#as it brought nothing to the table beyond she uses the ember

[thetimelordbatgirl]

Is this not just the mood for when wondering why the fuck Mal had to be the daughter of Hades in Descendants:

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆. ❞

KINKTOBER WEEK TWO.

⤿ pairing(s): halbrand!sauron x fem!human!reader.

⤿ word count: 4.6K.

⤿ warnings: smut (mdni), porn without plot, mild manipulation (it’s sauron), risk of getting caught, possessiveness, sex in a public location, fingering (fem!rec), heavy kissing, hair-pulling, scratching, begging, unprotected sex, p in v sex, breeding kink if you squint, sex on a table.

⤿ note: first time writing for sauron, please be gentle! mr. tolkien, so sorry for all of the despicable things I’m gonna be writing about your characters. ❤️ thank you all for reading! reblogs & comments are appreciated!

A salt-tinged breeze stirred through the forges, a welcome gust of relief amidst the heat that sought to blaze his flesh asunder.

In the silence of dusk, Halbrand found his solace with hammer and anvil, over that of indulgence of drink at some tavern.

Númenor proved to be the respite he desperately needed, running from a shadowed past. He worked tirelessly, through lengthy days and well into the night, his mind a tumultuous tempest.

The King of the Southlands — the ruler of nothing.

It was a mantle that wholly disinterested him, and despite his numerous protests to Galadriel regarding his supposed heritage, the she-elf refused to let it stay dead and buried. He was better off here, crafting works of art — blades, armor, jewelry.

There was nothing for him now, only threads of a plan that seemed to fall by the wayside. It was easy to disappear here, to fade away into the backdrop of the oceanside kingdom, allow himself to place all his efforts on smithing.

The roaring embers of the forge sizzled as he placed the partially-finished blade inside, molding metal to his skilled hand. There was no greater joy than that of creation — making something out of nothing, a tool to be used.

Halbrand’s gaze momentarily flickered toward the roll of parchment sitting along one of the many craftsmen’s tables.

You were an envoy of Númenor, the brood of a lesser House of Men, in-service to the Guild. It was you that had uncovered records of the Southlander line and brought it to Galadriel’s attention — a clever creature, you were.

In what handful of interactions he’d had with you, you were studious and well-mannered, far too intelligent for your station. You toiled in-service to lesser beings, when your potential extended far beyond their reach.

The scroll contained the very bloodline you had presumed he hailed from, as if you were dangling the proof for all to see. He cared little for it, preoccupied with the task at-hand.

If it were his choice, he preferred to stay in Númenor, learn their customs and assimilate into their culture. Galadriel’s stubbornness had the potential to win out if he weren’t careful, and Halbrand was not the subservient sort.

In the star-riddled dusk, Halbrand decided to break in his crafting, stepping toward a basin of water, letting the cool liquid wash away the perspiration dotting his brow.

It was better at twilight, offering a solace that one might not fully understand. He rarely slept, and when he did, he was often plagued by dreams of constant rage. Halbrand let the forge simmer down, opting to work on the still-hot sword.

A gentle tap of knuckles against the door did not alert him as much as you thought it would. He stood with his back to you, brows furrowed together in concentration. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He questioned.

Greeted by the stifling, ember-fueled heat of the forge, you stood in the doorway, having abandoned your Guild regalia. “Good eve,” You mustered a smile, hands twisting together. “You are a stranger to rest, it seems.”

“As are you,” Halbrand’s steely gaze flickered from the blade to you, letting the hammer swing down upon forming steel. “Is it safe for you to be wandering about at nightfall?”

His sharp inquiry brought you pause, fingers idly toying with the fabric of your dress. Númenor was perfectly safe — safer than most kingdoms of Men. “Should it not be safe?” Countering his remark, you observed the rack of newly-crafted swords.

Halbrand did not offer an answer right away, turning the blade over, striking it again with his hammer as sparks flew. “There is no such thing as true safety, my Lady. There will always be something stirring in the shadows.”

You nearly laughed at his fearmongering — he sounded akin to an old maiden, weaving her intricate tales of fright to dissuade children from wrongdoing. “That is a rather dour sentiment. Are you often paranoid?” Your tone tapered off into one of mild amusement.

A sardonic scoff escaped him, lips quirking up only slightly, yet he did not seem offended by your retort. “Merely concerned with preservation — my own, first and foremost.” He replied.

He knew why you were here, even if it was an unspoken thing that you continued to dance around. You had come as a messenger on behalf of Galadriel, to make a valiant attempt of convincing him to return to Middle-Earth.

“The Guild is impressed by your craft,” Shifting the topic, you brushed your fingers over the horse-shaped pommel, the color of ivory. “Not that I should be divulging that information.” You mused.

Perplexed, Halbrand wordlessly observed you, cerulean hues studying the creases of your dress, a shade of mauve that only seemed to enhance your beauty. There was something forlorn simmering within him, feelings not often brought to the surface.

“Is that so? It seems that they’ve finally come to their senses,” He jested, earning a pointed look from you. “It took a beating to do so.” Halbrand placed the unfinished blade beside the dying embers of the forge.

There was still mild bruising around his nose and mouth, heated transgressions that earned him the ire of Númenor. He seemed unperturbed, seizing a rag from the edge of an anvil.

“That could’ve been avoided,” You murmured, tracing a digit around the ivory head of a horse before stepping away. “You are fortunate that they did not toss you into the seas for your rancor.”

“That would be rather unfortunate, being tossed back into the ocean when I had worked tirelessly to claw my way out of it.” He quipped, moving about the forge as he hung up his tools.

A soft sigh escaped you as you shook your head, peering outside towards the night skies. “If you wish to stay in Númenor, you must cease drawing attention to yourself.”

Halbrand chuckled, the sound devoid of any mirth. It was a steely sound, more sardonic than genuine. He wiped away at the soot and grime of the forge, leaning back against the sturdy table.

“Is this amusing to you, being tossed into a cell and brawling with the locals?” The sharp bite of your inquiry could’ve been mistaken for the edge of a knife. “You are above that.”

“And if I am not?” He was equally as sharp, that of a longsword, tarnished and worn yet still able to cut with ease. Halbrand’s countenance seemed unmistakably soured by your comment.

Taken aback, you turned to face him fully, canting your head to one side. It was not mock frustration that you found in his features — it was true. “What do you mean?”

“You continue to place me upon some pedestal,” Halbrand scoffed, peering elsewhere, gazing at the hot coals of the forge. “What if I am not what you think me to be? What if I am simply a Man with not a drop of nobility to his name?”

With a furrowed brow, you folded your hands together, studying his visage. He seemed frustrated yet forlorn, as if he were remembering something — lamenting, perhaps. “Then you are a Man.”

In the time that you had gotten to know Halbrand, standing alongside Captain Elendil on the ship back to Númenor, he was something of an enigma. Charming and charismatic with a great love of disobedience, but he possessed a veiled depth.

Galadriel seemed far more preoccupied with returning to Middle-Earth and hunting Sauron, making Halbrand a ruler over considering his feelings. If he wanted to stay in Númenor, craft a new existence — you did not blame him.

“And if I am not the man that you believe I am?” Halbrand pressed, as if seeking a certain answer from you. Some sliver of his being wanted someone to tell him that they cared little about his past, what he used to be.

“Whatever you are insinuating, I care little for it. Your past does not make you — only what you do from this moment forward,” You replied, mustering a gentle smile. “You are Halbrand — that is enough for me.”

If the She-elf had it her way, she would drag him back to Middle-Earth, writhing and screaming. In his own web of schemes, it was what was necessary — but time was infinite.

There was a peculiar gleam within your eyes, one that possessed a warmth and understanding that he was vastly unaccustomed to. “Hm,” He sighed, turning the cloth over within his hand. “Thank you.”

A brief laugh tore past your lips, one that seemed to bring the tension to a momentary heel. “What, for dissuading you against further scorn by the local populace?” You mused.

Halbrand happened to chuckle at that, a warm sound that made residence within your stomach, butterflies following suit. “For understanding, for your kindness,” He replied, his tone softening. “Not many possess your tenderness.”

Growing silent, you nodded, attempting to mask the brief glimmer of surprise that fluttered across your features. You were often regarded as level-headed and sage, yet soft when it mattered most.

“I do not wish to see you thrown in a cell again, or exiled from the Guild when you clearly possess a wealth of talent,” Your motives transcended that — part of you liked Halbrand. “I would do the same for anyone in your position.”

“Would you?” Halbrand’s inquiry, whilst outwardly inquisitive, seemed tinged with something unfamiliar — something amorous. Your nerves became set ablaze, skin uncomfortably warm.

As you swallowed the growing lump within your throat, Halbrand straightened, copper-hued locks framing his rugged face. He was handsome — statuesque, clearly carved with the frame of a warrior and a smith.

“Yes,” Hoarse and pitched with the sudden swell of nervousness, you idly toyed with the sleeves of your dress. “If you are to stay in Númenor, I would hope that you only continue to thrive with your craft.”

This craft was of little interest — Halbrand knew what he wanted, starting with you. Malleable like the finest metal, as beautiful as a glittering opal socketed into that of a signet.

“Is that what you want, for me to stay in Númenor?” Seas help you — this was madness. Halbrand’s poignant question made you wonder what exactly was about to happen, gooseflesh icing your spine, prompting you to shiver.

“What I want matters little,” There was a noticeable lack of conviction within your tone, as if you were convincing yourself of that very fact. “You are free to choose your destiny.”

You were fighting against the urge, the untoward craving that began to settle within your bones. It wasn’t proper nor appropriate of you to even consider wanting Halbrand, a man whose fate seemed far more important than your own.

To ask him to stay in Númenor, abandon the Southlands — you did not have the heart. It was born of greed and desire, wanting to keep him close to your chest.

“It matters to me,” Halbrand murmured, brows creasing together as he glowered down upon you, close enough to touch. “What do you want?” The malignant force deep within him begged to bring you into his stead.

Whatever perceived darkness hungered within you, it also screamed within him, with a shadow far more powerful than your own. Greed was unbecoming of you — you were meant to serve the people of Númenor, never yourself.

Whereas Galadriel possessed a fierce heart and unending thirst for vengeance, you longed to be free — no longer under the thumb of lesser Men, to lead and to be revered.

To be loved, to be coveted.

“Do not leave,” A plea, beseeching him to stay in Númenor, to stoke whatever flame was stirring between the both of you. The intensity of his longing stare nearly made you collapse. “Stay here, in Númenor.”

A hitch formed within your throat as his calloused fingertips graced your arm, tracing over the sea of mauve gossamer that clung to your form. Halbrand took your silence as something contemplative, afraid to make your true feelings known.

Again, he pressed closer, looming above you, caging you in against the table. You could feel his heat, smell the coal and metal, taste the fantasy that swirled within your mind’s eye.

Roughened digits caressed across your throat, over your slender neck, your collarbone. His touch was like that of a fire, a burn so wonderful that you would beg for it if you had to.

“Halbrand,” Barely above a whisper, your tone seemed strained, as if fighting against all of your baser urges. A peculiar heat raked its way across your flesh before settling within the pit of your belly. “I shouldn’t.”

“Do you think that you are the only one who possesses desire?” His wanton confession made your knees buckle, lips parting just enough for a soft gasp to escape you. “When my eyes found you upon that ship, I wanted — more than I have for some time.”

Words turned to ash upon your tongue, dying then and there within your throat. There was a fire within Halbrand’s eyes, one that sought to burn you, too. You felt the small of your back dig into the table, warmth licking across your spine.

Each breath felt labored, a dizzying sensation taking hold of you, as if this were more dream than reality. Yet, Halbrand remained close to you, chest-to-chest, digits finding the swell of your hip through the sea of violet fabric.

Instead of vocalizing your festering worry, you rocked up upon your toes, pressing your lips against his own. It was disarmingly gentle, a sheepish kiss that did not waste a second in becoming heated and charged.

He reciprocated with a blinding intensity, arm hitching around your waist, calloused palm spreading out against your back. Halbrand lifted you closer, his kiss inherently greedy and covetous, as if you belonged only to him.

His mouth swirled with wildfire, tasting of smoke and a hint of Númenorian stout, stubble scratching against your soft skin. Your hands found their purchase against his chest, able to feel the taut muscle beneath.

Hardened was a good way to describe him — rugged like the uneven ridges of tanned leather, swathed in heat. He cupped your jaw with his hand, reveling in the sensation of your flesh, akin to a plane of silk.

The state of dishevelment he was in mattered little to you — the soot upon his tanned flesh, the specks of dirt, garb somewhat tattered. You could not recall the last time you had yearned for someone so terribly that it ripped your heart into two.

Each clash of your lips evoked a pang of excitement that struck at your stomach, exhilaration pumping through your veins. Halbrand was a vigorous kisser — passionate and swift, stealing the air from your very lungs.

His palm slowly caressed from the small of your back toward your derrière, strong digits melding themselves into your clothed flesh. A hitch formed within your throat, anticipation mounting as the tension began to cloud the room.

Your digits possessed a mind of their own, climbing towards the nape of his neck, threading themselves through his bronze tresses. Halbrand kissed you again — softer this time, yet not without his domineering edge.

Lips bled into one another with an outpouring of want, a long-repressed sentiment caged within both hearts. Halbrand wanted many things — yet, what he did not expect was to crawl after you like some starving beast.

Every sensible thought seemed mulled, draped in this haze that clouded your mind. As you slowly recoiled from the kiss, you keened into the rough embrace of his palm, his digits cupping your cheek.

As much as you longed to continue, the locale seemed impractical, if not somewhat reckless. If someone were to catch you, you would never hear the end of it. Even then, you did not want to let fear drive you this way.

“Must I profess my desire once more?” Halbrand murmured, warm breath fanning across your visage, tinged with smoke. There was something tantalizing and enigmatic about him, swirling with some edge of mystique.

“I wouldn’t protest,” You whispered, which earned you the beginnings of a smile. He swept your tresses aside, bearing your neck to him as he bent in to kiss the soft flesh there. “Halbrand.” A low whine escaped you.

Stubble prickled and bit at your neck, yet you reveled in it, clutching at his shoulder as he pressed heated kisses to your throat. He was not hesitant in the slightest, letting you writhe and moan, plead for him to continue.

It was then that he began to gather your dress with one hand, firmly gripping at the mauve fabric as he inched it upward. Exhilaration struck at you again, the buzz of excitement, a thrill that you hadn’t experienced before.

There was not an inkling of hesitation from you, with little sign of stopping his advances. As he guided the gossamer along your legs, one palm snaked forth, calloused digits embracing your thigh, as smooth as silk.

He held little recollection of the last time he had touched something so delicate, as if you were some splendid jewel to be cradled, coveted. Halbrand kissed his way toward the curve of your jaw, searching your visage for a reaction.

As he parted your legs with his frame alone, your breath hitched, an audible noise that he found to be delicious. You were akin to some startled rabbit, ensnared within the jaws of a predator disguised as a friend.

Whatever smallclothes you wore beneath were of little consequence, giving way to that of his possessive embrace. Your hand flew back to grip the edge of the table, nails digging into splintered wood as he sought the heat between your legs.

Anticipation swelled within you, teetering on the edge of unraveling as you felt his digits ghost across your aching cunt. It was feather-light, intended to torment you — and torment it did.

“Halbrand,” A desperate gasp tore past your lips, needing him in a way that you hadn’t desired anyone else before. “Please, please touch me.” Your breathy pleas did not go unheard as he planted a kiss against your neck.

“Is that what you want?” A sultry purr rumbled from the depths of his chest, tone adopting a rather promiscuous resonance. He watched you nod several times over, fingers pushing past your petals as he touched your core.

A hand held onto his bicep for stability, the other haplessly fisting at the wood behind you. A moan emanated from you, desperate for anything he would give you.

Much to his delight, he found that you were shamelessly wet between your thighs, a nectar that refused to cease. “You are beautiful like this.” He murmured, fingers toying with your slit, eliciting another strangled moan from your lips.

Halbrand’s forehead brushed against yours, hawkish gaze absorbing the look of pleasure upon your face. He began to find a steady rhythm, worn digits sliding along the length of your cunt, letting you hold onto him as much as you pleased.

Any scrap of friction you received drove you mad, desperation climbing to new heights as your hips rocked forward into his hand. His stare became half-lidded, drinking you in with unabashed greed, longing to consume you.

Sighs of wanton passion drifted from you in droves, legs parted as he pressed his thumb to the pearl of your cunt. It was easy to evoke a reaction from you, the constant writhing, gasps and whines, the look of complete and utter bliss.

In sluggish circles, he caressed your clit, causing you to twitch again. “Halbrand,” A moan tore past your lips again, his name becoming a melody from your mouth, to be sung over and over again. “Do not stop, I beg you!”

“As you wish.” Halbrand’s voice raked hot embers over your body, reaching a salacious octave that turned your insides to molten liquid. He continued to touch your nethers, two digits sweeping toward your entrance.

An impenetrable heat swallowed your body whole, skin feeling damp with perspiration, somewhat in-part of the forge’s dissipating warmth. He continued to circle your clit, fingers lightly prodding at your cunt in an attempt to seek entry.

Rough lips fell to your neck again, gowns having slacked enough to give way to your shoulder and collarbone. You clawed at his bicep, rolling your hips again as you rocked yourself upon his digits, much to his delight.

With a brusque tug upon the collar of his tunic, your lips clamored for his, longing to feel his mouth. His kiss left you breathless, teeth scraping against your lower lip, bringing you to heel.

Heat pooled between your legs, coalescing upon Halbrand’s fingers as he teased your core, thumb working around the pearl of your cunt. A soft gasp tore through your throat, a moan escaping you into the passion of your kiss.

Again, your hips rolled into his hand, craving him in a way that resembled that of an animal; carnal, ravenous. A fire danced within his eyes, one that seemed to reflect the sentiments that festered within you.

“Give yourself to me.” Halbrand sighed, timbre trembling against the underside of your jaw before he looked upon you, unraveling from his touch. Need stirred within him, coupled with the swell of possessiveness.

He searched your countenance for any hint of hesitation, flicking his thumb across your clit once more. “Please.” You pleaded, waves of bliss rolling across your body, bringing with it a feverish heat that made you want him all the more.

Halbrand heeded your breathy plea, reaching for the leather ties of his trousers, wanting nothing more than you be inside of you. His cock twitched with amorous intent, muscles coiled, prepared to grab you.

His hand recoiled, leaving you with an aching emptiness that caused your cunt to clench pathetically around nothing. A hitch formed within your throat, words turning to ash as he lifted you onto the table.

Calloused, careworn palms kneaded into your haunches, grasping at your pliant flesh in fistfuls as he pressed his lips to your exposed shoulder. Rucking your gown up to your hips, Halbrand appraised you with a thinly-veiled lust.

There was no flesh as soft as yours, untouched — belonging to him. Anticipation churned within the pit of your stomach, lips agape as he unraveled the front of his breeches, freeing himself from its confines.

Flushed with a rush of ecstasy, Halbrand dragged you closer, hands traveling to cup your hips. He guided his length to your cunt, letting the tip of his cock linger there until he pushed forward.

“Halbrand!” You moaned, hand reaching to grasp at the nape of his neck, nails raking across his coppery tresses. The other seized his bicep, digging inward as he slowly rocked into you.

Nearly chest-to-chest, there was little room for discomfort, letting lust and urgency guide his hand. He huffed, steadying his ironclad hold upon your hips, fingers pressing hard enough to leave behind bruises.

His pace was agonizingly sluggish at first, drawing out each thrust in an effort to let you grow accustomed. Hot sighs of passion fluttered between the both of you, lips brushing over one another as he rolled his hips forward.

There was something exhilarating about coupling with you, the warmth of being alive, savoring the guise of mortality. Halbrand could see the attachment brewing within your stare, the glint of affection intermingled with desire.

The still-burning coals of the forge provided enough illumination for him to see you bathed in fire — and you were breathtaking.

Your heart pounded within your ribcage, so powerful that you thought it might burst through. His stubble scratched against your cheek, providing a pleasant burn that let you know that this was reality. “Move,” You moaned. “Please.”

Inclined to obey, Halbrand let his yearning for you show, as plain as a summer’s day. He began to thrust into you, hunching in and over, stabilizing himself with one palm flat atop the table.

The other squeezed incessantly at your hips, cock rocking in and out of you at a steady pace, yet the fervor was steadily increasing. Your head spun, clouded by lust as your paramour ravished you in the way that you deserved.

His countenance echoed your sentiments, shadowed with the haze of lust, a carnality that clawed at your very soul. You let your forehead press to his, brows screwed together in a state of bliss, grasping at his tresses.

Halbrand grunted, the low noise rippling through his chest as he held your thigh, digits clamping down to keep you firmly in-place. His cock throbbed with an ache of urgency, hips snapping forward as he filled you completely.

A moan erupted from your lips yet again, nails forming crimson crescents against his bicep, occasionally lurching forward to meet his thrusts halfway. His pace became somewhat erratic as he coaxed you to lay back.

Your back hit the wooden surface of the table, the uncomfortable bite of it all softened by parts of your dress. Halbrand hunched in over you like a wolf towering above prey, palm flat beside your head.

The groan of sturdy wood beneath your entangled bodies resonated throughout the forge, the heat beginning to dissipate. The warmth between breath and body kept you feeling feverish, and you hitched one leg around his hips.

It evoked another growl from his lips as the smith pounded away at you, keeping a firm and steady pace. Halbrand was rougher than some, but never enough to cause you discomfort or harm. He was invigorated, driven to madness by the sight of you.

He kissed you again, feeling your desperation through joined lips alone, your hand grasping at his toned forearm. Arousal mounted within you, as thick as honey oozing between your thighs.

Passion bled into need, the two tangling together into some fervent amalgamation. It showed in his movements, continuing to thrust into you, feeling your cunt clench around him. You were made for him, with a heart that he found as malleable as metal.

The arch of your back signaled that your release was swiftly approaching, keening into his embrace instead as you moaned. You did little to temper your volume, mouth agape, head rolled back — you were the picture of grace, now tarnished.

His name escaped your tongue like a wayward prayer, over and over again until it was the only word you knew. As his cock hit you again, sending shockwaves throughout your body, you came undone.

Your leg squeezed at his hips, feeling his own resolve crumble at the sight of you, disheveled because of his doing. Halbrand let out a sonorous groan, body nearly blanketed over yours as his cock slapped into you again.

The warmth you provided was enough to make him stay sheathed within you, spilling himself inside of you without thinking. It only served to fuel his possessiveness, as dangerous as a growing wildfire.

Rocking himself inside of you once more, you let out a strangled whine. Through labored pants, you slowly regained composure, feeling his hot breath fan out across your visage.

Halbrand pulled himself out of you, leaving behind the visceral remnants of your lewd exploits, the sheen of it coating the inside of your thighs. He noticed your sheepish expression as you corrected your garments.

“There isn’t anywhere you can go that I would not follow.” He uttered, fingertips tucking strands of hair behind your ear. As you moved from the table, the smith reached for something within the pocket of his trousers.

“Halbrand,” You began, knowing that asking him to stay in Númenor was not fair — to either of you. Perhaps you could enjoy what comfort he brought, for the time being. “I shouldn’t ask it of you.”

“No matter what destiny entails, know that you belong to me.” There was something strangely dark within his tone, disguised as affection — you were oblivious to it. He placed something into your joined hands.

Touched by such a sentimental gesture, you flourished in the aftermath of your coupling, feeling his rough lips press against the curve of your jaw. You shivered, feeling the weight of a trinket within your palm.

Your lips sought his, the kiss lingering, enough for you to feel it burn within your very soul. There was nothing that could describe whatever it was you felt for him, felt with him.

“What is it?” You inquired, warmth raking along your spine, faces brushing against one another. Halbrand lingered pensively, a smile tugging at either corner of his mouth.

“Consider it a gift.”

[saintsofwarding]

SAINTS OF WARDING; HUNGRY DEMONS

Chapter 7: In Which There Is No Mercy; We are All Frightened Children in the Dark

Two girls slept in a carved wooden bed.

A lamp glowed on a table; in its light the older girl's eyes were half-lidded, her movements slow and sleepy as she stroked her younger sister's dark curls. Without warning, her hand darted forward and she pinched her sister's ear.

"Hey!" She jolted awake. "Not funny!"

"Kind of funny."

"Stop it! I was almost asleep..."

The older girl launched a tickle attack on her sister. The girl burst out in laughter, elbowing backward, wriggling under the covers to get away. Footsteps pattered, and the bedroom door burst wide. A woman stood in the lamplight, stocky and soft-featured, the curly dark hair under her kerchief a match to the two girls'. Her face was ashen, her eyes bright with fear.

"Teodora," she said. "Emilia. Quiet. Quiet, now."

"We were only playing, mama," Teodora said, yawning.

Her mother rushed forward and slammed the cover down over the lamp, dousing it to a glimmer of wick. She knelt by the bedside, pressing her hands over the girls' mouths in the same swift movement.

Silence rushed in; the trace of light gleamed off the girls' wide eyes.

The howl was faint. It might have been a dog, a wolf. Heisenberg knew, with a heavy chill deep in his heart, it wasn't.

"You need to listen to me," Teodora's mother whispered. Slowly, she lifted her hands from her daughters' mouths. "Do exactly what I say."

"Are they coming?" Teodora asked.

Her mother nodded.

"Where's papa?" Emilia said. She clutched a doll to her chest- a little stuffed wolf, a red ribbon tied round its neck.

"He's-" their mother began. A gunshot cracked from outside. The girls flinched. "Setting bait."

"The horses?" Teodora's eyes were too hard for those of a child. She looked about eleven, twelve, her sister no older than five.

"I'm sorry, Teo." Her mother kissed her forehead, then Emilia's, and squeezed their hands. "The saints will protect us. Haven't they always? Kiss your medals. Go on."

The girls fished them from their nightgowns- matching silver medals, each impressed with liturgical script, with tiny, haloed figures of saints. They kissed them, and a smile trembled over their mother's face.

"Good girls," she said. Another gunshot echoed from the night. "Brave girls. Come with me. And quickly."

They hurried from the bedroom. Heisenberg followed a pace behind them. A sitting room opened before them, a close, warm place, banked embers in the woodstove, surfaces covered with brightly-embroidered cushions. A piano was set in a corner, stringed instruments hanging from the walls. With shaking hands the girls' mother gave them boots and gloves, then began buttoning them into coats.

Heavy footsteps approached the door. Their mother lunged for a horn-handled pistol at the mantel, whirling round as a silhouette shouldered into the house.

"Thank the saints," she breathed. The man at the door rushed forward, slinging a rifle over his shoulder. "Did you slaughter the animals?"

He nodded. "The smell of fresh blood should keep them busy. Right, girls?" He knelt before Emilia to ruffle her hair, then faced Teodora.

"First rule about lycans?" he asked her.

"Always feed their hunger," Teodora recited. "A beast with belly full shall never seek human flesh."

"Good." He straightened. "Looks like a small pack. A bunch of strays, maybe. They'll eat the horses and be on their way."

A chorus of howls rose beyond the thin walls of the old wooden house. Through the windows Heisenberg made out nothing but smears of snowflakes.

The girls' mother clutched her medal. "It doesn't sound like a small pack."

"We've never been attacked before. They've never passed the river warden. What makes you think-"

Movement flashed beyond the windows. Their mother brought up the revolver, antique silver gleaming in the darkness. Their father slowly unslung his rifle. Claws screeched against wood, somewhere outside. Squabbling growls; a squeal of pain. They were fighting, Heisenberg guessed, over some juicy scrap of horse.

"Get the girls into the shelter," their father said, his voice hoarse. "Quickly, now, before-"

The window shattered in an explosion of glass. Emilia screamed; Teo grabbed her sister round the waist, shielding her with her body. The revolver cracked, once, twice, the lycan snarling and flailing as it dragged itself in through the window, as it lunged for their father. He swung his rifle; its stock caught the monster under the jaw, sending it reeling against the far wall.

"Shelter!" their father cried. "Now-"

The lycan lunged for him. Its claws sunk deep into his shoulders and bore him crashing to the floor. The girls' mother ran for the rug, flung it back, heaved open the trapdoor- "In!" she screamed. "Now! In!"- and the girls stumble-fell through, their mother following, bringing the door down with a boom.

Heisenberg was in the darkness with them. For a long moment he heard only frenzied breathing, soft sobs, the muffled snarls and banging from above. Then, a glow filled the darkness. Their mother had lit a storm lantern, and carried it in one hand, her revolver still at the ready in the other.

Emilia wept noisily, her face crumpled and red. Tears dripped from Teodora's chin, but she was biting her lips from the inside, keeping her sobs deep inside.

She looked up at her mother. "Mama, is dad-"

"Wait," their mother said. "Wait. The saints are kind. Just wait-"

The trapdoor crashed open, and their father clambered down before closing it again. He breathed hard. Black blood spattered his coat, twin pairs of puncture wounds gashed into his shoulders. Claw marks.

Tooth marks?

Their mother set the lantern down by the ladder and embraced him with a sob of relief. "I thought-"

"I know."

"Are you all right?" She touched one of his wounds. "Did it-"

"No," their father said, quickly. "No- just its claws, I- I think-"

"You have to be sure. You have to be!"

"I don't..." He winced. "Maybe- I-I..."

"I have herbs. Somewhere." Their mother released him and hurried to a carved wooden chest in the corner. The two girls huddled against the wall, hand in hand, staring at their father in silence. "Yes, here they- no- no- just wait, I had some-"

"It's all right, Teo, Em," their father told them. He braced back against the ladder upstairs, eyes half-shut. "I've been hurt worse. I-"

His sentence cut off with a cry.

"Wait," their mother begged. Tins and bottles scattered. Glass broke, spilling dried leaves across the floor. "Please, hold on. I have it. I now I have it!"

"Girls..." He hunched over now, hanging onto the rungs, his breathing sharp and jagged. He stared at them, eyes glazed. Teodora's hand was white-knuckled around her sister's. "Remember...remember the first rule of...lycans-"

"It's here!" Relief trembled in her voice. "Stefan, I have it!"

"Papa," Teo whispered.

"First rule...always feed their hunger." His voice rose into a howl, a raw, animal shriek. "And I am so, so hungry."

He lunged for the girls, claws bursting from his fingertips, his eyes wild with starvation. Fangs ripped from his gums, tearing his face open from jaw-hinge to jaw-hinge. Teodora dropped over her sister, but the lycan's blow never fell.

A gunshot cratered their father's skull, fragments of bone and blood painting the walls. Their mother stood between them and the newborn monster, revolver pointed for their father, tears streaming down her face.

"Run!" she cried, her voice a howl nearly as animal as the lycan's.

Teodora ran, dragging Emilia by her hand. Another gunshot split Heisenberg's eardrums. The girls scrambled up the ladder. Teodora pulled at the bolts, but they were stuck fast.

"They're not coming loose!" she sobbed.

Their mother screamed. Flesh tore; their parents were a tangle of limbs and blood, of cracking bone and flailing claws. Teodora threw her weight against the bolt. Emilia clutched her wolf to her chest, staring at the carnage, the saferoom floor muddy with blood.

Lycans scratched and chewed at the trapdoor. Teodora must have heard them, must have known death waited for her out there just as certain as it did in here, but she didn't stop pushing at the bolts, flinging herself at them as if by sheer willpower she might get them open.

"Teodora!"

She looked down. Their father faced Emilia. His front dripped, black with gore. He gnawed at something in his hands. Behind him, spread across the floor-

No. No. That image was an axe chop to the film strip in her head. This was a memory, and Teodora didn't want to see that again. She'd erased it. Her mind had put it away, so deep that even Rose's power couldn't make her look at it again.

"Teodora!" Emilia cried again. "Help me!"

Teodora dropped, landing on her knees in the bloody muck. She grabbed up the storm lantern and swung it in a blazing arc; the light swept ghastly across the lycan's face, the remnants of the man who'd once been their father hanging in tatters off the monster's snapping jaws. Silver flashed. Their mother's revolver. It had been thrown aside and lay abandoned in a pool of blood.

Teodora swung out again with the lantern as the lycan clawed out for her. It cracked into the monster's face. Flesh sizzled; the lycan screeched, a kicked dog, and stumbled back, crouching in the far corner of the cage. Teodora made a break for the revolver, flinging aside the lantern. It shattered against an iron bar. Flames blossomed, crackling toward the roof, the floorboards.

The lycan approached through the flames, gore and slaver dripping from its jaws, its eyes red with bloodlust.

Teodora's hands closed around the revolver.

In a single powerful lunge, the lycan was on her. Her scream as its teeth sunk into the base of her throat was one of the worst things Heisenberg had ever heard, a death-scream of pure terror. It tore its head upward, taking a chunk of flesh with it. On the far side of the room, the flames rose in a roaring sheet; they'd found the floorboards, and already a molten chunk was eaten away. The lycans in the house above must have smelled the smoke. Heisenberg heard them fleeing en masse, on the hunt for easier prey.

Blood spurted in heartbeat pulses.

Somehow, Teodora was still moving.

She lifted her arms and pressed the revolver to the lycan's eye. The gunshot took off half his face and flung him off her, straight into the inferno's heart. Her throat was a mess of blood and torn flesh; she pressed her hand to it as she rolled onto her knees, her face blank of expression.

Emilia rushed to her side, pulling her to her feet. The fire must have warped the bolts, loosened them; the trapdoor opened at a push, and both girls clambered into the burning house.

Below, the lycan began to wail. It didn't sound like a monster anymore. Just a man, their father, burning alive.

They stumbled into the woods as the fire reached the house's roof. With a crackling roar, it collapsed inward, sending up a plume of sparks. Blood streaked the snow behind the two little girls. Emilia pulled her sister along, supporting her weight, but Teodora sagged from her arms, her movements growing more sluggish with each step.

A howl filled the night. She managed to lift a hand and press it, weakly, over her sister's mouth. Together, they reached the riverbank. Their burning house was bright as sunrise, pouring smoke into the night.

Emilia knelt, laying Teodora out on the stones. Her skin was colorless, sheened in sweat. Her nightdress was sodden with blood.

"Em," she whispered.

"I'm here. It's gonna be okay."

"Run...mama said..."

"No. I won't leave you."

"You will." Teodora lifted the revolver. "You have to."

One shot left in the chamber. She pressed the muzzle under her jaw. Emilia saw what she was doing and grabbed for her wrist. "No!"

"Let me go, Em," Teodora said. Tears glittered in her eyes. "You...you saw what...the bite did...to papa..."

"No," Emilia repeated. She reached in her pocket and brought out a fistful of blood-soaked herbs. "Look. Mama's medicine. I can help you. I can save you."

Teodora went limp. She wasn't bleeding anymore. The world began to dissolve. This must have been when she'd lost consciousness. Even as Emilia packed the herbs into her wound with one hand, her saint's metal tight in the other, the darkness closed in. All Heisenberg saw now, through her eyes, was the burning house. All he heard were the howls rising with the flames.

A small hand closed around his. He glanced down. Rose stood alongside him, watching the fire with him. They stayed there, together, until the darkness became absolute, until the last of the flames had gone out.

***

It was a long night. The longest. But all nights ended, and at last daylight seeped through the floorboards and painted streaks of dusty gray on the earthen floor. Heisenberg leaned against the wall beneath the hole in the floorboards, its edges charred, flame-warped metal bars all that had kept the lycans at bay over the past hours. Through it he made out a patch of sky.

"They're gone," Rose whispered. She hadn't slept either; she'd curled against his side under his trench coat, hugging her arms around herself.

"For now." He had to admit, if only to himself, he was relieved they'd retreated. They wouldn't return until nightfall, and maybe he and Teodora had slaughtered enough of them to make them think twice about attacking with such abandon again.

Fat chance of that. They didn't do something about the lycans prowling these hills, the huge bastard with the two heads, they wouldn't be leaving this territory in one piece.

Much to think about, but not right now. He scratched his scalp through the unwashed gray tangles of his hair and heaved upright. Bones crackled. Pain sliced at his side; Rose peeled up the flap of his trench coat, exposing a slick patch of blood wicking into his new shirt.

"Ow," she said.

"Fuckers popped my wound right open," Heisenberg muttered. Under the pain, more pressing than anything, he was starving. He could demolish a horse, raw. How long had it been since he'd eaten anything that wasn't snack food? Their rations were lost back at their campsite. Lycans probably ransacked those too. "It's...I'll be fine. You hungry, kid?"

"Yeah."

He made a show of checking his pockets. "Well, you're shit outta luck. Try a cigar. They really help curb your appetite when you're coming off a three-day bender and there's nothing to eat in the whole damn factory."

In the corner, Teodora stirred. She'd stopped rocking back and forth a few hours before, but she hadn't moved from the place her father had torn her mother apart, had sat there with eyes closed and revolver in hand all night.

"I'll go," she said. Her voice sounded rusty.

"Huh?" Heisenberg paused midway into lighting a cigar.

"I'll find us something to eat." She rose to her feet, her movements brittle. Making her way to the ladder, she climbed up, pushed the trapdoor aside, and was gone.

Heisenberg gave her ten minutes' head start before he followed.

In the daylight, the drifts shone pristine. The churned snow left behind by the lycans was obscured under fresh fall, ice dust glimmering in shafts of watery sunlight. Heisenberg squinted into the brightness, then set about kicking his way around the burned-out old house. Its layout now made sense; that broken window must have been where the lycans got in, and an empty doorway on an opposite wall had once led to the children's bedroom. Now, it led nowhere, a broken flight of steps that ended in midair.

Rose ventured to the piano in the corner, so rotted it was nearly unrecognizable, and trailed her hand across the blackened ivory keys. Not much was left to work with, but Heisenberg prised a handful of nails from the house's beams and levitated them over his palm, making them dance with the movement of his fingers.

A trail of footprints led away from the house, pointing downslope.

"Stay here," he told Rose. "Gotta have a grownup chat."

"Grownup?" she said, giving him a doubtful look. "You?"

He pointed at her with the cigar. "You're on thin fucking ice, kid. I'm not above beating your ass bloody, y'know."

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Smoking, taking his time, Heisenberg followed the footprints through the trees, toward the sound of the river. Its choppy surface glowed like green glass in the sunlight. The mist that plumed from the rocks numbed Heisenberg's face to the bone.

Teodora sat on a rock by the riverbank. She'd removed her damp coat and sweater and spread them over the stones to dry, and in her shirtsleeves and suspenders she looked smaller than before, battered and weary.

Heisenberg ambled up behind her and stopped. She didn't look up.

"I think it was here," she said.

"What was here?"

"Where I should have died, twelve years ago."

"Should have, would have, could have. Yack, yack. You didn't die. What the hell is your problem? Catch us some fish so we can eat."

"What is wrong with you?" There was no real bite to her voice.

"Everything you can possibly imagine," Heisenberg said. He tapped ash off his cigar. "This spot was where your sister smeared goo on your neck so you didn't kill her and eat her corpse, yeah?"

"Yeah." Teodora half-turned, unbuttoning her shirt collar and tugging it aside. A ragged half-moon of scar tissue twisted the skin of her neck, angry and livid even over a decade later. "If she'd been a few seconds more with the herbs, I would have turned."

She buttoned her collar again.

"My father was a hunter," she went on. "The best around. Beloved by everyone. My mother was an herbalist. Their work took them out here, deep in these mountains. We had a house in town, but this place...this place was home."

Heisenberg was halfway to scoffing about her parents' stupidity, but stopped before he could speak. He knew what it was like to long for a home, for a place, for a belonging, no matter how much he wished otherwise, no matter how much it hurt him.

"Yeah?" was all he said.

"Everyone told them the lycans were getting worse. That past the warding saints it was only a matter of time before they were taken by the endless dark, too. But they maintained the saints loved them, that they would protect them. And- well. You saw what happened."

"So that huge lycan, the messed-up one-"

"Yes, I know," Teodora said, her voice hard. "I know."

"It's not gonna let us waltz on out of here."

"I am aware."

"What are we gonna do about it, then?"

"We'll kill it," Teodora said, like it was that simple. "Do it myself, if I have to."

"Could just toss Rose at it," Heisenberg said, with a lazy shrug. "She's pretty powerful. Might bust things up real nice."

"You sick bastard. My little sister almost died because of what I couldn't do myself. If you think I'm going to send another child out to face death for me-"

"So that's it?" Heisenberg said.

"That's what?"

"You think because you couldn't stop your papa from turning your mother into a chew-toy and screwing up everyone's lives that- what, you're responsible for all the problems of this whole damn town?" Heisenberg said. "That you have to bear the sacred burden alone, blah, blah, blah? Fucking hell, that's the most arrogant thing I've ever heard, and I've heard myself talk!"

"Don't-"

"Don't," he said, mocking her tone. "What's your plan, then? You gonna take your mommy's gun and do what you almost did as a child? You'll be of no use to anyone dead. No use to Emilia, and no use to yourself."

He let out a bark of laughter. "Now do as I say and catch us some fish before I drown you in this river."

She didn't move, didn't speak, not even to insult him. His side began to throb worse, sending little spikes of white into his vision. He shrugged off his coat, his gloves, and set about unbuttoning his shirt.

"Wait, wait, stop that," Teodora stammered as he removed it and tossed it over a rock. "Put your clothes back on-"

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I don't get horny for dead parents," Heisenberg said. "I figure you don't either." He grinned. "...Unless?"

She stared at him, brows raised, mouth slightly open in an expression of pure, appalled shock. He thought she might have a brain aneurysm there on the spot. Then, without warning, she began to laugh. It poured out of her, ugly snorts, uncontrolled, shaking her whole body as she doubled over. She clutched her stomach in both hands, still laughing, tears streaming down her face.

"I...I mean it," she managed, between laughs. "I fucking hate you."

Still grinning, cigar clamped between his teeth, Heisenberg leaned against a rock, peeling off his undershirt. The flesh of his side was mottled in blood and bruises, slash-wound livid and oozing thin blackish liquid.

"Ooh. Nasty. Let's figure this shit out." Heisenberg floated one of the nails up to eye level and concentrated. It began to hum, vibrating so fast it became a rusty blur. The nail flattened, then compressed in on itself, twisting into a thin, curved needle. He plucked it from midair. With the rest of the nails he made a skein of wire fine as a strand of hair.

Teodora watched him as he worked, a slight furrow between her brows. Heisenberg remembered what she'd said before, how she knew him by the way he sang to metal. What else did the stories say about him?

"Take a picture," he told her. "It'll last longer."

"Does it hurt?"

"The huge fuckin' hole in my side?"

"No. Your...your power."

"Nah. It's a part of me. I barely have to think about it." He welded one end of the wire to the needle and pinched the edges of his wound together, then set to stitching himself up. The angle was awkward and the blood made his hands slick; he muttered to himself around the cigar, squinting down at the slow progress.

"Here," Teodora said softly.

She rolled up her sleeves, took the needle from his hand, and picked up where he'd left off. For a few minutes there was silence, river-rush, the croak of crows somewhere far off. The tug and burn of each stitch.

Wasn't so bad. Heisenberg didn't always mind pain. Took his mind off things. The world became one moment after the next.

He almost regretted it when at last Teodora pulled back, her hands gloved in blood to the wrists.

"Not my best work, but it'll do," she said.

Heisenberg snapped off the wire and prodded the line of stitches. He considered the needle, considered the river, then in a dart of silver sent the needle into the water. Seconds later a fat, thrashing fish burst from the rapids. Heisenberg bashed it against a rock, then brought it, still dangling from the hooked needle, over to the bank.

"That is so unsanitary," Teodora said.

"Consider it a thank-you," Heisenberg said as he got dressed again. "Besides. I don't let just anybody stick their hands inside me."

Teodora reached up, hesitated, then accepted the dead fish. She drew her combat knife and set it just below the fish's gills.

"So," she said.

"So what?"

"You're a holy monster, O Lord Heisenberg." She glanced up at him as she drew the knife along the fish's belly, her eyes dark as deepwater, even in the sunlight. "You must have a sacred burden of your own."

Heisenberg looked back toward the house, toward Rose. He thought of Claudia, wreathed in yellow flowers.

"No burden," he told her. "A promise. Made to the dead."

Teodora stood, gutted fish dangling by its gills from one hand. She held the other out between them.

"So let's keep it," she said.

Heisenberg got to his feet and clasped her bloody, scale-slimed hand in his own. "At last, sweetheart," he said. "Something we can both agree on."

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

Weiss: I will need a moment to think on that. I would of course love to go to my friends, but ...

Weiss: I still need a some time. Even if here is not exactly the most comforting place.

Willow: ... I'm sorry for that, Weiss.

Weiss:

Weiss: ... Where are your weapons?

Willow: They have been stowed away for quite some time, and I doubt I should be wielding weapons of war in my state anyway. I sent Klein to fetch them while I sober up somewhat.

~~~~~

Weapons.

Vital Tools for a Hunter, as much as any ration or tinderbox, and often more so.

Zumir and Peper Teuer sat in a case, deep in a closet somewhere in Schnee Manor. In the same they were in when placed there, as though frozen in time.

Zumir was a one handed Warhammer. Dust could be infused, usually Gravity dust to allow it the strengths of larger weapons.

Peper Teure was a Pepper-Box style pistol, it's butt large and flat, more of a Rifle's appearance than a Pistols. Dust Vials could be inserted into it, infusing into bullets based on a series of Pins, not unlike what you would find on a multi color pen, on either side of the trigger.

Beautiful.

Elegant.

Stagnant.

~~~~~

Thorn and Petal were denied their purpose for nearly about a decade now.

Yes, the were used to fight, train hunters at Signal, but Summer had not brought Steel to Grimm in quite some time.

Not forgotten. Simply Of a different purpose now.

~~~~~

Gestalt and Crocea Mors.

Until third pregnancy, they sat open, and able to be looked at in awe. Then Gestalt was locked in a closet for safe keeping, only being moved for spring cleaning or reorganization.

Crocea Mors sat on the Mantle. It was brought to be decoration, only recently gaining usefulness in the Field once again.

But there is only so far a short-sword may reach.

~~~~~

Omen Saw use. It was tool, a tool that was used.

Human, Faunus, Grimm. It mattered not on what it was used.

It simply fulfilled it's purpose.

To kill.

~~~~~

Harbinger also saw use often, though rarely on anything other than Grimm, and more rarely was it used to strike for Blood.

It fulfilled it's purpose.

To defend.

~~~~~

Crescent Rose had gone longest it ever had without Ruby using it. Maintenance was preformed, yes, but it had not been fired, or swung in too long for Ruby's liking.

But it would be used again in time.

~~~~~

Mytenaster was by Weiss' side.

It was used most days by the young Fencer.

~~~~~

Milo and Akouo had Failed their purpose.

The delicate mechashift components had become damages, and it could not function. It would had no purpose beyond scrap or Decorations.

Akouo was a shield. Nothing special about it beyond she who Wielded it.

They would be born anew, to serve again.

~~~~~

Ember Celica sat on a table. One of the gauntlets was damaged, stuck between it's fighting and Bracelet modes, likely needing complete dismantling.

The other was stained Red. Whomever took it off Yang's arm hadn't cleaned it well.

For now they rest.

~~~~~

Somewhere, Someplace, there lies a set of knuckle dusters.

Xīfāng and Dōngfāng.

They lay still, buried under years of dirt, rusted and rotting, the arms of their wielder long since stripped of flesh, as bones sit within them.

They had served Taiyang to the Bitter, Bitter end.

Weapons of Summer Love Part 4

Jaune: What?

Ruby: We go to Haven, and we get answers.

Nora: Back to Anima. It's been a minute. Maybe we can visit that petting zoo that we visited before we left for Beacon?

Ren: I doubt we would have time.

Jaune: Hold on a second. Ruby you're in no condition to go all the way to Mistral.

Ruby: I didn't say we would go now. In a few months when I'm fully recovered and you've had some time to train with our baby.

Jaune: Our baby?

Ruby: You know, your new weapon.

Jaune: That's... nevermind. How are we going to get over there? Most of the passage between kingdoms has been shut down.

Ruby: We can figure that out later.

Jaune: No.

Ruby: No?

Jaune: We aren't just going to figure it out later. If we're doing this we're going to have all the major stuff figured out. And how we're getting to Mistral is way to important to leave to later.

Ren: I would have to agree with Jaune. We don't want to be stranded or lose time from something we could have figured out far in advance.

Nora: *Nods*

Ruby: Well umm... I guess I'm just use to winging it. But you're all right. We'll get everything setup before we go. Now we just have to do that without mom finding out.

Jaune: We're not telling Summer?

Ruby: Nope.

Jaune: Why not?

Ruby: I just... I just don't think she should know. She'll be fine here with Zwei. Me, you, Ren, Nora, and Yang are all we need!

Yang: I'm not going Rubes.

Ruby: But we could find the people who attacked Beacon.

Yang: What am I going to do in a fight Ruby? I've got to relearn my fighting style, by myself by the way, and that's even if I decide to try to be a huntress again.

Yang: Which honestly, I doubt I will.

[yostresswritinggirl]

and, if Albedo have his own personal botanist, what about xiao have his own personal chef, or something like that? the reader working at wangshu inn as the chef or maid 👀 (this the request... If you want to make something from this absurd idea 👀👀)

Hehe I like your thought process, anon. Albedo and Xiao really just: 😏👉👉 *finger guns* 👈👈 😑 for having reader assistants in my masterlist huh.

Making this solely a personal chef/maid thing would defo make this response hella short so I added in more info and background just like I did with Albedo's, so I hope you guys end up enjoying this one too!!

It isn't an absurd idea, but I sure as hell made an absurd answer to it kek

Xiao's Devoted "Chef"

Xiao with a Reader who is not only his Personal Chef but assistant

Background (let's gooo)

The arrival of the Adepti Yaksha in Wangshu Inn was really something I've been intrigued about for a while now, but I won't make much assumptions here because his banner is coming and more info would be given to us.

Xiao had long since been residing in and spends a majority of his time in this Inn yet its owners, Verr Goldet and Huai'an, barely knows anything about the adepti or his lifestyle.

So on a sunny, quaint day like any other where calmness passes through the lands without worry, they expected the Adepti to resign himself to a moment of peace and rest too.

So color them surprised when they save the familiar silhouette of the adepti ascending to the top floor. Porcelain white skin and clear tank top glittered with fresh blood as a broken and bruised figure lays unconscious in his arms. The couple was thankful that there were no customers out and about that day, because it would be a disaster for an audience to witness such a thing. Also bad for business, but they'll hold that in at the back of their mind.

Skilled workers were quick to work with their seemingly extensive experience with such a protocol. As they tended to the victim, the Boss stayed behind to tend to and inquire with the Adepti. Yet such a conversation between them came out strained:

There were no visible wounds that require immediate medical attention but there was a look in his eyes that feels much more broken than anything they can fix. Verr's hands hover over him in an attempt to urge him to clean up his still bloodied form. His amber eyes that were usually sharp looks through a distance light-years away.

"Xiao," the woman started and the eyes snapped out of its reverie, subtly looking around to ground himself. "What happened? And are you okay?"

"Their- the parents died from a Hilichurl ambush, I was only able to save the child," his crossed arms gripped at his forearm in the realization of his utter mistake. "32 seconds."

"32 seconds?" The Mondstadtian offered a fresh set of hot towels he had taken, and he had flinched when he saw the carnage that stuck close to his skin.

"I was 32 seconds late."

Your parents were adventurers who brought you with them as big fans of traveling and nomadic lifestyle, no set home yet freely living by. You were in your younger teens and you'd clarified you had no other family to go to.

The death of your parents came as an obvious shock to your young self yet you grieved in silence and sobs, as the only person you trust hovers next to where you rest in silent contemplation.

Verr knows that look, and it was something she hasn't seen on the Adepti before. Of pure guilt and a sense of responsibility.

That night you rested surprisingly nightmare-free as your savior stands his ground next to where you rest.

Present Times

The couple had adopted you into the Inn family without a second's hesitance and you were thankful for them as you were to Xiao. You were no heavy expense or disadvantage and that made it all the more easier to adapt into your new lifestyle.

Despite no words or explanation, you were perfectly aware of the deeds your savior had done to save you and keep you alive, and with that you had sworn to serve him until the end of your time. A life for a life, equivalent exchange.

Coming into terms with being in Liyue and the Inn, your life choices were meddled with commerce and the importance of livelihood. You were young but your guilt of being under the care of such people forced you to take on any and every responsibility you can handle.

Despite your background you were expertly skilled with cooking. Your mother and father always taught you the importance of a meal for adventurers whenever you'd camped out. And your special touch on dishes that saves adventurers had drawn in many appetites.

Business boomed and the Inn wasn't just famous for being a temporary residence, but a sanctuary that offers tastes paired with the divine sense of Celestia. You became Wangshu Inn's Head Chef, with your sous-chef Smiley Yanxiao.

At times where Xiao is forced to make rounds to seize looming threats, he'd find himself picking fresh and healthy ingredients he'd find on the way back and present to you for new recipes to experiment on.

But you also pride yourself with a different title, or titles: The Adepti's Personal Chef, Tender of the Yaksha, Adepti's Devotee.

This title was emphasized by the Sigil of Permission sewn into an armband hanging by your right arm, something you proudly wear even beyond the walls of the Inn.

You found out the Adepti's favorite during your daily visit and breaks, usually done so by hanging out in the balcony with him with a brand new recipe you recently made and wanted to test out.

While he sat parallel to you, he eyed the transparent syrup and the gelatinous substance in the obvious curiousity he shows for all your new creations, silently awaiting your opinion by watching your expression: whenever you show even the slightest distaste, he'll pointedly ignore his curiousity and the dish altogether. And if you express such pride and achievement, his interest will get the better of him, if you haven't offered the dish quickly enough.

"What is this?" He'd finally ask after your delighted moans, indulging on your own creation.

"Mmm, Almond Tofu... do you wish to try it?" Without an answer he'd pick up the only spoon on the plate and tasted it himself. And just like that, he'd froze, eyes full blown in surprise and awe.

"Do you like it?" He can only hum in response as he scarfs down the plate by himself, chewing respectfully yet with a hint of vigor in every scoop. "It tastes... like dreams..." the way he looked at you, with eyes possessing such childlike wonder, you couldn't help but fall.

After that, Xiao had requested a daily plate/offering of it. It became a routine to the point that all workers heard of the favoritism and are encouraged to learn the recipe. But it's usually your dish that is served, unless special occasions calls for someone else.

There has been an influx of dormers and adventurers recently as citizens around Teyvat flock to the Liyue continent in hopes to watch the most extravagant celebration of the new year, the Lantern Rite Festival.

Your best efforts manning the kitchen together with Yanxiao took gruelling hours just to prepare for the dinner's first course even with hours of prep time available. Even both bosses had to lend some hands as your sous-chef can barely keep up with your stride. And after the dishes are finally distributed to the dining hall, you were already set in cleaning up the kitchen, and before you knew it-

"It has been an hour."

"It was a busy day, I'm sorry, Xiao." You could only muster a mumble in guilt as you kept your head down on the usual table, refusing to look at the disapproving expression he definitely wore, except he doesn't. His face has the slightest hints of worry and wonder at your deflated composure.

But his focus now was on the food he has been craving the whole day, already digging into his dessert. And you just tried your hardest not to fall asleep on the cold, wooden tabletop. Until your tummy rumbled through the silence.

A hum. "You haven't eaten?" You shake your head as you lift your head, gazing at the cute sight of your guardian tilting his head to the side in slight distaste for your lifestyle. You open your mouth to retort until you felt the cold utensil touch your bottom lip. "Here, I saved you the last bite. After this, get yourself a meal and retreat to your quarters, I don't want to hear any excuses." He softly urges a little push with the spoon so you get the hint, and you wrap your lips around it, chewing and gulping down cold dessert. He offered his favorite food, used the same spoon, and spoon fed you with it—

"Wha... don't- don't bite the spoon," you squeeze your eyes tight from the embarrassing thoughts in your head.

When people wish to have an audience with Xiao, most of the time they head to you for guidance after inquiring with Verr. They require a sigil of permission, and most of the times, your own sigil has been under fire a lot in their desperation.

An old merchant who desperately wants to hire the adepti to aid his caravan with personal security once tried to claw at your armband, but a split second after the tip of his fingers had touched the cloth, he was blown away to the nearest wall.

"What-," a pressure on your left shoulder pulls your other against a lean chest, protectively squeezing as a polearm materialized in front of you. You can feel the ragged vibrations of the Yaksha's unusually heavy breaths, his amber eyes sharp and dangerous, dilated like a predator.

"What gives you the idea that you had the authority to lay a hand on my assistant?" Black and teal embers conjure around you two as a dark shadow slowly creeps up from the ground. "That is their sigil of permission; I want nothing to do with you mere mortals."

If not for Verr and the other staff, things would have gone gruesome and unsightly for the business. Yes, business. Everyone disliked the guy enough to care more about the Inn than his actual well-being. When he'd come to, he was forced out of the Inn (he would have done so himself anyways as he was already traumatized).

"Sir Xiao, why did you do that?"

"He didn't have a Sigil, he was pretty much asking for it. And why have you gone formal?" You pouted at him and his only response was a quirked eyebrow. Walking over to stand behind him, you slowly wiggled your arms through the gap between his waist and slack arms, finding it easy enough with how thin his waist is as you wrapped him in a hug.

He tensed from the secretly ticklish feeling before letting down his guard in your arms. This was one of your leeway as his most devoted follower. Your constant exposure with the aid of the divine sigil has made you immune to the negative effects of Adeptal energy, enough to make him nigh worry about your safety around him anymore.

And him letting you hug him like this... let's just say it's from your mannerisms of comfort when you were still young and around him.

"Take an indefinite leave," Xiao broke the silence a few minutes after, forcing you to crane your head to the side to look at him. He meets your gaze with an amused glint. "You have no debt to pay here, you shouldn't be holed up in a place like this."

"It is true that me leaving wouldn't have majooor repercussions, but what's with the sudden idea?"

He huffs. "You're my only follower and yet you divide your attention serving temporary mortals that will pass by without remembrance. And besides," you tense at the sight of an upturn on the edge of lip, pearly whites subtly peeking, "personal does not mean sharing."

You were an adventurer at heart and it's time you indulge in that glorified life of excitement, with your guardian by your side. It was the only gift he can come up with for your undying devotion.

Holy - I had to cut this thing A LOT because I wrotE A HECKIN LOT WTF?! It's not even done in my mind, my goodness, there should be an adventuring unit here too but hhhh I got too conscious of the length sksksks I'm so sorry! P-Part 2-?

I enjoyed writing this a tad bit too much sksksks but now that the second to the last installation of this even is published, the next request should be the last one! And that means I'll have to stop the poll and start working on the requests for the 100 followers one! So if you haven't voted there, you should before it's too late!!

[e-m-christina]

Wonderland: Kili x Reader Pt7

Requests are open!

MASTERLIST

SIX MONTHS AGO, THE PRANCING PONY.

In the lands beyond Bree, there were mysterious wanderers.

The Bree-folk called them Rangers and being unlettered hicks, for the most part, Bree folk knew nothing of the wanderer’s origins. They were believed to have strange powers of sight and hearing. When the Rangers appeared, they brought strange news from afar, but since they didn't buy anything from the markets, the Bree-folk did not make friends of them.

A cloaked and elderly wanderer sat in the corner with a raven perched on either shoulder, observing the people in the large common room of the inn.

It was large and mixed with all sorts of people. Butterball, the owner was talking to a group of dwarves near the fire.  On the benches were various folk: the local drunks for the most part, but also elves, hobbits and other odd figures in the shadowy corners.

The old wanderer was interested not in the drunks, but in a single dwarf who sat by the crackling fire. He had long, matted black hair, soaked by the rain and a grim expression. And opposite him sat a haggard grey wizard.

“Thorin, it has been a long time since anything but the rumour was heard of Thrain.” The wanderer heard the wizard say in a low voice.

“He still lives, I am sure it,” Thorin whispered back.  “My father came to see you before he went missing. What did he say to you?”

“I urged him to march upon Erebor, to rally the seven armies of the dwarves, to destroy the dragon and take back the Lonely Mountain,” Gandalf said and took a drink of ale. “And I would say the same to you, Thorin Oakensheild. Take back your homeland.”

“This is no chance meeting, is it Gandalf?”

“No, it is not.” Gandalf leaned forward. “The Lonely Mountain troubles me. The dragon has sat there long enough. Sooner or later, darker minds will turn towards Erebor.”

“Go on.” Said Thorin darkly.

“I ran into some unsavoury characters, whilst travelling on the Greenway. They mistook me for a vagabond.”

“I imagine they regretted that.”

“Yes,” Gandalf said and pulled out an old cloth with dark runes smudged into the material. “One of them was carrying this message.”

The wanderer watched as Thorin leaned forward to read the message, but the dwarf frowned and shook his head.

“I cannot read that.” He said.

“It is Black Speech,” Gandalf said. “A promise of payment.”

“For what?” Asked Thorin.

“Your head,” Gandalf said, and Thorin looked up, pale-faced. “You are the heir to the throne of Durin, unite the dwarf armies. Together, you have the might and power to retake Erebor. Summon a meeting between the seven dwarf families and demand that they stand by their oath.”

“The seven armies swore that oath to the one who wields the kings jewell - the Arkenstone. It is the only thing that will unite them, and that stone was stolen by Smaug.” Thorin said.

“What if I were to help you reclaim it?” Gandalf said. The wanderer puffed at his pipe,  a blaze of red embers flashed across his face, revealing an eyepatch before the embers faded and the black of his hood concealed his face once more.

He had heard enough. He knew that the old wizard and the dwarf were the right people to carry out his divine plan. He grabbed a napkin, and scribbled only three words; ‘Prepare for her.’

He stood up, passed the table and swiftly placed the note in the Wizard’s pocket before vanishing into the night, leaving behind nothing but two raven feathers.

---

PRESENT TIME

“How close is the orc pack?” Dwalin asked when Bilbo rushed around the corner of the cliff.

It had been a week since the Eagles had saved the company from the Pale Orc, but the pack soon caught their scent.

And Y/n’s condition had taken a drastic change for the worse - Gandalf inspected her wound and said that it was definitely infected with goblin venom. The wizard told her that she would be alright, yet she grew less strong and more sickly each day.

Y/n had a makeshift bandage made of a torn blanket around her burning waist and she used various members of the company to help support her (though she often found that it was Kili that offered to help most of the time).

“They are close, a couple of leagues maybe. But that is not the worst of it.” Bilbo doubled over, panting frantically.

“Did they see you? They saw you!” Said Gandalf, shoving Nori out of the way to get to the Hobbit.

“No, that’s not it,  but -”

“What did I tell you? Quiet as a mouse!” Gandalf said, and the dwarves began chattering amongst themselves.

Y/n watched through hazy eyes as the Hobbit tried to speak over them. Even she could tell in her dazed state that Bilbo was freaked out by something else.

“Excellent burglar material.” Gandalf continued, the dwarves still chatting in agreement.

“Will you listen? Will you just listen!?” Bilbo yelled, finally catching the attention of the others. “I am trying to tell you that there is something else out there!”

Y/n’s heart stopped. Something else other than those orcs? Could her week get any worse? The company fell dead silent and she felt Kili’s grip on her waist tighten.

“What form did it take?” Gandalf asked. “Was it like a bear?”

“Yes-” Bilbo stopped and frowned. “Yes, but bigger, much bigger.”

“You knew about this beast?” Bofur stepped forward, gripping his axe. “I say we double back.”

“And be run down by a pack of orcs? We can’t risk it and Y/n’s condition is getting worse!” Said Kili as Y/n leaned on him for support.

Kili was right - if they went back the orcs would catch them, and Gandalf needed to treat her wound as soon as possible.

“There is a house, not far from here.” Gandalf turned around. “Where we might take refuge.”

“Who’s house? Are they friend or foe?” Asked Thorin.

“Neither,” Gandalf said. “He will help us, or he will kill us.”

“What choice do we have?” Balin asked, just as a warg screeches echoed through the evening air.

“None,” Gandalf said.

“Oh, that is just wonderful,” Y/n muttered, shaking her dizzy head.

---

They had been on the run for the whole night, and by the time the sun broke over the horizon, Y/n thought she might pass out. Her whole body ached, her legs felt like there were boulders chained to them and worst of all, her abdomen felt like a red-hot poker was searing away her skin and melting her flesh.

“Keep going, the house isn’t far now!” Gandalf yelled from the front of the group as they charged through the forest. Grinding her teeth, Y/n willed herself to keep going, however much she wanted to just collapse onto the pine-needle covered ground.

The screeches of the orc pack got closer and closer until a deep roar rumbled through the trees. The company came to a brief halt, looking around. The howls from the Wargs had ceased and the gut-wrenching roaring of the new beast continued.

“This way! Quickly!” Yelled Gandalf, taking off once again. Y/n found herself stumbling over the moss-covered logs and rocks that lay on the forest floor. Kili had a firm grip on her waist as he led over the rough terrain, making sure she didn’t fall or pass out.

“I see the house!” Dwalin yelled once they had burst from the tree-line and into a lush field. Not too far away, Y/n could see a wooden cabin situated in a large garden surrounded by large stone walls that had a laddering ivy sprawling over the concrete.

“Run!” Gandalf yelled when a great black beast leapt from the trees, gaining on them with every stride.

Y/n’s heart began to hammer even faster as she whipped her head back around and pushed every ounce of energy she had to the forefront to pick up her speed. Y/n could even feel the vibrations of the bears’ heavy strides through the ground.

“Open the door!” Thorin yelled when the company began pilling up. Why aren’t they opening the door? Y/n thought, panicked, as the bear got closer.

“Quickly!” Gandalf yelled before Thorin shoved past and opened the latch on the thick brown door. The company flooded inside, Y/n, Kili and Gandalf the last to enter, when the bear sprung forward just as the doors were beginning to close.

Its massive head snapped and growled at them with great jaws, bearing teeth as large as Y/n’s forearm.

"Close it!" Dwalin yelled, ramming the door with his full body.

At last, the dwarves managed to shove the doors closed, much to the relief of Y/n. She doubled over in both pain and exhaustion with a groan. Kili gave her a worried glance before Ori spoke up.

“What was that thing?” Asked Ori, turning to the wizard.

“That is our host,” Gandalf said at last, and Y/n could almost hear the utter confusion and shock. “His name is Beorn and he is a Skin-Changer. Sometimes he’s a great black bear, other times he is a strong man. The bear is unpredictable, but the man can be reasoned with. And he is not overly fond of dwarves.”

Y/n heard Dori snort, and she watched as he pulled Ori away from the door.

“Come away from there! It is not natural, none of it. It is obvious, he is under some sort of dark spell!” Dori hissed, making Gandalf roll his eyes.

“Oh don’t be a fool, he is under no enchantment but his own," Gandalf said, taking off his pointy hat. “Now all of you go rest, I must tend to Y/n’s wound. We will be safe here tonight...I hope.”

---

Y/n winced as Gandalf smeared the last of the Athelas paste on her wound. It was worse than she has expected -  the veins around the injury looked like spidery black webs and it oozed a thick dark liquid.

“I have run out of Athelas paste, but that should stop the infection from spreading for now,” Gandalf said as Y/n sat up and buttoned up the last four buttons of her new tunic.

“Thanks, I feel a lot better than I was.” She said, but the pain was not entirely gone; the area burned but the sickly feeling in her stomach had faded and her mind was less foggy.

“Good,” Gandalf said. “On another subject, have you remembered anything that might aid me in understanding how you ended up in this world?” Gandalf asked.

“No, sorry Gandalf.” She said. And Y/n pursed her lips. Much to her guilt, she sometimes forgot that she wasn’t actually from there. That she had a real family and a real home, yet something deep inside of her didn’t really want to leave Middle-Earth.

“No matter,” Gandalf said, patting her on the pack. “Now go get some rest, we will be leaving early tomorrow morning.”

And with that, Y/n slipped out of the room and into the main part of the house. As she wandered around, she stuck her hand in her pocket, rolling the ring absentmindedly between her fingers.

She found the company sitting in little huddles in the corners of the room, chatting, smoking and eating. She saw Kili sitting in a far corner away from everyone else. She frowned when she saw him shooting glares at his brother, Fili.

Had they fallen out? Y/n found it hard to believe since they were practically tied at the hip.

“Hello, Kili.” She said, slumping down on the pile of straw, next to the dwarf. He looked up with a smile, his glowering face changing in an instant.

“Does it hurt?” He asked, peering at her exhausted face.

“Just a little.” Y/n yawned, stretching her aching muscles. Kili jokingly rolled his eyes. He thought it rather odd that she described an infected wound as ‘just a little painful.'

“You’re lucky. Not many people survive goblin bites, though I guess you are not a normal person.” Kili said, making Y/n cock an eyebrow.

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” She asked, watching a smirk grow on Kili’s lips.

“You were dropped into a world where you have never been before, then you gladly join a group of strange dwarves and when you are bitten by a goblin you describe it as ‘just a little painful!” He said with a laugh.

"Yeah, you are laughing now, but wait until I get my phone back and tweet that I have been to Middle-Earth. I’ll be famous.” Y/n muttered.

Then again, she might already be famous - as a missing person. She wondered if there were search parties out there for her at that moment in time.

“I do not know what any of that means and you just proved my point,” Kili said making Y/n laugh.

“So,” Kili said, leaning back. “Are you going to give me drawing lessons, as you promised?”

“Yeah, sure,” Y/n said, before picking up up her bag and pulling out her sketchpad and an old pencil that was buried under her belongings.

She passed the book to Kili and he flipped to an empty page with a grin. Y/n thought it was rather cute how he looked like a child on Christmas morning.

“So what should I draw? How do I draw? Is there a certain-”

“Woah, slow down,” Y/n laughed at his eagerness. “One question at a time.”

“Right sorry,” He smiled. “What should I draw?”

“That’s up to you. You could draw a landscape, an object, a person. Anything really.” Y/n said, watching his dark eyes squint in thought before they landed on Y/n.

“Can I draw you?” He asked.

“Yeah, if you want.” Y/n chuckled, feeling flattered. Kili grabbed the pencil awkwardly between his fingers before biting his lip.

“And how exactly do I draw?” He asked, staring at the paper like it was going to bite him.

“Well,” Y/n said. “You just start with basic shapes. If you are drawing a face, start by drawing a circle, before adding the other features.”

“Okay, I’ll give it a go!”

And so he began, dragging the pencil across the blank page, leaving grey lines in its wake. Every so often Kili would glance up to stare at Y/n’s face before resuming his art.

Y/n had to suppress a smile when she looked at his face; his eyebrows were drawn together and his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“Done!” He exclaimed, holding up the sketchpad with a puffed out chest and a toothy grin. Y/n’s eyes landed on what looked like an egg with two lopsided circle eyes and hair that seemed to be floating around its head. She felt slightly offended.

“It’s amazing!” Y/n lied with a smile and his grin widened even further.  It was his first time drawing after all and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Everyone had to start somewhere, right?

“You really think so!?” Kili beamed, jumping up. “I want to show Balin.” He said before bounding around the corner.

Y/n laughed and shook her head. Who would have thought that a hardened warrior like him would take such joy in drawing?

---

Night had fallen and a dark blanket lay over the lands. Most of the dwarves had fallen asleep, but not Kili.

For the last few hours, he had Y/n teach him different methods of drawing and he (to Y/n’s surprise) was getting rather good. His skills had improved so much that when he drew her, she no longer looked like an egg, but more like a hairless monkey.

“Done! Now it's your turn." He said, passing the sketchbook back to her.

"Okay, do you want me to draw you?" Y/n asked and the dwarf nodded.

"If you would like to," Kili said with a smirk.

Y/n grabbed her pencil and got to work, sprawling lines across the page and shading patches delicately. When she started sketching his hair, she noticed something rather odd.

"You don't have any braids," Y/n said, staring at his long, dark hair. Kili looked up at her in surprise. The rest of the dwarves had braids in their hair and beards, yet Kili was the only one without any.

"Did you really just notice?" Kili laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah, I never noticed before. It was just when I was about to draw your hair when I realised." Y/n said and an idea popped into her head. "Can I braid your hair?"

"What?" Kill said, looking up with wide eyes. She didn't want to offend him but she thought it might look nice for the sketch.

"You don't have to," Y/n said, but Kili shook his head.

"No, no, it's fine. Go ahead." He said, his cheeks becoming very hot and pink as Y/n reached over and began separating three locks of his hair.

His hair felt soft to the touch as she weaved the pieces into a delicate pattern, her lip hooked in her teeth as she furrowed her brow in concentration.

She was so close that his scent of pinewood and mud filled her nose. Y/n couldn't help but feel slightly nervous being that close to Kili, but she tried to push it down.

"Done!" Y/n said, pulling back to admire the small, intricate braid she had created.

"It looks good." Kili said, looking at his hair in the reflection of the water bucket. "I didn't know you could braid."

"My sister taught me," Y/n said, watching as a red-cheeked Kili began fidgeting with his fingers and opened his mouth to say something.

"Y/n, I want to tell you-"

"Would you two shut your traps? I'm trying to sleep!" Both Y/n and Kili snapped their heads to the left, to see Dwalin rolling over with a groan.

"Sorry," Y/n whispered but Dwalin had already begun to snore. Y/n turned back to Kili. "What did you want to tell me, Kili?"

"Nothing - it doesn't matter." Kili awkwardly laughed, before changing the subject.

---

Posted: Part 8 coming soon!

A/n: I hope you all celebrated the 22nd of September as it was Middle-Earth Day!

And again, sorry for any mistakes, it is once again almost 1am as I am writing this!

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 25)

Notes: Hi lovely readers,Thank you for everybody who commented on last weeks chapter and for those of you who fed back to say you would keep on reading E&L after ACOSF. It's great to know I can continue at my own pace, especially as work is about to pick up for me so it would be hard to write more than I have been already.

Let me know what you think of this chapter :) And as usual, apologies for my typos!

Chapter Twenty-Five Nesta

Nesta barely heard the sound of the door opening and shutting as Feyre left. Neither did she truly register the murmur of voices or the sensation of power vacuuming into nothing as Rhys and Feyre winnowed back to Velaris.

Feyre’s words had cracked her open again, and all Nesta wanted was to sleep so she didn’t have to think about her sister or the errors of her own past. Of the forgiveness her sister had granted her which she did not think she deserved. How her sister had offered a slate wiped clean, something that Nesta had secretly hungered for so long she couldn’t even pinpoint when it had started.

It was a chance to begin again, if Nesta wanted it. Or the chance to draw a line under everything and leave entirely.

A choice, either way.

Everything Feyre had said had been true. Nesta had felt her sister’s honesty in her stomach laced with her sister’s scent — pear and lilac. But was Nesta ready to forgive her sister? Seeing her sister curled up in the armchair — stationary rather than moving, the world still — made everything hurt. But when they had been in the midst of action, when together they had fought side-by side, a team rather than two opposing forces, Nesta had felt whole.

Another wave of tiredness washed over Nesta. She was too drained to contemplate it further, so she allowed the exhaustion to tug her down, down, down with both of its strong hands. She allowed her body to mould into the mattress, surrendering to the comforting weight of the midnight blue duvet and the woollen blankets.

Nesta dipped in and out of a sleep infused with pine and musk. Her pointed ears picked up the sounds of someone moving about the house, the bedroom door as it opened. She felt large hands on her forehead. The dip of the mattress. Heard the rustle of wings.

At one point, she had cracked open an eye to see a tent of red umber. Felt the ghosting warmth of a body and soft, even breathing before she slipped back under.

She had nightmares and vivid dreams. At first it was lifeless eyes, cracked wings, screams and blood. But then she saw her mother at the breakfast table, pouring herself a cup of tea. Her father returning from a long absence, his hair smelling of sea salt as he picked Nesta up in a hug. Nesta saw a younger Feyre, her face full of innocence and youth as Nesta read to her, a book of fairytales lying across her skirts. And Elain, brushing Nesta’s hair in front of a cracked mirror, the strands a dull, brittle brown in the weak firelight…

When she woke the next morning, Nesta was still tired but the pain in her abdomen had been dialled back, gnawing quietly rather than roaring.

Cassian was not there.

Wincing, Nesta eased herself into a sitting position just as Mas bustled into the room with Roksana in tow, the latter carrying some dusky blue snowdrops in her chubby hands.

Setting down the tray she had been carrying on the bed, Mas moved to open the curtains. Beyond the deep-set window was a stretch of luminescent white snow and a sliver of startling blue sky, the colour you usually saw in paintings rather than in real life. The Illyrian sky still took Nesta’s breath away, the colours brushed across its canvas so vibrant that Nesta knew that anywhere else would seem dull in comparison.

Roksana started to clamber onto the bed, her small wings stretching as they prepared to launch her into flight, but Mas caught her before her feet could leave the ground. “No you don’t, little youngling,” Mas tutted, placing Roksana firmly back on her feet. “Tuck those wings back in and show Lady Nesta what you have brought her.”

Shyly, Roksana stuck out her hand to show Nesta the flowers and said in Illyrian, “Ecce.”

Nesta did not allow her eyes to widen as Roksana spoke, but she allowed a her lips to tug upwards. She had picked up enough Illyrian to understand the youngling: Here.

“Thank you,” Nesta told the little girl sincerely as she took them from her clenched fist. “Pulchra.”

Nesta darted a look at Mas to check she had said the word ‘beautiful’ correctly and Mas nodded as she kissed Roksana on the cheek and tickled her belly.

“What do you say, sinta?” she asked the youngling.

But that seemed to be the limit of Roksana’s conversation. A shy blush stained her tan cheeks and she stubbornly shook her head, her tangled hair moving.

Mas shot Nesta an apologetic smile but Nesta shrugged it off with a small smile of her own. One word had been enough to make the whole of Illyria that little bit brighter. She longed to give the girl a hug, but she had yet to test the range of her movement given yesterday’s injuries.

“How are you feeling?” Mas asked, bending to kiss Nesta’s cheek before she rubbed it away with her thumb. Nesta wished she wouldn’t. Wished she could let the mark of love sink deep into her skin.

“A little sore,” Nesta conceded as Mas handed her a steaming mug of Frawyley’s tea. Then she admitted, “I’m desperate for a bath.”

Whilst Nesta had woken with no blood on her, she still felt the grime coating her skin like a thick oil. She longed to scrub off the residue of blood and screams, the images of limbs and dead bodies. Durkhanai’s green unseeing eyes floated across Nesta’s vision, and she closed her eyes tightly in a bid to shut out the image.

Sweet, kind Durkhanai. A female, who like so many others, had deserve more than her harsh, miserable life. A female who had decided to fight but had been cut down before she’d been properly able to wield a blade.

Nesta swallowed and Mas cupped Nesta’s face in her hands. “We will remember them all,” Mas said quietly. “Today we will burn their bodies on the pyre and let their souls go. Then they will be free.”

When Nesta opened her eyes, Mas was staring at Nesta with a determination Nesta had not seen on her before.

Mas sat down on the mattress and took Nesta’s hands. She stared at them for a long moment.

“I think I am done, Lady Nesta.”

Nesta froze, scared somehow, at the words. Her heart thumped. “What do you mean?”

Mas’s hands squeezed Nesta’s fingers, and then she looked directly at Nesta. “What I mean, is that I am done,” Mas repeated quietly, but there was a fervent way in which she spoke. Her dark hazel irises burnt with a deliberate intent that Nesta had felt raging in her own on many occasions. A steely resolution. “I am done being ruled by males. I am done being inferior. I have been given a new life and I do not intend to waste it.”

Mas smiled tightly at her and then kissed Nesta’s cheek again. It was a loving gesture and Nesta’s heart swelled. This time she did not rub it away. “General Cassian said someone might have been behind the attacks. That us widows might have been targeted somehow.” The housekeeper huffed angrily. “As if we deserve more suffering than we have already endured, most at the hands of males. Well, I will not stand for it any longer, and neither will the fellow females in my camp.” Mas let go of Nesta’s hands and straightened up, as if that was the end of the conversation — black and white. Obvious. “I will run you a bath.”

She handed Nesta a spoon loaded with liquid. “Take this for the pain and drink the tea for your magic whilst I get it ready,” she told Nesta, “General Cassian told me to let you know that your sister will be arriving soon. There is a consul for the lords. He asked if you’d like to attend.”

Swallowing her medicine, Nesta gingerly eased herself out of bed and wrapped her fingers around her mug. She had been in too much pain the day before to be eased into different clothing and her leathers creaked and cracked as she moved. Nesta winced at the dull throb that twisted through her side. It was nothing like the pain that knocked the breath from her lungs yesterday, but it was enough to be uncomfortable.

Mas shot Nesta an admonishing look as Nesta stiffly followed the housekeeper to the bathroom, but she did not reach out to help her. Nesta appreciated it; she was fed up of being mollycoddled. Only Roksana came to Nesta’s side, her arms wrapping around Nesta’s right leg.

“Hi sinta,” Nesta said, running a palm over Roksana’s messy hair. Hi darling. Mas’s favourite phrase, but one Nesta had adopted for herself when she spoke to Roksana. “Once I’ve had a bath, shall I do your hair?”

Roksana nodded, slipping her hand into Nesta’s.

“How are you?” Nesta asked the housekeeper once she was fully submerged into the deliciously hot water. Mas had slipped in the same oils Cassian had used when he’d drawn her a bath all that time ago, and already Nesta could feel all of her muscles relax. Roksana was sitting on the carpet, drawing patterns into the thick plush of the bath mat with a stubby finger, her little wings trailing on the floor.

“I am fine,” Mas replied, lathering up Nesta’s hair. Normally Nesta would have refused to let anyone bathe her, but it hurt to lift her arms. For the first time that morning, it made Nesta glad that Cassian had not been there when she woke. Had not had to bathe her himself. The thought of Cassian having to bathe her — his hands in her hair — sent a shiver through her, goosebumps littering her skin.

“You’re cold?” Mas asked, raising an eyebrow as goosebumps littered Nesta’s skin.

“No,” Nesta replied, sinking a little lower into the steaming heat of the bath. “I don’t know if I would be fine if I had experienced what you had.”

I wasn’t fine, Nesta thought. I wasn’t fine for a very long time. It’s ok for you not to be fine, too. But she didn’t say that. Couldn’t, even now.

Mas eyed Nesta for a moment, before she continued to rub shampoo into the ends of Nesta’s hair.

“When the life bled out of me, it was not the pain or the injustice that plagued me, but the regret that I had not fought,” Mas admitted quietly. “And when you gifted me with a new chance, I realised that I had a choice; I could let my experiences consume me, or I could use them to fuel something else.”

“So I am not fine,” Mas continued, “but I will let that feeling motivate me into doing something good. I will try to do my bit.”

Nesta craned her neck to look up at the housekeeper. She had dipped a jug into the water ready to wash the suds from Nesta’s hair.

“What are you going to do?” Nesta asked, after Mas had gently poured the water over her head. Suds ran down the length of Nesta’s hair and Mas submerged the jug into the water again.

“You’ll see,” Mas said, her expression tight but promising as she carefully poured more water over Nesta’s head.

And that was that — conversation over. Nesta did not press the housekeeper. Mas had not pushed her when Nesta had first come to Illyria, when she had been a tangle of hollowed out grief and anger. Mas had not raised an eyebrow as Nesta was tapered off the alcohol, her clothes stained with vomit and her body relentlessly shaking. Mas had not forced her to eat when her cheeks were sunken and her figure skeletal. She was like Cassian in that way. Choice after choice after choice. An endless presence. Silent support.

So, Nesta would do the same. Because that’s what you did for those you loved.

  Nesta was braiding Roksana’s hair when Feyre arrived. To her surprise, her sister did not winnow directly into the living room but to the front door. When she knocked, Roksana jumped. Nesta dropped her hands to the youngling’s shoulders in reassurance.

When Mas opened the door, Feyre smiled tentatively. “I don’t think we were properly introduced,” her sister said to the housekeeper as she stepped inside in a waft of pear and lilac. “I’m Feyre.”

Blushing, Mas kept her eyes downcast as she bobbed into a curtsey. “I know who you are, High Lady.”

“Feyre,” her sister insisted. “Please. How are you today?”

“I’m well,” Mas said, a blush staining her tan cheeks.

Nesta bit down on the inside of her cheek to stop in place of rolling her eyes. She was sitting in her usual spot at the corner of the U-shaped couch with Roksana sitting on the floor between her legs. When Feyre approached them, Roksana began to scrabble, her small wings flaring as if she were ready to take flight.

Nesta managed to run a hand over the little girl’s head without losing hold of the end of the plait she had been finishing. “You’re ok, Roksana,” Nesta assured the youngling. “This is Feyre, my sister.”

Roksana’s wary eyes followed Feyre as she walked to the hearth and held her hands out to the flames, but she settled back into her previous position so Nesta could finish weave the last few twists to her hair.

“How are you feeling?” Feyre asked tentatively, her softened expression moving from Roksana to Nesta’s midriff, before finally settling on her face. No doubt taking in the colour in her sister’s cheeks that was absent the day before.

“Sore,” Nesta said, because it was the truth. Then she turned her attention back to Roksana. “Now,” she said to the youngling, “what colour ribbon are we going to choose today?”

Roksana pointed silently to a ribbon the colour of pine.

“And what letter does the word ‘green’ start with?” Nesta urged.

Roksana twisted to look up at Nesta. For a moment, she thought Roksana would refuse to speak, but then she mumbled, “Guh.”

“Very good,” Nesta praised with a nod. “Perhaps we can ask Feyre to pass the ribbon.”

Eyes sparkling, Feyre picked up a red ribbon from the collection littering the pine coffee table and asked Roksana, “This one?”

Roksana shook her head.

“Silly Feyre,” Nesta chided. She tickled her finger across Roksana’s chubby cheek as if she were erasing the little girl’s somber expression. To Nesta’s relief, the beginning of a smile promised to bloom across the youngling’s face at the touch. Nesta was thankful to Feyre for playing. Roksana’s eyes weren’t as haunted as they had been yesterday and Nesta was determined to keep it that way. “She doesn’t know the difference between green and red, does she, Roksana?”

No giggle but that small, secret smile widened slightly as Feyre passed Nesta the right ribbon.

“You look lovely,” Nesta told Roksana, her heart twisting as the little girl glowed. “Why don’t you go and show Mas your new hair?”

Feyre smiled as Roksana scampered off, her wings bobbing behind her. Then she turned back to Nesta and produced a letter from the folds of her cloak.

“From Elain,” Feyre said, handing the envelope to Nesta. “She sends her well wishes. She wanted to see you today, but there’s a consul meeting with the lords. Will you attend with me?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” Nesta replied, easing her body off the couch in a movement that she knew to be stiff.

Feyre eyed her as Nesta eased her headband over her head with a wince. She had opted for leathers again today, and although it had been a trial for both Mas and Nesta to get her into her them, Nesta was thankful for it. She was wearing her favourite pair, the material stretched from hours of fighting so that it moulded her body like a second skin. She fastened a midnight blue cloak around her body, the edging lined with soft, dappled fur, and tried not to notice how similar she looked to her sister.

Feyre was also wearing leathers, the close-fitting material complimenting her long limbs and the elegant shape of her body. Around her neck, she had fastened the black leather clasps of a thick silver cloak lined with white fur.

Her hair was the only difference to Nesta. Whereas Mas had braided Nesta’s hair into a bun held in place by a woven plait that ran from the right of her hairline, Feyre’s golden strands were weaved into a tight braid that ran from her crown to the very ends.

Even so, there was no mistaking that they were sister’s.

Thankful that she hadn’t tried to thread her arms through her coat, Nesta reached stiffly for the door handle.

“I can winnow us, if you like,” Feyre said carefully, before Nesta had the chance to bear the house to the elements. No doubt her sister had clocked her grimace.

The old Nesta — the girl angry beyond measure — would have turned her sister down, merely because conceding that someone had dissected how she was feeling made her feel too vulnerable. But Nesta needed to change. Wanted to… to a point.

So, she nodded shortly. “I don’t think I can walk that far.”

Then Nesta turned to Mas, who had emerged by the alcove to see them off. Roksana peeked from behind Mas’s legs, a ring of chocolate around her mouth.

“I’ll come and meet you at the camp later,” Nesta told the housekeeper. “Shall I bring anything? Blankets and warm clothes?”

But Mas only shook her head. “We have plenty. Emerie — the shopkeeper — bought armfuls of blankets and clothes for the widows last night. Durkhanai used-“

“I know,” Nesta interrupted, not able to hear about Durkhanai when the wound was so fresh.

Mas did not scold Nesta for the interruption. She only smiled sadly and waved the two of them off, before disappearing back into the kitchen with Roksana at her heels.

“Roksana is an orphan?” Feyre asked Nesta, glancing sideways at her sister after they had winnowed into the midst of the camp.

Ahead of them, beyond the pointed tents, Nesta could see the outlines of the sparring plateaus. Shadowy, winged figures moved within them, the clang of steel and grunts carrying on the wind.

Letting go of her sister’s hand, Nesta settled her headband over her ears so it was snug. Despite her determination to dull any unwanted noise, she had a feeling that today was going to try her ability to succumb to battle fatigue.

“Yes,” Nesta replied shortly. But then there was a beat of a pause in which Nesta realised that Feyre was right; communication was an issue for them. So, she elaborated, “Mas fostered Roksana when she was first brought to the widows camp. When Cassian found out, he employed Roksana alongside Mas to keep her out of harsher work.”

Nesta had seen the little girls who were set to work in the kitchens, or worse, the laundry rooms. The latter was the harshest of the camp jobs, and the younglings were often required to stamp and wring cloth for long durations of time until their feet and fingers blistered from the friction. It was always easy to tell apart the orphans from the other girls. Their faces were more gaunt, their clothing ragged, their eyes hollow. They looked exhausted and Nesta had always left feeling so outraged she wanted to set the laundry houses alight.

Feyre looked at Nesta sharply. “But Roksana can’t be more than five.”

Nesta’s lips tightened until they turned white. “No,” was all she said.

Surprise wound through Nesta as Feyre took her hand. “Will you show me the camp when you are better?” Feyre asked. “I would like to get a better sense of how things are run here. Children should not be working—”

“There are many injustices here, not just to the younglings,” Nesta clipped, because she could not stand by and allow her sister to think that was the only twisted cultural tradition in the camps.

But then, slowly, she nodded in agreement. If Feyre could make change happen in the camps, then Nesta wasn’t going to let their difficult past get in the way of that. “I will show you,” she conceded. “Mas can help, too. She is like a mother figure to many of the females.”

Silence fell again, but this time it was not uncomfortable. They continued to walk through the snow towards the large tent Nesta knew was reserved for war counsel. It was huge, the canvas at least three times the size of the other tents.

“Do you think the rebellion has weight?” Feyre asked her sister. “Do you think the Illyrian’s have a reason to want a different leader?”

It was a plea for honesty and it was not in Nesta’s nature to lie. So, she said, “I think the Illyrians are a proud race who are ingrained in tradition, but they desperately need help in how they restructure the injustices in their communities. They need to do it without losing the elements of their culture which make them who they are.”

Then Nesta changed the subject, because she could not sense him. Had not sensed him since she’d woken that morning, and it was starting to unnerve her, even though logically, she knew he must be in the tent with the other lords. “Where is Cassian?”

Usually, Nesta would not ask outright, but the more things shifted between them the less she cared. There was a part of her that needed to see him. Did he not feel the same? She supposed she had driven him away one time to many. Was that not what he had said yesterday?

If I remember correctly, it was always you trying to rid yourself of me.

Sometimes, Nesta thought the both of them were traversing down a path that was tangled in miscommunication and mistranslated actions.

It was true that Nesta had told Cassian to leave her alone after the war, but had he not chosen someone else well before that? And despite his dying promise to her, Cassian had left the battlefield with Mor rather than her. That had spoken volumes for Nesta. It was not how the love story was supposed to play out in her head. It told her they were nothing but a tie strung between them, rather than being motivated by true feeling.

Even now, the thought made Nesta angry… Yet, the way Cassian looked at her sometimes, his eyes tender and his touch reverent… It was almost enough to convince her that there was something deeper.

They may be magnets but if that attraction was severed, would there by anything left or would they both part ways without a glance over their shoulders?

“Cassian has been with Rhys all morning,” Feyre told Nesta. “Azriel brought news this morning and Rhys disappeared from Velaris in the early hours.”

Nesta did not want to imagine her sister’s mate curled and sleepy around Feyre, dragging himself unwillingly out of bed. Did not want to hear about her sister existing in a home that had been made without her. A home built specifically for every member of their inner circle but her.

And Nesta had wanted to be left alone initially, but then to see how it played out… to see her erased as her sisters started anew and Nesta was forced to attend…

Well, it turned out that Nesta had not wanted that at all.

“What was Azriel’s news?” Nesta asked.

“I’m not sure,” Feyre admitted. “Rhys left whilst I was asleep.”

“Didn’t he speak to you mind-to-mind?” Nesta asked with a frown. Her sister and her mate were always doing that with one another, especially in the company of others. If Nesta were the sort, it would have made her increasingly paranoid. Instead, it just made her irritable.

Feyre nodded. “He only asked me to come to Illyria and see if you would join us in the war-tent at midday. He said there was an update.” She glanced sideways at Nesta. “It’s harder to speak to one another when the distance is great,” she elaborated. “It’s like we’re speaking under water. The sound is muffled, so he made it brief.”

Together they stepped up to the huge war tent. Feyre had fallen silent, as if Nesta had reminded her of her own abilities and she were conversing with her mate.

Nesta stared at the tent whilst Feyre’s eyes remained glazed. Stared at the black banner that flew from the top of the canvas, bearing a mountain with three silver stars above the monolith - Ramiel.

“Rhys says we are to go right in,” Feyre said finally. “They haven’t started yet.”

Inside, Nesta heard the rumble of low voices. It was not a comforting sound; rough and weathered, rather than Cassian’s gentle rumble that felt like a caress.

“Are you ready?” Feyre asked.

Nesta snorted. “What for?”

“The lords.”

A harsher snort. “I don’t care about them.”

Straightening her posture, Nesta drew up tall and formidable. Even though she knew every male in there would rival her in height, she would not allow herself to be intimidated. And she shouldn't be, not with the double-edged serpent which writhed inside her veins — her welcome friend.

Nesta allowed that power to seep from her fingers, testing it out, winding the mist until it was a string of fire around her wrists; a coiled, formidable whip.

Feyre’s lips twitched as if she were pleased to see her sister’s magic. She held up her own tattooed hand, showcasing the fire that she darted between her outstretched fingers.

Her smile was feline. “Let’s go.”

  The tent was surprisingly warm once Nesta had pushed through the heavy flaps. Roaring open steel fire pits crackled fiercely, lighting the canvas and the simple yet comfortable interior ochre.

In the centre of the tent was a large pine table with studded detail, and rather than strewn with maps, it was surrounded by low-backed chairs. In them were the local lords.

Nesta recognised some of the lords cruel faces as she strode inside, her long legs carrying her despite the bark of pain that bit at her side. A quick glance around the table told her that there were no spare chairs, but she kept walking anyway, as if she were nothing but certain in a tent full of testosterone and muscle.

“Good,” a smooth voice drawled — Rhys. “We’re all here.”

He was sat at the head of the table closest to the back of the tent, bedecked in his usual black rather than leathers. A modest crown was inlaid into his unruffled blue-black hair with such subtlety it seemed as if it were a part of him. It was twin to Feyre’s, the stone the colour of the midnight sky and the same as the jewel set into the ring on her sister’s finger — her mating ring.

It was a purposeful move to wear their crowns. Neither of them had done that the last time they had visited Illyria together. The day that Nesta had first met Devlon. When he had called her a witch. The thought amused her now. Her power jumped too, as if it was also entertained by the memory.

The mist wreathing around Nesta’s wrists thickened, gleaming silver.

When Nesta found Cassian, she stopped searching. He was decked out in full scaled leathers and his hair hung wild around him.

With the flickering flames bathing him in a warm glow, he looked indisputably rugged and fierce, but his eyes were on her wrists. Letting her walls fall away Nesta speared for him, just as Azriel had taught her. The method was easy, as if her magic was already seeking him out.

When Cassian’s hazel eyes darted to look at her face, a barely detectable light danced in them. And when her stomach filled with mirth and pride, she knew he was privy to her invisible move.

“What are they doing here?”

All amusement in Cassian’s eyes winked out, his irises turning dark as he snapped his head to the lord who had sneered.

The lord — like all of the most powerful Illyrian warriors — was tall, his entire body corded with unyielding, fierce muscle. Black ink peeked out of the armour at his neck and his hair was close-cropped to his scalp, which was flecked with white scars. His eyes were depthless and such a dark brown in some lights they appeared obsidian, his irises practically blending with his pupils.

They were fixated on Nesta.

Nesta allowed the lord to glare at her. She stared right back, her expression blank but her eyes burned.

He looked unmistakably like his son, Ragar.

“Your High Lady and her sister will be joining today’s counsel, given their involvement in yesterday’s events,” Rhys said calmly, but nobody could mistake the sudden chill of starlight eternal which filled the tent.

A growl of disagreement from the lord. Grumbled murmurs from the other males also ran around the tent.

“A witch has no place on this counsel,” the lord replied bitingly.

Nesta did not let herself rise to the comment. She did not let her power leap to assert authority. Did not need to, even as Cassian’s snarl whipped around them with such ferocity that the fires sputtered.

And then, to everyone’s surprise — before Rhys or Cassian could even open their mouths — Devlon said coldly, “I believe the witch has earned her place on this counsel more than you have, Albar. She is the reason we don’t have more deaths and casualties.”

When Devlon got to his feet, his scaled armour clinked at the movement. Broad wings flared to balance him as he pulled out his chair. And rather than offer it to his High Lady, he gestured for Nesta to sit with a jerk of his chin.

Silence fell but Nesta only drew up taller. Did not allow herself to wince as she seated herself at the table. She felt Cassian’s concern anyway. Slammed up her ice to block him out. She didn’t need the distraction of his emotions right now, not when she wanted to remain collected.

Not when she was trying to block out the sounds of the roaring fires from the open pits.

Rhys waved a hand and two more chairs appeared around the table for Devlon and Feyre. The war lord sat in the chair beside Nesta, just as Cassian settled himself in a chair one place down to allow Feyre to sit next to her mate.

Another flick of the hand silenced the fires. Some of the lords frowned in confusion.

Rhys did not rest his violet eyes on Nesta. She was relieved.

“Since when have we allowed a witch to live amongst us,” Albar sneered, clearly not finished. “We are Illyrian’s. We do not accept outsiders, even if this bastard has a preference for one.”

The way in which Cassian leant forward over the table was slow, but every single lord turned to look at him as he braced his hands on the wood. His seven siphons gleamed threateningly and his face… it was brimming with thunderous calm.

Cassian opened his mouth to speak, his hazel eyes flashing, his wings rustling, but Nesta stopped him before words left his mouth.

She did not need someone to fight her battles. And Cassian did know that, but she also knew that Cassian could not help himself in his need to defend her. She was not angry at him for it. Did not judge. She would do the same. If anyone dared to speak ill of him she would burn them until they were nothing but cinders.

The knowledge was terrifying and soothing at the same time. An irrevocable conflict.

Nesta’s chin rose, determined and unintimidated. “I am not a witch and I belong to no-one but myself.”

Ten pairs of dark eyes snapped back to her, but Nesta acted as if she were entirely unfazed.

“You’re unnatural,” Albar said, his voice cold.

Nesta expected the words to spear home, but they merely bounced off her leathers as if they were made of nothing but a ball of yarn.

“Then I suggest you don’t get on my bad side,” Nesta clipped, holding up her fingers to showcase the mist that was moving with more intent, like a serpent waiting to strike with venomous, pointed teeth.

Albar bristled. But then, with a sneer he sat back, his horrible, dark eyes fixated on her hands. Nesta rested them on the table, kept her power burning slowly. A visible reminder that she would not yield.

“Now we are all here,” Rhys said, “we can begin.”

His violet eyes scanned the table as he spoke, even as he remained sat back in his chair, a powerful king relaxed amongst his subjects. He recapped over yesterday’s events, called in Feyre and Nesta to comment when it came to the start of the attack.

“Devlon,” Rhys said when they had finished recalling the ambush. “Report on the gaps in the patrol.”

A tense silence followed, but the war-lord did not snarl. He only said in his deep, rough voice, “Three of Windhaven’s warriors are missing. Their absence is the reason we were not alerted to the kerits sooner. They were supposed to be patrolling that side of the pass.”

All of the lords sat up straighter.

“Who?” One of them barked. He had a nose that had been so broken, it lay flat and twisted on his face. Nesta had heard Cassian call him Laggar.

“Druis, Alaksandar and Hakkir,” Devlon replied. “Good soldiers. Excellent flyers. Expected to perform in the Rite this year.”

Another of the lords grunted. Nesta recognised him. He was often at Devlon’s side in the sparring ring. His name was Saker. “All bastards.”

“Should we be surprised,” Albar drawled, “that bastards are the reason we have thirteen dead Illyrian’s lying on the pyres today?” He paused as his eyes tracked their way across the table to Devlon. “You have always been soft on the bastards in this camp, Devlon. Look where places of responsibility have gotten us when bastards should not have been elevated above the ranking of foot soldier-“

Nesta could not help but cut a glance at Cassian. His jaw was clenched, but he remained silent. She melted her ice a little, reached for him, felt his anger simmering in her stomach. She contemplated sending an emotion back to him, to let him know that she was not standing for these arrogant males either. That she sympathised, but Cassian was already leaning forward.

The gesture made Albar pause.

“Perhaps you should not be surprised,” Cassian replied quietly, “that bastards may have finally become fed up with those who have cast them out and left this camp all together.”

Cassian’s voice was deathly calm. He did not move from where he was sitting, but the flickering flames of the pit fires emphasised his dark eyebrows and his angular jaw.

It made him appear as sharp and dangerous as freshly forged steel.

And to Nesta’s surprise, not one of the lords opened their mouths. They only cast their eyes downwards, to the siphons gleaming with promise on Cassian’s scaled armour.

“For all we know, the males could be dead,” Devlon answered, his chair creaking as he sat back in his chair. “Lord Slat and I already have males scouting the areas for signs of the males.”

“They are warriors with no honour,” Laggar sneered. “We—“

But Rhys cut Laggar off. “It has not yet been determined why the warriors weren't in the skies. We will not cast judgement until they are found. I believe that is what we call a fair trial, Laggar,” Rhysand said smoothly.

A snort from a number of the camp lords. Only Devlon and Slat did not grunt with derision.

In fact, the latter male tilted his head at Rhys, his round, beady eyes boring into his High Lord as if he were trying to read him. The male was shorter than the others, his hair cropped close to his head, his body leaner but still packed with muscle. His figure was not unlike Lorrian’s — built for the skies — and on the inside of his right wrist, he wore a tattoo; a glowing siphon encased by huge, mighty wings. A symbol that marked him as part of the aerial unit. On the backs of his hands, his four siphons gleamed emerald.

More powerful than the other lords, who wore a maximum of three siphons on the backs of their hands. As powerful as Devlon.

When Slat spoke, his voice was thick, “If you are searching for the males, you are searching for bodies. If they are strong flyers, they will be long gone by now. The skies will have left no trace of them.”

“Even Illyrian’s can’t fly forever,” Feyre said. “They have to rest at some point. It’s been snowing. It will be hard for three warriors to hide their tracks.”

“Not if it’s been snowing,” Albar countered, his voice thick with derision. As if Feyre was stupid.

Nesta bit back a snarl, but she allowed her fingers to spark silver and her whip to glow. A warning. Nobody spoke to her sister like that, unless it was Nesta herself.

But Feyre did not back down. “Especially if it has been snowing. They will have left tracks that can be spotted easily enough from the skies. It hasn’t snowed since yesterday afternoon.”

“What I think we really need to discuss is why warriors would go missing just before a kerit attack,” Slat announced.

“As General Cassian has already insinuated, we are considering it a possibility that the attacks might have been manufactured,” Rhys admitted, arranging his hands so his fingers were steepled in front of his body, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. He, too, was seated in a low-backed chair, having chosen to wear wings today rather than arrive without. It was a deliberate move. It showed the Illyrians what their High Lord had in common with his subjects rather than how he was different.

Nesta would give her sister’s mate that. He was not stupid. For the most part, he thought things through.

A low murmur ran through the lords.

“Kerits have never attacked our camps before,” Cassian elaborated, when Rhys did not say anything further. Nesta wondered if it was because he was giving Cassian the ability to assert authority. “It is strange that it has happened across three separate camps in a matter of weeks.”

“I’ll be damned if Lord Beron isn’t behind it,” Albar spat, his fist coming down on the pine table so hard the table shook. “Forktail has never had any qualms about organising raids on Windhaven in the past—”

“If Forktail has had no qualms about acting on past feuds,” Nesta said coldly, unsurprised by the lack of intelligence of the males, “then they would not have beasts attack the camps. They would do it themselves.”

A flicker of pride wound through her, despite her walls, but Nesta did not glance Cassian’s way.

“Lady Nesta is right,” Rhys said, before any of the lords could open their mouths to speak. “We cannot assume that this is an attack from another camp. We are considering external forces might be at work. With that in mind, Devlon will be organising fiercer patrols around the camp and it is time for us to erect tougher boundaries around the perimeter.”

Rhys continued, “Myself, my mate and others will be putting protective shields in place for each of the camps. We will not lose any more unnecessary lives when there’s a simple solution to stopping the kerits from attacking again. Your General will work with those on patrols. My spymaster will be present in the camp over the next few weeks questioning warriors.”

“We do not need your fancy shields,” Devlon snapped. “We are Illyrians. We are born to protect. We do not need your magic-“

“Females died because your protection failed,” Nesta interjected with a snarl, her head snapping to look Devlon straight in the eye. Her voice was brimming — shaking — with fervour.

She felt her emotional shields falter, her anger too sharp and ruthless to be stifled. Nesta thought of Durkhanai’s lifeless eyes and the cook’s broken body. Of Mas’s trailing guts as she lay in a pool of blood, Roksana’s hands inside of the housekeeper as she tried to stop the bleeding. “They did not know how to defend themselves yet they did not hesitate to protect your young.” Mist was running rings around her limbs, her whip glowed bright but did not burn — not unless she willed it.

Nesta leant forward. So her face was so close to the war-lord’s that her breath touched his cheek. Devlon did not flinch. Did not move. His dark eyes stared right back at her, as she said, “You will allow your High Lord to erect protective shields around this camp.”

Slowly, dangerously, Nesta sat back in her chair, never breaking eye contact with the war-lord.

And then, to Nesta’s surprise, Devlon gave a sharp nod as he pushed back his chair. The legs scraped on the low wooden platform despite the rugs atop it. “Put the shields in place,” he told Rhys coldly. “We’re done here.”

And then he left the tent, the other lords trailing behind him.

  Cassian found Nesta the moment she left the tent. Rhys and Feyre had disappeared to put the protective barriers in place, winnowing from inside the tent as the lords started to leave.

Nesta had not wanted to remain in the war-tent. Sitting straight for so long had the dull pain in her stomach elevating to an insistent throb, so she had risen stiffly with the other lords and left in search of fresh air.

“How are you feeling?”

Cassian’s voice was a low, welcome rumble in her ear — the only male voice that day that hadn’t made her power itch to escape. Nesta turned into that warmth that always seemed to radiate from him, to find him looking down at her with eyes that swam gold.

“Fine,” she replied. “Sore,” she added, when his expression didn’t change but his wings rustled.

For a moment, Nesta remembered the sleepy memory of a curled wing and even breathing close to her. Had he slept beside her? She wasn’t sure if it had been a dream or real. It had felt real, but she had taken a lot of sedatives and her subconscious had conjured images from both dreams and nightmares.

Cassian’s dark features tightened into a slight frown. For a moment, she thought he was going to suggest she go home and rest, but he only nodded shortly.

“You didn’t tell them about the carrion,” Nesta said.

Cassian threw an invisible bubble around them as they walked. “No,” he replied. “Any information like that could strengthen feuds between the camps. Illyrian’s are hot-headed at the best of times, we don't want to add kindle to the fire before we know who is responsible for leading the kerits to the camps.”

Nesta nodded to indicate she had heard him.

“If the missing warriors have sought allegiance elsewhere, I can’t say I blame them,” Cassian admitted quietly. He was staring away from her, his features twisted. “If I had not had Rhys and an allegiance with his court, I might have been bought when I was younger. I was outcast from such a young age… Those males cannot be blamed for hoping they might belong elsewhere.”

Nesta’s insides squeezed at the concession. She curled her fingers around Cassian’s arm of scaled armour, forcing him to stop and look at her. “Nobody should be outcast,” she told him. “It is not wrong for you to admit what might have been, or to understand another’s point of view. That is not a weakness, it is a strength.”

Cassian looked down to where she clutched at him before he met her gaze. Nesta did not back away, made her expression as earnest as possible.

“They are burning the pyres in a moment,” Cassian told Nesta, casting his gaze to the front-left side of the mountain pass. “Would you like to come?

Nesta swallowed. She thought of the cook… of sweet, beautiful Durkhanai who had not deserved the fate the damned Cauldron had dealt her. “Yes,” she said.

Cassian gestured with his arm to indicate that they should continue to walk to the main path that cut through the camp. “Devlon’s changed his attitude towards you.”

Nesta snorted softly, but then she admitted, “I don’t know why.”

“I do,” Cassian replied, but he didn’t expand further.

Nesta took a moment to study his face. Shadows ringed beneath his eyes, his tan skin a shade paler than usual. “Did you sleep?”

If he were surprised by the question, Cassian did not let it show. Nor did he indicate that she had thrown him with the sudden change of subject. “For a bit,” he replied.

“You needn’t have tended to me, I would have been fine,” Nesta told him, knowing somehow that his exhaustion was partly her fault.

But Cassian shook his head. “You had me worried,” he admitted eventually. “The sedative gave you nightmares but you were in such a deep sleep I couldn’t reach you.”

Nesta fought the red that wanted to flush across her face. She hoped that she had not been speaking in her sleep. Did not like anyone seeing her that vulnerable, not even Cassian.

“You settled after a while,” Cassian added, after another pause that had stretched out for a beat too long. And then to her dismay, a stain appeared on both of his cheeks.

She watched him drag his gaze away from her to stare resolutely at the ground beneath his feet.

Oh. Not a dream then. Cassian had slept beside her. Had arced his wing over her.

Nesta remembered how safe she had felt when she’d woken to a dome of umber. How the gentle, even breathing had lulled her straight back under. How she had fallen into dreams rather than nightmares.

“Thank you,” Nesta said quietly, the words barely audible, but Cassian dipped his chin to indicate that he had heard her.

Then she stopped, a sudden realisation hitting her. “Do I need to change? I - What do I wear to a funeral in Illyria?”

But Cassian’s eyes only softened as they took in what she was wearing. “You’re fine,” he replied, his head tilting slightly to consider her. “Warriors wear armour to funerals.”

  The widows would be given a warriors funeral, Cassian had informed Nesta as he walked her to the front-left of the mountain pass. He led her on a route that she had not taken before, but which Cassian seemed to know with his eyes closed, his feet anticipating rock and uneven ground before it rose up to meet their feet.

 Usually the burning of widows did not draw an audience or demand a ceremony; they were seen as a stain on society, a blemish of which Illyrians were glad to rid themselves. Yet… the act of the widows. The way in which they had sacrificed their lives for the younglings… Devlon had not protested when Rhys had ordered they were given an honourable send off. He had only grunted to show he agreed before he stalked off to make the necessary arrangements.

Sentiments were changing in the Windhaven camp, Cassian told Nesta with detectable hope. It was a positive sign, even if the events leading up to it had been unimaginable.

After a long while of walking along the rocky wall of the mountain pass, a clearing petered out to their left. It was full of too-small ramshackle tents and fae-made fire-pits fashioned by scooped out earth and a circle of craggy stones around the perimeter which no doubt acted as makeshift shields from the battering winds that Illyria was known for.

Somehow Nesta knew what it was without Cassian saying a word, even though the camp was deserted.

“Is this where you lived?” Nesta asked.

Cassian did not stop. “Yes.”

He shrugged, even though Nesta could tell by the tightness of his shoulders that the memory was painful for him. Because of the trauma or the reminder of what he thought to be his own unworthiness, Nesta wasn’t sure.

“This is where Rhys found me and dragged me from my tent,” Cassian expanded, pointing to a spot by a cluster of bare-looking pine trees. “The mud is frozen at the moment because of the snow, but when it rained, the forest floor would become waterlogged. The pine trees provided us bastards with the best shelter against the elements.” Nesta surveyed the thin, red trunk and the pine needles above that couldn’t do much to protect the run-down looking tents below it.

“Anyway,” Cassian continued with a shake of his head, as if he were ridding himself of an unwanted memory. “Rhys took me to the house he and his mother were living in. She was livid, but she told me to get in the tub to bathe or I could go back out in the cold. She never let me leave, after that. Rhys’s mother was full of soft-fire, but she had grown up low-born and knew what it was to suffer, so she gave me clean clothes and a bed to sleep in. I never left, after that.”

Cassian’s darkened expression had caved to make way for something smoother. Yet, it was laced with a sadness.

“She sounds lovely,” Nesta said, not knowing quite what to say. For once, she did not avert her gaze from him. Instead, their eyes locked and something started to turn inside of her. Not her power. But as if a different key were turning in another lock, opening rather than closing.

“She was,” Cassian corrected, and then he looked away, the key jamming in place. “The bastards tents are near the pyres. Whenever there was a funeral, if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, I’d crawl out of my tent to find the ground covered in ash.”

Horror twisted through Nesta. At the thought of little boys with nobody to love them having to crawl through the ash of flesh and bone. “That’s horrible.”

But Cassian only shrugged and gave her that crooked smile of his, the one he wore when he spoke about the injustices inflicted upon his race by his race. “Yes,” he agreed. He tilted his head in the direction of the trees that ran along the mountain wall. “It’s not much farther.”

Nesta allowed him to lead her across the forest floor through the snow and pine needles. Eventually, the trees cleared and a wide ledge jutted out from the mountain pass, suspending them in midair.

Crowds and crowds of Illyrians had already gathered. No, Nesta corrected, crowds and crowds of females. And it was not just widows and female orphans. Nesta recognised the the faces of females who worked in the laundrette, in the kitchens, as seamstress’s…

Nesta spied Emerie too, standing a little away from the crowds by the mountain wall. Her unusually blank expression was twisted with grief, her tan cheeks stained with dried tears, her eyes red. Durkhanai had worked in her shop… Emerie probably knew the orphan better than anyone else.

At the bottom of the huge pyre, Nesta spotted Rhys and Feyre. Devlon was nearby speaking to Slat. The other lords were nowhere to be seen. Nesta was not surprised, but she couldn’t help the fury that heated her blood at the knowledge that they did not deem the widows worthy of a send off. It clouded her mind, until the fear she had not yet admitted to herself was pushed far, far back: that the sound of the fire would trigger her trauma.

Cassian seemed to know what she was thinking, because his eyes flicked briefly to her headband, as if he were tempted to make sure it was properly secured over her ears. But eventually, he merely jutted his chin towards the bottom of the pyre and led them through the crowds to where Rhys and Feyre stood.

Not long after they had arrived, Nesta spied Mas weaving her way through the Fae with little Roksana in tow. The youngling was clinging to the housekeeper’s hand with an apprehensive look on her face, as if she had witnessed a funeral before and it brought back dark memories. She was hanging back slightly from Mas, her footsteps heavy, her little wings drooping…

Mas did not smile as she approached, but she did not look down. Did not become subservient. Her back was straight, her short, choppy hair ruffled by the breeze. Her eyes were determined in a way that Nesta had never witnessed before

“Masak,” Cassian greeted, his voice low in Nesta’s ear before he bent down to kiss the housekeeper on both cheeks.

Nesta did not fail to hear the murmur that went around the crowd, as the General of the Night Court’s armies greeted a low-born widow not with civility, but clear affection.

“High Lord,” Masak said to Rhys after Cassian pulled back, dipping into a low curtsey. Nesta suspected the two had met many times before. That it was that familiarity that allowed Mas to bury the gender role dictated by her culture. “Thank you for sending off the females this way.”

Rhysand dipped his chin, and to Nesta’s surprise, a dark shadow passed over his features. “Of course, it’s the least we can do. I am sorry we could not prevent their deaths.”

Mas nodded shortly. Nesta watched her wings rustle, as if she were nervous, and then she said, “I would like to speak to the crowds. To the females, before you light the pyre.”

Beside Nesta, Cassian stilled. His chest was almost pressed against her right arm, and he was closer — much closer — than he usually was. Nesta assumed it was him being over-protective. She knew she had terrified him when she had collapsed yesterday. Had felt his unleashed panic, the sensation so fierce that it had practically consumed her. Had been so overcome with it that he had not even bothered to contain it within his shields.

Even so, Nesta knew he had dialled back the territorial side of him that had wanted to snarl at everyone and everything. Knew that he had made the conscious effort to reign it back because he thought she would not like it.

Yet… to know someone felt that strongly about her that they were on edge enough to fight off any threat that might compromise her safety… It was an unusual feeling, to have someone care about Nesta that way.

She didn’t find that she hated it. Perhaps because she knew she would have done the same thing for Cassian. Would not have hesitated to burn the entire camp if it meant he would be safe and well.

If they ever had to go, they would go together rather than apart. It was an unconscious choice, but a choice all the same.

Rhysand’s expression flickered with surprise for a fraction of a second, but then he bowed his head and held out a hand to the crowd. “It would be my honour.”

With a flick of his hand, magic shot from his palms and a bubble slid into place with a gentle glow of violet.

The crowd quieted.

Mas turned to Nesta, passed her Roksana’s sticky hand. Gently, Mas cupped her palms to Nesta’s cheeks, stared deeply into her eyes, as if she were able to see directly into Nesta’s soul and loved every part of it, fire and steel and all. She kissed each of Nesta’s cheeks in turn, just as she had done to Cassian, before she turned and stepped out in front of the expectant crowd.

A surprised murmur ran through the sea of bodies, but the females stood up taller, eager to listen…

“My fellow widows,” Mas started, and a quiet hush immediately fell over the crowds. Rhys had clearly done something with his magic to ensure Mas’s voice rang loud and clear, so even those at the back could hear her. “And my fellow females,” Mas corrected as her eyes ran over faces upon faces, not just from the widows camp but from Windhaven in general. “Today we remember the females who gave their lives for our safety. For the females who offered themselves for the pyre so we could walk free.”

Pausing, Mas took a deep breath. For the briefest of seconds, her dark eyes settled onto Nesta, but then she continued to speak. “Yesterday I was blessed with a new life, and with it, a fresh perspective — a chance to start again. Yesterday, the widows camp was attacked by kerits. Us widows, and the female orphans who live with us, were targeted first because we were banished up a mountain for no other crime than that our husbands or parents had passed. Our isolated camp was subject to the harshest of weather conditions and the most treacherous of paths, not to mention the least safe location in the camp should we be open to attack. Without our High Lady and Lady Nesta arriving early on the scene to fight off the beasts, many of us would not have made it to safety and our death toll would be far greater. It is thanks to them,” Mas said fiercely, looking to Nesta and Feyre in turn, “that so many of us are alive and breathing.”

Mas stopped speaking to survey the crowds, her hazel eyes falling on face after face after face.

No-one spoke.

When Nesta glanced at the sea of fae, she saw that each and every female was fixated on Masak, their expressions stricken with grief and… something else.

“I have been a mother to many of you,” Mas continued, holding out her hands to encompass those that had gathered. “I have taken you under my wing and put clothes on your back. I have never wanted anything in return. But today I do. I ask you to wake before dawn tomorrow and meet me in the sparring ring with a General who cares if we live or die and a High Fae who slew beast after beast to protect us. Two Fae, who like us, know what it is to suffer and who have emerged triumphant despite it.”

Mas was eyeing the crowd with a determination that Nesta had never seen. In the grey light, her eyes danced with a strength Nesta had not witnessed before.

For once, the housekeeper stood tall, the ancient lines of wisdom on her face powerful and indisputably fierce.

“And,” Mas continued. She had fallen into a rhythm now, her voice enchanting — addictive. “I ask that when you travel to others camps, you tell the females of what happened here yesterday. Of how we have suffered but emerged strong. Of how together, we will learn how to defend ourselves, to ensure we are not mutilated or beaten down, or cast out. Of how we will honour those who died by no longer allowing ourselves to be disposable or be told that we are not worthy, because we are. And the next time males or beasts try to knock us down, we will fight and we will win.”

The crowd roared with sudden chatter; the females who had once been silent beyond measure, sparked into conversation, as if life had been breathed into their bodies for the first time. But when Rhysand — their High Lord — walked towards the housekeeper and handed her an unlit torch, they fell silent again with a wave of hush.

For a moment, Mas merely stared at Rhysand. Then she looked down at the torch he had placed into her hand.

Nesta didn’t know what fuelled her to do it. It was as if her fingers moved independently of her body, the digits flicking with an expertise she did not know she had. Silver flames crackled across the clearing in a contained whip of heat. It struck the torch’s cloth with a precision even Nesta was surprised by — that she knew, if she and Cassian had been in training, he would have praised her for.

The torch roared to life in Mas’s hand. Silver flames licked into the fresh, untamed air of Illyria, but then, somehow, Nesta willed them to be silent and they obeyed. As if her power had rolled over at her will, subservient. As if finally, Nesta had understood that her magic was not separate from her, but part of who she was, and as such, bent to her will.

Mas’s widened eyes connected with Nesta’s, but Nesta only nodded, her chin dipping in encouragement.  Her heart was bursting, full to the brim with love and pride for a female who was brave beyond measure, despite the atrocities life had dealt her.

The sensation melted through the icy cage Nesta held fierce around her emotions as if it were made of nothing but air, hitting her square in the chest, but Nesta did not try to stop it. Instead, she allowed herself to truly feel. Let her barriers fall away so she could be overcome with it. Throwing her magic out over the crowds like a fishermen casting a net out at sea, Nesta allowed it all to hit her. And as the awe, grief and determination of the inspired females in the crowds wound its way into her gut, Nesta realised that her gift was not just a curse. That it could be beautiful.

Biting back a sob, Nesta stood tall, gathering Roksana so the little girl was hugging tight to her legs. Cassian’s hand came to grip Nesta’s upper arm, but when she craned her neck to look up at him, he was not looking at her but at Mas. His grip remained tight as together, they watched their foster mother — the mother to so many vulnerable Illyrians — lower the torch to the pyre.

Nobody spoke as the flames took hold, even as the pyres blazed with silent silver. Instead, they all stood and watched the dancing flames submerge the cloth bound figures.

Cassian did not drop his hand. Did not loosen his grip, as if he were too caught up in the moment to catch himself.

His dream, for so long, finally coming to fruition. The dream he had held since he had learned of his mother’s fate. Another female who had been discarded and deemed unworthy, even as she had brought life to the world.

Nesta knew all that without him having to speak. Unthinkingly, Nesta brought the hand that was not pressing Roksana close upwards, so that she could slide her icy fingers against his warm ones.

And she squeezed, just once, before she let them drop.

  At dawn the next morning Cassian, Nesta, Devlon, Lorrian, and a few of the camps best instructors watched Mas walk to the sparring ring. Behind her was a stream of females both young and old.

They were not just from the widows camp. Nesta spied Emerie and the female who worked in the apothecary. The females who worked as seamstresses, in the kitchens… No camp-matrons, but Nesta hadn’t expected that. They were too deeply entrenched and favoured to sacrifice the positions they have no doubt battled for in their own way.

“They’re determined,” Lorrian murmured to Cassian. He clapped his friend briefly on the back, as if he too knew what this meant to him. “It’s a good sign.”

Cassian only nodded to indicate he had heard, his features tightening. Nesta knew it was because he felt too much. Because he didn’t know how to arrange his expression. Because he had never dreamt that his vision for the females of Illyria might come true.

Nesta could feel all his emotions churning around in her stomach. Had let herself feel them. After the funeral, Nesta had not stacked her ice walls back to form an icy cage around her heart. Instead, she had stacked them into a wall heigh enough to block out lower level emotions. Any emotion that surged would still reach her, but Nesta had found the new height allowed her to filter out the lower-level intensities.

“You will demonstrate?” Cassian asked Nesta.

He turned his head to face her. Concern was etched upon his face and his eyes darted to her stomach, which was clad in her favourite leather’s.

Nesta’s injury had faded away with another night's sleep, and she had woken that morning feeling refreshed and new, as if she had not suffered major internal bleeding at all.

“If you like,” Nesta agreed, even though she had been going to offer anyway. Was not in a million years intending to watch on the sidelines.

“Please,” Cassian said.

Nesta blinked. In all the time that she had known him, Cassian rarely said please. When he had, it was usually when he was begging her.

Please talk to me. Please don't shut me out. Please eat, Nesta. 

But this was different. It was not Cassian simply asking her to help him, but telling her what she wanted more than anything. What she had always wanted.

You are useful. You are needed.

So she just nodded, unable to find the words to respond verbally.

The males soon set to work, splitting the females into three groups dependent on age. Then Cassian started to teach. He explained that they would start with self-defence, talked through each move, demonstrating each one with Nesta. When he finished talking through the counter-assaults, he had the groups split up into the three separate training rings to begin their practice.

Today, the females would focus on learning to strike down their opponents with a forearm to the neck, followed by a hard strike to the stomach with an elbow. When they had mastered that, Cassian had informed Nesta during their walk to the sparring rings, they would move on to harder moves.

Cassian had taken his time explaining to the females why each move was important. Why every Illyrian who trained in the rings mastered the self-defensive moves first. Whilst Cassian spoke, Nesta had scanned the females faces; many of their expressions were grim, as if they had suffered from attacks before.

Nesta tried not to wonder how many females had been raped or beaten. It hurt too much, so she concentrated instead on the look of determination on their faces. It blended in with the apprehension, but not one of them walked away.

Afterwards, when the females had finished for the day, Lorrian came over to join Cassian and Nesta where they stood just inside the entrance of the main training ring. The Colonel had been training the eldest females with Slat, a lord who Lorrian appeared to have a terse but amicable relationship with. Nesta supposed that being part of Windhaven’s aerial unit, Slat respected Lorrian’s expertise in the skies. Just the night prior, Cassian had informed Nesta over dinner that Slat had fought in the most recent war against Hybern, but that he had escaped the fate of the Cauldron’s blast because of an injury to his left wing, which had forced him to remain in the war-camp.

“How many females have had their wings cut?” Cassian asked Lorrian as the Colonel stomped through the mud. The weather was still bitterly cold, but the trampling of feet had meant that icy ground had given way to thick mud just at the opening to the ring. Cassian’s expression was grim — expectant of bad news — but there had been a rare light in his eyes that morning which he did not usually allow the Illyrians to see. It was as if someone has swept a hand over his face and lightened the sense of foreboding and worry he harboured when it came to his people.

Lorrian grimaced. “Too many. A lot of the younger females can fly, but I’d imagine they lacked the training as youngling’s, so it will be slow work if we want them in the skies.”

“But not impossible?” Nesta asked, before she could help herself.

“Not impossible,” Lorrian assured Nesta. His eyes fell to Roksana. The youngling had come over to shyly clutch at Nesta’s legs.

The Colonel’s features softened, but then Devlon was stalking over to where they stood, and Lorrian straightened.

As always, the lord’s face was serious, but there was no trace of a sneer across his face. “They are all green and weak,” he told Cassian coldly, his tone matter-of-fact rather than outrightly cruel. “The trainers have been given orders to turn up five days a week.”

Cassian dipped his chin once to show he was satisfied. “Colonel Lorrian will attend every Wednesday,” Cassian replied. “Alongside Slat, he will get those able up into the skies and organise drills so the females can strengthen their wings.”

Cassian and Devlon continued to converse in short, terse sentences. Nesta wondered how difficult it was for Devlon to allow the females to train, when his upbringing told him otherwise. Nesta knew he had only been begrudgingly teaching the few female students when she first came to Windhaven because of Cassian and Rhys’s insistence. That if Cassian was not there, the lord would have let the sessions slip. But… with such a big turnout it seemed that even Devlon could not deny the females the right of learning how to fight. Had not complained to Cassian, apart from to grumble briefly about pulling extra trainers from the male rings to compensate for the amount of new recruits.

Nesta’s attention was pulled away from Cassian and Devlon as Roksana began to tug urgently at Nesta’s leg. The youngling’s wings were flapping with such agitation that Nesta was worried, but when she bent down she realised that Roksana’s face was alight with excitement.

Roksana’s hands slipped around Nesta’s neck, pulling her head down by the loose tendrils of hair that had slipped free of the plait that Nesta had braided down her back when she had woken.

Nesta was so astounded by the fact that Roksana wanted to whisper in her ear, that she didn’t make out what the youngling was saying until she had repeated it for the third time. “Manticore.”

Nodding encouragingly, Nesta looked over to where Caerleon was lying in the mud as if it were a throne. His beautiful, sandy head was raised regally, and he was surveying the scenery with a look that was all-seeing.

“That’s right,” Nesta told Roksana, her lips twitching upwards. “M is for Manticore. His name is Caerleon. Would you like to say hello?”

But that seemed to be too much for Roksana and she scampered off, her wings flapping every few strides as she went to join some of the other young orphans just outside the training ring. Mas was conversing with some of the widows a few feet away and Roksana was no doubt waiting for her foster mother to take her back to the camp.

“That little one has small wings.”

Nesta’s head snapped Lorrian who was nodding in the direction of Roksana. His expression was thoughtful.

“Is that bad?” Nesta asked with alarm.

Lorrian shrugged. “She might have a late growth spurt, but it wouldn’t hurt her to start strengthening them as soon as possible. If youngling’s don’t learn to use their wings, it slows down the growth rate.” When Nesta continued to look concerned, he elaborated, “As a lot of older widows have clipped wings, it is not unusual for orphan younglings to grow up without witnessing their guardian’s fly. It means that many of the female younglings have wings that are underdeveloped.”

“I can tell Roksana wants to fly,” Nesta told Lorrian. “She is always scooting over the ground.”

Lorrian jerked his chin at Roksana with a small smile, and Nesta saw the orphan skate over the mud to meet Mas. “I’ve noticed. Will she let me examine her?”

Nesta frowned. Roksana did not like males. Cassian was the only male Roksana did not shy away from. He had even held her the other day, and that morning, Nesta had felt a fist clench over her heart when Roksana had hovered over to Cassian when he had bent down to say hello.

Nesta knew how it had affected Cassian. Had felt joy flare inside of him as he fell into soft Illyrian which Nesta could not follow. Had seen the way his eyes lit up as Roksana had quietly said thank you as he complimented her hair.

“We can try,” Nesta told Lorrian. “You’ll have to bend down to her level. She’s wary of males.”

Lorrian just nodded to indicate he understood. “She will need to stretch her wings for me.”

When Nesta called to Roksana, the little girl spent no time coming over to her, but she still clutched at Nesta’s legs and stared up at Lorrian with an apprehension which hurt Nesta to look at.

Smoothing a hand over Roksana’s braided hair, Nesta said, “This is my friend Lorrian, Roksana. He wants to take a look at your wings. Would that be ok?”

Silence fell as Roksana’s hands tightened on Nesta’s leathers. When Lorrian knelt down to eye-level, she darted behind Nesta’s legs, only her face peeking around the tops of Nesta’s knees.

But Lorrian did not let her movement faze him. He smiled kindly, wiping all traces of Colonel from his face. It made his features less harsh, revealing the male that Nesta had come to know since first day in The Steppes when she and Cassian had been attacked by kerits.

“Hello, stella,” Lorrian said. “Can you stretch your wings out for me?”

He puffed his chest out with mock importance and pulled his wings wide, straining the tendons. After a little hesitation, Roksana followed suit.

“What beautiful wings,” Lorrian said conversationally. “I’m just going to touch them quickly. Would that be all right, Roksana?”

“Roksana?” Nesta prompted gently, running her hand over Roksana’s head when the little girl remained mute. The youngling was still clutching at Nesta’s legs, but she dipped her chin just once in agreement, the action so wary Nesta’s heart ached.

“Atta youngling,” Lorrian said with another gentle smile.

Quickly, he examined Roksana’s wings, running his hands brusquely over the tendons and bone. He asked the orphan to open and close her claws, to curve and straighten her wings, for her to hover above the ground.

For the latter, Roksana wobbled as if she were unable to balance herself.

When Lorrian nodded to indicate that he was finished, Roksana half-scampered, half-skimmed the ground as she went to join Mas.

Nesta and Lorrian watched her go. 

“She’s got excellent control considering her wings are under-developed,” Lorrian told Nesta. “I’ll speak to Cassian about ensuring all of the orphan younglings aren’t being missed out when it comes to flying lessons. I can oversee them myself during my weekly trip.”

“She’s a quiet little thing,” Lorrian added after a moment. “Do you know what happened to her parents?”

“No,” Nesta said. “She’s only just started to say the odd word. The grief rendered her mute.”

Lorrian’s expression tightened. “It’s a good job Frawley isn’t here,” Lorrian said finally, but he didn’t offer anything else, even though the following silence was pregnant. In the end, he added, “If you want to help Roksana strengthen her joints, you could hold her hands whilst she practices flapping her wings a few feet off the ground.”

Nesta nodded. She would do that. Would do anything to make sure Roksana tasted the skies. Nesta knew Roksana hungered for it. The same way that she did, herself.

Roksana deserved that freedom. All of the females did.

“You have Caerleon today,” Nesta observed.

When Lorrian had arrived at the training rings, the manticore had been padding silently by  his side. It had only taken Caer moments to spot Cassian. Nesta had noticed the beast’s ears prick forward, but rather than bounding over to the General, he had remained close by Lorrian, his spiked tail flicking leisurely from side to side as his hips swayed. And the Illyrians… they had stepped backwards, their eyes wary as they took in Caer’s huge body and impressive wings. To them, he was a deadly predator under Lorrian’s control. It certainly made a statement. It told them that Lorrian was not to be messed with.

It hadn’t stopped Caer from pushing his head into Nesta’s hand when he had passed her, or butting his head lightly into Cassian’s midriff. The action had been enough to tell any watchful eyes that Caer held an allegiance with them — that they were his to protect.

“Yes,” Lorrian replied. “Frawley insists that Caer likes to stretch his wings, but I think she likes to know that having a manticore reminds the Illyrians that they would be wrong to challenge my authority.”

Nesta’s lips twitched upwards. “And does it work?”

Lorrian snorted. “It certainly makes them cautious.” He turned to Nesta, then. “Cassian says you chose the bow.”

“Yes.”

To Nesta’s surprise a pleased expression wound itself across Lorrian’s face. “Would you like another instructor?”

Nesta blinked at the Colonel. “You want to teach me how to use the bow?”

Lorrian crossed his arms firmly across his chest, as if to demonstrate that he was immovable on the subject. “Of course. I’ve been told you’re formidable in the sparring ring. I’d be honoured to teach you how to fight with my weapon of choice.”

Nesta studied Lorrian’s expression, tilting her head to try and decipher whether he was being serious or not. In the end, she dropped her emotional shield and felt around until she found that air of heat laced with sandalwood - Lorrian. And she felt…  no humour. No mocking. Only honestly.

Feeling guilty for having doubted him, Nesta stacked up her wall again.

“I would like that,” she conceded.

A smile broke across Lorrian’s face. It wasn’t the true, unfettered smile she had been privy to in his home, but it was unguarded and genuine enough. “Frawley wants you to come and visit. Perhaps I could oversee some of your training whilst you are with us? Otherwise, I can give you a lesson when I’m here to oversee the aerial legions. It would only be once a week, so I’ll have to trust you in the hands of that brute for the rest of it.” Winking, he jerked his head to Cassian who was striding towards them through the mud.

“You don’t have to visit,” Lorrian added, seeing Nesta’s taken aback expression, “but we would love to have you.”

Nesta thought of the warm cottage, a place that brought only a sense of comfort despite the way she had first ended up there. And… Nesta liked Frawley as much as she liked Lorrian. The witch was brusque and direct, but clearly kind-of-heart. Someone who predominantly chose to heal rather than injure.

Perhaps Nesta could use the opportunity to take up Frawley’s offer of mastering her healing magic. It was the first strand of her power that Nesta truly liked. It felt like it was a manifestation of the most secret part of her, a chamber which barely anyone knew about or understood. That she did not thirst for her ability to bring about death, but to give life to those who deserved it.

The thought sent a thrum of power through her veins, silver turning over to give way for white light.

“No,” Nesta assured Lorrian, who was still looking at her with reserved expectation. “I would like to come.”

“Come where?” Cassian asked as he drew up beside them, so close that his chest was inches from Nesta’s side.

“I’m going to visit Frawley and Lorrian next week.”

Mock-wounded, Cassian threw a hand to his heart as he said to Lorrian, “And you didn’t ask me? One of your oldest friends?”His eyes were sparkling when Nesta craned her neck to look up at him. He winked at her and magic spiked in her veins.

Grunting, Lorrian replied wryly, “I don’t know why you’re pretending that you won’t hound us for a visit. Pick up Nesta and come for dinner. We’ll see you the following week for Solstice, anyway.”

At that, Lorrian turned to the manticore who was still lying in the mud, his large almond eyes blinking in the pastel sunlight. “Caer,” Lorrian called, as he started to spread his own wings wide. The manticore stood, stretching slowly with a wide yawn which showcased his long, sharp teeth and his leathery wings. As Caerleon trotted over to Lorrian, his ears perked forwards and his tail shot up so it was engaged and upright, the deadly bristles at the tuft soft rather than pointed.

“I’ll take you back to the cottage with me when I visit next week then,” Lorrian told Nesta. He looked to Cassian, “Start Nesta on the basics before then.”

And then, with a wide stretch of his large wings, he shot into the air.

  Mas found Nesta shortly after Lorrian had left. She and Roksana were the only females left in the sparring grounds. In the distance, Nesta could see the last of the retreating figures of the widows as they made their way back to their new camp, which was set up at the back of the mountain pass, not far from the sparring rings. The new camp was full of green pine trees and forest floor rather than treacherous, ominous rock and battering winds.

“Come,” Mas urged to Nesta, taking her by the hand. “Not you,” she told Cassian firmly, but he had only grinned in that unbridled way of his, before he shot into the skies in search of breakfast.

Together, Nesta and Mas walked up the mountain to the old widows camp with Roksana in tow. Nesta watched the youngling skim across the patches of deep snow. The path was a blanket of white, but despite the bite in Nesta’s feet, she did not complain. Nor did she moan about the dull ache in her side. Instead, she walked hand-in-hand with the housekeeper, allowing Mas to lead her up the zig zag path until they reached the even ground.

The destruction and death in the camp had been covered by the snow, but Nesta could still feel it: the sorrow, pain and terror seeping into her skin, lining her stomach in a way  that was so intense that her power surged. Yet, Nesta did not try to push the sensation away as Mas led her with purpose to the Eastern side of the camp. They passed the makeshift canteen, the shell of tents scattered with snow and the rusted fire drums, until they reached the far point where Mas had lain on the ground as the life bled out of her.

The mountain wall loomed up into the dusky sky to their left, running until the ground round at the tip, leaving only a sheer, terrifying drop to the right.

When Mas stopped, so did Nesta. Roksana was a little way off, approaching the edge, and Mas scolded her to come back before she fell off the precipice.

Roksana skimmed over the stone, her little wings flapping at a rate that was faster than normal, as if she had to work extra hard to stay aloft. She collided with Mas’s legs, but the housekeeper only tutted in a way that held no bite, before bending to press a kiss to the little girl’s head and ordering her to stand back.

Nesta did not say anything. Not even as Mas clasped her dry, weathered hands in Nesta’s and peered into her face.

“Diyosa,” Mas said quietly, her voice brimming with feeling — love and anticipation — as she led Nesta slowly to the edge, carefully stepping backwards. “I wanted you to see it first. I wanted you to witness the freedom you have granted me.”

Despite the tears lining her eyes, a toothy grin spread across the housekeeper’s face.

Nesta watched Mas stretch her wings out wide, the movement slow and purposeful, as if she were flexing unused muscles.

And then she stepped backwards off the cliff.

For a second, Nesta was consumed with a terror that gripped fiercely at her throat, but then the boom of wings sounded around the mountain pass and Mas soared up on the wind, her beautiful wings beating hard as she caught an upward draft to climb above them.

Beside her, Roksana let out a cry. Her little hands clapped together and from her mouth… a laugh. Not one of Roksana’s small, secret smiles, but a delighted laugh that was so joyous it rang around the mountain wall.

And it was that, coupled by the whoop of delight from the housekeeper, that made Nesta laugh, too.

Nesta could not remember the first time she had truly laughed. As if it were a forbidden sound, her hands flew up to clap over her mouth, but then Roksana was hovering high enough in the air to pull them away, tearing off that mask that desperately wanted to cling on out of years and years of habit.

And Nesta allowed the youngling to do it. Clasped her fingers around Roksana’s as for the first time that Nesta could remember — through the tears of happiness that poured down her face — Nesta felt joy.

So Nesta laughed. She laughed for the female flying above her who had got her freedom back. For the little youngling who was holding onto Nesta’s hands as she hovered in the air, her wings flapping in desperation to join Masak… to taste freedom, too. And Nesta laughed for herself. For having finally done something right. For giving life rather than death. For bringing happiness rather than sorrow.

Then Mas was diving, her form flawless as she swooped down to take Roksana’s hands in hers, taking the youngling up, up, up into the Illyrian sky brushed with pastel hues.

That was when it happened. Nesta’s laugh fell into an untethered smile… a smile which had been imprisoned for so long. And as she did that, Nesta allowed her magic to reach out again… to sense the emotions that seeped up from the ground from years and years of suffering. But Nesta did not let them surge through her veins to charge her power. Instead, she gave something back. Nesta added a new layer upon the rocky ground that was tainted with death and pain. A comforting blanket of her own joy and happiness. A layer that symbolised that there was hope. That there was a way out of the inky black and the biting cold.

And the camp, which had been full of anguish and pain and unimaginable suffering, suddenly burst with light so pure that it was dazzling. The promise of healing shone from Nesta’s palms, and she stared down at her upturned hands in awe. At the light which travelled upwards to bathe the two females dancing in the air, as they laughed and laughed and laughed.

Tags: @arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az  @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Eighteen (Zuko x Reader)

Chapter 17

Word Count: 2,200

Author’s Note: Shit’s hitting the fan y’all - not just in Two Halves but in everything else as well. I’m formatting this and ignoring all the impending doom swirling around me by drowning it out with Disney move soundtracks. 

You wake before Zuko the next morning, which isn't hard considering you barely slept. Toph arrives under the cover of early dawn, the sky just becoming gray as her ship lands on the palace grounds; you meet her without your husband, as you never got the chance to tell him she was coming the night previous. 

“You didn't have to rush out here,” you tell her, clutching her hands in an anxious vice. “It's not safe.” 

“When have I ever cared if anything was safe?” she scoffs. “Sparky clearly needs help protecting you.” 

The words are delivered with sarcastic wit, but her fingers shake in your palm. 

You decide you won't tell her about Qiang’s threat - you don't want to give him reason to hurt anyone else. Instead, you tell her that the palace is under constant, heavy surveillance, and that you're still unsure who exactly is conducting the strange occurrences that have plagued you or what their motives are. Not exactly a lie, but enough that you feel she won't be put in any more danger. 

“Do you think you can even trust your guards?” Toph wonders, her arm clenched tightly to your elbow. 

“Suki vetted every one of them herself,” you tell her. “But… we still don't know.” 

As you walk with her through the palace, nothing feels secure - the servants that pass you all seem suspicious, the guards and metal benders that flank you all looking like strangers through the gaze of your fear. Anyone could be working under Qiang; the thought of being so unsafe in your own home, even with the people you trust most beside you, makes you ill to the point you feel dizzy. 

“Zuko should be up,” you blurt. “Why don't you spar with him before breakfast? I’ll meet you.” 

Toph’s brow furrows with unease, her grip on your bicep becoming tighter. 

“Are you okay?” she asks. 

You nod, but don't bother to put on a brave face. 

“I just feel a little tired,” you reply. “I didn't sleep very well last night.” 

Again, not a lie. 

Toph considers this for a moment, no doubt gauging your pulse, then concedes, letting you go with a firm, nervous squeeze. 

“Okay,” she says. “We’ll stay close.” 

When you see that she goes without incident, you sweep through the corridor, hastily making your way back to your own, personal bedroom, and locking the door behind you. For a moment, you stand staring at the threshold, considering pushing your vanity or wardrobe in front of it to barricade yourself in. 

Your vanity. Your wardrobe. 

It sinks in that you haven't been alone in this room since you returned from Ember Island; you moved your belongings into Zuko’s room, opting to sleep next to him and making plans to convert the room back into a sunroom. You pace the floor slowly, inspecting the bed and its thin, billowing canopy, the windows and their gorgeous views beyond lightly veiled curtains; had you stayed in this room, they'd have been switched out for heavier ones in anticipation of winter, but they remain, letting in cool air that chills the dormant space. Dust has gathered on the deep, glossy wood of your vanity, your fingers leaving streaks in their wake as they run along its edge. You pull the single drawer open as if by instinct, something catching in your chest as its only remaining contents slide out from the shadows. 

A single pai sho tile - the lotus. 

On its side, so minuscule you can barely make it out, is a series of addresses; you discovered the markings one night while nervously toying with the gift from Iroh, finding various locations around the world listed on the piece after inspecting it under a magnifying glass. You told no one of this, not even Zuko, knowing deep down that it was something Iroh meant only for you. Your fingers trace over the address in the Imperial City - a pub by the name of Ichigo’s. 

Without a second thought, you dash to the trunk at the foot of your bed and pull a cloak from its depths - the one you and Zuko used to navigate the city unnoticed during your wedding celebrations. You strip out of your ceremonial robes, folding them neatly in the space where the cloak was and replacing them with your traveling clothes. You thank the spirits for the cold weather as you pull the cloak tightly around yourself, making sure it obscures your face before leaving the room once more. 

In the corner of your bedroom, there's a hatch; it's hidden under a false floorboard, beneath a thick rug, and leads to tunnels that wind in a labyrinth below the palace. Zuko explained that they've been there for hundreds of years, known to very few select people within the palace walls as an escape for the royal family should the need ever arise. 

“It's how we hid when Aang invaded the Fire Nation,” he told you. “It's where I confronted my father and left.” 

You raise the hatch from its disguise, slipping into the hole it forms in the floor with a single candle, the lotus tile, and the knife with which Qiang intends for you to kill your husband. In a matter of seconds, the board and rug fall back into place, and you slip from the palace in the dark, the entire world above unknown to your disappearance. 

The streets of the Imperial City are unfamiliar to you, but you make an effort to walk with sure steps. Your face is well hidden under your cloak, shadowed by the gray gloom of a silver sky, but it isn't as if anyone is curious enough to slow and peer beneath it; the air is brisk, and people rush past you in a haste to get where they need to go, back into warmth. 

Ichigo’s is on the fringes of the city, resting on a small hill beside the docks amongst a cluster of other businesses; together, they form a small alley and marketplace, its shops and stalls either shuttered or lit with hanging burners to fight off the winter cold. As you approach the bar, climbing over a set of wood steps that creak and shift under your weight, rain begins to fall. 

The inside of the bar proves much more welcoming than its surly exterior. In one corner, a fireplace burns with a wide, open hearth, a set of thick logs crackling cheerfully within. The paneled walls are decorated in an array of tapestries and promotional posters for other local businesses, and the tables that span the room are cozy and intimate, seated with cushions and placed atop tatami mats that buffer the rough wood floors. The bar itself is also quite quaint; only a few feet long and hosting about four seats, its shelves of liquor bordered by a twinkling string of lanterns and a small, handwritten message board announcing the day’s kitchen specials. What catches your eye, however, is the cluster of pai sho tables against one wall, the one farthest occupied by an elderly man in a white robe; you approach him tentatively, taking the seat opposite him and bowing respectfully under the guise of your hood. 

“Are you interested in a game?” the man asks. His voice is kindly, his mouth spreading into a grandfatherly smile as he speaks. “I don’t often find strangers willing to play against me.” 

“A game would be nice,” you reply, unsure what exactly you’re doing but knowing this man must be the reason Iroh sent you here. “Do you mind if I play with my own lotus tile?” 

“Not at all,” the man accommodates. “I too have my own set of tiles.” 

You reach into the pocket of your cloak, placing your lotus amongst the tiles set up on the game board; the man observes you carefully, leaning in to get a better look at the piece you’ve brought with you. 

“Do you mind if I see that for a moment?” he asks. “The craftsmanship is exquisite.” 

You nod, allowing him to take the piece. He turns it over in his fingers, running the pad of his thumb over the intricately carved design and holding it up to his face, inspecting it with great discretion. A nervous flicker tickles your stomach as he traces over the sides of the tile, no doubt finding the inscriptions on its surface. 

“You’ve been sent by a friend of mine,” the man finally states. 

“I believe so,” you respond. “I’m in need of some help.” 

“Then you’re in the right place,” the man says with a grin. He stands, handing the lotus tile back to you and ushering you to follow him. “Come with me. There’s another friend I’d like you to meet.” 

Wary, you follow him to the side of the bar, where he lifts a heavy curtain and slips into a back room. You clutch the knife in your pocket tightly, discreetly, hoping you haven’t just made a grave mistake and gotten yourself in more danger. He takes you through the bar’s storage room, moving aside a tower of boxes to reveal a small door, held in place by a simple, secure latch; he snaps it open, leading you through a low archway that descends into the building's basement. 

On the other side of the short passage, you find a tiny, yet nicely decorated sitting room - curtains hang from the ceiling creating a tentlike atmosphere, parted in places to reveal maps of the four nations hung on the walls. The center of the room is occupied by a large desk upon which many books and scrolls are scattered, and the air is heavy with the smoke of incense. Under the single lantern that lights the space, you spot the familiar face and humble stature of an older woman. 

“Advisor Yong,” you gasp. 

She stands in shock, pacing quickly over to you as you lower the hood of your cloak to reveal your face. She takes your hands in her own, clutching them tightly. 

“My lady,” Yong breathes with as much awe as you addressed her with. “How did you come all this way? Are you alone?” 

“Iroh gave her his tile,” the man who brought you explains. “I assume he sent her for her safety.” 

“There are tunnels under the palace,” you add. “I told the staff I was feeling ill and snuck out. Nobody knows I'm here.”

Yong guides you to the table, sitting you down beside her and telling the man to fetch you a cup of tea. The time-wisened lines in her skin seem deeper than usual, creased by a frown that distorts her whole face.

“They'll be discovering that you're gone soon,” she says, “so we must make this quick. Has Iroh told you about his membership with the Order before?” 

You shake your head, furrowing your brow in confusion. 

“The Order of the White Lotus,” Yong elaborates, “is an ancient society that operates beyond political bounds. We come together to share ancient philosophy and knowledge, but since the war… we act as a sort of lifeline organization as well. Emergency aid for those who need it.” 

“Iroh gave me that lotus tile when he was here for the wedding,” you tell her. “He must have known something I didn't because we’re in much more danger than we thought - Qiang threatened me. He wants me to kill Zuko.” 

“Qiang…” Yong mutters. “He can't be the one behind this. He doesn't have the manipulative tact to convince so many groups to act according to his will.” 

“He made it seem as if they were huge,” you continue. “He told me they had informants all over the palace.” 

“He's a good liar,” Yong dismisses, though her expression remains concerned. “Intimidating, too; that's why he was the one to threaten you. But he isn't the leader. What did he tell you? When he gave you the order?” 

“He said they'd kill my family. I don't want to lose anyone, but Katara and Aang…” 

Yong nods. 

“Aang is too important,” she finishes for you. “His death would devastate the world and put countless lives in danger. I promise, we won't let any harm come to them or anyone else.” 

She stands once more, offering a hand with which she raises you up. She continues to clutch it, gripping you as if letting go means surrendering you to the enemy. 

“I’ll call a meeting of our members within the city,” she states. “We have a few members staffed at the palace who we’ll ensure are at your guard. I’ll alert internal security and have them investigate Qiang immediately.” 

The man returns, and Yong instructs him to leave the tea and accompany you back to the palace - as far as he can without compromising the security of the tunnels. 

“Advisor Yong,” you say as you're ushered again through the passage and out the back of the pub, “we only have a week. Is that… do we have enough time?” 

Yong’s eyes sweep your face, her pupils flitting back and forth as she tries to find the right words to say.

“I won't lie to you,” she finally answers. “I don't know. All I can promise you is that we’ll do our best. We reconquered Ba Sing Se with much lesser numbers than we have now - here's hoping those odds are still in our favor.” 

📚 table of contents 📚

✨ join me on patreon ✨

☕ buy me a coffee ☕

{ subscribers: @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @celamoon @omgwhattheeven @i-am-not-a-thot @fandomtrash1616 @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @just-another-romantic @berkeliums @eridanuswave @oleander-in-the-wind @kinismanditory @lammello @peppermenty @theawesomefactor123 @loganrwebb @ijustwannabecanadian @a-hopeless-fan @softvv @oddment-niwit-blubber-tweak @pearl-stonecutter @crazy0t @commander-rex @kittyddandnyla @abbyarchie @smol-grandpa @nonbinary-rogers @themanwiththemetalarmsdoll @witchywrter @canibea-whore-yet @fuckwhateverfuck @eridanuswave @duh-dobrik @sum-stuff13 @whalerus @yeetletzgetitjae @thedemigodsarealivebitch @irreplaceable-ecstasy @mysticpeacecrusade }

[rouiyan]

𝘖𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘊𝘈𝘚𝘛 𝘚𝘒𝘐𝘌𝘚 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘌 𝘞𝘏𝘖 𝘋𝘐𝘌 [ 𝘭.𝘫𝘯 ]

⧏ the second volume of rouiyan’s debut series, till death do us part ⧐

synopsis: “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

✧ prince!lee jeno x crown princess!reader ✧ royalty au

✧ genres : fluff, angst ✧ word count : 5.0k ✧ disclaimers : brief descriptions of nudity (nothing sexual), allusions to sex (nothing explicit), malintent

read volume one here: of the heart.

when the moon, in all her glory, begins to set, Mother Nature begins each new day by inhaling the misfortunes of the day before and blowing out frigid breaths in their stead. this morning is no exception for nothing is so clear as the wisps of fog that lie just beyond the horizon, a velarium of sorts, over the forest canopy. the sun is a little early today, but it is for naught, since its rays are caught between the tendrils of fog right as they begin to show. perhaps Mother Nature woke up in a bit of a fit today, seeing as the skies are already oozing the grays before the blues have yet to surface. Her fingers gently stir the clouds to ensure that they collide right where the earth most needs it and She's joyful in the sense that Her work can be admired from far down below. after all, the paintings She conjures in the skies are nothing short of masterpieces.

like a ceiling folding in with the pressure of water leakage, the clouds from down below give off an air of distress. the air itself is heavily encumbered with a clarity found only after the rainiest of days. and if not for the sake of the story, the author could spend hours droning on about Mother Nature's tour de force, she really would, but instead she will insert a few lines from a symphony: 

The autumn mist drifts blue over the lake,

The blades of grass stand covered with frost,

The flowers' sweet scent is gone,

An icy wind bends down their stems,

My heart is weary.

Der Einsame im Herbst (The lonely one in autumn), from Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde

in the exact opposite sense that Mother Nature loves her leaves, with tender fondness and a forgiving hand, prince jeno's father has never loved his second son more, with an impassioned sneer and a bagful of riches in mind. at least, that is exactly what prince jeno himself thinks as he skims through yet another letter, this time from his father. 

son,

never did i think i would enjoy the prospect of a winter ceremony as much as i would this, perhaps you would also like to see an early coronation. i've made the necessary arrangements, i assure that you will not be suspected in the least but keep caution and wariness by your side, our family name is already a great deal tainted. thought not for long, i'll be sending a carriage to retrieve you for your rounds back home, we've ought to get going on them. the damsel is a sight for sore eyes, i presume, i'd hate for her to foil our ambitions; she is much in your hands to attend to now. i'll see you by the throne soon, my lad. 

king of the southern mines, your father.

the prince's vision narrows upon the words 'coronation, arrangements, suspected, foil, throne,' and he is already a sight of frustration, fingers gripping the paper with such force that his short nails are digging into his palms through it. seething, he tears his eyes from the script before him but instead, they land on the previous letter sat atop the open escritoire. the one from his mother. the stamped edge of the paper lifts with the wind that filters through the window just above it and he has the sudden urge to let it be carried away wholly. jeno crosses the room in four steps. 

with both the pages collected in his hands, jeno crouches by the mantle, the roar of a fire licking up before him. his face is drawn in concentration, jaw stiff and clenched. the lines of his brows are met with a furrow in between, set above the meek lines of his eyelids. his pupils dilate, albeit out of habitual need, in the reflection of the inferno before him. he's ever-so-aware of the distinct scent of burning coals that siphon and sharpen his reminiscence of home. it's sentient, the feelings of familiarity that overcome his senses, halting his movements, his fingers clutching the papers in a way that almost tells of longing. longing of a seemingly different world entirely, one that he has only ever known until a few weeks prior. being washed anew in distant lands and over the course of a single lunation, jeno finds that he's never felt more mismatched from himself, disconnected from the people who raised him in contrast to the people who have brought out the better in him. but the embers are not the only thing he smells, not the only he sees, or heeds to.

the pearly carrara marble of the mantle tells stories in the grayed lines that trail across its posh surface. his eyes rove over the white, the faith and purity of your heraldry binded with the emblem of your family. the white of angels, of untainted relations, sterility in empowerment, the inviolable you. the white tells stories that the black never could.

so jeno finds a warm pleasure in the way the flames overwhelm the papers with eager enthusiasm, the damned words of his parents receding into mere ash. prince jeno thinks he could forever part with the world if it asked him to feast his eyes on this very sight until the end of time. 

despite arousing before the sun, you are disappointed when it starts to chase your wakefulness. there is something edging the growing unease in your mind, as if time is trickling down the drain of the past, too fast and too unforgiving. as if time is berating at your senses, telling you there is much more than what meets the eye but for the life of you, you cannot pinpoint what. for now though, you tend to the pressing matters at hand, jeno has been called home for his rounds, rather abruptly.

"perhaps i should go with you, rounds don't always have to be made by one per-”

jeno cuts you off effectively, "they are very much a one person duty," he assures pointedly. your nose scrunches, the light inconveniences starting to rub off on your exasperation. in a tired voice you mumble, "we could always change it up a bit, i'm sure." jeno chuckles heartily at that, his hand coming up from his side to rub out the lines of stress in your forehead.

"little miss princess, you're saying that as if you do not have rounds to complete of your own. i'm almost certain you host are a far greater amount of people that wish to be invited to the ceremony than i have-"

it's your turn to cut him off now, "why don't you stay with me then?" in attempts to enhance the force of your resolve, you uncover a hand of your own from under the sheets to comb through his locks. the way his eyes instantly close to relish in your touch paired with the little purr he gives is almost telltale of your victory. almost.

jeno pauses, his eyes flicker back open, and a soft knowing smile runs along the features of his face as he shakes his head, in knowledge of your artful tactics to wear him down. "and neglect my kingdom and their desires?"

you've left the feelings of frustration behind, instead deciding to fool around with the boy, to see what you can get out of him for good fun, "but we've yet to decide what flowers to use as centerpieces. and whether we're throwing a private or public ball. wedding preparations are surely more important than handing out personal invites…we can cut corners one some niceties." jeno knows better than to let his guard down. the jeno around y/n isn't to be trusted as easily. he settles for words of comfort instead, "i'll write."

"well, that's of course. silly of you to voice something as unequivocal as that."

a pause and his resolve is slipping, "maybe a few short visits back wouldn't hurt." you lick your lips in good-natured fun, another pause, "i'm sure my father wouldn't half mind if we cut it a week short." your eyes look hazy to him, though in reality they are simply amused, and drawing words from him he isn't even sure he's saying. "or- or maybe i could convince him, or try to at least…," he trails on and on.

your satisfied a certain amount and, suppressing a smile from giving away your plotted schemes, you mutter quietly, mostly for your own pondering, "i'm thinking alliums would make a statement, blue alliums." jeno gives a noise of confusion, unsure of how you've suddenly come to talk of flowers. "the centerpieces, i mean." jeno's silence only urges you on, "alliums, or blue alliums at that, are symbols of unity and good fortune. i think that'd make a nice combination with a base of milkweed, dignity and freedom, if my memory serves me right."

the prince has found his voice, "what of the rounds?" but he's met with a small chortle, "nothing, a month is a month, i'm sure we'll work around it."

"but, i- i'm not sure i understand. you were adamant enough a millisecond ago, and now-"

"and now i'm telling you i was toying with you, dear sir. such fun it is when you let on more than you'd like."

jeno's cheeks flush, the warm color dusting the bridge of his nose, apples of his cheeks, tips of his ears. your warm smile and benign banter bring him the simplest of joys. he's not sure he's ever felt this way before. familiarity. and, not the familiarity that comes from his assigned butler since birth, or the old lady at the apothecary he's been to all his life that's paid to tend to his wounds. not the familiarity that comes with blood and playing house, the type of sickened familiarity he feels with his brother, doyoung, that every second spent with him is forced. the familiarity he feels with you is by choice, by genuine and sincere desire. you want to wake up in the mornings with him by your side. you want to spend breakfast pushing each other's toes away underneath the table. you want to hold his hand when he walks you to your carriage. you want to make love with him in the most ungodly hours of the day. which is exactly what happens that morning.

a day is barely enough to do all the things you've penned in your journal. things to be done before you were to be married, with the one you were to be married to. the list had been written, curated, and refined by nine-year-old you, who you must say, had some very good ideas, though verily a romanticist. 

jeno is departing tomorrow morning, as early as the sun will permit, and suddenly you wish that it would never rise again. whatever the case, you set out first thing this morning, hand tugging along a very tired prince, for the bathing pool. nine-year-old you must have misinterpreted the meaning of 'skinny dipping' for swimming but you thank nine-year-old you because things seem to have worked out in your favor either way. jeno is jolted awake by the gelid water, the seasons now mark three-quarters into fall. 

"go in first," you state simply, hands on your hips and eyes drawn down into the water. the single toe you had dipped in to test the waters is frigid and frozen. jeno, who has yet to finish undressing himself, nodded at your words. if he were looking in your direction he would've noticed the smirk on your face. he stands straight, boxers on the ground behind him as he takes place by your side, "cold?"

"not at all, surprisingly," he's looking at you now and your countenance can't help but decompose in front of him, a small, unsuspecting smile adorning your lips. "oh really, can you attest for that?"

the smile is now blossoming unto your cheeks, "are you telling me to go in first?" the prince nods at that, fully aware of your schematics, "yes, i would like to see you enter the warm water."

"you agreed to go in first just a few seconds ago, don't tell me you've backed out on your word," a feeble matter against the boy but he defends himself by saying, "devious little princess, as if this wasn't your idea."

you're equally defensive when you point out, "not me, directly, but rather me as a child-" he pushes you in. lee jeno, second prince of the esteemed southern kingdom pushes you into the subzero degree bathing pool.

assuredly though, he dives in a few seconds after he's had time to relish in your shocked expression and piercing screams. he's coming up for air, his hands have found your bare hips to make sure that you resurface together. or drown together, you think, because it seems his foot is caught in the crevices between two rocks and since he's writhing like a madman, you're writhing with him too. it's a strange sight, two very beautiful individuals, absolutely in love but absolutely inane, for if jeno had thought to let go of his grip on you, you might've been able to unlodge his foot altogether if he had not been set on wrangling both your bodies about.

it's four minutes later that the two of you are on the leveled bronze rock, now, absolutely loosing it over jeno's lack of common sense. both of you are having trouble breathing, spurts of water still occasionally gushing past his lips. he thinks you're most beautiful in your bare skin, with nothing to define you but yourself. he's running his fingers up and down your torso, lips connecting with the surface of your neck. he appreciates that you kiss him with such avidity, you always do. jeno loves that you make it known to him, that what you say, you mean. and that even if you were never to utter a word again, he would still understand the sheer vehemence with which you love him.

you cross off paragliding, building a snowman, and studying together for a test. not because they've been completed but because there simply is no plausible way to get them done with the deadline closing in fast. the next activity you present to jeno has his eyebrows raised in intrigue. he's quick to reply when you ask him. 

"a moon, a quartered moon." the knowing smile that grows on your face tells him he's chosen correctly.

jeno gives a squeeze to your hand as the needle comes in contact with your clean skin. the first few minutes are highlighted by the sensation of a million bee stings, racking through your brain, but the rest is relatively smooth sailing. yours comes out just as good as jeno's, a small moon, a quartered moon, tattooed into the skin just behind the left ear. there specifically, so that it's known by each other and each other only. 

there will be months passed before the moon becomes a sort of unspoken but affirmative communication instrument. when jeno loves you a little too much, he rubs the inked skin softly. his sleepless nights are cured with the pad of your finger upon the spot. between the many general meetings you're required to oversee in a day, jeno waits outside the conference room for you to exit, his fingers stroking the moon for the duration of the few seconds allotted to him before you're whisked away again. the symbol of night is translated into accounts of bonding, the smallest of things giving way to happiness. 

you would say the uses of the 'lovemark' are amplified as the sun retreats and the mascot of your relationship shines brighter than ever. it's evident in the look on jeno's face, especially, a few feet below you, peering up your skirt with a dumbstruck look on his face. 

"jeno, dear, now is really not the time." the boy clears his throat and looks away, baffled at how you'd caught him anyways. your position is so frightfully awkward, one foot on the top end of your chamber's windowsill, another bent and hoisted onto the flat ledge of your roof. "come on up now, and get those dirty thoughts out of your mind. for heaven's sake, we're here to watch the sunset and stargaze, not to pound into each other."

the prince laughs at your offhanded remarks, arriving himself on the platform. the view is expansive in the way that you can see the forest from here, the ocean if you squint, the hills set in the far distance, and the sky has never felt closer to the earth while the things you've always known to be near appear smaller and more distant than ever. even the gregarious tree stalks of the forest rise to what could be measured as an only inch from this outlook. 

"nine-year-old y/n seems to have known nothing but fun days." jeno muses, leaning his weight back upon his hands. your eyes are glazed in an omniscient mist, "i'd expect so, she was born and raised with everything." the prince picks up on the tone of distaste with which you'd spoken your words. he turns to you and studies the hairs that fall in your eyes, "hardly fair."

you reply not a beat after, "not at all fair. if i were to accomplish one thing during my run as queen, i'd give the children opportunities of a lifetime." the thoughts tumble out of your mind, as if you'd known of this conviction of yours since you were but a child. your drive as a ruler, firm and headstrong to implement your values and beliefs on your subjects has been the sole idea that's grounded you in the castle for your entire time being.

"and what if you cannot?"

your first reply is dealt with in humble humor, "at the very least, i'd like it to be engraved on my tombstone that i tried." the second, is laden with a sorrowful undertone, "housing, schooling, meals and warmth in the winter. we have it the worst here up north. if they are without school, they are left with nothing." jeno's head turns to yours, he sees the slip of a tear and he wipes it away, only to be met with another. your voice cracks in despair, "there are no mining jobs to take up, no farms to harvest, aqueducts to run. i dread that one day i must rule a kingdom of arts."

jeno tries, he really does, to gather you in his arms but your sobs rack your body with such force that he is left to comfort your desolations with words and a hand on your back, "what is there to dread? are the arts so difficult to maintain?"

bitterness forms at the tip of your tongue, "no, jeno. i regress in the face that art is invaluable. but the world seeks to attach a price to every viable thing, to label the passion of others. and now, now the arts are for the rich, only for the rich. have you ever heard of a hungry man paint instead of seeking shelter from the rain? a woman who writes prose instead of feeding her dying children? there is no one who can live solely on art but the heavens have sent me to rule a horde of those very people."

the prince knows you need to voice the thoughts weighing down your mind, so he gives them a platform, a nudge, "a kingdom of arts would be blessed to house a queen with intentions such as yourself, surely there are others who hold the same principles as you." 

"no doubt," your eyes cast on the forming stars, "but as much as i would love to trail a path of meliorism and say that with a tide of willingness, there will be change, i must not forget the real nature of the world we live in."

"and what is this nature that you speak of?"

"the drive of greed and sadism, in exchange for the feeblest of pleasures."

the world comes to a still in this very moment. the moon begins her ascent. the stars unsheath their full luminance. the whites of their gleam reflecting on the rooftop on which the two of you are sat. time and space shrivel in the potency of untainted humanity.

"we will bring change, you and i."

you feel your heart calm as your rambling ceases. jeno looks over at you and smiles.

prince jeno is scheduled to return in twenty seven days time. there is something that feels wrong about him leaving. a feeling that if he leaves, all hell with turn loose and you will be unleashed unto the dogs for ravaging. there is a coated and unspoken thought that splutters in your mind whenever you even dare so much as to begin to think of it. the possibility that with jeno's leave, you'll be left with the realization that it was all a phase of infatuation. that when you see him again, all the feelings that you'd built up over the course of a month and a few days was just a glamourized dream. that he was never real; the real that you needed.

"i'll be forever thinking of those lips on mine, maybe even missing them," you let, comically. jeno eyes you conspicuously, "and i'll be forever thinking of you, as a whole, not just the lips unlike you. a little fixated you sounded there, mind you." his little sniggers are given in response to your hands pushing his chest in frisky response. the prince pulls you closer into a final embrace, the coachman of his black carriage is awaiting his departure. 

he parts from you and you can't help but trail behind him down the paved path. he's over his shoulder now as you let loose a sliver of your deepest worries, meekly, "i hope we never change, jeno."

the prince halts at the bottom steps that curl into the palace. he sees you, feels you, knows you, for he quotes, “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

jeno can hear the light pellets of raindrops hit the roof of his carriage. the gray skies are darkening by the second, it's telling him something that he's sure he doesn't want to hear. his fingers fiddle with the cuffs of his tailored suit jacket, something you'd requested be made for him when his stay was first prolonged. the prince is entirely clad in white and he knows enough to imagine the face his mother will make when she first sees him home. lee jeno doesn't remember a time when he's donned a color other than black, but somehow, the white doesn't feel too far from home. 

with the white, his mind flashes with the events of the past month or so spent in your noble abode. you, on the other hand, rarely ever wore a color other than white, the most differing shade being a cream or beige. but even with all the lights, you never seemed to mind when they were dirtied. almost always, a day in the fields or by the bathing pool would drench a good six inches of your skirts in mud and the unfurled hems of your frocks or crinkled fronts of those sweaters you so often adorned were always beyond your notice. you were free in that way, never stopping to fuss over the little things you deemed unimportant. jeno thinks if he could live that way too and though he isn't sure if he can, he knows he wants to.

jeno can hear the spindles of the carriage gyrating with added resistance against the now watered-down mud of the trodden roads. his eyes are caught in the sky that looks as if it's to detonate at any given second. he predicts the thunder before it rings loud in his ears and he hears the coachman slash a whip to a trepid horse, an echo of the natural phenomenon. he wonders what it would feel like to be the coachman, out in the clamorring downpour, or perhaps the horse, blindlessly running to the crack of a whip, or the trees even, awoken by the threat of a fire. he wonders if he has any desire to be the lightning itself, to jab at the delicate foliage as he'd like, to set fire to that of which he doesn't like, to wield destructive power. he wonders, but he knows he doesn't want to.

lee jeno is in his carriage when he realizes what it means to be free, but not in the hindrance of others. he realizes what it means, not to rule but rather to guide without the oppression of others. lee jeno is also in his carriage when the skies turn black and a deluge of rain is unleashed upon the castle of white. 

a man a few inches brief to the prince, but of higher rank in swordsmanship, is propped on the limestone trellis that holds the awning in place, his two feet hooked between the vertical balusters of stone and fingers clung onto the ridge of the balustrade. he finds it ludicrous that every individual of importance he has ever met, is so caught up in their own belief that they are untouchable, where in reality they are the most vulnerable of all. he thinks this, specifically, as he upturns himself over the railing and onto the landing, only to see that the king's door are left wide open, the only shield of protection being the pristine white curtains glinting a sheen of blue in the moonlight. 

renjun is humored when, upon drawing the curtains back, the king himself is simply laying there on the ground, unconscious as he was informed he'd be. the knight presses two fingers to the inner wrist of the withered man and finds that he still has a job to finish. brandishing a blade from the underside of his calf, he deems the inscription on the handle fit for the deed. he drives it into the gut but makes quick work of it, the sputters of blood that erupt from the now-awakened royal something he wishes the guards just outside not to hear. renjun makes further assurance that the blade is firmly put in place, the stout palladium shaft protruding from the king's abdomen like the ring of a windup toy. 

a black body bag is used to sheath the quickly-paling bag of bones. it is left under the light of the moon, through a skylight rounded in the dead center of the palace. around the malefaction, stairs wind in all directions from the ground up and if there were even one maid to have crossed the landing once in the night, she would have been met with what looked to be an unassuming trash bag. but fate had it so the sun would rise before your dead father was stumbled upon, an inscribed shank planted between his internal organs reading, this star-like solitude (Giuseppe Ungaretti, from Last Choruses for the Promised Land: XVI (tr. by Patrick Creagh)).

the blood that seeps from the measly opening in the bag is not silver, nor is it gold. it is blood red. the red of a brazen senex that perhaps preceded and proceeded his times, entangled in the intricacies of the new age, the new game of politics he simply had no means to play at. akin to the webs of an arachnid, the string of fate hung around his neck, thin and unnoticeable, cinching with each passing second until Mother Nature deemed his time up. the blood that seeps writhes in the rays of the sun, twines like the veins in the marble beneath it. it seeps until the figure in the sack is drained and the clumping skin of human remains is the same shade as the white tiling. red against white, white against black, the black of a crying sky.

read volume three: dearly departed.

copyright © 2020 rouiyan all rights reserved.

✧ end note — i had such a hard time trying to pull this outta my ass in a way that captures everything i wanted to say. so thank you for reading this piece. it’s one of my most favorite things i have ever written, undoubtedly.

[its-sixxers]

Swan Song

Ulfric Stormcloak is dead. The civil war is halted - for now. Alduin awaits. Idunn and Tandreth are all too aware of the fate of heroes.

(borderline wip but a snippet in apology for my absence <3)

Despite centuries living, Tandreth had at last discovered something he’d never witnessed before.

What it felt like to be a hero.

Amidst the ruin Whiterun rose from the ashes like a phoenix to celebrate - the dead were buried, injuries nursed, grudges put to bed. Tandreth still felt the sting of where the Ulfric’s blade had bit into his ribs, but the mead of Jarl Balgruuf had quelled his pain. Throughout the night toasts had been made even when the scent of burned flesh still lingered even in Dragonsreach - the Companions often the source of uproarious laughter, the local bard testing out a few new verses in his attempt to give the event justice.

Tandreth had been fawned over, and if it were only a few years ago he’d have been happy to take to bed a train of admirers. As he sat at the feast table, however, he was only all too aware that his fame was based solely on his proximity to others - and for the first time, he was content in that knowledge.

Azuraansi sat near the Jarl himself, nursing her single goblet of wine and leaning in conspiratorially between Balgruuf and Irileth, discussing matters he couldn’t imagine. Whatever they were, it brought a smile to her usually icy features - though colored with a hearty dose of exhaustion.  Tandreth smiled in turn to see his twin sister flattered and content, to be recognized for her ability and to, for once, not have her victory turn to ashes in her hands.

Most of his attention was diverted to the guest of honor, however.

Idunn - Dragonborn, who’d come to Whiterun’s aid on a dragon with he and his sister in tow, who’d engaged Ulfric Stormcloak in single combat, whose Shouts had caused lighting to crack across the sky and who sang with every sweep of her warhammer. She’d been like Ysgramor himself, like Talos, like any other figure of legend - auburn hair blazing, so young, and yet she could not mirror the smiles and cheers offered her. Instead she let Raansi engage with the Jarl and the excited elite of Whiterun, preferring to stare into her goblet of mead. 

Ulfric Stormcloak was dead. It was cause for celebration for many - it should have been cause for celebration for her.

Yet despite the man’s many sins, Idunn was no executioner.

By the time Tandreth finally managed to gain an opportunity to politely excuse himself from the feast table, she was absent. Unmissed - Talos was charismatic, Ysgramor larger than life. Idunn always seemed to try her best to fade into the background, to bore any who tried to engage with her. 

Slipping into the shadows was second nature, and all the easier with most of the Great Hall too inebriated to perceive anything but their own joy. Tandreth slipped away from the celebratory feast and into Dragonsreach’s state quarters, all revelry muffled by the thick oak doors closing behind him.

Moonlight trickled in through the windows of the back hall high above. The place was unguarded - whether those assigned to their posts were dead or excused was beyond Tandreth’s knowledge, but the thought of the keep’s inhabitants unguarded as they slept unsettled him. Quickly he made haste to the quarters that had been granted to Idunn - those that used to belong to the Jarl’s wife, at the pinnacle of Dragonsreach’s many steps. His own were at a lower level, and were it not for Irileth’s own status he’d wonder if it was a slight.

The carved door to Idunn’s chambers was unlocked, not that it’d be a concern for him if it wasn’t - and quietly he cracked it open to peer inside.

Idunn wasn’t in her bed. He knew it the moment the sound of snoring didn’t meet his ears, and quietly he slipped inside. The curtains shifted from an incoming draft, and he knew where to go.

Beyond the solar was the bedroom, whose north wall possessed a great stone arch framed by woven linen curtains that led to a stone balcony beyond. Multicolored lights spilled through the windows onto the four poster bed.

A familiar figure stood on the balcony, backlit by the aurora.

Whiterun’s tundra stretched for miles below, the night sky above splashed with the watercolor of numerous shifting lights. Idunn leaned against the banister wearing nothing but a man’s undershirt, hem laying across the middle of her powerful thighs. Tandreth could see numerous bruises blooming upon her pale skin, as varied in color as the night sky above.

“It’s your night, you know. You should enjoy it.” Tandreth said gently, announcing his presence. Idunn only turned her head a fraction to acknowledge him, her cheeks shining with what he knew were shed tears. Slowly he approached, coming to her side by the banister. 

“There’s nothing to celebrate.” she answered, voice thin. Yes, she’d been crying. “The Plains District is ashes. Good people are dead.”

“Yes.” Tandreth agreed, watching her white-knuckle grip on the banister. “But more would have perished if it wasn’t for you. The day’s won. Now’s for drinking, to forget the bloodshed, to relish being alive.”

Idunn dropped her gaze to him, looking more afraid than he’d ever seen her. It made something in his chest clench to see it - the whites of her eyes in the dark. “For how long?”

He offered his best smile in an effort to reassure her. “For eternity, if we’re lucky. Maybe Nine will become Ten. Say hello to Dibella for me if that’s the case, she’s always sounded like a fun time.”

The effort fell flat, for Idunn made a choked noise in her throat and looked back to the tundra below - to the embers that yet burned, further evidence of battle hidden by the dark. “There’s only one thing left, now.”

Alduin. A fear marked by the panic in her face whenever a shadow crossed the sky. A god. How could anyone kill a god?

Unbidden Tandreth’s hand settled upon her own, his dark skin a stark contrast to hers. The action stilled her ragged breathing, granting him some relief. “You’ve succeeded in everything. You can do this. I’m with you, for what little it helps. I believe in you.” The expected words. The words he was supposed to say.

Again she shook her head. “That’s not what I’m worried about.” she whispered. “It’s what happens after.”

“After?” Tandreth looked up at her quizzically, his traitorous hand gently stroking her knuckles with his thumb. “Whatever you want. No one can stop you. I’m certain the Empire will give you enough coin to buy anything you please for Ulfric’s head-”

“No.” Idunn said emphatically, suddenly pulling her hand away from his. Tandreth’s palm burned from the absence. “All of the stories. All the heroes die. Ulfric was a hero, to the Stormcloaks. They never… They never…”

“Happily ever afters are boring.” Tandreth replied, anxiety building in his chest from this line of conversation. Ulfric’s death had rattled her, and he knew it was for more reasons than the man’s status as hero. This battle was beyond him, something scum like him had no hope of fighting. “And those are just stories, Idunn, they aren’t-”

“You said so yourself.” she interrupted. “Heroes don’t get happy endings. It’s a lie.”

It caused his cheeks to flush, bile to rise in his throat. Yes, he’d told her as much - told her in as few words as he could manage what happened to his mother, the Nerevarine. How he and his sister had as good as grown up on their own, never to have closure until he saw his mother’s ghost. How the last Dragonborn emperor had martyred himself, how the hero who’d brought him to the Imperial City scorned all glory and disappeared from history soon after. How all of Idunn’s efforts to do right were fruitless, how none would appreciate her and her name would disappear after she died trying to protect people who didn’t care for her - and now Tandreth saw the effects of his poisonous words. Self hatred flooded his system. Vile, venomous coward, who’d tried to drag her down with him.

“Idunn.” he whispered, and she winced at the sound of her own name from his lips. “I was saying whatever I could to dissuade you, then. It was cruel.”

“Was it false?” she questioned, words piercing something else in his chest. She looked him in the eye, her own, wide and green and so guileless, beseeching him for the truth.

Tandreth’s shoulders fell, staring up at her - at the aurora reflected in her eyes, unable to bring light to them. Honesty burned his tongue, but he offered it nonetheless. “No.”

Idunn took a deep breath and turned away from him. “I always knew it.” she murmured. “At the heart of it, all along. I’m going to succeed. Destiny, fate, the Divines - they’ll carry me that far. But after…” He watched her throat ripple as she swallowed. “... I’m not coming back from this.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I feel it.” Idunn shook her head. “In my bones. My heart. The air. It makes sense. This was my purpose, all along. I have no -” A pause and another wince, as she dared a glance back at him. Correcting herself, to a flutter in his lungs. “ - few friends. No family. I was destined to die before fate called on me. It was just a stay of execution. This is my purpose, what I’ve been chosen for, what I’ve been born for. There’s nothing after.”

A cold feeling pooled in his gut, and Tandreth felt the overwhelming urge to run at her words. To save himself. Idunn was convinced, and it was enough to convince him in turn. In his travels with her he’d seen things he’d never believe, proof of divinity, every odd defied. It was only a matter of time before her luck ran out. He’d seen it all happen before.

Yet beneath the cold an ember burned, fanned into a flame. No. He’d seen it before, but he wouldn’t let it happen again. He’d tried to persuade her out of destiny, thrashed and raged against it. He’d tried to run from it already. The conclusion he’d come to was one constant as the rising sun.

Whatever would come, he couldn’t leave her. Even if he had to watch her die.

No.

Could he change fate? Change a certain path?

Of course not. He was a child, tantruming against the inevitable. Instinctively wanting to smash what he could before running away, furious at his own powerlessness.

Yet if there was one thing he could change - one thing in his blighted life he could do again, it was to say something. He’d left his mother with bitter words.

Idunn stared out at the tundra in silence. Could he leave her with the same?

Tandreth’s tongue suddenly felt thick, a wave of heat flowing over his body as if a fever. Nausea twisted his stomach. Suddenly all words failed him - he’d never had trouble with them before, always had a quick remark, but now this was important, now this was perhaps the last calm they’d ever have.

“Maybe.” he admitted, forcing himself to face the truth of it all. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe these are the last weeks.” His body was betraying him, vision clouding with blasted tears, his voice wavering. He could still run - Azura, how he longed to - but Tandreth clutched the stone banister as if it could keep him from being ripped away from it. He’d lived centuries, but a couple dozen months had given him a light he’d long thought lost and the idea that it was going to be snuffed out again was too much to comprehend.

Idunn managed to look at him again, pain diffused with confusion on her part. She wasn’t used to seeing him like this, he was well aware - knew that the little wrinkle between her brow was one of concern. Knew everything, and tried not to think of how every scrap of knowledge of her might come to haunt him. “You don’t have to stay.” Her voice was tender as a kiss. “It’ll be safer.”

It was his turn to make a choked noise, and he tore his hands from the banister to settle on her biceps, so firm beneath his touch he nearly took comfort in it. Tandreth forced her to face him, to look him in the face. “No. Listen to me, Idunn. I’ve spent my life running. From everything. From living. Were this a few years ago I’d be happy to throw myself into the void alongside you - but I’ve met you now. In you I’ve seen that maybe this cursed plane is worth something after all, that I could be worth something. I want to live. I want to see what the future holds.” In spite of himself, he let his hands drift down her bicep, stroking her skin - took a step forward. “With you. Whatever time you have left. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Her lips fell open, and he almost cried at how it took her a few moments to process it all - dear, sweet, simple Idunn - and he knew she had when she couldn’t keep the water from spilling from her eyes, collecting on her lower lashes like dew. “But you - you hate it. Hate this.”

Tandreth laughed bitterly. “Yes. I hate fate, I hate the work of Divines and Daedra. I hate to be helpless. But not you. Not…” His right hand moved up to her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Not this. Never this.”

Uncertainty now overrode all of Idunn’s fear, calming the maelstrom in his own mind. “I won’t let you die on my account.”

“You’re not listening. I want to live.” Tandreth repeated. “And if… if you’re right, I’m going to try my damndest to make sure meeting you meant something. To make sure the world doesn’t forget. Not just the hero, but the woman.”

“The woman isn’t anything.” Idunn said with a watery smile. “You’ll bore them all to pieces.”

“I’ll fight Akatosh himself if I can keep the woman on this world with me for one moment longer.” Tandreth nearly shook her, desperate for her to understand him, choking on the words he needed to say, before the end, before she was another one of his ghosts.

The fear in her returned, but it was a different fear - one he knew in himself. The caution, the hesitance, the disbelief - she was worried she’d misheard him, that she’d read too much into things. She started to pull away from him - she’d decided what he was trying to tell her was all in her head, and in response he pulled her closer.

“I love you.” he whispered - feeling as if he’d doomed them both.

[scarletaire]

flowerfall

A/N: Not my usual Jurdan fare, I know, but after reading A Sky Beyond the Storm, this fic poured out of me and I was helpless to stop it. Canon-divergent for Chapter LX, but mostly follows canon for everything after.

WARNING: Spoilers for A Sky Beyond The Storm!

Fandom: An Ember in the Ashes by Sabaa Tahir

Ship: Helene Aquilla x Avitas Harper

Genre/s: Fluff

Rating: T

Links: Masterlist | Read on AO3 

[Summary and tags under the cut because spoilers!] 

Description: 

When Avitas Harper falls, the Blood Shrike makes a deal with Death.  Snapshots of their life together after the war.

Tags: Harper Lives, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Helvitas Living Their Best Lives, We Stan One (1) Power Couple

_______

When Avitas Harper falls, the Blood Shrike makes a deal with Death.

It happens as Mirra of Serra takes her knife to Keris Veturia’s neck. The blood and the life leave her body, but the Shrike cannot revel in it, for her love is dead and cold in her arms.

How is it possible that she still had anything left to lose?

But of course, to love someone is both to gain and to lose a thousand pieces of the world all at once.

She roars in the face of it.

In the face of Death.

And this time, with the bridge between worlds on the brink of evisceration, Death answers.

I need power, says Mauth to anyone who will listen, weakened, and scrambling for any strength to beat back the storm. Power to fight.

The Blood Shrike has never heard the voice of Mauth before, but what he asks for is familiar. She knows all too well the pursuit of power, the search for anything to keep fighting. It is what she searches desperately for now.

Give him back, she orders Death with the voice of a girl who has still too much to lose, give him back, and I will give you the strength you need.

The power of the Star. The power of song and healing. The power of Rehmat, reborn again through the centuries and a thousand times in her blood.

Whatever it is, it will be enough.

It has to be.

The maw opens its jaws. The Nightbringer succumbs to the maelstrom. The Sea of Suffering overtakes the sky.

And Helene Aquilla sings her last song.

____

For a moment, there is only the storm. It surges through the escarpment, it rages across the cliffs, it consumes everything in its path.

For a moment, all is lost.

For a moment, she thinks that at least she didn’t have to wait long before following him.

And then, between one breath and the next, the maelstrom disappears.

Beneath her hand, Avitas Harper stirs.

____

In the end, her deal hadn’t mattered. It wasn’t Mauth that saved them all. It was Laia of Serra, because of course, of course, who else could have done it but her. Helene is full of a strange mix of pride and awe when she pulls Laia into a hug. The girl she once tried to kill, the girl who pieced together the broken world.

The once Beloved, the once Forsaken now rests in chains of mercy, and so the world continues on.

Mauth never speaks to her again.

Maybe because there is nothing she could possibly offer anymore. Maybe because the next time Mauth speaks to her, it will be at the end, when his words will be the last thing she will ever hear.

Briefly, she wonders what Death will do with the power she gave him. Then she thinks that it doesn’t really matter much to her, anymore.

____

She stands with Elias as they take in the bodies of their dead. They are spread out in lines across the forest floor. There are too many of them, Martial, Scholar, Tribal – it isn’t important anymore. They were divided in life. Today, they are united in the loss of it.

Above her, around her, the forest blooms alive, like a panacea for the death and destruction spilt upon the soil, blossoms of apricot and cherry and Tala filling the air with their sweetness, falling to the ground like colored snow.

It is a good thing, then, that Harper is alive. If she had lost him, truly lost him, then she would not have been able to bear the sight of flowers ever again.

____

It turns out dying and being brought back to life takes a toll on a human body.

“When will he wake?” she whispers into the quiet of the healer’s tent. “It’s been days.”

She knows the body lying still before her is merely asleep, but she remembers the way he had looked with all the life drained out of him, and it is a sight she will never forget.

“Give him some time,” Elias says. “Being resurrected by Death itself is no easy thing.”

She raises her eyebrow at him askance.

“I know a thing or two about being resurrected by Mauth.” He shrugs, and the movement is so familiar, so genuinely Elias that she feels the corner of her lips tilt. “Guess it runs in the family now.”

Avitas Harper wakes two days after.

She doesn’t give him a chance to get his bearings. The words are out of her lips before he can even try to sit up, like a song she can’t keep silent any longer. “I love you.”

He raises his fingers to her face, tracing the scars there like a benediction. “I got my wish.”

Emifal Firdaant.

She presses her palm against his hand, trapping it against her cheek. “With all due respect, Captain Harper, it was a bleeding stupid wish. So I did you the courtesy of vetoing it.”

When she kisses him, she feels like she can breathe again after a millennium of holding her breath.

____

When Mirra of Serra takes up the mantle of Soul Catcher, Helene watches the life return to Elias’s eyes, and the hope return to Laia’s.

The Bani al-Mauth turns to Harper. “I suppose I should thank you. For offering me shelter and safety in the bowels of Antium.”

“It was an honor, Lioness. You repaid me in kind when you helped the Blood Shrike through the tunnels.”

“And when you aided in the battle with Keris,” Helene adds.

Mirra scoffs, white hair dancing in the wind. “I worried that the Shrike wouldn’t be able to keep the secret to herself. Not like you. A mind like a steel trap, you have.” She slaps Harper once across the chest. He does a fine job of hiding his grimace as she knocks his healing wounds. “Think you’ll be a fine brother-in-law for my daughter.”

Elias splutters, Laia flushes, and Helene feels a laugh bubbling up in her chest for the first time in ages.

____

As their troops begin to file out of the Forest of Dusk, she sees the figures of two men talking under the shade of a tree. Elias is taller, but Avitas is older. And so it is he who holds out his hand for his brother to shake.

And it is Elias who takes it, but uses it to pull him into a hug instead. She sees Avitas’s back stiffen in surprise, but he doesn’t push him away.

“It shouldn’t have taken so long for this to happen,” Elias says. “I’m glad you’re alive, brother. I’m glad I wasn’t the one to have to pass you on.”

____

When Quin Veturius proclaims her Empress in front of the conclave of their people, her eyes immediately seek Harper.

Help me, she tries to convey. Knock the old man out before he actually convinces them.

“Stand strong,” he says aloud, instead, love and pride sparkling in his green eyes, “Empress.”

____

Later that night, when she sings Zacharias to sleep with a soft lullaby, her blood doesn’t sing with her. It’s silent, dormant. The air is empty with the ghost of her magic.

Leaning against the door a few feet away, Avitas has closed his eyes to listen, his lips curled up at the edges.

And it should feel like something has been stolen from her, but really, it feels more like a blessing than anything else.

____

She dances with Avitas at the Moon Festival in Nur, and the night is warm and they’re both still in armor, and neither of them really know how to dance properly anyway, but it is enough.

It is more than enough.

Skies, it’s more than she could have ever asked for.

He lifts his arm and she twirls under it, catching the twinkle in his eye, and suddenly, she wishes they weren’t in such a crowded place full of other people. Suddenly, she wishes they were alone, in a room, flushed and pressed up against each other just like this. Dancing a dance they both know the steps of far too well.

On her next twirl, she catches Musa’s eye, where he leans against a table, flirting with a pretty Scholar girl. He winks at her, as if he knows exactly where her thoughts have strayed.

She’s far too happy to be annoyed in any way, and so she almost sends him a wink of her own before Harper pulls her close against him again and the thought is forgotten.

____

It occurs to her later in the night, as the festivities draw to a close and she glimpses Musa walking back to his tent alone, that she had come far, far too close to understanding his loneliness in a way she hates to imagine.

____

At night, the Empress walks her city.

Avitas Harper walks with her.

The blue irises native to Antium are in full bloom, littering the ground.

One year, she thinks, as she cups her hand around a petal that floats down to her through the air. It’s been one year since the last flowerfall.

The one in which the world was broken. The one in which the world was remade.

____

Sometimes, she wakes thinking of her family. Of Livia, bleeding out in front of her son. Of her mother, father, Hannah. All of them, their throats cut, their lives lost, gone.

Sometimes, she wonders if they will hate her for bringing back her lover instead of one of them, any of them.

Sometimes, she wonders if she will ever forgive herself for any of it.

____

Avitas Harper, as it turns out, is a shockingly good babysitter.

The first time he gets Zacharias to sleep in under ten minutes, she chalks it up to dumb luck and good timing.

The second time it happens she almost kisses him despite the baby in his arms, too grateful for the peace and quiet after a long hour of listening to her nephew scream.

The third time it happens, she stares at him in disbelief.

“Did you bring back anything from the afterlife, maybe? Does Mauth have supernatural baby-charming magic that we don’t know about?”

He flashes her that half-smile that she feels underneath her skin.

Her next decree, she decides, will be outlawing all attractive men in armor from holding adorable, sleeping babies. It should be absolutely illegal by now, the sheer power of the sight before her.

____

She may be the Empress, but she is a soldier first and foremost.

When the Karkauans hold hostage the Martial ambassador she had sent over to confer the peace treaty, she is first in line for the mission to take him back.

“It’s not over yet,” she tells her men, when all efforts at neutral negotiation fall through. “I’m most dangerous when I’m cornered.”

Harper stands strong at her side. Her Blood Shrike, always watching. “That makes two of us.”

They march together into the fray.

____

The next Moon Festival, Mamie Rila finally succeeds in shoving her into a dress.

She puts up a good fight, doesn’t go down easy. In the end, it takes the combined forces of Laia, Afya, and an exasperated Mamie Rila to wrangle the Empress into the thin, strappy excuse for a gown.

“What is this supposed to be, a slip? Where’s the rest of it?”

Laia furrows her brows. “What are you talking about? That is the rest of it.”

Helene gapes. “I can’t wear this. I’m the Empress. I can’t walk around looking like I’m one stiff breeze away from a public scandal!”

“If you ask me,” says Afya, “a public scandal might do you some good. Just the thing you need to convince some of those troublesome, barbaric Karkauans to ally with you like you’ve been planning.”

“Burning, bleeding hells.” Elias’s eyes go wide when he walks in. “Who are you and what have you done with the real –”

He chokes off as Laia elbows him in the gut. “Don’t listen to him. Or Afya. You look great. Harper will love it. Shall we get on with your hair?”

Helene rears back, because her hair is the last bastion of normalcy she has.

Harper looks like he's been stabbed in the heart a second time when he catches sight of her, and Helene vows to never wear a dress again.

But when his fingers find the hem of her skirt under the table, tugging first, testing the stretch of the fabric against the skin of her thigh, and then slowly inching under, and then up and up and up — well. Maybe dresses aren’t so bad after all.

____

Sometimes, when she walks, Laia is there beside her. There are some nights when the ghosts of the past seem to walk with them, too. This night, in Serra, is one of those nights. Spring has come, and the flowers here are different, cushioning the road on which they walk with bright yellow petals.

“I can’t forget their faces.”

Laia has never been a killer. But she has dealt her fair share of death during their war, and that leaves a mark on the soul that can never be burned away. The difference now lies in how one goes about dealing with those marks. No, Laia has never been a killer, even when she had to be.

Helene, on the other hand, has spent too much of her life wearing the skin of one, and so she speaks as much to herself as she does to her friend when she replies.

“And you won’t. Just don’t forget the ones you saved.”

____

The first time Zacharias speaks a full word, it’s in the middle of supply negotiations with Tribe Nasur. She has just been reunited with her nephew after months in the capital and so is making up for it by carrying and snuggling him everywhere she goes, even if it is to a highly political trade meeting.

Fortunately, Tribe Saif is in close relations with Tribe Nasur, and so no one throws dirty looks when the baby babbles nonsense right when someone tries to speak. The Fakira even smiles encouragingly when Helene begins to bounce him on her knee.

That’s when Harper enters behind her with a missive from Blackcliff.

“Empress.” His voice is warm, and she realizes that it’s because Zacharias has noticed him, and is dimpling up at him with his head tilted back in that way that only babies can do. “We have positive turnout for the new recruits at –”

“Hapa!”

The whole room stills, as if everyone understands the gravity of this moment. Helene feels a grin break across her face, and she realizes that this is a first for her, too. Her first real grin in so, so long, after so much pain. Harper’s large, brown hand comes over her shoulder to pat Zacharias’s downy head in gentle praise, and she forces herself to get it together in front of all these important Tribespeople.

The meeting goes on. But then, one little detail niggles at her, like a tiny pebble in her boot.

Later, when she’s pushing him against the side of an empty caravan, her lips maybe a little too punishing against the skin behind his ear, he has the gall to chuckle at her.

“Are you jealous? Because his first word was my name and not yours?”

And so Helene sinks to her knees and shuts him up the best way she knows how.

____

Once, and only once, Mirra of Serra, Bani al-Mauth, visits her on a balmy night. The snow is almost over, and the Empress stands at her balcony overlooking the grounds, singing a lullaby to a sleeping Zacharias. He is getting too big now, and so she relishes any moment with him while she can still carry him in her arms.

It is on a dying winter wind that the Soul Catcher comes to her, the white locks of her hair stark against the night. “So it was you. I should have known.”

Helene glances at her out of the corner of her eye. “Known what?”

Mirra casts her gaze out into the city, and beyond, seeing something that only the Chosen of Death can see.

“There is a song across the river,” she says. “In the Waiting Place. All the ghosts ready to pass on hear it. It gives them peace.”

Ah, Helene thinks to Mauth, even though she knows he isn’t listening, so you used my voice after all.

____

When flowerfall comes again, and she has lost count at this point, how many it’s been, Helene Aquilla does not need to walk outside to know.

The blue petals of her beloved city, so familiar now, drift across her window like rain. The air is sweet with the smell of it, and with all that the two of them had done during the night, tangled together in the sheets of her bed.

She lifts a hand to trace the outlines of the silver Mask on his face. He pulls himself out of his doze just enough to smile at her.

“I know I said I would never marry and have children and all,” she begins, and the words are slow like honey in her mouth, “and I stand by my vow as Empress. But the adjoining room to my chambers is empty and I was wondering if –”

“Yes.”

She blinks at the swiftness of his answer. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. How else will I keep you out of trouble, my love?”

And so their lives go on.

_____

End Notes: 

Thank you for reading!

I did not foresee ever writing for this fandom, but after that ending, writing this was the catharsis I needed. Now back to regularly scheduled programming! 😂

* Didn’t tag anyone for fear of spoilers, and also because I wasn’t sure if they’d be interested in non-Jurdan fic 🙈But if you’d like to be tagged in any future stuff, I’d be honored to do so! ❤️

[loridrabbles]

Can you do fluffy Rex with secret wife and baby?

Secret Sanctuary | Captain Rex x Reader

Rex reveals to Cody that he has a secret family and brings him home to meet them.

Anakin, Rex, and his squad were huddled together in a large wet tent, well suited enough to house the soldiers and their equipment while still being at least somewhat comfortable. They were on a rescue mission that went extremely well. “A textbook mission” as Fives had called it. The group of them were there to rescue a missing nobleman who had been captured by the separatists and taken to the marshy planet they were camping out on. All of the separatist forces were wiped out, leaving the planet relatively safe. This mission was quiet. The nearest republic ship was waiting a day’s time away. A ship had come for the nobleman, leaving the 501st to wait overnight for their extraction.

     Rex was zoned out, sitting on a crate, his legs parted, his elbows on his knees, and his hands folded in front of him. He was lost in thought and the conversation of the troopers and Jedi around him became like white noise. The pitter-patter of rain on the tent helped with that as well. He didn’t mean to cancel them out. Normally he would be just as engaged in the conversation like everyone else, but tonight he was just too distracted.

     "What about you, Rex?“ He heard someone say. Hearing his own name drew his attention.

     "Rex?”

     "Huh?“ He snapped his head up to look at his men, who were all staring at him.

     "Thinking too hard about the question, Rex ol’ boy?” Anakin chuckled. 

     "I-I didn’t hear the question. Sorry, I was thinking about something else.“

     "And what was that?” Fives asked, taking a bite of a ration bar.

     "Oh…uhh nothing.“

     "Oh. Well, we were just talking about what we would be doing if we weren’t soldiers. I think I’d be a bartender. What about you?”

     "I don’t think I’ve ever thought of it.“ He answered.

     "Of course you have. We all have.” Jesse said.

     "I haven’t found the time.“

     "Well, you had enough time to think about whatever you were just thinking about. C'mon, you have to have something in mind.”

     "I’d be a bartender.“ He answered, hoping someone would change the subject.

     "Hey! That’s what I said.” Fives said, a few crumbs falling out of his mouth as he spoke with food in his cheek.

     "You’ve gotta give a better answer than that!“ Hardcase said fiddling with a cable sticking out of a crate.

     "I said I haven’t thought of it! Ok?” He snapped. He didn’t mean to sound so irritable, but he felt like he was being interrogated.  

     "Alright. I think we spooked him enough.“ Anakin said. 

     "It was just a light conversation, sir.” Kix said. “We’re not thinking about deserting.”

     "No. I understand.“ Rex said, scratching the back of his head. "I was just…lost in thought and was…startled.”

     "What were you thinking about?“ Fives asked.

     "Fives-” Rex started but was cut off by Anakin.

     "He was thinking about having children.“ Anakin teased, thoroughly enjoying the shocked look on his face and the quiet laughter earned from everyone in the tent.

     "Anakin. I think it’s best that you don’t encourage their teasing.” Rex said, placing his face in his hand.

     "You’re right. I’m sorry.“ Anakin said. "I’ll do it when you’re not around though.” He winked earning a grumble from Rex.

          As Rex walked the streets of Coruscant, he thought about the happenings of the night before. He wondered if Anakin really knew he was thinking about children, or if he was just using it as a topic to tease him in front of the soldiers and get a rise out of them. Cody walked beside him. He was his oldest and closest friend, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, he could trust him with anything. Initially, the conversation was just as awkward as he anticipated, but as his pace quickened, he couldn’t wait to bring Cody to his home.

     "So…your wife is it? Did you get married?“ Cody asked, looking over to Rex who was staring at his feet as he walked.

     "Yes. Well, we had a ceremony, but since we aren’t real citizens, it’s not official in the eyes of the law.”

     "Oh…well, your wife. How long have you known her?“

     "A little over two years now.” He answered.

     "I’m shocked you’ve been able to keep things a secret for so long.“

     "It was eating at me. I had to tell someone. I knew I could trust you.”

     "Always.“ Cody said, putting an arm around him for a moment. "Does she know I’m coming?”

     "I messaged her that when I came home I was bringing a guest, but she doesn’t know that we’re on our way.“

     "When’s the last time you saw her?”

     "3 weeks.“

     "Do you miss her?”

     "Every day.“

     "Does anyone know of you two. Well, besides me?”

     "I thought about telling General Skywalker, but I’d like to keep it to as few people as possible. I figured the fewer people know, the safer she’ll be.“

     "Ah. That makes sense. When you want to get away for a while to visit, what do you say?”

     "I’m not proud, but in the past, I’ve lied and told the General I have a simple, secret recon mission given to me by another general or commander. Usually, I just say that I wanna get out to the city for a few days. He lets me, but I hate to think about what he thinks I’m doing.“ He chuckled along with Cody.

     "How much further?" 

     "Right here actually.” He said, gesturing to a tall building. “Isn’t much of a walk. I like that. Means I can rush back to the base if something were to happen.”

     Rex pulled a keycard from one of his pouches and swiped it to ender the building. In the elevator, he pressed the button to the correct floor with his knuckle and leaned against the handrail, then took a deep breath. The noise of the lift was almost soothing. The ring of the bell signaled the door opening. Cody followed him silently to the door.

      “Let’s sneak in. I bet you 50 credits she’s doing something adorable.” Rex said in a whisper. Cody smiled.

      “Ok.”

     Quietly, Rex opened the door to the apartment and tiptoed in, Cody right on his tail. Sure enough, (y/n) was there. She had their baby in her arms, back to the door, swaying back and forth, tenderly singing a lullaby.

     "Mirrorbright shines the moon, as fires die to their embers – Those you loved are with you still – The moon will help you remember.“ Her voice was sweet and gentle. Despite her efforts, Meleena was still as hyper as before, wiggling in her arms. She got increasingly excited and pointed at something behind her mamma. 

     "What is it, sweet pea?” She asked. She turned around to see Rex standing in the entryway, wide smile on his face. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest as she rushed to him.

     "Honey bunny!“ She said ecstatically, wrapping her free arm around him, stealing a kiss on his jaw. He grumbled a little, hearing his embarrassing nickname in front of Cody.

     "Hi, love.” He said, kissing her forehead. “I missed you.”

     "You brought company.“ She said, looking at his shadow.

     "Yes. (Y/n), this is Cody." 

     "I’ve heard a lot about you. Well, not ‘a lot.’ He doesn't like to talk about it.” She said, passing off Meleena who was making grabby hands at Rex. He pulled her to his chest, kissing her chubby little face. “Why don’t you come in and sit down. I was just making a pot of caf.”

     Rex gestured into the living room and took a seat along with Cody. As (y/n) brought the coffee, cream, and sugar from the kitchen, he bounced Meleena on his knee.

     "She’s gotten even bigger since the last time I was here.“ He said. 

     "Yes. She’s 20 pounds now.” She answered, pouring three cups on the table in front of the sofas. They talked for a while about life off the base and what it was like to have a family. Some moments, Cody couldn’t take his eyes off, Meleena, but neither could Rex. After about a half-hour, Rex stood and gave the baby back to (Y/n).

    “I’m gonna grab a quick shower and change. I’ve never stayed armored up this long after getting home.” He said.

     "Cody, you’re welcome to stay for dinner if you like. We always have leftovers.“ (Y/n) said. The baby on her lap grabbed her necklace and popped it in her mouth, chewing on the pendant.

     "Alright. Thank you. I don’t think I’d be able to make it back to the base without Rex.” He chuckled, rubbing the back of his head.

     "I’ll be back shortly,“ Rex said, turning to walk down the hall.

     "Don’t take too long, honey bunny.” Cody teased. Rex shot him a glare and looked to (y/n) who was holding in an eruption of laughter. After Rex was gone, Cody and (y/n) struck up their own conversation.

     "So, he doesn’t tell you much about the war huh?“ Cody asked, taking a sip of coffee that had, unfortunately, cooled to room temperature. 

     "No.” She said, reaching to the table to grab a teething ring for Meleena. “I would like to know, but I don’t pressure him. I do understand though, why he doesn’t. I was a medic in a war on my home planet. I only went out in the field twice, but it was hard. I thought I was pretty close to the people I lost, but you guys must have a special bond.”

     "Yeah…“ Cody said, swirling the coffee around in the mug.

     "He doesn’t want to talk, so I don’t ask and I’m fine with that. He should have a home. A place where it’s safe and unchanging and he can just leave everything at the door. A sanctuary.”

     "I’m glad you understand. I wish more of us could have a shot at a life like this. He’s very lucky to have met you.“ Cody said. She blushed and gave the baby a kiss on her head. 

     "I’m glad to be here for him. I love him so much.”

     It was dark on Coruscant. The only thing heard for blocks was the footsteps of Rex and Cody as they made their way back to the base. It wasn’t rare for things to be so quiet in that district. Maybe that’s why Rex picked the location for his family, it’s quiet, peaceful, and safe.

     "I’m really happy for you, Rex,“ Cody said, looking over at Rex who was kicking a rock down the sidewalk. 

     "I don’t know what I’d do without her.” He smiled. 

     "She’s pretty great. You’re lucky.“ Cody stopped, and after a few steps, Rex realized he had fallen behind. When he turned to face him, Cody put a hand on his shoulder.

     "Not many of us get a chance at something like this. Make the most of it.” Cody said solemnly. “If this war comes to an end and they ship us all back to Kamino to be disposed of-” Cody rested his forehead against Rex’s “you run. You take her and you run. I don’t care if they call you a deserter. You can’t let this go…you can’t.”

     "I will,“ Rex whispered. "I will.”

[cablesscutie]

ZKDD Day 1: Nightfall

I’m attempting to do as many of these prompts for @zkdrabbledecember as I can since I have nothing else to do for the rest of the year - we’ll see how many actually happen!

Zuko had been doing a pretty alright job of not looking like a wimp in front of Katara’s entire hometown, if he did say so himself.  The warmest clothes he could get made for him in the Fire Nation had proven insufficient beyond getting him from his ship to the warmth of her father’s home, but some borrowed gloves and boots from Sokka, and an old parka of Hakoda’s had fixed that well enough.  By the time he had to show his face out in town, he was bundled up.  His body ran warm anyway, so with the thick insulation of the clothes and the exertion of walking through nearly the entire town, he’d been downright toasty.  Still, all through the day, Katara had been checking on him to make sure he was warm enough, her smile always bright and pleased when he told her he felt great.  It was important to her that he liked the South Pole, her letters tiptoeing around saying that someday, this place might be like home for him too.  

The idea that she wanted him to be comfortable surrounded by her family and her culture was enough to make him love every minute of his visit, but the longer he stayed, the more he realized it would be impossible to make him dislike it.  Uncle had said, long ago, that the Water Tribes valued family and community above all else, and it showed in their welcome.  As the Fire Lord, he had gotten used to his arrival being received with some amount of ceremony, usually tense or overly deferential.  Instead, he found himself drawn into what seemed to be the most out of control party he had ever been to.  People had brought food and instruments and so many small children.  A haphazard band formed and re-formed from whatever combination of people happened to all know the same song, and the smell of roasting meat filled the air.  

As nightfall arrived, Zuko found himself in a large open building with a blazing hearth fire, sipping a bowl of hot soup, Katara pressed against his side.  Despite it all, he felt a chill starting to seep into his bones.  Everyone had taken their coats off, Zuko included, but he found himself wishing he could inconspicuously shrug back into his.

“Hey, Katara, are you cold?” he asked tentatively.  She looked up at him, concern already settling into her expression.

“No, I’m fine.  Are you alright?”  Sitting up straight pulled his shoulder away from hers, and he had to forcibly repress a shiver as he shook his head sharply and said,

“Fine.  Great.  Just...wasn’t sure if maybe you were chilly.  Thought I could get you some tea.”

“Well, I’m warm enough, but I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea.”  He stood abruptly, ignoring the way she blinked at him in confusion.

“Okay.  I’ll go find you some.  Over there.  By the fire.”

“Thanks,” she said, but frowned a little as she watched him leave.  Moving through the party goers, he could feel her eyes on him.  He found a table with teapots and cups set up, and started preparing a pot for himself and Katara as slowly as he could, trying to drink in as much of the warmth of the hearth as he could.

Of course night is what did him in.  Why didn’t he think about night?  With the sun gone, his inner flame was a pile of embers.  At home in the Fire Nation, it would leave him sleepy and craving the comfort of a hot meal and his warm bed, but here, suddenly it was like he could feel the cold leeching in everywhere, working to snuff out the last of his fire.  Frustrated, he gripped the clay pot tightly, and breathed deeply as he tried to focus on warming the teapot properly in his hands.  It made him even angrier to find that rather than having to reign in his anger to keep from scalding the leaves, he still had to push more energy into the bending than he usually would.

“Hey,” Katara said, and startled him.  Only her quick reflexes stopped him from splashing hot tea all over himself, and he tried not to let himself get mad at how effortless she directed the water back into the pot with a flick of her wrist.  “Zuko, seriously, what’s wrong?  You’ve been over here a while, and you look all pissed off.  Did someone say something to you?”

“No, I’m fine,” he muttered, ashamed that he’d worried her over nothing.  When he turned to go back to their seats, she caught his sleeve and held him back.

“I didn’t ask if you were alright this time.  You’re not a good actor, so would you just tell me what the problem is instead of going around in circles and ruining the rest of the night?”  It was both the best and worst thing about Katara, the way she read him so easily.  With as long as they’d been together, they both had a pretty good understanding of the usual trajectory of each other’s moods.  Zuko spoiling a party by sulking was a classic.

But this wasn’t one of his horrible formal parties, it was Katara making a space for him in her life - in her home and her future.  The whole reason he was upset was because he didn’t want to screw it up, and if he tried to dodge her, he’d just screw it up that way.  So he sighed and admitted: “I’m really cold.”  Shaking her head, Katara took the teapot from him and put it back on the table.  She took his hands in hers, squeezing some heat back into him.

“Well then we’d better warm you up.”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

WIP Wednesday: Whumptober Previews, Take 2

I still have a few more to go, but I am in the final stretch for writing my @whumptober2020​ pieces! I already posted one preview of what I have so far (you can see Days 1-12 here), so here are previews for the rest of what I have written - and sneak peeks at what’s planned out but not written yet! 

Whumptober starts tomorrow - we’ll see how you feel about my work this go-round! Last year, Whumptober Day 1 introduced Daniel Michaelson. This year... it starts with Danny, too.

Day 13:

“Vanni, they thought he was you.”

“I know, Ridley!” Rossi never snapped at Ridley, but here it was, and Connor forced in a hitching, shaky inhale around the tremendous, inescapable weight pressing down on him, determined to keep breathing long enough to understand. “I know they did.”

“And they fucking poisoned him and then dumped him to fucking die-”

“I know!” The two men went silent for a second, Ridley staring with shock at Rossi and Rossi glaring furious towards the window without looking back. Connor’s breath, rattling in his struggling lungs, was the only sound in the room.

Day 14:

Peter glanced over his shoulder, back towards the house. The thermometer had climbed a little more, reading 98.5 degrees Farenheit now, and Peter blinked as he shivered again, swallowing without any saliva. His mouth felt dry, and strange. Why was he shivering - how did he have goosebumps - if it was almost one hundred degrees?

As if he’d heard Peter’s thoughts, the side door opened and Micheal came out, wearing his weekend outfit of slim black slacks and a pale heathered gray t-shirt, what Madam allowed him to wear. He was carrying a glass of water with ice and a little striped straw stuck in the top. The black shock collar he was never allowed to remove - not yet, Madam said, not until Micheal learned how to be silent without needing encouragement, to her satisfaction - cut a wide band across his neck, the black box small and nearly perfectly blended in at the back. 

“Peter,” He said in a low voice - not quite a whisper, but just as quiet. “I brought you a drink, I-” He looked up, squinting towards the sky. “It’s hot. Should you be out here?”

Day 15:

He drops back to the ground, groaning, eyes fluttering open and shut, before he reaches out to grip onto Ora’s arm again. He turns to look at them, and his eyes are glowing so brightly he can see the reflected light on Ora’s face, the flicker of yellow against their irises. There are things that move beneath the light in Ryan Michaelson’s eyes, and he no longer feels them pushed back under the surface of his skin. 

“I’m so fucking hungry,” He whispers, and his fingernails dig into Ora’s arm until they begin to bleed and whimper, but they don’t - can’t - pull away. Not until he lets them.

They will be lost in his eyes until he decides to let them go.

Day 16:

Count to ten, Tris! One… two...

Her voice is so loud he jumps, but when he looks to the left, nothing’s there. Just the white walls, plain and featureless, white tiles that were smooth under his fingertips back when he was allowed to touch them. 

Everything is cold, and the boy has been shivering for so long that his muscles ache from the constant tense-and-release, tense-and-release, struggling to keep him warm.

Day 17:

She giggles a little, then glances over her shoulder, mouths something at the cameraman. Oliver can guess what. Edit that out.

Kelly Donahue doesn’t want the episode to be aired with her giggling like a schoolgirl at a bit of idle flattery. Well. Everyone has their things they like to hide, don’t they?

She has her giggle. Oliver has a teenage boy locked in his bedroom.

Day 18:

“Your mother,” Patrick interrupted, with gentle violence, “believes that you are squandering an opportunity.”

“An-... a what-”

“We respect your decision - and your brother’s - to refuse interviews, especially at his early date.” Patrick sounded like he’d rehearsed this answer, delivered with the same smooth cadence he had during his speeches before the Board of Directors. “But, considering the effort it took us to find you-”

“The effort it took Nate to find us,” Ryan corrected, ice growing along his veins at the same time it took over his voice. “Nate. It was Nate who watched the videos, it was Nate who talked Abraham into showing him the yard, it was Nate who spent fucking night after fucking night trolling fucking satellite photos to try and find us. Don’t act like the effort came from you. It came from my brother’s goddamn fiance.”

Day 19:

“If this is a trap, I’m going to owe Gavin fifty bucks.” Vera checked and rechecked her handgun, as though it would suddenly be less loaded than it was just a few minutes before. Her jaw was set in a grim line, eyes flashing a kind of damped-down fire, embers ready to spark. Her thick black hair, showing growing hints of gray, was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and she wore a pair of black pants and a tucked-in t-shirt, ready for the fight she was definitely expecting. “I don’t want to owe Gavin money, Isaac.”

“It’s not a trap,” Isaac replied, making his own nervous check and recheck of the table and chairs. “I don’t think it is, anyway. My instincts are saying it isn’t.”

“Your instincts-”

“My instincts have been spot-on for a decade, Vera. Just trust me on this. She let us pick the day, the time, the location… she let us give her the location with less than four hours’ notice, even. If this is a trap, she’s piss-poor at setting it.”

Day 20:

He’d been flying, and the fall had been worse than the arrow, at first.

The sudden burst of white-hot pain had stunned him, caught him mid-spin enjoying an early-morning chill, and sent him tumbling to the ground below.

He’d heard his own frantic keens of panic and fear as if from a distance, and then they’d been drowned out when he slammed into the trees, feathers flying all around him as they were ripped free by the branches he smacked into one after another on the way down.

Day 21:

"Mmhmmm. Christopher. Stanton." Nat listens for a long time, then says quietly, "No known health problems. Autistic."

Jake looks up, and Nat calmly looks back at him, while speaking into the phone. "Yes. Yes, I'm confident. He is sensitive to fluorescent lights, scared of needles, and terrified of sedation. Yeah, I realize that I just described the exact environment we’re sending him into.” Chris whimpered, and Nat’s voice went ragged, her eyes closed tightly against the sight of his face pale, sweaty, twisted with pain. “Listen. Just-... just put on the fucking papers that Christopher Stanton is fucking autistic, because that's what my goddamn rescue is - I'll sell someone else's firstborn to fucking Satan if he isn't, mark my fucking words - and we're wasting time while he gets worse!"

Day 22:

Rossi picks the glass up and just as he tilts it up to his lips, Connor rears back and up on his knees and swings one of his hands, the black leather ‘paw’ smacking into the rim of the glass and spilling it in an arc across Rossi’s suit, onto the table, soaking his cards and hitting the next person at the table right in the eyes.

“Connor, what the fuck?!” Rossi’s voice isn’t furious, not yet - he’s too shocked to get beyond the simple surprise.

Day 23:

The drugs in his system weigh him down, he is too exhausted to understand what’s happening or how to begin to fight it. His eyes keep trying to close and stay closed, and he whimpers, forcing them back open.

“Pozhaluysta…” He groans, collapsing forward against the heavy solidity of the man, the soft tailored fabric of his expensive suitjacket, the scent of clove cigarettes that clings to him like a woman’s fingers clutching tightly. “Pozhaluysta, otpusti menya…”

Day 24:

“My name is Melody,” The girl said, nearly extending her hand, but then she realized the creature’s right hand was nothing but wickedly sharp talons, and it was bound in front of him to his left. “Oh, I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

The creature blinked once, twice. Watched her, tense and maybe suspicious, and then shook his head. “No… no name.” He spoke slowly, as though words came only with difficulty but a soft little trill sounded under one voice, layered it with another. “Pet.”

Day 25:

“Wh, where, where, where-where, where am, am I-”

“Sssshhhh.” The person in the dark blue uniform presses a plastic-gloved hand to his shoulder as he tries to sit up, pushing him back down. “Hey no, you gotta stay steady, there. Don’t move.”

“Please-... please, sir, h-hurts-”

“Not sir,” The person says, gently, a bit of auburn hair falling over their forehead. “Can you see?”

“K-Kind... kind of... hurts-”

“Sssshhhh. I know. I know it does. Just hang on. Tori’s going to help me get you some paperwork going. Don’t worry, kiddo.” The person pats him, lightly, and then looks up, brown eyes scanning the hallway outside. “You’re not the first we’ve pulled through this.”

Day 26:

Calon Nie hummed to himself, tapping talons on the floor, watching the boy sit so still, as though stillness could protect him from the dangers of the world. “Good. Failed, you, to keep new eyes. Costs a life, to give something new. Killan Josta, human boy, he fail Calon Nie. He fail the life given, when eyes don’t work. Did not respect sacrifice.”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” The boy said hoarsely, curling in on himself even more, his wings instinctively curling protectively around him. “I… I don’t want anyone to d-die for me. I didn’t mean to-... I didn’t mean to fail. I, I tried to p-pray for them, to stars, to-”

“Paugh! Mysteries do not hear you.”

Day 27:

Jake answers, and on the other side of the door, the old woman stands holding a large cardboard box in her arms, her grandson present, as nearly always, at her side. He holds a large box, too - so big, in fact, that only the top half of his face is visible.

“They’re sayin’ it could be a week before we get power back,” Ruth says, with a world-weary sigh. “A full-on week. We figured we’d bring you some supplies.” 

Day 28:

Ora Collins is hungry.

Day 29:

Jake is a tall man, but the emergency room always made him feel so small. Even now, part of him rehearses the scripted stories. I fell while climbing a tree. I crashed my bike. I tripped going down the stairs.

He has lies to tell today, just like he always has, but today the lies are for Chris, not himself.

He’s my brother. No, different dads, that’s all. His mom lives a few states away, I handle all his medical stuff. 

Day 30:

(AKA Possession, Part 2)

Ryan and Nate take down Abraham Denner.

Day 31:

Danny is left for dead.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Beyond the Black Line

The more she strained against her bindings, the more the cable ties cut into her flesh, chafing, and scratching, and cutting. Blood filled her eyes and turned the world deep red.

Rage boiled in her heart. It spilled out, erupting from her throat as primal yelling and spittle that sprayed from her lips.

Kaos thrashed against the small folding steel chair she had been bound to. It clattered on the dirty concrete floor while she lurched forward and shook it and rattled the seat violently. Her muscles bulged. Veins popped on her neck.

The wet taste of iron filled her mouth, owed to clenching her teeth to the point of her gums oozing blood in between her screams of fury. The rage burnt her up from the inside. The pain seized her every limb and she spat out incoherent strings of foulest profanities.

The woman in a black leather biker's attire, Scorch, formed a stark contrast to her. A pillar of stoic calm, standing in front of Kaos in this dingy little cellar. Though the tiny window near the ceiling barely shed any light, the amber in Scorch's irises glowed like fire.

She stared at the young woman tied to the chair, not even blinking once, studying Kaos' every hateful movement, and absorbing her yelling and curses without ever flinching.

When Katie had died and become Kaos, it was Scorch that had brought her back from the dead.

Now, Kaos was dying. Scorch herself was killing her. The rest of her humanity was burning up inside. Soon, only human thought and emotion would remain. And from where she was sitting right now, the only emotion that remained?

Pure and unfettered fury.

It was not like any of this was against her will. Kaos had agreed to this.

Not that it made it a lick less unpleasant, though.

Soon to join the taste of blood, the thrashing, and the burning agony; a pool of inky-black darkness crept up from behind her. It enveloped her, encroaching from the edges of her vision. It threatened to drown her, even if its watery depths could never quite quell the fires of rage. Instead, an icy-cold sweat erupted from her pores.

Every growl and snarling curse that rang with a hollow echo came from her own throat. The more the darkness surrounded her, the more the rage felt alien, even though the fury was all hers to tap and the living shadows were… something else.

As the darkness closed in and the field of her vision shrank by the second, as the furious strength in her thrashing limbs waned, Scorch raised a hand, fingers splayed, pointing the flat of her palm at Kaos' face.

The skin split and parted like lids; an eye opened in the center of that palm. Then many other eyes also opened across her mentor's hand in the same disgusting fashion. Smacking and glistening wet with tears and slime, the eyes resembled those of a cat, black pupils all vertically slit. All golden like Scorch's, glowing, curiously locking eyes with Kaos. Their gazes dug deeper, burning through the oil slick of her dying humanity, and The Many peered into the remaining sliver of this young woman's soul.

The darkness fully swallowed the rest of the world around her. Across those impenetrable dark curtains, more eyes opened. The gold color within them blazed and flickered like flames. The world was soon made of eyes. Only eyes.

All eyes on Kaos, probing her spirit.

Testing it.

The darkness swallowed even the eyes, turning the world fully black.

But unlike losing time, unlike losing consciousness, Kaos fell. Chair and cable ties and all, she hurtled downwards, falling deep.

Not far, though. Her head jerked around, and her neck cracked as she landed sideways in something somewhat soft. Something like tar, as unfathomable and impenetrable as the darkness around her. Bubbling and oily, she sank into it, sinking deeper and deeper.

Raw instinct kicked in and she thrashed once the taste of something bitter and rotten joined the iron taste of blood in her mouth. But being tied to the metal chair still, her thrashing only helped her sink down deeper. She tore at the thin strips of plastic that continued to dig into her flesh and keep her bound to the metal chair, increasingly engulfed by this thick and goopy pool of darkness.

The curtains closed in, but the eyes opened across them again. Thousands of eyes, all cat-like. Burning bright yellow, golden, unblinking, and staring at her from every direction. Simply watching with inhuman curiosity while she screamed in fury, sinking deeper into the pool.

The embers rising from those eyes sparked something, and the tar of this infinitely black pit was lit ablaze. Flames roared, all spreading with lightning speed, matching the burning rage inside of her.

"You wanna live?" asked a chorus of voices. High-pitched and hissing, low and rumbling, growling and spiteful, snarling, and sadistic. So many of them.

"Speak up," sang the hideous chorus. "Or drown in darkness for all eternity."

"Yes," sputtered Kaos, spitting out foul muck. Yelled Kaos, gurgling and growling back at the chorus, repeating her pledge, "Yes! I wanna live!"

She sank deeper and deeper into the tar, painfully slow, inch by inch. The fires encroached quickly and, thanks to her slick-coated skin that was still above the surface level, she was immediately set on fire. The smell of burnt hair and rotten eggs filled the air and made her choke. She thrashed more, trying to stay afloat, trying not to drown despite burning alive. Despite the temptation to sink in fully and suffocate and forever be freed from the agony of the fire that now burned her on the outside, by far eclipsing the fire she had only felt within thus far.

"You wanna make 'em pay?" asked the chorus. "You wanna rain fire and fury upon the suck-pigs that regard humans as little more than cattle and prey?"

Blubbering, spitting out more of the burning tar, she yelled at the top of her lungs, "Yes!"

"Then take the oath. Consign your immortal soul to the Black Legion. Choose your side in the Last War."

Kaos screamed. Spat furiously to not choke, to not drown in the viscous oily substance, even though it would make the burning stop.

She screamed her oath, repeating after the chorus as it instructed her on what to utter.

Kaos jolted up into sitting, covered in a sheen of sweat.

The coarse set of blankets that had covered her were all balled up into a messy, smelly wad at the foot of her cot. Gloomy twilight poured in through the tiny cellar window, casting light on the small grimy space she had tried to sleep in.

Her new "home". The cabal's HQ.

She checked her phone and discovered it was three in the morning. Groaned.

Droning beats thumped and hammered against the ceiling above her, loud music from the strip club underneath which the cabal hid out.

No matter how often the nightmares of crossing the black line returned to haunt Kaos, they never became less vivid. The pain felt so real that, even now, she pulled up the sleeves of her ratty shirt to check her arms for burn marks. Or maybe eyes.

Only the scars from the plastic cable ties remained on her wrists, a reminder that some part of the maddening experience had been unmistakably real. Till this day, she wondered what part of it was imagined.

Maybe none of it.

All she knew for sure was that her mentor, Scorch, had done something to her. And ever since, Kaos only looked human on the outside. Her body no longer behaved like a natural human being's.

Loud music, muffled through layers of concrete and several doors, continued to beat upstairs. Her bare feet slapped down as she swung her legs off the side of the cot with a sigh. She rubbed her face, slick and oily with her own perspiration, then shuffled across the cold filthy floors to open an old used refrigerator that looked like it had survived since the 1940s and been brought here from a landfill.

The blinding light from the little lamp inside the fridge made her flinch. The soothing hum of the cooling container buzzed monotonously. She blinked and looked through the contents inside the fridge.

Reaching past the human heart pickled in a jar and a shrink-wrapped bag of intestines, she grabbed one of the eleven cartons of orange juice and slammed the fridge door shut.

Ripped the carton open, chugging the sweet and sour orange stuff.

Nice and cool. Sticky, but refreshing. One of the few tastes she still enjoyed since—

Since her becoming. Since the rebirth.

She paused to catch her breath and lean against the rusty metal table next to the fridge.

The nearby faucet dripped continuously. The music upstairs continued to thump. Her eyes adjusted to her environment. Part of her becoming, she now saw perfectly in the dark.

This place was a dump. But it was better than nothing and the cabal could not afford to be picky. The only cash they made was whatever they could steal from scumbags—human scumbags—whom they curb-stomped on their cases. And the wads of dollar bills that Scorch sometimes showed up to dismissively drop off with them. Wherever the hell she got the money from.

Kaos chugged more orange juice. Then chugged some more.

She barely ate anymore but drank this stuff by the gallons nowadays.

Nowadays, she was strong enough to rip a telephone book apart with her bare hands. Her fury empowered such.

Matching that, she crumpled up the emptied carton between her fists and chucked the useless wad at the trash bin where it bounced off the edge and landed among the other litter—a handful of candy bar wrappers, balled up pieces of paper, and a crumpled empty pack of cigarettes—all the cabal had failed to sink into the garbage with such casual throws. None of the slobs bothered to pick it up until one of them lost a bet.

Thumping of a different sort filled the basement rooms. Lacking rhythm, indicating a slight limp, thundering footsteps of heavy boots thumped down the narrow stairs connecting their slice of the underworld to the glamorous world above. A light winked on behind the man coming downstairs, transforming him into a broad and shadowy silhouette.

Crumpled trench coat, combat boots, a mess of hair on his head, the bulge of heat in his coat pocket.

He was not happy to see Kaos. He was simply packing one of those big fuck-off Dirty Harry revolvers.

Stopping short of descending the final steps, he visibly stared at her from across the cellar and braced himself against the ceiling.

"Great, you are up. Major break," Razor said in his typically gravelly voice. He sounded exactly like what you imagined one of those hard-boiled detectives should sound like—if the actor depicting them was exaggerating it to the point of ridiculousness. "I think we're good to make the kill. Now, I know you need your beauty sleep—and a lot of it at that—but we got some killin' to do. Ready up, ho."

Kaos flipped him the bird.

The shoulders on Razor's silhouette heaved as he chortled in response. Were it not for the blinding light behind him, she would have seen his shit-eating grin. She knew it was there.

"No, but seriously. Get dressed, pack your big guns, and let's go put this motherfucker six-hundred and sixty-six feet under. I left the engine running. Time's tickin'. C'mon. Chop-chop."

Kaos squinted at him and clicked her tongue.

"The fuck? You wanna do this without Ram? Or Law? Or—and I can't believe I'm suggesting this—without Base?"

Razor tilted his head and said, "All o' them're busy followin' up on the meat-packin' plant case. And Scorch thinks highly of you. I don't see it, but high time for me to be convinced otherwise."

Though she could not see his eyes, his burning gaze was felt.

Kaos set her jaw.

"Fuck you," she sighed. "I'll be right up."

Invisible to her, still she sensed his lop-sided smile. He slapped the ceiling and turned around. Thumped right back up those stairs.

Within the next minute, she slipped into her own combat boots, slung on her windbreaker, and tossed her duffel bag onto the cot. In went a handy little fire axe, a bone saw, two small pistols, a sawed-off shotgun, and her new personal favorite: the big fuck-off machine gun that Ram had taken from some wannabe-paramilitary nutjobs.

A box of shells and bullets each jingled as she dumped them into the bag with the weaponry, and she draped a belt of ammunition for the machine gun on top before ripping the zipper up, slinging the heavy bag over her shoulder, and thundering up those basement stairs to follow Razor out.

The droning electronic dance music was louder up here, but still muffled enough through closed doors. Even so, it could not drown out the clinking and clacking from her bag and her heavy footsteps. Kaos marched down the narrow backstage hallway.

Chubbs, the owner of Pink Exxxtacy, poked his head out of the door to his office.

Once his eyes met Kaos' gaze, he nodded sagely in greeting and then closed the door behind him again.

Good ol' Chubbs. He did not even know what exactly the cabal was doing. Maybe he had an inkling, but more likely than anything, he probably thought they were vigilantes or something along those lines.

This part of the city was a real hellmouth. More so than most people realized.

More literally than they likely ever figured.

No matter how sleazy he looked on the surface, Chubbs was one of the good guys. All he knew was that they were doing good, that they were some sort of messed-up A-Team, so he never had any questions about them being covered in blood, and he asked for very little cash to keep the water running and the lights on in their humble abode. Which was good, because little cash was all they had to offer.

Kaos pushed her way out through the emergency exit door.

Her rusty old Buick's engine merrily chugged away, the silhouette of Razor sitting behind the wheel and the tiny red glow of a cigarette in his mouth flaring up.

With a groan, she dumped the duffel bag onto the back seat, slammed the door shut, and got inside up front, riding shotgun with her fellow soldier. Kaos coughed as she swatted the air and rolled down the passenger seat window.

Razor stepped on the gas and the old piece of junk of a car lurched into motion.

"I vaguely remember tellin' you to stop smokin' in my ride, shit-head," she growled.

The badly shaven man simply grinned his usual shit-eating grin. His mouth drooped into a frown the moment she snatched the cigarette from his lips and tossed it out the window.

"Hey!"

"Can it, and watch the road, asshole," she told him, promptly pointing ahead of them.

He followed her gaze and then swerved hard to the left to avoid hitting a hydrant. The tires screeched and some metal part whined as the car veered onto the trash-littered streets and shook them from hopping off the curb.

"If you're gonna throw your life away suckin' on those cancer sticks—"

"In our line o' work?" Razor chuckled again. Dark, hollow. Not born from amusement, but resignation and bitterness. "Fuck, sister, I think I'll take my chances with smokin'."

She rolled her jaw and glared at him.

"Anyway. You wanna shoot your mouth off, shoot me the downlow on our case. What juicy intel have you got that you wanna go in all half-cocked, guns blazin', not waitin' for any backup?"

He shook his head, eyes trained on the road. He dug around in a coat pocket and produced a toothpick, flicking it into the corner of his mouth.

"Don't you worry your pretty head, sugar-tits. This is gonna be a milk run."

Her stomach knotted at that phrasing and she glared at him again.

There was no such thing as a "milk run" in their line of work.

Razor rolled the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other and back.

"Hunter. Pattern checks out. Motherfucker's been pickin' off hobos and runaways. Took a while to find anybody who'd talk, but the motherfucker always leaves their shoes behind. See, they were not willin' to admit that part because they took the shoes for themselves, so, what I did was—"

"The point, man. Get to it. I don't wanna hear your fuckin' life story."

"Well, I stopped lookin' for witnesses. Realized there was a corner in the industry zone—like a whole fuckin' area, like—completely abandoned. No homeless people there. No squatters, no nobody. And it ain't like anybody's avoidin' it. Nah, they didn't even realize that everybody there had gone missin'. I scoped out the place after dark, and I think it's out on the prowl. But we go now, just before sunrise, we can probably ambush this sum'bitch right when he's back from evisceratin' the next poor fucker. No signs of sepsis either, so this hunter's all solitary. We ain't got no backup, but neither does our target."

Silence. Kaos absorbed his summary.

"Leaves the shoes, huh? The fuck is up with that?"

He rolled the toothpick back and forth again.

"Beats me. Maybe this one's got a foot fetish."

Kaos cleared her mind. Focused on the fury inside of her, now only simmering.

Driving for several minutes in silence, he finally added, "Base said he killed two different Vouzires with the cabal. So, these motherfuckers ain't even unique. But I'll be damned if I ever make sense of why they do the fucked-up shit they do. Like, s'this is what I never made any sense of. If they just need to rack up souls for Armageddon like Scorch says, then why all the extra bells and whistles?"

Kaos shrugged. She did not really care. She could feel Razor's curious gaze sweeping off the center of the road to her and back.

The car stopped at a narrow crossing where a drug dealer and his huddled cluster of customers dispersed, scattering like cockroaches from the glaring shine of the Buick's headlights. The engine chugged louder as he stepped on the gas again and sped past them.

"You ever wonder what she is?" he asked.

"Who? Scorch?"

"Yeah, of course. You ever wonder, like—"

"No."

"Like, if we're not really human anymore, then what the fuck is she?"

Silence.

Kaos studied the people loitering around outside a small grocery store. Everybody here looked poor in some way. Just like them.

The cabal usually blended right in in this part of the city.

"I first thought the others were full o' shit. I used to think she was sent by the big man upstairs," Razor rambled on. "Then I started thinkin' they might be onna somethin'. That she may be from downstairs after all. Y'know? It ain't exactly like crossin' the black line has made us sprout white feathery angel wings and fart rainbows and—"

"The other things don't make any fuckin' sense, either," grumbled Kaos. "If she's one o' them, then why the fuck is she killin' 'em? Why the fuck is she preppin' us to kill 'em like she does?"

"Hell if I know," he sighed. "Maybe there's somethin' she's not tellin' us about this 'Last War' bullshit."

More silence.

But the train of thought stuck with Kaos. No matter how much she downplayed it, the enigma of Scorch's nature always remained stuck in the back of her mind, like a splinter buried deep underneath the skin—going unnoticed, most of the time, occasionally inflicting a sharp spike of pain whenever you moved, and with no pair of tweezers ready nearby for you to use to just yank the splinter out.

And Scorch, well, she did nothing to curb their wild theories. That "woman"—their mentor—she spoke about very little other than business. She only ever cared to drop vague hints about the Last War, and about how to butcher demons.

It was no wonder that the cabal often talked about it.

The gloomy slums made way to the gloomy industrial zone. Tall brick buildings and smokestacks all around, towering warehouses and other big husks that might as well have been completely deserted. If they were still in use by any companies, then their owners were not giving a damn about having any maintenance done on them.

"You remember what it was like?" Razor asked. Though gravelly as always, he suddenly somehow sounded softer.

"What? My first time? I don't kiss and tell," Kaos mumbled, one cheek resting against the fist that propped her head up.

He snorted. Smirked.

"The black line. You remember what it was like for you when you crossed it?"

She shook her head. Shrugged. Kaos lied.

"Nah. It just sucked."

Another short window of silence, filled with her gazing outside.

Only few of the windows on the warehouse they rolled up to had not been smashed. Vines crept up the bottom edges of the chain link fence and some of the muddy-brown brick walls.

Razor killed the lights, the engine, everything. Kaos' rusty old Buick rolled up onto the curb and slowed to a complete halt.

"Sucked how? Exactly?"

"I don't know. Barely remember," she lied again. "It was all fire and darkness and ten thousand angel eyes or some such shit. Who gives a fuck?"

"Hm," grunted Razor.

That was it.

He took the toothpick from his mouth, tossed it onto the dashboard, and whipped the pistol out of his pocket. Clicked it open, checked its chambers. Every one of them filled with a bullet each.

Kaos looked him up and down.

"That's it? Thought you said it was a hunter. And you're just bringing a single six-shooter?"

In the morning twilight, his yellowed teeth glistened as he smiled at her.

"My baby's only got six shots, but I make 'em all count and they all pack a punch. I think this one's a pussy. She'll do the trick."

He tapped his forehead with the barrel of his gun.

Kaos glared at him without blinking.

"Cool. I'm bringing the shottie. And the machine gun. You macho-ass dipshit."

He still smiled, oozing his unearned confidence.

The banged-up old car see-sawed as they both climbed out of it. She leaned inside over the backseat to produce the double-barreled "boomstick", which she shoved into her belt behind her back. Then she grabbed the machine gun, inserted the ammunition belt, and slapped the weapon once she finished loading it.

"Rock 'n roll," she said.

Razor tilted his head. To her chagrin, he had been standing well behind her, staring at her ass while she was fishing out her arsenal for the job. Once their gazes met, he flashed her one of his trademarked, stubble-framed, lop-sided grins.

"More like heavy metal, baby," he replied. Winked.

He cocked the hammer on his gun for emphasis. She battled the urge to break his jaw and shook her head and refrained from hurling another insult at him.

Razor was perfectly fine at making himself look an unlikable dumbass, and now was not the time.

Now was the time to stay on edge.

To channel the fury and point its destructive force in the right direction.

"This it?" she asked him. Jutted out her chin to gesture at the warehouse.

He shot a glance over his shoulder and nodded. "Yep. Perfect center of the abandoned area. I think sepsis might break out if it takes more lives here. I can almost smell the rot."

They marched towards the old derelict. Head always on a swivel, they looked over their shoulders constantly. Straining to hear any telltale sounds beyond the loud crunching of gravel and broken glass and other junk underneath their boots.

The place was dead silent otherwise.

Kaos now knew what he had meant. There should have been squatters here. Or traffic.

The streets well around this warehouse were all deserted. And she felt the onset of sepsis as well. The unmistakable presence of a demon fouling up its environment like a corpse rotting in a small pool of water. Others like Razor said they could smell it. Kaos simply felt it; it made her fingernails throb unpleasantly.

"Paydirt," Razor whispered.

Following where he pointed his gun's barrel, Kaos spotted the conspicuous brown splatters of long-dried blood. They both followed them back down the asphalt field they had just crossed and finally pieced it together.

She was happy she had not eaten anything recently.

All the trash, used needles, broken glass—everything littering the path to the warehouse entrance was sharp and dangerous to tread upon if you were not wearing the same kind of boots that they did. And barely noticeable, lots of the jagged and spiky bits were marked with dried blood as well, forming a distinct trail.

The demon was making his prey walk barefoot over all that junk.

Kaos envisioned how it prodded them and whispered into their ears, a seductive voice telling them that they were free if only they could walk right out to the street without screaming. The way they would cringe and suppress their cries of pain, walking from the warehouse out into the open as metal scraps and rusty nails and sharp glass and dirty needles pierced the flesh of their naked soles.

Slowly inching towards the false promise of freedom while it cackled behind them, waiting patiently as they suffered, as they walked the entirety of those hundred paces, bleeding more profusely with every step.

And whether they screamed or not, it eventually pounced before they ever made it to the end.

Later, claws would gingerly rearrange the garbage to make the gauntlet as torturous as possible to walk across.

The trails said everything.

Kaos had never really learned how to track. She just knew these things instinctively by looking at them. Did not help one bit when it came to people, or animals. She only knew how these monsters ticked.

In some of her nightmares not involving the black line, she caught glimpses of another world she should not have ever known, seeing the demons in their natural habitat, the hellscape they had clawed their way out of to wreak havoc upon earth. She remembered them from alien memories—ones not her own, festering in her mind like a putrid, cancerous growth.

Kaos and Razor shot each other glances.

"Gogrimog," she said.

"Definitely Gogrimog," he said, nodding.

They swiveled and stopped by the large double doors by the building's side entrance. Razor kicked them open, and they barged in, weapons pointed ahead, staring into the darkness.

Their eyes adjusted until they could see in the dark. With that came a faint glow from their eyes as they turned yellow, and their pupils became slit like a cat's.

Another one of the many "gifts" that Razor and Kaos shared since crossing the black line.

Staying low and hunched over, they crept through the warehouse. Guns pointed around every corner, keeping a lookout for the Gogrimog. Searching every nook and cranny for the demon's lair.

This place had fallen into disrepair several decades ago. Mold pockmarked the walls, spackling and other material had begun to crumble in spots, and every window into offices or auxiliary rooms had been thoroughly smashed, both by hoodlums and later by the demon to gather glass shards. Once, there must have been a time when people still squatted here. Now it only housed something monstrous.

Numerous blood splatters, long dried like the rest outside, made the search an easy matter. The whole place smelled like a dusty old locker room, like stale sweat and unwashed socks, and the stinging stench of urine wafted outwards from the warehouse's deepest bowels.

They wordlessly followed that smell. It usually worked out that way.

In a large storage room, where the bad scents converged, the two disciples found it. The wide-open area still contained some dusty old crates, flanked by heaps of junk that someone had stuffed into the corners, but none of that was interesting.

A set of upside-down metal barrels arranged in a semi-circle now resembled a crude shrine. On top of each barrel sat a pair of severed human feet and something else in between them. Some of the feet looked older and shriveled and some looked rotten, while one pair looked particularly fresh. All of them were covered in lacerations, some had glass still lodged in the soles, and all had been ripped off their adjoining legs, judging by the pieces of cracked bone sticking out of the stumps above the ankles. No cuts up there, only evidence of an unnaturally tremendous force having snapped them from their limbs like twigs.

Even up close, Kaos was unsure what the disgusting fleshy slop resting in between each pair of feet was.

"Medulla oblangata," muttered Razor, as if having read her mind.

She shot him a glance.

"Part o' the brain," he added.

"I know that much myself. Dick."

"Real sick puppy we've got on our hands here."

He rolled his jaw and licked his lips. She could almost taste Razor's craving for a smoke.

Razor pointed at a dark corner near a trash heap and said, "How about you take position over there, pop out to draw its attention when it comes to rest its sorry ass down here and admire its collection, and then I blow its head off from behind? If that ain't enough, you blow your load. Y'know, keep it simple."

Kaos was about to reply with a glib remark about him being the one who belonged in the trash until she noticed something drop behind him.

A single drip. A droplet of something thick and slimy. Something dark.

Time slowed to a crawl, so much so that it almost froze entirely. In a fraction of a second, her gaze wandered up to the source of that droplet. To the thing hanging from metal girders overhead.

A leering, smiling maw with rows of perfectly straight, needle-shaped teeth, glistening in the dim light from above. The slime dripped from its slavering jaw. Two huge, bulging, round eyes above the maw almost glowed, filled with excitement and blood lust and pure insanity.

Four pairs of breasts jiggled as the demon shifted its weight from where it was hanging, gripping the steel girders across the high ceiling, holding on with gigantic claws.

It leapt before Kaos could react. It attacked before Razor's face fell, the immediate response to reading the change in Kaos' shocked expression and realizing what was about to befall him.

Time no longer flowed slowly. Things happened very quickly.

His initial shouts emerged with anger. He thrashed, but the massive size and weight of the demon pinned him down onto the dirty floor. Boobs flopped down into his face and muffled his shouts while the demon grinned hideously at Kaos.

Then his shouts changed pitch, rising high and conveying only pain. Those giant claws clamped down and twisted his arms and tore until they had wrenched the limbs from their sockets with wet and cracking sounds and two explosive jets of blood sprayed from the resulting wounds.

The Gogrimog emitted a deep baritone laughter, revolving and darkly amused, but the machine gun's deafening staccato cut it off. Bullet casings ejected from the weapon with a fierce and mathematical rhythm.

The creature shrieked under the fully automatic fire; its awful countenance illuminated by the blaze of the weapon's muzzle flashing. Kaos could not care any less about what exactly it looked like, instead pouring all her focus into keeping the gun steady as she unloaded dozens of bullets into the Gogrimog. It leapt away from Razor with the litheness of a cat, taking with it his severed arms as trophies.

Old empty crates exploded where the demon landed and crushed them underneath its tremendous weight, conveying beyond a shadow of any doubt that it sported the mass of a whole-ass automobile.

Razor was screaming bloody murder, interrupted by a bout of choking and coughing. Then more salvos from the machine gun roared up and drowned out his blood-curdling yells of crippling pain.

The creature had raised a huge meaty arm to shield its face from the gunfire. The big bullets and little splatters of blood peppering its pitch-black flesh looked tiny in comparison to its awesome size. Its maw never shifted, always frozen in that hideous toothy grin, bug-eyed and gleeful about the slaughter it yearned to commit.

It reared back, catching the brunt of several more bullets before leaping up with surprising speed. Glass shattered and rained down nearby from where it crashed through the skylight windows, swinging, and hurtling out of sight with its obscene momentum.

Kaos' teeth hurt from gritting them so hard, and when she noticed as much, she spat a whole gob of profanities at the demon.

Razor screamed, "Get my arms! Give me—gimme my fuckin' arms back, you vile piece o' shit!"

He flopped around on the ground like a fish on the dry, failing to get back up on his feet. Blood continued to pump out from his shoulder-stumps all the while.

A booming, voluminous voice followed and echoed through the warehouse halls, smoky with the crackling of hellfire to punctuate its every growled syllable, "Little human, little girl—I will rip off your head and shit down your neck."

A couple of demon-kills previously, and threats like these would have let Kaos' blood run cold with dread. Now, however, it only made the thunder in her heart rumble—it poured gasoline into the fires of her fury.

She swiveled, expecting the demon to strike from everywhere. Hunters always did.

So, too, the Gogrimog.

A wall behind her exploded, pelting her with pebbles and other chunks of bricks. A piece of rebar lodged itself right into her back even though Kaos rolled away—just in time to avoid the avalanche of demolished wall and the massive weight of the Gogrimog.

She had no time to register the pain.

The demon skidded past her, sharp claws ripping scars into the concrete floor and kicking up a thick cloud of dust. When it turned, the bug-eyed grimace continued to grin at her. Then its maw widened, far enough to shove half a grown man down its gullet.

The fuel named adrenaline pumped through Kaos in unison with the fury, admixing with despair. The machine gun had tumbled out of her grip when she dodged out of the way—sitting on the ground, just out of reach.

The demon jumped again, burying her underneath its tremendous weight, causing the fires of rage to blend with fires of pain. The bones in her legs were on the verge of cracking entirely, and several boobs flopped into Kaos' face, causing her to sputter and curse and flail around until two giant claws seized her by a forearm each.

Then the twisting began. Painful cracking followed. Kaos screamed in pain and unbridled rage and resisted with all her might, refusing to let this thing twist far enough to rip her arms off, but no amount of fury alone was going to prevent the Gogrimog from repeating what it had just wrought upon Razor. It had the strength of an elephant.

The pressure suddenly ceased. The creature let go, shrieking and howling in a monstrous rage of its own. The crushing weight lifted from her and Kaos rolled away, dragging herself another few paces before scrambling to her feet.

The Gogrimog howled and flailed at a figure on its back. Razor rode on it. His chest had split open and connected to a gigantic fleshy cancerous appendage that ended in a lamprey-like mouth. The hungry maw from his chest kept whipping around, lashing out, and chomping on the pitch-black flesh from the demon's back, emitting slurping and sucking sounds after every bite.

Bucking and swatting its claws ineffectively at the insect on its back, the demon failed to throw Razor off despite his lack of arms to hold on. The lamprey-tentacle did all the work for him.

"Yeah," Razor laughed, with madness glinting in his cat-like eyes. "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!"

He laughed hysterically as the lamprey-mouth bit down on the back of the Gogrimog's head. The demon then leapt upwards with another sudden burst of speed and force that defied its size and weight, sending them flying upwards into the metal girders above.

Razor's crazed laughter was killed off with a pained and clipped gurgle and the two crashed back down onto concrete floors. The Gogrimog snatched him by the lamprey-tumor and swung him around like a broken toy, smashing him into the concrete once and then tossing him into a pile of junk.

Kaos limped towards the machine gun, but the demon was fast.

Too fast.

It pounced before she reached the weapon, just one arm's length away.

To the demon's surprise, Kaos was fast, too. Faster than humans should be.

And this time, too fast for the Gogrimog.

Its claw clamped down around the barrels of the shotgun she had slung out from her belt. She pulled the triggers all the way through, and the creature's entire hand exploded, shredding it in its entirety and taking away part of its arm past the trunk of its wrist, showering Kaos' face with blood and tiny chunks of bone, and simultaneously blowing away half the demon's teeth and face in the blast.

The Gogrimog howled like a gigantic wolf in pain and stumbled backwards, buying the single second Kaos needed to roll away and snatch up the machine gun with another burst of unnatural speed.

The gun blazed away.

Her teeth hurt again by the time all ammo from the belt had been spent, burnt through. The hypnotic metallic jingling of the empty casings raining down onto the stony floor still rang in her ears like a distant memory, overshadowed by the loud ringing in her ears from the gun's ceaseless discharge of thunderclaps as it had pumped dozens over dozens of rounds into the demon.

She stood on top of the dying Gogrimog. The muzzle of the gun was still jammed into its maw, where it had broken more teeth with the force of her ramming it in there and continuing to pull the trigger until its spine and other meaty chunks and blood had finished re-painting the warehouse's floors.

The rage remained.

Kaos saw red, her chest and shoulders heaving with heavy breaths.

When the demon twitched in its death throes, she gave it no quarter. Not for all the people it had tortured and killed. For all that would continue to be tormented and slaughtered by its kind.

She punched right into its skull, cracking and squelching sounds and all, and she gripped. With all her rage, she ripped the remainder of its brains out, dragging with it a long wiry mass of other fleshy matter. She tore it all out and tossed it onto the ground in front of the Gogrimog's eyes.

To make sure it could watch.

It would never move again. Kaos waited until she was sure of its demise.

When the crimson cleared and her senses had normalized somewhat, she stood over Razor, whose breaths had grown dangerously flat and short. He sat, leaned up against the wall, having left a trail of blood from where the Gogrimog had thrown him.

"Sorry, man. Couldn't find the arms," Kaos muttered.

He tried to smile, but awash with pain and insanity, his face cycled through several conflicting twitches of different emotions.

"Fuck it. Lil' too late for that, Kay," he said, squeezing out the words with immense difficulty, choking on every syllable.

She crammed a fist into his coat pocket, dug around in there, and produced his pack of cigarettes. Dug around some more and pulled out his lighter to match.

Stuck a smoke into the corner of his mouth and lit it up for him.

He managed to inhale, making that tiny little dot glow brightly.

Then he chortled. Muffled somewhat by clamping the cigarette between one corner of his lips, he said, "Thought I wasn't supposed to smoke."

"Not in my car, you stupid dickhead."

He smiled, but his eyes painted a picture of many other things: debilitating pain, dredged-up old memories, and overwhelming grief.

For a few seconds, Kaos wondered what life Razor had left behind before joining the Last War and crossing the black line. Then she packed that thought away and locked it in the attic and threw away the key.

No point in getting attached. Not now, at least.

"Milk run, huh," she muttered, shaking her head. Sighing. "We shoulda waited, you stupid dickhead."

"Hah," he chortled again, smoke billowing out of his nostrils over his pained grin. "Fucker's dead, right?"

A tiny consolation.

Yet she could not help it, could not prevent a feeble smile from overtaking her lips.

"Any last wishes?"

The cigarette plummeted from his mouth, bounced off his lap and rolled across the bloodied floors, away from him.

She expected Razor to grab it, to pick it up. But he had no arms anymore with which to do so. It was almost like feeling the phantom limbs of another person for a split second.

But not even his eyes had followed that imaginary trajectory. When she locked eyes with him again, his had gone vacant. Empty. Soulless.

Dead.

"Fucker's dead, alright," she sighed again.

She closed his eyes and rested her bloodstained hand there for a thoughtful moment, cupped over the upper half of his face.

Then she got up, gathered their guns, and returned to the Buick outside. Every step of the way, the sea of shards and junk crunched underfoot, ghastly reminders of what the demon had done to all its innocent victims.

She dumped the two guns onto the backseat without getting them sorted or reloaded. Currently did not care what happened if she got pulled over. Slammed the door shut as she slumped into the driver's seat and gripped the wheel until her knuckles turned white.

The car's horn honked when she hammered her fist against the steering wheel.

She snatched his toothpick from the dashboard and chucked it out the window. Then she revved the engine, which chugged back to life, and she rode into the sunrise.

Kaos had never liked Razor.

But she liked losing fellow soldiers in this war far less.

Even if the line between Us and Them looked paper-thin, every one of Us counted.

Armageddon was really fucking nigh.

—Submitted by Wratts

[onemilliongoldstars]

a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 32

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

32/33

clexa game of thrones au

read on ao3

Book Three: Chapter 11

Lord Pike’s eyes are as cold and merciless as the ice of The Wall, and there is not a flicker to them as his hands tighten around her neck, an iron band cutting into her skin. He does not seem to hear her gasping cries, or feel the prying of her fingers, her nails digging so deep that warm, sticky blood spills across their skin. She tries to feel around behind her, but there is nothing she can use as a weapon, and his weight is so heavy on her chest that she can scarcely breathe. When she opens her mouth to scream again, no sound comes out and his eyes glint, his fingers tighten. Her head spins, and she reaches up to claw at his face, his eyes, her nails scouring through his skin until it looks as though he has been mauled by a wild beast. Beneath her fingers, his skin begins to crumble, and she watches in horror as it peels away in long, bloody strips, falling away to reveal an empty face behind it.

 The touch to her shoulder jars her so violent that she startles awake with a gasp, jerking away from the touch. Through the dim light she makes out Harper’s figure, holding out a candle and hesitating over her. 

Her eyes are creased with concern, one tendril of curled hair falling out from her braid as she takes a slight step back. “I’m sorry, your majesty, you wanted to be woken before the dawn?” 

Her breath seems to return to her in staggered stages, and she pulls air back into her lungs. Her voice is weak and broken when she answers. “Yes, yes I’m sorry Harper. I was just startled.”

Concern still lingers at the corners of Harper’s gaze, but she gives a nod and turns away to light the tapers around the room and stir the fire into life. 

Clarke pulls in a slow, unsteady breath, watching her with vacant eyes. Her fingers ease up to touch softly at her neck, the ghost of a bruise tingling beneath her fingertips. It seems impossible that her nails are not caked in blood, and her throat not hoarse with screaming, and bile rises in her throat when she thinks of Pike’s skin falling away into her hands. 

Harper must sense her disquiet, because she breaks the silence with mindless words as she draws the water and warms it over the fire. “The weather should be fair today, your majesty. The sky was as pink as a peach last night. Summer will be here before we know it.” 

“Yes,” Clarke eases herself slowly from the bed, wriggling her toes against the cold slabbed floor. “I do so long for it.” 

“We all do,” Harper smiles, and steps behind her when she settles into the chair in front her looking glass. “Will you wear your crown today, your majesty?” 

“No,” Clarke shakes her head, reaching out to run the pad of her thumb over a rose petal in the vase before her. “For today, I think I would like to forget I am the queen.”

The sun has risen by the time she descends the final sandy steps onto the private docks behind the castle. It is already a warm day, and she is glad of the hazy, light fabric of her dress, baring her back and her arms just as she used to when she was young and care free in Highgarden. Her hair is pulled back into soft golden braids, a golden, rose shaped clasp keeping them together, and a light stole is draped over her arms, in case the weather turns. The dock is quiet in the morning sunshine, but for Lexa, Anya and Lincoln, waiting patiently beside the low, bobbing pleasure barge. Lexa is dressed more lightly than Clarke has ever seen her before, with britches and a white linen shirt, pulled with a honeycomb stitch at the top of her arm. Her tunic bares her arms and is fastened down its front with silver direwolf pins, her hair pulled back in a simple braid. 

As she approaches Lexa turns and offers a smile so wide she is caught off guard for a moment. Gone are their secret smiles of the past, shared glances hidden in the embers of their forbidden love, and in its place is something that seems to have risen from the spring itself, its head turning to the new sunlight. Her heart stutters, as it hasn’t since those fateful days in Winterfell so very long ago, and she feels a flush rising to her cheeks as Lexa nods her greeting. 

“Clarke.”

“Lexa.” She returns, as she crosses the final few steps that separate them. She has to dig her nails into her hand to keep from reaching out and touching Lexa, so great is the depth of her feeling. Though they cannot be heard here, there may still be eyes watching, and it wouldn’t do to stir any unrest in the people. “Have you been waiting long? I apologise, I slept poorly.”

“No,” Lexa’s brows twitch with concern at her words, but she doesn’t comment. “No, not long at all.”

“Your wolves are not with you,” Clarke observes, as they fall into step walking down the dock together towards the pleasure barge. When Lexa shakes her head, Clarke cannot help but press, eager and curious. “I have never seen you without them.”

They come to a stop beside the barge and Lexa turns to look at her with eyes that see straight to the deepest parts of herself. “Perhaps,” She muses, softly, “they know that I don’t need them, not here and now.” 

The words catch at her tender heart more acutely than she expects, and when Lexa offers her hand out to help her down the gangplank onto the barge, she finds that she is trembling at the touch. They board one after the other, their guards accompanying them. The pleasure barge is a long, shallow vessel, towards the front of which a low bench is hidden from the sun by a canopy of hazy curtains. Clarke sinks into the cushions there, and after a moment of hesitation Lexa joins her. The curtains swing about them, and though they are not alone, the illusion is almost as good. 

Behind them, Clarke’s most trusted and expert oarsmen push away from the dock so silently and smoothly that she barely realises they are moving until the dock begins to slip away and leave them with only a distant view of the city. 

Lexa must notice her glancing over her shoulder, because she asks, quietly. “Are you worried about leaving it behind? If only for the day?”

Clarke pauses and considers her words, glancing back at the imposing towers of the Red Keep, reaching up into the blue sky as if they intend to pluck the sun from its perch themselves. Part of her worries, a part of her that she expects will never stop worrying, but it is not enough to draw her back. “No,” She answers honestly, and Lexa’s smile makes her eyes shine. 

As they sail smoothly from the harbour, Clarke runs her hand over the embroidered cushions below them, trailing her fingers across the golden stitching. 

“It’s beautiful,” Lexa comments, obviously watching her, and Clarke nods. 

“It was made for King Thelonious and his wife, to allow them to leave the city in privacy and luxury.”

“I never met the king’s wife,” Lexa admits, “But I hear she was a beautiful and clever queen.”

“So do I,” Clarke offers her a small smile. “King Thelonious loved her very dearly. He was never the same after her death.”

Lexa’s gaze holds hers. “They were lucky to have each other, even for such a short time.”

Warmth and peace washes over her, as it always does when Lexa looks at her so deeply and truthfully, as if she is the thing she is most sure of in the whole world. Clarke has to glance away, to keep herself from flushing and stuttering like a fool, and after a moment she manages to find her words enough to speak. 

“Aden once told me about your mother, he said that she was the only woman your father ever loved.”

“They were very devoted to one another,” Lexa admits, “Or so I have heard,” Her voice changes, catching and breaking over some unspoken emotion. “I never met her.”

Clarke reaches out and twines their fingers together, keeping her voice soft. “You must miss her.”

“No,”Lexa conjures up a smile which is as false as a mummer’s mask. “How could I miss something I never even knew?”

“A bird caged for all of its life will still miss the sky,” Clarke counters, and squeezes their fingers to ease her words. “You can admit it, I won’t think any differently of you.”

“I know you won’t,” Her thumb rubs a gentle circle over the smooth skin of Clarke’s palm. 

They are disturbed by Octavia clearing her throat obnoxiously from beyond the hazy curtains. Clarke glowers at the hazy shadow of her shape and she catches Lexa biting back her smile as she calls out. 

“Yes, Octavia?”

“Your majesty,” Octavia must take that as her cue, because she puts her head around the curtains and can’t look either of them in the eye when she says. “There are refreshments for you, would you like them brought in?”

Clarke purses her lips, annoyed despite herself, and then nods curtly. “Yes, that would be fine I suppose.”

“Thank you, Octavia,” Lexa puts in, still trying not to laugh at Clarke’s utter lack of manners. They settle back onto the bench as plates of dewy strawberries and goblets of cool, watered down wine are delivered by their guards and set upon the low table before them. 

“The sea here is so beautiful,” Lexa comments, as Clarke picks up a strawberry. “So blue and clear and bright.”

“There are legends of mermaids in these parts,” Clarke tells her, offering out the plate of fruits. “Sirens who would steal away sailors’ hearts with their songs and seduce them with their beauty.”

Lexa’s eyes linger upon her face. “I think I understand their plight.”

—-

They finally slow when they reach a spit of land, barely big enough to call itself an island, with sandy shores and a  few rolling hills on which long grass and a smattering of trees grow, some hanging heavy and colourful with their fruit. The island has no dock and so their shallow ship simply slows to a stop amongst the sandy shores, bobbing  back and forth in the clear water. 

Lexa gazes out onto the spit of land and her brows furrow, “Where are we?” 

“This is royal land,” Clarke explains, as their guards busy themselves preparing to disembark. “Nobody comes here but the king or queen.” She cannot help but smile at the blush that dusts Lexa’s cheeks when she adds. “We will be completely alone.” 

“I see,” Lexa tries to hide her smile, “Would you like me to carry you to shore, my lady?” 

“Not at all,” Years of practice with Wells make it easy enough for her to follow Anya and Octavia into the water. Slipping her shoes from her feet, she gathers her skirts in one hand and holds the other out for balance as she slips from their vessel and into the warm, shallow waters. The sand shifts beneath her feet and for one horrifying moment she thinks she might fall, but rights herself just in time. 

When she looks back to the boat, Lexa’s astonished expression draws a delighted laugh from her and everything feels light and delicious as she watches Lexa pull her shoes from her feet and follow her into the water. When she too stumbles, Clarke holds out her hand to steady her and Lexa laces their fingers together, holding tightly as they make their way together up to the beach. The sand is warm and soft beneath their feet, and their fingers stay laced together even as they find their feet. 

“Ser Lincoln and Captain Snow will go on ahead with the servants, your majesty,” Anya says, once they have approached. “And ensure everything is safe and set up. We will follow,” She indicates to herself and Ser Roan. “Just in case.”

Clarke gives Lexa a wide smile and she feels filled with a childlike glee as she leads the way from the beach to the well trodden path through grass and trees. 

“Where are we going?” Lexa looks to her, expression open and curious, and Clarke squeezes her fingers.

“You’ll see.”

They tread their way carefully through the undergrowth, their shoes still held in their hands. Beneath their feet, the grass is as soft as sheepskin, warm from the sun and sandy, and Clarke luxuriates in the feeling as she walks. Together, they make their way to the highest point on the island, their fingers never untangling from one another, exchanging soft conversation. Though the air is warm and the sun glows down upon them, it feels as if they are back at Winterfell again, sitting in the library or walking the battlements, so comfortable is their quiet conversation.

“This place is beautiful,” Lexa says, as they walk through a grove of orange trees. “So quiet and peaceful.”

“The best is yet to come,” Clarke promises, with a smile, and guides them into a clearing.

Still shaded by orange trees, before them the gentle rise they have been climbing falls away sharply into the sea, and the view it exposes is a breath taking expanse of crystal blue waters. In the distance, the mainland is visible: the tall towers of the Red Keep and gathered around it like sycophants the rusted tile roofs of the city. Upon the ground are spread rugs and cushions for them to lounge on, hazy strips and fabric hanging from the trees to keep the hot midday sun from their faces, and a spread of breads and cheese, meats and fruits, is awaiting them.

Lexa casts her a shy, surprised smile. “You planned this.”

“Of course,” Clarke fights against the beam that is threatening to spread across her features. “Won’t you sit, my lady?”

With a smile Lexa sinks onto the floor, settling upon the cushions. She turns back to their combined Queensguards as Clarke follows her, and waves her hand to them. “We are perfectly safe here for the moment, you may all go.”

Octavia and Anya exchange a disgruntled glance, but when Clarke nods her agreement they move away reluctantly, peeling back into the trees until you could almost forget they were there. They are suddenly as alone as they ever are, but there are no nerves now and when Clarke looks up into Lexa’s face she feels contentment shine through her, like the sun into a darkened room.

“I can understand why you missed your home when you were with us in Winterfell.” Lexa tells her, once they have both settled back into the cushions, so close that they are almost touching. “Truly, this place is beautiful.”

“Oh, Kings Landing is not my home,” Clarke shakes her head, and curls fall over her shoulders. “Even now, it is nothing compared to Highgarden.” 

“We’ve never really spoken about Highgarden,” Lexa gazes down upon her, “You have seen every inch of my home and yet I know almost nothing about yours.”

Something pinches in her heart at the mention of home and she has to avert her gaze, running a stray thread of embroidery from one of the cushions between her fingers. “Highgarden is like… a dream compared to Kings Landing. The sun always shines and the sky seems to go on forever and ever.”

“Tell me about your favourite places to go, when you were growing up there?�� When Clarke looks at her, surprised by her words, Lexa explains, with the most earnest tenderness. “I want to know you Clarke, all of you.”

The smile that has been tugging at her lips appears, unbidden and difficult to shake away.  “Once I learned to ride I used to love setting out into the rose fields alone. Our lands went on for leagues, I could ride for a whole day and never meet anyone who bore me ill will.” She glances at Lexa from beneath her lashes and watches the queen’s face begin to colour under her hooded gaze as she continues. “When I became older and young lords began calling I would ride with them out to the orange grove or the orchards of peach trees, and we would find some shadowy place to hide away.” She has the distinct pleasure of watching the blush settle and darken upon Lexa’s cheeks, and laughs quietly at the sight.

Lexa makes a disgruntled little noise in the back of her throat, but leans in to accept the strawberry Clarke offers as a peace token. The juice spills over her fingers and across Lexa’s lips, and Clarke struggles to tear her gaze away as Lexa’s tongue darts out to catch the sweet droplets. Her breath comes out in a soft sigh, and Lexa’s eyes are dark, even as she draws herself reluctantly away. Clarke pours them both a goblet of wine, desperate to drown out the yearning hum that has settled in her breast, but when their fingers brush together, the touch of Lexa’s warm hands sends a shiver through her like she has never felt before and she feels like a young maid again.

Lexa’s eyes flicker to her, as green as the leaves that stretch for the sky around them, and Clarke feels almost breathless at the sight. Lexa finally tearing her eyes away only barely helps her claw back her sanity, and she takes a long draft of her wine to hide her flushed cheeks, though she is sure it barely works.

“I’m sure you charmed many young lordlings into giving away their heart to you.” Lexa finally jokes, her voice weak, but Clarke laughs obligingly anyway.

“There were several marriage proposals,” She admits, at last, sharing a teasing smile with Lexa. “But none who were remotely suitable.”

“It is a fair archer who could ever catch the heart of a Lady Clarke Tyrell,” Lexa’s voice is soft and her eyes glance away to the view, as if afraid of what she will see in Clarke’s expression.

Unable to help herself, and unsure why she should, Clarke reaches out and traces gentle fingers over the back of Lexa’s hand, easing it over until she can lace their fingers together and Lexa’s eyes are drawn back to hers again.

“It is a good thing that you shoot so well then,” She murmurs into the space between them. “I would not want to give my heart to any but you.”

Lexa’s breath escapes her in a stutter at her words and when her fingers tighten which affectionate tenderness, Clarke swears her heart stops in her chest.

“I once wondered what it would have been like if we had met before… everything.” Under Lexa’s curious gaze she is powerless but to continue, “If you had to come to Highgarden as a guest of my father and our eyes had met over feasts and dancing.” 

“I know what would have happened,” Lexa remarks, her voice so low that Clarke’s eyes widen in surprise. “I would have been helpless before you, Clarke.” Lexa’s thumb tracks a warm stroke over her palm.

“And I you,” She admits, in a whisper. “Of all of the suitors, not one has ever compared to you, Lexa. Sometimes I-” She cuts herself off, suddenly shy and uncertain She has kept her heart so closely guarded for so long, the chains that protect it are stiff and old.

Familiar fingers, warm and rough from years of swinging swords and pulling back bowstrings, nudge at her chin and when she raises her gaze she finds Lexa looking back at her, eyes as soft as summer grass. “You can tell me anything, love.”

The name sounds so perfect falling from her lips and Clarke leans into her touch as Lexa cups her cheek.

“After all we have been through, all we have seen and survived, sometimes I still fear that my love for you will break my heart open.” The words leave her in a rush, and when she glances up at Lexa she worries what she will see in her eyes.

Despite her fears, there is nothing but love in Lexa’s gaze, and when she offers out her arms, Clarke falls into her embrace gratefully, allowing Lexa to wrap her arms around her and press them together so tightly that Clarke feels as if she is sinking into her. She is surrounded by Lexa’s warm scent, pinewood and something sweet and soft, a flora she cannot place, and when Clarke rubs her cheek against her shoulder, her lips skim the exposed skin above her shirt.

“My love,” She speaks with more tenderness and emotion than Clarke has ever heard in any two words. “Clarke, I promise to protect your heart, no matter what. I swear it, before the old gods and the new.”

Clarke’s breath hitches, and she blinks tears from her eyes as she places her hand very carefully over Lexa’s heart, spreading her fingers apart. Beneath her touch, she can feel the steady thrum of Lexa’s heartbeat, and it is like opium to her, spreading peace throughout her body so that her voice is calm and measured when she answers.

“And I promise to protect yours, always.”

Lexa’s hand still rests on her cheek, and when she  guides Clarke’s face gently up to look at hers, it feels as natural as breathing to part her lips and breach the space between them, kissing her. Lexa’s lips are soft beneath hers, the fingers that thread into her hair and hold her close- as if she would ever wish to escape this blessed prison- are impossibly gentle. This must be the heaven her Septas told her about, Clarke thinks, absently, for how else could she explain the pure, unadulterated joy that spreads through her at Lexa’s touch. They break apart only when they have to gasp for breath, foreheads pressed together and lips still brushing. She feels as if she is addicted to Lexa and cannot bear to pull herself away, if even for a second. For her part, it seems that Lexa feels the same way, because she does not unwrap her embrace, keeping them so close together that they are sharing breath. 

Still, Lexa’s eyes flicker open and find Clarke looking up at her, and her expression shifts with the slightest unease. “Is this alright?” She asks, in a whisper, and Clarke lets out a soft breath of laughter. 

“Of course,” She answers, and cradles Lexa’s cheeks in her hands to bring their lips together again. 

Lexa’s lips are like a tonic for an ailment she did not know she had. They taste like strawberries and wine, and her skin is soft as butter beneath Clarke’s touch. Their bodies seem to move as if they know exactly where they should be and when, like a dance that they never knew they had been learning, but in this moment Clarke cannot think of any reason she wouldn’t want to be as close to Lexa as possible. Her body shifts and she drops her hand to curl at Lexa’s waist, fingers tightening in the fabric of her linen shirt, until she is pressing Lexa back into the cushions, their kisses becoming hot and heavy and more desperate than Clarke knew love could be. 

The brunette gasps for air again, and Clarke takes the momentary respite to continue pressing her lips to Lexa’s jaw bone, tracing its sharp ridge with her kisses, worshipping the valley of her neck until Lexa runs a tender thumb over her cheek and draws her up. She kisses her quickly, though there is nothing chaste about it, it is all fire and passion, as if she cannot help herself, and then says, her voice breaking over her ragged breaths. 

“Clarke, I don’t- We have to stop now if-”

“I don’t want to stop.” Clarke insists, and presses back into her love like Lexa is air and she will suffocate without her. “Please, please Lexa.” When still the northerner hesitates, Clarke adds, a desperate yearning  to her voice. “You are the only person I will ever love like this,” Her throat is tight and she brushes away the tears that slip down her cheeks impatiently. “Please, Lexa. Please let me love you and know what it is to be loved in return.”

Gentle fingers curl around hers, stilling her furious movements, and Lexa meets her eyes with green so deep Clarke thinks for a moment that she can smell clover fields and a fresh spring rain. Tenderly, she runs her thumbs over Clarke’s cheeks, catching her tears. “All I want is to love you,” She admits, in the quietest of whispers. 

When their lips meet again, it is with the softest of whispers of a sigh, and it feels to Clarke more like a homecoming than any journey’s end she has experienced before. Lexa falls back against the cushions beneath her, hands around her hips urging her to follow, and when Clarke fumbles a little settling herself above her, they exchange a slight, nervous chuckle which brings them back together again. 

The feeling of Lexa’s body beneath hers is like nothing she has ever known. She has ridden the finest stallions and sailed in the fastest ships, she has commanded her enemies to die and killed men with her bare hands, but that is nothing compared to the rush of adrenaline she feels with her legs on either side of Lexa’s body, her hands framing her face like some beautiful portrait. 

For some time they are simply lost in one another, kissing and learning one another in a way they have never been afforded a moment to before. The lightest of touch appears at Clarke’s bare leg, where her skirt has ridden up, playing with the fine hairs there, and she reluctantly pulls her lips from Lexa’s to meet her questioning gaze. Lexa seems nervous beneath her, the touch of her fingers is so light that Clarke is sure she will pull them away in a moment if asked, so she reaches down and pulls Lexa’s hand further up her calf, hauling a strangled gasp from her lover. 

As Lexa’s hand continues its steady, uncertain exploration of her body, Clarke fingers at the laces that pull the neck of Lexa’s shirt together, giving Lexa her own curious look. As if to answer her question, Lexa sits up a little, and with a moment of awkward struggling, pulls her shirt over her head. Clarke’s eyes widen at the sight of Lexa bared before her. Though she has seen the pale expanse of Lexa’s chest before, today her lover wears no bindings and her breasts stand tall in the center of her chest, nipples already pert and puckering. 

The sight is enough to draw an audible gasp from Clarke, and Lexa laughs softly, even when Clarke tosses her a glare. With renewed vigour, Clarke falls upon her exposed skin like a woman possessed, kissing, sucking and nipping every inch, working her way steadily down towards Lexa’s breasts and beneath her the northern queen shivers and whimpers. When she reaches up to cup one, and runs her thumb over Lexa’s nipple, Lexa jolts beneath her, arching up into her touch and letting out a soft moan. It’s enough to heat the pool of desire between Clarke’s legs and she begins to feel herself become uncomfortably wet, shifting a little for fear that she will drip through her light chemise and onto Lexa. 

She worships Lexa’s breasts as if they are the statues of the Seven themselves, and she a devoted Septa. Neither is left untended for long, and she delights in the strangled moans she tugs from Lexa’s body with every purposeful stroke of her tongue. Truly, she would have been content to spend the whole day learning how to make Lexa squirm and shiver beneath her, but soon her lover finds her strength again, and she finds herself gasping against Lexa’s skin as her hand travels up beneath her dress, circling the underside of her knee for a moment to give her the chance to stop if Clarke hesitated. 

But Clarke is far from hesitating, in fact it feels as though every sensible thought from her mind has vanished other than wishing that Lexa would touch her harder and faster. Their eyes meet as Lexa’s hand continues its journey up her body, both shivering at the intensity of the feelings between them, until finally Lexa’s fingers brush against the hairs around her cunt, and they both still. 

“I- I-” Lexa cannot seem to find her words, her eyes suddenly wide, and Clarke shakes her head, silencing her. 

“I can show you.”

True to her word, she takes Lexa’s hand in hers and guides her to the touches that she has learnt make her quiver and scream into her bedclothes. Lexa’s fingers feel different to her own, and the touch makes her shiver like she has been trapped in the ice for years, but she encourages her concerned lover to continue. Where her fingers are soft and well practiced in this routine, Lexa’s fingers feel longer and warmer, and though she is still finding her footing she touches parts of Clarke that make her squirm and whimper. Lexa’s fingers run the line of her wet slit, eyes wide with amazement, and when they journey upwards to bump clumsily against her clit, Clarke spasms with desire, a high keening escaping between her lips. At that, Lexa’s eyes flash with hungry desire, and she nudges away Clarke’s guiding hand, her fingers running circles over the sensitive little bud. 

She sits up, her free hand grasping at Clarke’s back to keep her steady and close against her. Her lips finding a path from Clarke’s earlobe down to her collarbones, cursing softly when she comes up against Clarke’s dress. For a moment her touches to her cunt hesitate, and Clarke whimpers, grinding her hips wantonly down onto her hand. She cannot bear to think that Lexa might pull away now, and instead she reaches up to pull at the laces and clasps of her own dress with frustration, until the flimsy sleeves fall down her arms and expose her heaving chest. 

Lexa makes a delighted noise, falling upon her breasts like she has been fasting for days, and when her lips seal around Clarke’s nipple, she throws her head back and cries out, pressing only harder into Lexa’s touch. Her crest comes too quickly, she feels as if she is galloping towards it on a stallion that she cannot control, and when she falls over the edge it is with a high pitched cry, falling forwards into Lexa’s waiting body. 

There are a few moments of uncertainty, as she reaches down to help Lexa work her through the aftershocks, but then Lexa’s arms are around her, easing her tired, sweaty body back into the cushions and holding her close. Lexa gazes down at her, awe shining in her eyes, even as she runs a hand through her hair, brushing the sticky tendrils away from her face. 

“That was beautiful,” She breathes, and Clarke can’t help but laugh, even as Lexa continues earnestly. “Truly Clarke, I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. Thank you for letting me-”

“Thank you,” Clarke tells her, voice low and throaty, and the sound of it sends a shiver through Lexa. Just the sight reinvigorates her, and Clarke clambers back on top of her lover, her dress still tangled around her waist, to press her back into the cushions. Lexa’s widened eyes meet hers and she brushes the softest kiss to her lips, pouring every tender thought she has had into this touch. 

“Can I return the favour?”

“I-” Lexa hesitates, staring at her, and her cheeks begin to pink as she says, quietly. “I do not know if I can… I have never…”

“Oh you can my love,” Clarke smiles, “I will show you that you can.”

With that, she begins to trail her way down Lexa’s body again, like an adventurer picking her way through unknown terrain, she takes her time to familiarise herself with every rise and fall of the body below her. Lexa is all muscle and sinew, her body built from years of training and leading an army. It is so different from Clarke’s own softness that she is fascinated by it, by the way Lexa’s breath shifts with she kisses the underside of her breast, by the way she keens and jerks when Clarke places a bite to her ribs. Lexa’s britches are little issue when she comes to them, she simply pulls at the laces and Lexa lifts her hips obligingly to tug them down and reveal dark, wiry, wet hair and the beautiful scent of her arousal. 

Carefully, watching her lovers face, Clarke touches her gently, exploring her wetness and watching the way that Lexa’s eyes widen, her breath hitching at certain touches. When Clarke takes her finger, covered in the evidence of Lexa’s want, and sucks it clean, she fears the girl may pass out. Unable to help herself, she leans in and draws the flat of her tongue along Lexa’s slit. Beneath her, Lexa jolts at the touch, a strangled cry escaping her. Clarke looks up, concerned that she’s done something wrong, but then Lexa’s hand curls in her hair and tugs her unerringly back down again, and Clarke smiles into her wetness. 

---

It is some time later when Lexa runs her hand through her lover’s golden locks, pushing them back to gaze upon her sleeping face. Clarke’s delicate braids have begun to unravel in their fervour, her hair sticky with sweat, and Lexa feels a twinge of satisfaction in knowing that her restless fingers contributed to such disorder. She knows that her own hair must be equally unkempt, but she cannot bring herself to care about that, or anything else, when Clarke’s sleeping body is resting upon hers.

With the sun dappling the ground through the leaves of the orange trees, everything feels calm and peaceful. This island is like a paradise that their real lives cannot touch, and in that moment she wishes so deeply that they could stay here forever and let the world find its own way. Perhaps Clarke feels her discontent through the beating of her heart, because in that moment she stirs, her eyelids flickering open to reveal blue like the summer sky looking up at her.

Lexa feels a tinge of regret to have disturbed her, but how can she truly be sad when greeted by the sight of Clarke’s beautiful eyes blinking up at her, clearing the sleep from her vision.

“I fell asleep?” The southern queen asks, her voice rough with fatigue. “I’m sorry, I-” She goes to move away, but Lexa tightens her arm around her just a little. Clarke relaxes back into her hold with a grateful sigh, and then offers a wicked smile that makes Lexa glad they had managed to redress after their ardour. “You exhausted me, my lady.”

Lexa flushes a little at her words, bashful despite their earlier intimacy. “You were tired,” She admits, and her expression softens with concern. “You said you slept poorly?”

A shadow passes across Clarke’s face at the reminder, and she half shrugs, as nonchalant as possible. “I had bad dreams, that’s all.”

“Bad dreams?” Lexa prompts, and runs a hand down her bare arm ever so gently. 

Clarke hesitates, mulling over her words for a few quiet moments, before reluctantly admitting. “I dreamt about Pike, that he was in my rooms…”

The mention of the treacherous lord’s name makes Lexa bristle unhappily, her jaw clenching even at the thought of Pike so close to Clarke again. But the bags beneath Clarke’s eyes and the genuine exhaustion she sees in every inch of her body is enough to placate her, and she reassures her quietly.

“Pike is gone. We both watched as the executioner took his head.”

Beneath her, she feels Clarke shiver, and a bite of revulsion runs through her as well. As evil as Pike may have been, the sight of his head being cut from his body is not one she wants to see again.

“I know I just-“ She hesitates again, and when Clarke looks up to meet her gaze, there is something terribly sad in her eyes. “Sometimes it is as if… I have been so terrified for so long, my body has forgotten what it is to be safe.”

Lexa has to shut her eyes for a moment, to hide the pain she feels, and instead only tightens her arms around the girl in her embrace. She knows what it is to be scared, has faced down an army of thousands with the weight of a nation upon her shoulders, but always she has had a sword in her hand and her own army at her back. She can’t imagine how Clarke must have felt, alone and virtually defenceless in the capital.

Soft lips press against hers, drawing her from her thoughts and she opens her eyes to find Clarke looking back at her, a smile playing at the edge of her lips.

“Let’s not think of sad things,” She instructs, “Tell me something happy, please Lex.”

“Alright,” Lexa can’t help but steal another kiss, before allowing Clarke to settle back into her side easily.

“One of our horse boys disappeared while we were here,” She casts her companion an exasperated smile, “Surely seduced by the excitement of the capital. Anya managed to find a new boy within the day though- a lad called Peter who calmed her mount when he spooked in the street.”

“The boy just appeared from nowhere?” Clarke asks, ever so lightly, and Lexa hums her agreement, running an absent minded hand through her hair.

“As if he were sent by the Gods,” Lexa agrees, then smiles to herself. “Though I’m sure the gods have many more things to trouble themselves with.”

“Will you take him back to Winterfell with you?” The words are enough to give them both pause, and Lexa hesitates, contemplating the painful thump of her heart.

“Yes,” She murmurs, eventually, “He will work in the stables.”

“Aden will be glad to see you again,” The joviality in Clarke’s voice is as false as silk roses. “You must make him write to me and tell me how Rose is doing.”

“Stop, please,” She is surprised to find that her voice is breaking over her words. When Clarke meets her gaze, there are a sheen of tears to her eyes as Lexa begs, “I don’t want to think about leaving, or Winterfell, or any of it. I just want to think about you – and love you.”

“Lexa,” Clarke cradles her cheeks in her hands and leans forwards to capture her lips again. “I love you too.”

Their foreheads pressed together, their bones tired from making love, and the sweet smell of oranges in the air, Lexa could almost believe that this moment would never end.

Clarke is warm in her arms and when she twists to press a kiss to the side of her head, she hums happily. Lexa gives a soft sigh, following Clarke’s gaze out to the crystal waters and the bluest of skies. “Then that’s all we need.”

It’s a lie, but a beautiful one.

 ---

It is a warm, bright day, the first of many that the southern summer will bring, when a messenger girl, almost tripping over her own feet to give a deep bow of deference to her queen, tells her that a representative from the Iron Bank has arrived. Clarke’s brows furrow, and she thanks the girl before asking her to have both the guest and Queen Lexa sent to her private audience chamber, with the utmost discretion.

Harper watches from where she is checking Clarke’s new bed linens for poison, and asks, quietly. “Is there anything I can do, your majesty?”

“Have refreshments sent to us Harper, if you would. And when you’re done go to Grand Measter Orrin and ask him for the leather satchel from across the sea, and bring that to me.”

Harper nods, and bobs a curtsey, before hurrying from her solar. Clarke runs a hand over the skirt of her dress; her eyes linger on her crown, but when she looks in the mirror she sees a woman who could easily be underestimated and that is exactly what she wants.

Lexa has already arrived by the time she gets to her private chamber, and is pacing back and forth before the window like a caged animal. Soon, Clarke knows, she will have to return to the north. The life of a courtier in Kings Landing does not suit her, and besides she has her own country to rule.

“Your majesty,” Lexa turns at the sound of the door, catching sight of her. There are still servers arranging sweet wine, cheese and fruits along the table, and so all they can do is look at one another, their hearts pounding.

“Our friends from across the sea?” Lexa asks, pointedly.

“They will be here soon,” She reassures her. Unable to help herself, she crosses the room, breaching the space between them so that they can speak more privately. “I believe it is truly them this time.”

“As do I.” Lexa nods seriously. “We must present a united force, they must understand that we are not pawns to be played in their games.”

“We will,” Clarke assures her, and steps away as a knock comes to the door. Often, she feels as though she is the tide and Lexa the shore, and though they are forced to retreat from one another somehow they always come back together.

“Enter,” She calls, as she settles herself into the high backed chair at the head of the table, carved with elaborate roses and stags. Lexa steps up behind her, her hand upon the back of her chair, and Clarke thinks they must make a rather striking tableau because their guest’s eyes widen as he is shown inside.

Dante Wallace looks much the same as he had all those months ago, though his hair is more silver now and there is gauntness to his expression that wasn’t there when last they met. He bows, low and elegant, to them both, and offers a charming smile when he straightens up again.

“Your majesties, well met.”

 “Well met Master Wallace,” Clarke answers, with a nod of her head. “I hope your journey was not too strenuous.”

“The crossing of the Narrow Sea is never easy on old bones, your majesty.” Dante gives a small smile. “But I had to come to meet the new queen of the south.” 

“Please, sit,” Clarke gestures to the chair before her. As Dante sits, she pours him a goblet of wine, “We have met before.” 

“Indeed, but I have not met the new queen,” Dante takes the goblet she offers with a nod of his head. He offers her a smile which is almost paternal, “I thought you would go far when last we met.” 

“It is terrible circumstances,” Clarke glances down at her own goblet, “But I intend to do whatever it takes to keep my country safe.” 

“It seems that you are keen to maintain the good relationships King Thelonious left behind,” Dante observes, and his eyes linger on Lexa long enough to make it clear what he is referring to. “I hope that that courtesy extends to us.” 

“I hope so too, Master Wallace.” Clarke glances back at Lexa, as if she had forgotten she was there. “Have you met Queen Lexa of the Northern Kingdom?”

Master Wallace doesn’t flinch away from her expectant expression, a cordial smile on his face. “I have not yet had the pleasure, your majesty.” He nods to the northern queen, “Your majesty, we at the Iron Bank have written to you since your reign began.” 

“I am aware,” Lexa answers, steadily, and only the slightest shift in Dante’s expression gives away his annoyance. 

“The queen and I are keen to ensure that relationships between our nations are close.” Clarke informs him, a steely edge entering her tone. 

Almost as if she were listening at the door, a knock comes and Harper is shown inside. Clarke waves a hand at her, motioning her closer without drawing her eyes away from Dante Wallace. 

The foreigner watches the handmaiden’s approach, a flicker of hesitation in his voice before he says. “That is excellent news. All any of us want is peace.” 

Harper deposits the leather pouch into Clarke’s hands and retreats without a word, closing the door softly behind her. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” At his words, Clarke dips her hand into the pouch in her dress and pulls out the iron coin that has been beneath her pillow for so many nights. With careful precision, she places it onto the table between them and watches as his face turns grey. Into the silence that hangs between them all, she says. “There are others in Braavos who feel similarly.” She reaches into the pouch, her fingers closing around the cold, withered skin of Cage Wallace, and places the face onto the table between them. 

Dante Wallace stares down at his son’s face, and his expression draws as if he is going to vomit. He recoils away from the sight, his chair legs scraping against the stone flag floor with a terrible squeal, but he doesn’t get very far before Lexa’s strong hand clamps around his shoulder, keeping him down. 

The silver blade she presses against his throat shines in the candlelight and Clarke sees the master’s eyes bulging with fear. 

She offers her prettiest, rosebud smile. “It wouldn’t do for people to find out that you once sought to undermine our close relationship. It would be terrible for the Iron Bank’s reputation.” With a sigh, she puts the face back into the bag and pockets her coin again, as Lexa slides away from the Braavosi banker. 

Clarke is slightly impressed that Dante doesn’t flee in an instant. Instead, he takes a moment to straighten out his robes, and stands with all the grace a man just held out knifepoint can possibly have. 

He clears his throat and speaks weakly. “As you say, your majesty,” he gives a nod of his head to them both, and turns for the door, but Clarke’s words pull him up short. 

“And I’m sure you will be happy to erase all of the crown’s debts to you, won’t you Master Dante.”

---

The sun draws in, painting the sky with long strokes of apricot and rosebud pink. This is quickly becoming one of her favourite parts of the day: her petitioners have all gone home, and from her place on the balcony with Wells she can hear the sounds of people in the city downing tools and streaming into the inns and alehouses of the city. 

This balcony is hers now, just as the castle behind it is, and the city sprawling out below, and while that weight has not become any lighter, she has learnt to bear it better in the weeks that have passed. Beside her, Wells seems more relaxed than he has in years, and she glances over at him curiously, taking a sip from her goblet before asking. 

“You seem to be in good spirits, my friend?” 

Wells considers her words for a moment, and then nods. “I am.” He answers, and he offers a smile that warms her to the bones. “I feel more content than I have done in some time.” 

She eyes him with interest, “May I ask why?” 

“You are the queen, you may ask whatever you wish.” He teases her, and she scowls at him over the rim of her goblet. “Truly though,” he continues more seriously. “For some time I have been wondering what I will do next… there is no place for a disgraced prince in your court.” 

She cuts through him, abruptly alarmed by this line of talk. “There will always be a place for you here, Wells, you know that. This is your home as much as it is mine.” 

“I know, but as long as I am around there will always be a challenge to your reign, whether I want to be or not.” He sets hardened eyes upon her, “I am done being a pawn in their games. I will not be used against you.” 

“But where will you go?” Her wide eyes are set to him, her heart thrumming in her chest.

He takes a deep breath, “I know this sounds strange, but I would like to return to the Maesters in Oldtown.” 

Her brows crease and her mouth drops open to protest, but he speaks over her. 

“I have always wanted to learn more, and now that I am no longer a prince I am free to do so. Who better to learn from than some of the wisest men in Westeros?”

“Maester Wells,” She rolls the words across her tongue like a sugar coated almond, considering them. After a moment she admits, reluctantly. “It would suit you.”

He smiles, and reaches over to place a hand upon hers, squeezing gently. In the glowing evening light, she sees the lines that have been carves around his eyes and the heaviness that rests there, and wonders if he sees these confessions of age and weariness in her too. 

“I will not go without your blessing, but I truly think it would be the best for your reign if I were to leave.”

“Of course you should go,” She frowns at him, “If it is what you want I will not stop you- though I will miss you dearly.”

“Thank you, my friend,” He smiles, and she is reminded of the youth they shared, of chasing one another through the castle gardens and stealing away from their Septa. Part of her aches for those times, but she knows now that they will never be what they were before. That innocence was stripped from them long ago and the best they can hope is to find some happiness in the world they have now. 

“What about your son?” Her voice is pitched so softly that Wells can pretend not to hear her if he wishes. When his expression shifts to sadness, she presses a little further. “I don’t think that they allow babes in Oldtown.”

“You’re right,” He sighs, shaking his head. “I love my son, but I could never care for him as his mother did. Whenever I look upon him-” His voice breaks and she turns away, giving him a moment to gather his emotions.

“I think you would be a wonderful father,” She murmurs, to the warm evening air, and Wells squeezes her fingers. 

“Thank you Clarke but… it would not be fair to raise my son when everytime I look at him I am reminded of everyone I lost.”

“I won’t argue with you,” Clarke assures him, after a moment, “Though I think you’re wrong. I will make sure Benam is protected and well cared for.”

“I meant what I said,” Wells fixes her with a firm gaze, suddenly more sure of himself than she has seen him in years. “I want you to raise him, acknowledge him as my son and your heir.”

She presses her lips together, considering. There is a part of her, she is ashamed to say, which sees the advantages Wells is offering her and wants to take them without hesitation. But there is another part of her, a larger part, who cannot help but think of Aden’s words to her in the Winterfell crypt what feels like a lifetime ago. “Are you sure you won’t regret it? Every son wants to know his father, and every father wants to know his son.”

“I am sure,” Wells looks at her with grave eyes, and she senses that he has given this great thought. He stands and takes a few steps to the balcony, looking out over the patchwork of red tiled roofs and snaking streets. “My father wanted the Baratheons to rule this land for all of eternity. He thought that we would always do what was right for our people. While watching him wage the war against the north I saw for the first time how difficult it was to be a ruler,” He shakes his head and glances back at her, a pitiful smile upon his lips. “My father was a stronger man than I, and I saw him be pulled in every different direction by advisers who sought to influence him. For some time he lost sight of his wisdom and his faith and all he was fighting for, and in that time so many men died in an unnecessary war.”

Clarke stands, her skirts swaying soundlessly around her legs, and moves to join him at the balcony. “Your father was a good man,” She tells him, softly. “Please don’t doubt that.”

“I don’t,” Wells assures her, “He had merits that I do not. He was certainly braver and more shrewd than I will ever be, he had more wisdom and ruthlessness. That is how I know I cannot be king… but that doesn’t mean my son might not be better than I am.”

Clarke’s brows crease and she glances to him, “Benam?”

He meets her gaze and speaks earnestly. “Raise him Clarke, and teach him to be the sort of king this land deserves. At least then the Baratheon name will live on and my father’s legacy will be satisfied.”

“After all you’ve seen, you still want Benam to be king?” Clarke shakes her head, astounded. 

“He will have the best teacher there is,” Wells smiles at her, touching her hand very gently. “And besides, from what I understand you are unlikely to be making any heirs yourself.”

Her eyes widen and her head snaps to stare at him so violently that she feels her neck twinge. “What?” She demands, and her fingers tighten instinctively about his. “What have you heard?”

“Not heard,” He promises her, “Only seen with my own two eyes. You seem to be very attached to Her Majesty Queen Lexa.”

“I-” Clarke scrambles for words, like a fish out of water, and Wells laughs very softly at her floundering. “Are people talking?” Clarke demands, at last, “Do people know?”

“No one knows but I, and perhaps your Queensguard if they were not dropped atop their heads as infants,” Wells laughs, and then continues at her stricken expression. “Peace, friend. I only know because I have watched you fall in and out of love since we were babes.”

“And you still want your child to be raised by me?” Clarke asks at last, with a watery, derisive laugh. “Who makes such unwise decisions?”

“Oh Clarke,” For a second she thinks she sees pity in his eyes. “We don’t choose who we love. I know that, above anyone else.”

“Soon it will not matter,” She shakes her head, and forces her eyes out to the slowly darkening horizon. “She will return to Winterfell any day now.”

“And she will take your heart with her,” Wells observes, quietly. When her gaze turns to him, he offers a sad smiles. “The common people may think that we are blessed with all manners of riches, but content is a crown seldom enjoyed.”

At that, she can only nod, and they stand there together for some time, watching as the sun eases further and further through the sky, leaving trails of indigo in its wake. A knock comes to the door, startling them from their reverie, and when Harper steps in and introduces Queen Lexa, Clarke’s heart throbs. 

“Your majesty,” Lexa hesitates at the doorway to the balcony, her gaze flickering uncertainly to Wells, “I apologise, I thought you would be alone at this hour.”

“That’s alright, your majesty,” Wells bows his head to them both. “I will take my leave, I have suddenly got a hankering for roast lamb and new potatoes.”

“Prince Wells, you really don’t have to-” Lexa protests lamely as he places down his goblet and inclines his head to Clarke. 

“Nonsense,” Wells shakes his head, a smile playing upon his lips. “Thank you for your counsel, your majesty, as always.”

“Thank you, Prince Wells,” Clarke smiles, watching him leave, and when Harper closes the door behind them both she crosses the space between Lexa and herself and takes her love’s hands within hers. “I am glad to see you.”

“And I you,” Lexa confesses, and the stars dance within her eyes when she leans forward to steal a kiss from Clarke’s lips. It leaves Clarke breathless and smiling, and she can’t help but pull Lexa back to her by her hand, pressing their lips together again until they have to break away, laughing very softly. 

“Would you like to sit?” Clarke gestures to the two chairs left empty on the balcony, but Lexa takes her hand, smiling a little sadly. 

“No, I couldn’t bear to be that far away from you tonight,” Their hands still clasped, she pulls Clarke towards the low stone wall, and they lean against it together, so close that their shoulders brush, and look out onto the stars just beginning to show themselves in the darkening sky. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your time with your friend.”

“Don’t be,” Clarke runs her thumb over the smooth skin of Lexa’s palm. “We have said all there is to say tonight,” At Lexa’s curious glance she explains. “He tells me he wants to become a Maester.” Lexa makes a soft, interested noise, and she continues, a little hesitantly. “And that Benam should be my heir.”

“His son?” Lexa’s eyes widen, focusing with an intensity that Clarke has not seen in her before. “That is an interesting proposition- he does not want to raise the child himself?”

“He says he reminds him too much of Ivy, the boy’s mother,” Clarke meets her gaze and squeezes her fingers. “Wells loved her very much and she was killed by Pike’s men.”

“That is terrible,” Lexa’s expression is soft with sympathy and understanding. “Wells must miss her immensely.”

Clarke nods, and then asks quietly into the silence that settles about them. “What do you think I should do?”

Lexa sighs ever so softly and turns to look at her properly, her expression intense upon Clarke’s features. When she speaks, she is incredibly serious. “I cannot tell you what to do Clarke, but if you would like my advice… you are young yet and could easily bear many heirs of your own.”

Clarke’s eyes meet hers and her voice breaks over her words. “And if I do not want to bear many heirs of my own?”

Lexa’s breath catches in her throat, and she swallows. “I would… ask you to be sure when you make that decision. Life is long Clarke, and your reign is yet beginning. You may find it helpful… perhaps even desirable… to have a king by your side some day.”

“I am sure.”Clarke takes their clasped hands and presses them against her breast, above her heart. Her voice wells with emotion when she says. “I know what I want, I know who I want. You will live in my heart always Lexa, and I could never bring myself to try to replace you.”

“Oh Clarke,” There are tears sparkling in Lexa’s eyes. “You know I would never ask you…”

“You don’t have to ask,” Clarke shakes her head, “And you could go away and marry hundreds of other queens and kings, but I would still love you just as much as I love you today.”

“My heart beats only for you.” Lexa answers, without faltering. “I will never love another, not until my dying breath.”

At those words, Clarke can’t help but lean forward to capture her lips, kissing away the tears that fall down her cheeks and wishing that she can soothe the anguish that rages through them both. Lexa’s arms wind around her waist, holding her close, and when they break apart their foreheads touch, so that they are looking deeply into one another’s eyes. 

“You understand that we can never be wed while we are queens?” Lexa murmurs, their lips almost brushing. “My people have fought hard for their independence, and while it may have been for the wrong reasons it’s my responsibility to help them find their way now.”

“And I cannot abandon the south without a leader,” Clarke lets out a very soft sigh, resting her head against Lexa’s shoulder and enjoying the feeling of being held, of strong arms clutching her close. “And so we are like the sun and the moon,” She muses quietly, her eyes fixed to the sky darkening to twilight. “Destined never to be together.”

“But when they meet, even if ever so briefly,” Lexa murmurs, brushing her hair back from her forehead and pressing a soft kiss close to her ear. “The sky is filled with the most beautiful colours. We will be that way Clarke, I could not live without you for very long.”

Slowly, Clarke peels herself away from her lover’s arms as she thinks about what Lexa means. “So we shall meet in secret?”

“Until all is settled and we can be together as we should be,” When their eyes meet Lexa is soft, but determined. “As I say, I can no longer live without you.”

“Nor I you.” Clarke breathes, enraptured by the sight before her. 

“And we cannot leave two great nations within sovereigns,” Lexa brushes softly along her cheek. “So we must meet, for the good of our people.”

Clarke’s lips quirk, and she echoes. “Our people.” 

“And one day, when all is said and done,” Lexa cradles her very close, as if afraid she will vanish. “I should like to marry you, Clarke Tyrell, if you would be obliged.”

“I think I should like that more than anything else,” Clarke catches her lips again and when they kiss it tastes of roses and cold winters nights and promises to be kept.