sobered - it was quiet, sudden, the way he was sometimes - and then said, searching Gal’s face, “I take it you were in need of company?”

Gal nodded, and tried to find the words. “I… Stay with me?”

“For as long as you need me,” Dorian said, like it was simple.

Gal wonders when it stopped being a promise he could keep.

“Galahad?” Josephine says.

He almost startles. When did he lose his focus this badly? “I remember.” He feels that bright heaviness in the air, and it prickles up his spine: Dorian’s looking at him. He keeps his eyes on the war table and tries to clear his head. “It could be. Haven’t seen any movement in that region of the Coast, though. More… here.” He traces a finger past the river, by -

A hand wearing staff-gauntlets and enough rings to blind an Orlesian touches the map. “Here? They’re based in the cave?”

Gal looks at Dorian’s sleeve and pretends to be reading the map, not paying attention to those strong, precise movements. The old burn between thumb and forefinger that he knows is covered by the gauntlet. He says, “They kept trying to drag me into it enough.”

“It was a kidnapping attempt?” The tone of Dorian’s voice has changed; the casual disinterest is falling away even as he’s trying to cover it. If someone who didn’t know him as well was listening, it’d work. To everyone else, he probably sounds bored. To Gal, the anger is there, rising fast, and… something else.

“I think this one was,” Gal replies. (Dorian’s close enough Gal can almost feel him. Or maybe that’s just his mind playing tricks on him. No. Focus.)  “The others I’m not sure about.”

“Hm.” Dorian’s voice is distracted, like he’s found a problem and is already working on it. “Was this the first attempt?”

“I…” Gal stops.

The sharpness has come back into Dorian’s voice. “It wasn’t, was it?”

Gal looks up, into familiar eyes that are narrowed and watching him with irritation. Tries to find the words. “No. But it’s recent. There was only one before…”

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “A troop of Venatori emerge, apparently connected in some way to the Lucerni, who are trying to kidnap you, and you didn’t feel the need to mention this?”

“I asked for your help.”

”You didn’t mention they were attempting to drag you off to use you as leverage.”

“They weren’t, until recently. And you don’t know that.”

With a sharp bark of laughter, Dorian retorts, “Believe me, I know the Venatori far better than you do.”

Gal nods, conceding that, and scrapes his hand through his hair, using the excuse to look away. Dorian doesn’t even look like he’s affected; he has his mind on the mission, and Gal should be the same.

“But yes, of course, best not to mention that. It’s not as if being fully apprised of the situation would be useful.” Dorian sighs. “I take it you’re planning to investigate the Coast?”

Gal nods again. “I was going to take a party and go into the cave, see if we could find a base of operations. I just thought it was worth preparing better. Taking more soldiers.”

“Many of Cullen’s troops chose to stay, did they not?” Josephine asks.

It’s a relief to ignore Dorian, or try to. Gal says, “A few. More are drifting away every month.” Not much to stay for. For anyone.

Something crosses Dorian’s face at that, but it’s gone before Gal can tell what it is.

Josephine says, “Enough to send, say, twenty?”

“Enough for that.”

“You’ll need mages,” another voice chips in, and everyone looks to Magister Tilani. She tilts her head and raises a brow. “Unless you were just planning to beat them into submission.”

“He’s rather good at that,” Dorian comments, and Gal tries not to blink at him. It’s the kind of thing he would have said before, but… wrong, still with that sharpness in it. “I’m not as certain about the others.”

Gal doesn’t know how to respond, so he ignores it. “I was thinking five.”

Maevaris says, with the hint of a grin, “Marius, how do you feel about a field trip?”

Marius blinks, stepping into the light. He’s a magister, but he looks too young for it. “I… Yes. Certainly.”

“Don’t worry,” Dorian drawls, “I have some brown robes spare. Besides, you’ve killed more than enough Venatori. I have faith in you.” He’s gentler, speaking to some else. Less guarded. Gal remembers when that was for him, too; he wants to close his eyes against the wave of longing that hits him then.

“Not with the Inquisition,” Marius says, glancing at Gal.

“Oh, you’re not allowed to call them that anymore. Officially, they’re just a ragtag army hanging about in a castle. But I wouldn’t worry. They’re really very welcoming. Excellent parties.” Dorian looks to Gal, too, the wryness fading. “And us? Are we simply decoration?”

Gal swallows down what he might have said before. “We seized some of their orders. Pieces of manuscripts, some spellwork. We thought you’d know more than us.”

Dorian and Maevaris nod, and Dorian says matter-of-factly, “We would.”

“When do you want us to begin?” Maevaris asks. “After this meeting?”

Gal nods, and glances to Marius. “There’ll have to be a tactics discussion tomorrow, for the soldiers and the mages. But… yes. We’ve provided quarters.”

“I’ll be happy to show you to them,” Josephine says, stepping forwards.

Dorian inclines his head. “Thank you.” Then he looks past her and says, “The library still has a decent arcane knowledge section? Or has that gone with most of the mages?”

Gal says, too quietly, “It’s still here.”

Dorian hears it. Maybe he’s still used to the way Gal mumbles. “Good.”

Josephine begins to hustle them from the room, and Gal nods his thanks to her. She only smiles wanly.

Gal almost misses Dorian’s casual words. “Like the hair, by the way.” They still have an edge to them; they’re… wrong, somehow.

He turns, but Dorian and the others are already halfway down the corridor. He’s left watching that long, confident stride and the billow of robes. Even with everything else, Gal would know that walk anywhere. (He remembers a Chantry in Redcliffe. Remembers being surprised by how bravely the man carried himself. Wanting him, fiercely, from the start, even if he didn’t know what it was then.)

He looks downwards and realises his fist is clenched, white-knuckled. He exhales, trying to loosen it, and then closes the door, staring at the map until it blurs.

This was a mistake, he thinks, and he doesn’t know whether he means inviting Dorian back or letting him leave in the first place.

No, that’s a lie. Both, everything, all of it; it was all a mistake. He should have taken the crystal. He should have held on for all he was worth, and never let go.

It was easier before, when Dorian wasn’t right in front of him. When he could think that Dorian had forgotten about him and left him to rot. But he looked into those eyes and saw the anger in them - and he knows Dorian, so the anger’s there because of pain. Pain he’s caused.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can stop himself telling the truth he’s spent a year and a half trying to deny. It wasn’t worth it. Any of it. It was never worth losing you.

He needs to talk to him. Not like he’ll be listened to - Dorian doesn’t seem to have much fondness left for him - but he needs to apologise, at least. He has to say something. Anything.

He should never have walked away.

[bahamas-paradise-island]

Many tour boats remained on the dock at Prince George Wharf after a noticeable decrease in tourist activity in the downtown area on Saturday. AHVIA J. CAMPBELL Some Bahamians working on Bay Street worry that the area is headed toward an economic “crisis” following an announcement by U.S. President Donald Trump that major U.S. cruise lines will “suspend outbound cruises for 30 days”. “I feel like it’s going to be a crisis for a lot of people in here,” Juanita McPhee, 56, a straw vendor, told The Nassau Guardian. “I’m basically prepared. I’d say I’m prepared because I don’t have anybody that relies on me so there’s a great difference and then I live in a home that is paid for.” She said she has enough savings to last her until June. McPhee said she doesn’t know what she’ll do if the suspension extends beyond that. “It will be a very serious thing for me after the month of June,” she said. In recent days, five major cruise lines — Carnival Cruise Lines, Norwegian Cruise Line, MSC Cruises, Disney Cruise Line and Royal Caribbean Cruises — announced that they would pause their cruise itineraries as a precautionary measure amid a worsening COVID-19 (novel coronavirus) pandemic. Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Finance Peter Turnquest told The Guardian yesterday, “The government is meeting with stakeholders and external economic analysts to determine the full potential impact of this growing global crisis. “The cruise business is a significant part of our economic model and thus the 30-day suspension will likely have a significant direct effect on those involved in the tourism service industry. “The government — together with stakeholder consultation — will design a package of economic support to help cushion the short term effects of the fallout as we all work together to limit the domestic health and economic impacts.” However, it seemed that the economic effects were already starting to trickle onto Bay Street on Saturday. The area is usually bustling with thousands of tourists spilling off ships docked at the Port of Nassau but only a few hundred tourists — presumably from Carnival Liberty, which was the only ship docked at the port — walked Prince George Wharf. Chunks of Bay Street looked ghostly with only employees of nearby stores lining arcades. Shantel Rolle, a sales associate for Salty Waves, was one of those employees. She paced the entrance of the souvenir store. “We ga die,” Rolle told The Guardian. “No cruise ships at all? You could imagine 30 days [and] no cruise ships? We don’t really make money from hotels. Hotels don’t really come downtown so you could imagine no cruise ships downtown at all, at all? “And each one of these shops opened? You could imagine the employees that work? Where we ga find money from? Could we go to NIB and get money? How is this going to work for us?” She said it is likely her boss will have to close the store for a month as a result of an inevitable decline in business. Asked what’s her next step, Rolle replied, “I’m thinking of going to apply for McDonald’s.” Ashley Desire, 19, a sales associate at Anto Silver, said she is “worried” how the lack of cruise ships will impact her financially. “We don’t have no money and most of us don’t have savings, but most of us are excited because that’s a whole month off from work,” she said. “The store’s not going to be open because mostly it’s the cruise ship we is making money off of.” Desire said she doesn’t have a backup plan. In 2019, 5.4 million cruise visitors came to The Bahamas, representing the bulk of visitor arrivals, although the air segment is high-value. In its January economics and financial developments report, the Central Bank stated that activity in the tourism sector remained positive, albeit moderated, during the review period. Official data provided by the Ministry of Tourism (MOT) revealed that total foreign arrivals for the month of December 2019 rose by 5.3 percent, but was below the 10 percent growth recorded in the prior year. Specifically, the sea segment grew by 8.9 percent, following a growth of 9.2 percent in 2018. Chief Executive Officer of the Bahamas Chamber of Commerce and Employers’ Confederation (BCCEC) Jeffrey Beckles yesterday forecasted that the fallout from the halt in cruise passenger arrivals will have a more “significant” impact on The Bahamas than Hurricane Dorian — a Category 5 storm that ravaged the northern Bahamas and caused $3.4 billion in damage and losses — did. “Obviously, it’s going to have an impact, an immediate impact,” Beckles said. “I think the key for us is really hoping and praying that this does not go beyond the 30 days. The 30 days is a tough time for us because when you average 10,000 cruise passengers  a day and you take that away, that’s a significant number.” He added, “Now, we find ourselves dealing with Dorian, the recovery and we have to deal with the global issue and by extension, it can have even more impact on us than Dorian did.” Tourism Minister Dionisio D’Aguilar said things will be “tough” in the short-term locally. “Your tourism sector is shutting down slowly every day and that’s our bread and butter,” he said. “So, we’re probably in for a rough ride.” As of yesterday, there have been more than 153,000 confirmed cases of COVID-19 in 110 countries, according to the World Health Organization (WHO). At least 5,700 people have died from the virus globally. The Bahamas has one confirmed case of COVID-19, according to Acting Health Minister Jeffrey Lloyd. The post Fears of economic crisis loom as cruise ships halt U.S. business appeared first on The Nassau Guardian. source https://thenassauguardian.com/2020/03/16/fears-of-economic-crisis-loom-as-cruise-ships-halt-u-s-business/

http://scuba-ct.blogspot.com/2020/03/fears-of-economic-crisis-loom-as-cruise.html

[reincarnatedasacupcake]

Art by Sam Davies

Books will save the day... or is that love?

In this month of love, why can't it be both? Let's find books that do away with prejudices. Let's have interracial/inter-species love stories. Let's do away with old, poisonous, harmful tropes that reach out of the books we love and hurt people in real time.

Let books set an example. Let us do better.

Let books save the day

So, with that said, here is what I read this month:

Shadow and Bone (The Grisha #1)

by Leigh Bardugo

385 Pages (8:55 Hours)

Surrounded by enemies, the once-great nation of Ravka has been torn in two by the Shadow Fold, a swath of near impenetrable darkness crawling with monsters who feast on human flesh. Now its fate may rest on the shoulders of one lonely refugee.

Alina Starkov has never been good at anything. But when her regiment is attacked on the Fold and her best friend is brutally injured, Alina reveals a dormant power that saves his life—a power that could be the key to setting her war-ravaged country free. Wrenched from everything she knows, Alina is whisked away to the royal court to be trained as a member of the Grisha, the magical elite led by the mysterious Darkling.

Yet nothing in this lavish world is what it seems. With darkness looming and an entire kingdom depending on her untamed power, Alina will have to confront the secrets of the Grisha . . . and the secrets of her heart.

This is a prequel series to the Six of Crows books. I was so caught up in the World when I read them, I jumped on a chance to hear more about the World and understand more about the Grisha's and their powers. I wasn't disappointed. I loved everything about this book and can't wait to read the rest of the series. 

Late Eclipses (October Daye #4)

by Seanan McGuire

372 Pages

October "Toby" Daye, changeling knight in the service of Duke Sylvester Torquill, finds the delicate balance of her life shattered when she learns that an old friend is in dire trouble. Lily, Lady of the Tea Gardens, has been struck down by a mysterious, seemingly impossible illness, leaving her fiefdom undefended. Struggling to find a way to save Lily and her subjects, Toby must confront her own past as an enemy she thought was gone forever raises her head once more: Oleander de Merelands, one of the two people responsible for her fourteen-year exile.

Time is growing short and the stakes are getting higher, for the Queen of the Mists has her own agenda. With everything on the line, Toby will have to take the ultimate risk to save herself and the people she loves most—because if she can't find the missing pieces of the puzzle in time, Toby will be forced to make the one choice she never thought she'd have to face again...

This book gave me more feelings about the characters than any of the other books combined. I was not expecting the twists and turns that were in this. More and more of Toby's missing past is revealed and the mystery behind it is slowing beginning to unravel. This is seriously the hardest book series to find. I'm having to order each book individually and then waiting patiently (or not so patiently) for it to arrive. Sadly, it's not something i can do very often, so I have to wait even longer than I want to. Oh well, at least it's very much worth the wait.

Rise of the Governor (The Walking Dead #1)

by Robert Kirkman & Jay Bonansinga

308 Pages

In the Walking Dead universe, there is no greater villain than The Governor. The despot who runs the walled-off town of Woodbury, he has his own sick sense of justice: whether it’s forcing prisoners to battle zombies in an arena for the townspeople’s amusement, or chopping off the appendages of those who cross him. The Governor was voted “Villain of the Year” by Wizard magazine the year he debuted, and his story arc was the most controversial in the history of the Walking Dead comic book series. Now, for the first time, fans of The Walking Dead will discover how The Governor became the man he is, and what drove him to such extremes.

I found this whole series in a Little Free Library months ago, but the first one was missing! After searching everywhere for it, I found it in the same LFL (guess someone read it and returned it) Lucky for me, I was the one who found it. I love The Walking Dead and had been wishing for something else with that edge to it, so I happy lost myself in the first book. It was okay. Not great, just okay. Although the story had that grittiness to it, it had a few rape/torturous moments that seriously made me want to put down the book. Then they tried to justify them by making him feel bad. Not really helpful for those poor women. There were a few other things that bothered me about it as well; it was weirdly preachy, which the show has been good about not being. Also, they kept using the term zombie, which I know is a word that the show hasn't used on purpose, so that always broke me out of the story when I saw it. I'm trying to decide if I'm going to read the rest of them or put them back in the LFL when the person who took the first one can get to the rest.

Grimm's Fairy Tales

by Jacob Grimm & Wilhelm Grimm

518 Pages

The Brothers Grimm The Grimm brothers were early 19th century writers best known for their fairy tales coming from Scandinavian, Icelandic and Germanic origins. By 1807 there was a growing interest in German folk tales. The Grim brothers were academics who invited friends to their home and asked them to relate stories they had heard. They soon published their first collection of tales and from there several more volumes followed. Included in this collection are Hansel and Gretel, Briar Rose, The Fisherman and His Wife, Rapunzel, The Frog Prince, Little Red Riding Hood, Rumpelstiltshin, Tom Thumb and many more. These stories are a delight to read and will rekindle up many childhood memories as they are reread.

I'll admit, reading Grimm is easier than reading Anderson, which I think is saying something when it comes to traditional fairy tales. The stories are a little more coherent is a weird way. I know these are all stories that have been passed down and then collected by the Brothers, but I find it interesting how much they overlap. So many have similar themes; You better know that if you're a King and set weird tasks for the hand of your daughter, that some fool you don't like is going to find a way to win her. Or if you're a good man and find yourself in a death-defying situation that isn't going your way, you can always trick some other poor fool to take your place (and ultimate death). The youngest son is always the purest and will do whatever he can to save the day and will be richly rewarded for it while elder brothers are always lazy thieves who usually die. Always be nice to fairies and dwarves, because they will repay you either way

Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2)

by Sarah J. Maas

418 Pages (12:01 Hours)

From the throne of glass rules a king with a fist of iron and a soul as black as pitch. Assassin Celaena Sardothien won a brutal contest to become his Champion. Yet Celaena is far from loyal to the crown. She hides her secret vigilantly; she knows that the man she serves is bent on evil.

Keeping up the deadly charade becomes increasingly difficult when Celaena realizes she is not the only one seeking justice. As she tries to untangle the mysteries buried deep within the glass castle, her closest relationships suffer. It seems no one is above questioning her allegiances—not the Crown Prince Dorian; not Chaol, the Captain of the Guard; not even her best friend, Nehemia, a foreign princess with a rebel heart.

Then one terrible night, the secrets they have all been keeping lead to an unspeakable tragedy. As Celaena's world shatters, she will be forced to give up the very thing most precious to her and decide once and for all where her true loyalties lie... and whom she is ultimately willing to fight for.

I really like this series, but I'm sad that they fridged one of my favorite characters half way through the story. Boo to this trope... boo I say. The rest of the story was great, and had some wonderful twists and turns, but that really put a damper on it for me. I still want to read the rest of the books and see what is to come for all the other characters that I still like.

Marked in Flesh (The Others #4)

by Anne Bishop

489 Pages

In the fourth in the "stunningly original" (Kirkus Reviews) New York Times bestselling series, the Others will need to decide how much humanity they're willing to tolerate--both within themselves and their community...

Since the Others allied themselves with the cassandra sangue, the fragile yet powerful human blood prophets who were being exploited by their own kind, the dynamic between humans and Others has changed. Some, such as Simon Wolfgard, wolf shifter and leader of the Lakeside Courtyard, and blood prophet Meg Corbyn see the closer companionship as beneficial. 

But not everyone is convinced. A group of radical humans is seeking to usurp land through a series of violent attacks on the Others. What they don't realize is that there are older and more dangerous forces than shifters and vampires protecting the land--and those forces are willing to do whatever is necessary to safeguard what is theirs....

I have been waiting a year for this book to come out in paperback and I was there in the bookstore that day trying to get my hands on a copy. I din't even finish the other book that I was reading before getting into this one and my god, was it good. It was worth the wait of a year and I think the next one will be too, although I really want to read it NOW. Through the other books, there has been a tenuous line between the Others and the humans and you never know which way the line is going to go or if it's going to break completely. This book breaks that line and it is incredibly difficult to put down the book when it does. It's also amazing to read about during such I time of fear and hate in the real world. perhaps this should be a lesson to us all?

The Crown Conspiracy (The Riyria Revelations #1) by Michael J. Sullivan

296 Pages THEY KILLED THE KING. THEY PINNED IT ON TWO MEN. THEY CHOSE POORLY. The Crown Conspiracy is book one of the multi-book saga: The Riyria Revelations. The series is told through six novels conceived as a single epic tale. Across the entire chronicle, mysteries build, characters evolve, and plots thicken, but each is self-contained and can be read independent of one another. In the first episode, the reader is introduced to Royce Melborn, a skilled thief, and his mercenary partner, Hadrian Blackwater, who make a profitable living carrying out dangerous assignments for conspiring nobles until they become the unwitting scapegoats in the murder of the king. Sentenced to death, they have only one way out...and so begins this epic tale of treachery and adventure, sword fighting and magic, myth and legend. Theft of Swords was my RBA pick for this month. Little did I know when I picked up this 681 Page monstrosity, that it was actually a compilation and 2 books in one. Now I don't mind reading 2 books at all, but I hate that Goodreads will only count it as one. Sadness... Anyway, I decided to keep it on my RBA list as 1 book, but with each book under it. That way i still get to count is as 2 and will read the other one at another time. I first came across this series when Audible gave me some free short stories about the characters that I really enjoyed listening to. I put the actual series on my to-read list and later found out that Adam owned them. Awesome! They are fun and silly in an action movie sort of way, you know, without dimension and full of plot holes, but still super fun. Glass Sword (Red Queen #2) by Victoria Aveyard

448 Pages (14:39 Hours) If there's one thing Mare Barrow knows, it's that she's different. Mare Barrow's blood is red—the color of common folk—but her Silver ability, the power to control lightning, has turned her into a weapon that the royal court tries to control. The crown calls her an impossibility, a fake, but as she makes her escape from Maven, the prince—the friend—who betrayed her, Mare uncovers something startling: She is not the only one of her kind. Pursued by Maven, now a vindictive king, Mare sets out to find and recruit other Red-and-Silver fighters to join in the struggle against her oppressors. But Mare finds herself on a deadly path, at risk of becoming exactly the kind of monster she is trying to defeat. Will she shatter under the weight of the lives that are the cost of rebellion? Or have treachery and betrayal hardened her forever? The electrifying next installment in the Red Queen series escalates the struggle between the growing rebel army and the blood-segregated world they've always known—and pits Mare against the darkness that has grown in her soul. I'm also really enjoying this series and find it so interesting to see rebellion grow out of injustice. As in all these books the main character must become what she hates in their quest to free her people. I always enjoy the struggle of such a character as they have to decide what is too much before they too fall too far over the edge. Do you need to be a monster to stop a monster or can you save yourself before it's too late?

Books that I am currently reading

Vision of the Future (Star Wars: The Hand of Thrawn #2)

by Timothy Zahn

71 of 694 Pages

Bone Shop (Marla Mason #0.1)

by T.A. Pratt

115 of 244

Tower Lord (Raven's Shadow #2)

by Anthony Ryan

342 of 602 Pages (24:39 Hours) A Thousand Nights (A Thousand Nights #1) by E.K. Johnston217 of 352 Pages Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea (Extraordinary Voyages #6) by Jules Verne 50 of 394 Pages