#barely featured run-of-the-mill shadow creatures

[gloriousmonsters]

tfw you’re so salty about the lack of cool monsters in an anthology that was supposedly built on monsters you actually write a review 

[novantinuum]

On the corrupted!Steven theory...

So, originally when I mused on this yesterday I was just playing around with random possibilities.

After combing the series for info about corruption, though, I’m mildly spooked at the increased potential for this to... perhaps be a thing? I’m not saying that this is what I for sure believe will happen- to be honest, I’m not even sure Crewniverse would go this direction at all- but just for funsies, let’s see what kind of “evidence” or “foreshadowing” exists that might support this potential story path in the context of canon.

(EDIT: 10/7/19 

I honestly no longer think this creature is a worm at all whatsoever, it’s either more akin to a horned caterpillar or potentially has limbs. Either way we can see so little right now that it’s hard to tell. I’m not editing the rest of this post because I want it to exist in its original form- but do keep this in mind reading the rest! XP)

1) The design of this worm creature.

Let’s start simple. Let’s start tangible. 

For future reference and simplicity, I will be henceforth be referring to this creature as... “Wormy Boi.”

So, let’s see what we’ve got here. I’m definitely not the first person to point out this fella’s pink nature, and the jarringly human-like nose they’ve got. (Compared to other corruptions, which have had distinctly non-humanoid features.) In the photo above, we also have Wormy Boi sporting glowing pink eyes, which then send out a flare of pink light/energy. So, seemingly a powerful entity.

If you watch the short segment before they sit upright, you’ll see that Wormy Boi is super, super big. They’re in the background, but BOY do they loom. The shadows cast upon them especially push that sense of size. They’ve also got a whole bunch of spikes on their back and framing their face.

So, then. What evidence could be made for this being a corrupted!Steven, as opposed to some other run-of-the-mill monster?

Steven Universe Future is a limited series, described as ‘tying up loose ends.” To me, as a viewer, it would make far more sense for the antagonists/conflicts to deal with big concepts that have already been established since there’s such a limited amount of time we have left with this world. Introducing a completely alien species in the last act of the show would feel offbeat from both a writing and a viewing perspective. Corruption- on the other hand- is something we don’t have full answers to yet.

We don’t see any gem, yes- but Steven’s gem is- of course- on his belly. If this theory were to be true, that would translate to the gem being on Wormy Boi’s underside, far out of our sight in this shot, due to how massive they are. As an addition to this, not showing the gem gives an air of mystery to this creature’s true nature- which makes it seem like there’s something surprising to discover here.

A corrupted diamond would surely be MASSIVE. Also, very powerful. The beam of pink light hints at Wormy Boi being quite a powerhouse.

The spikes on Wormy Boi’s back and around their face highly resemble rose thorns. We all know how much the Crewniverse loves their rose symbolism, and design wise, this aspect would make a lot of visual sense for a corrupted Steven. Running off of that:

The face/nose shape and the five horns on this creature’s head give off a very Steven-like silhouette. 

The nose, of course. The face has a very Steven-like shape to it, overall- although noticeably more angular and sharp. The mouth is reminiscent of the Watermelon Stevens’ mouths. And as for the horns, there’s five of them positioned equidistant around their face, just as Steven’s hair is always formed from five lil’ bumps at the same positions.

Okay, moving on.

(Read more under the cut!)

2) We do not yet understand the true nature of corruption.

“I guess it’ll take more than a kiss to heal damage from the Diamonds…” -Pearl, Monster Reunion

Corruption is still- bafflingly- a huge mystery. The Gems we’ve watched the CGs bubble since season one have been healed, yes, but there are still many gaps in our understanding of it. With Steven Universe Future’s promise to address some lingering story threads, it would make sense if corruption was on the plate for further discussion. So, what DO we know?

We know it’s something the Diamonds can do. Interestingly, it doesn’t seem to require all four diamonds. Three of them together were able to cause all the damage to Earth. There’s also no statement made that more than one Diamond is required to cause effects like that. 

In Legs From Here to Homeworld, Blue and Yellow Diamond weren’t actually aware the corruption was something they were capable of producing. They seemed to assume they obliterated the Gems on Earth. Corruption is then, even a mystery to them. That’s... odd, isn’t it?

Pearl states that it’s “something nearly impossible to describe.” Garnet goes further to say... “It’s sorta like... if MC Bear-Bear didn’t tear the fabric of his arm, but the fabric of his mind.”

"A sound… A song?” There’s a lot of association between corruption and music.

It causes Gems to lose touch with their usual forms, instead warping into a more outwardly "monstrous” version of themselves that appear to be “just a bundle of fight-or-flight reflexes and survival instincts.” As seen by Centipeetle in Monster Buddy and Monster Reunion, it appears as if corrupted Gems try to regenerate with their original forms if unbubbled, but are simply not in a state where they can maintain that.

As seen with Jasper in Earthlings, extreme emotional distress very much seems to speed up corruption’s effects. This is less of a stated fact and more of my read on that episode, but I believe it to be an important tidbit, especially since Garnet states that corruption’s damage is mental rather than physical, at least at its core. This can also be seen in Monster Reunion with how Centipeetle’s partial healing backfires when she remembers the trauma of being corrupted and reacts strongly.

Now, when it comes to healing corruption, Steven tries to heal Centipeetle himself, and does make some nice progress... helping her regain a hold on herself as he treats her with love and compassion and understanding... but it’s ultimately not a healing that can occur in isolation, helping her on his own. She needs more support before she can heal from this corruption to a state where she can truly be herself again.

And that eventually comes in the form of the other Diamonds. So, all four diamonds can help relieve the corruption if they help these Gems all together. 

3) How could this theory potentially fit into the story anyways, you nutter?

Well, here’s the part of this post where I make some broad conjectures. I honestly am shooting fish into a barrel here because again- we know barely anything about how corruption actually happened initially, and my thoughts are very jumbled. Please forgive me.

"I don’t really know how the corruption works. It’s like they’re sick. They don’t remember who they used to be.” -Steven, Gem Hunt

So, corruption seems to be a mental ailment of Gemkind, turned manifest. It also seems to have a deep connection to a Gem’s emotions, with Centipeetle growing smaller and slightly calmer upon feeling more secure in Steven’s presence, and corruption speeding up as Jasper grew more and more emotionally overwrought and self-deriding about herself. 

When it comes to the Diamonds and how they perhaps caused it originally- without fully realizing- we know that at least Blue and White have abilities focused on causing others to act in certain ways. Blue has sway over one’s emotions, and White has a knack for forcing her thoughts and self upon others. (I’m not sure how Yellow’s ability would play in here.) Mayhaps, mixed with their grief and guilt and anger, their power simply pressed all of that hurt emotion onto all the Gems on Earth in one whole fail swoop...? Tearing their minds in the process of it all?

The question I still have, though- is whether a single diamond could produce effects like this. And whether a diamond could turn that ability on themself.

Could Steven accidentally corrupt himself? Why might that happen?

Well, let’s look at our boy here. 

He’s got a wide circle of support at this time in canon, but notably, he’s notorious for bottling up his emotion and not letting others in to help him- instead dropping everything to help them with their problems. Just to name a few examples (a few):

The Test. He feels betrayed and hurt at the Gems for a moment about the way they’re babying him with the rigged test, but instead of admitting the hurt he feels about the scenario, bottles that up to help them feel more like good guardians.

Joy Ride. He opens up to the Cool Kids about deep, incredibly troubling stuff that’s long been on his mind, but he’s never once talked about it with his family.

Mindful Education. The perils of bottling one’s emotions is literally the whole plot of the episode. The kid has a full out sobbing breakdown while he’s plunging to his death. Connie gets through to him a little here, but later episodes show that the resolution we see here is merely the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Steven’s internal issues. 

Storm in the Room. Externally, Steven tries so hard to put on a guise of content and positivity, but once alone in Rose’s room feels safe enough to let the full brunt of his emotional trauma come out in an almost explosive manner. Geeze, get this kid some hugs. 

Gemcation. Steven actually fails bitterly on putting on his customary smile in this episode, simply because the weight of his problems have become such an impossible burden to him. When the other Gems are trying to help him open up, he isn’t immediately responsive to their efforts. 

What’s Your Problem? Amethyst spends the whole episode trying to cheer Steven up and find out how he’s doing, and instead Steven downplays his own feelings on the matter and ends up helping her sort out her own emotional issues.

So to sum: Many an Emotional Issue, a chronic tendency to avoid outwardly addressing said issues in favor of helping everyone else instead... and to avoid accepting other people’s help.

Even if he’s surrounded by all these people who love him, the fact of the matter is that Steven still feels as if he has to face his own inner demons alone.

Now, let’s look at the lil’ teasing synopsis that was given for Steven Universe Future:

“After saving the universe, Steven is still at it, tying up every loose end. But as he runs out of other people’s problems to solve, he’ll finally have to face his own.”

Blatantly sounds like we’re gonna finally get some addressing of Steven’s emotional state, now doesn’t it?

4) A concept on what could, theoretically happen

“Maybe… it IS a guy in a monster costume. I don’t mean literally, silly! What I mean is... there might be a conscious Gem still inside there, somewhere. What if the monster is turning back and forth into its original form? If it is, it might not be as corrupted as we think! There might still be a chance to save it!” -Steven, Gem Hunt

Suppose Steven- by some as-of-yet unknown means- ends up accidentally corrupting himself. His sorry emotional state only further amplifies the effects of this corruption, and makes it really hard to retain control. Wormy Boi as a form could be like... all his inner demons made manifest, a metaphoric mirror into his current mental state. But- as he is half-human- he’s not entirely unaware of what’s happening. Perhaps... as the quote above could be sneaky foreshadowing for... how he’s turning back and forth between this corrupted form and his normal form. 

He likely wouldn’t want everyone to see him like this, doesn’t want everyone to visibly know the sheer depth of how much he’s hurting. But just like the corrupted Gems were only able to be helped in community, with the support of the CGs and the Diamonds in preparing the fountain, Steven can’t fix this on his own. 

He can no longer face the dark alone.

At some point, everyone has to take a brave step. Reach out. Accept help. 

Steven’s helped so many people, and surely he deserves that same love and care in return, too.

And perhaps, when he’s eventually healed from this- and has gotten the opportunity to be open with his family and friends about the hurt he’s facing- he’ll be left with “corruption scars” as well. I think it’s an important thing to address, that no one goes through experiences like these without lingering effects. Stuff stays with you. Healing is not always linear. But life is a continuous journey, and with the support of people who love you surrounding, you too can make a change... can continue to live to the fullest at every moment possible.

I think the above would be a lovely moral for Steven Universe to tackle in its last run of episodes, no matter how they approach it- daft corruption theory or not.

Now, in the end- a reiteration. This is just a wild theory. I’m not trying to be any authoritative voice saying that this is for sure what will happen, because in reality I have no idea what Crewniverse is cooking. However, I do think it’s fun speculation, and I am kinda spooked at how well things fit. 

Whatever happens, I’m sure it will make me weep like a baby, though. Hoh boy. Grant me sanity in these coming months as we wait for answers.

[lokispettigerr]

To Summon A Witcher: Geralt x Reader Chapter 1 (NSFW) Smut

Summary:  Reader lives and works in one of the most romantic cities in the US, Charleston, SC. However, because of the city's colored past, romance isn’t the only thing that can be found there– it is said that ghosts, goblins, ghouls and the like make the city their home. When Reader meets one of these creatures she has to get the help of someone not quite so human in order to be free, but he frees her from much more than she ever expected.

Taglist: In reblog

Word Count: 1769

Warnings: This shit spooky, fam.  Graveyard, and corpse mention.

A/N: This is the first-ever Geralt fic I have written. I hope you enjoy it! Leave me your thoughts in the comments or in an ask!  

“Yeah, it’s this huge guy with stark-white hair, golden eyes, and seriously, a body that could pick me up and snap me like a twig,” I told my best friend, Genny.

“Sounds hot. I’m not sure I understand where this is a problem?” She swirled the coffee mug around, stirring up the settled liquid in her latte. “I mean, unless you are waking up to find that these dreams with the ‘Daddy-white-haired-tree-man’ are really wet dreams that soak your covers through… I could see that as being a problem.” She laughed a musical beautiful laugh. I danced around her comment, not wanting her to know how I felt when I woke up from the dreams of the mysterious man or the nature of some of the dreams which truly did feature bare skin, hard muscle, and moans that rang out in unison.

“Genny, I have never seen this man before in my life, yet he has been in every dream I have had for months now. I just don’t know what it means.”

“Sure, but you’ve had to have seen him somewhere.” She looked around us now, glancing all about the outside patio of the coffee shop that was nestled between a bakery and a uniquities store. People were milling about, their arms full of shopping bags or clutching briefcases or talking on their cell phones. “Honestly, I want to see this guy.” Genny licked her lips. “Maybe he is nearby right now,” she whispered, “Either that or he was the main stud on some porn. Yeah, that’s likely it.”

I stared at her blankly. Why did everything have to come back to sex? I mean, to be fair things always came back to sex for the both of us and this was likely one of the reasons why we enjoyed each other's company so much, but this was serious. Dreams mean something, or so my mother taught me to believe.   And I couldn’t help but think that the man in my dreams had something to do with my current predicament. After all, they had started shortly after things took a turn for the worse.

I’d felt it on more than one occasion, and lately with the way things were going whatever beasty was following me seemed to only be growing stronger.

It had first started on a cold, wet day. The rain had been steadily falling for more than a week, but that day the wind was stirring maddeningly and there had been a tornado warning.

When the storm began I was at work and after the numerous alerts and warnings, me and my coworkers were all told it would be best if we left. In my rush, I dashed out of the door with only my keys.

I had forgotten my bag and my phone and all the contents that I had slowly collected over the years and kept in a satchel as a sort of talisman to ward off evil spirits and the like that seemed to want to attach themselves to me.

The satchel contained an odd assortment of things: a small vial of salt, a clay statue with its own strikingly unusual appearance, a stone of jet, a globe of labradorite, and the tooth of a black cat that all helped me to feel safe, to be protected and to walk unnoticed throughout the world-- at least in the realm of those things not living.

From childhood, I noticed shadows, without shape or form. Most of the time they were harmless. As I grew older, I became more aware of other creatures and entities. The shadows would go from playful to predatorial.

I quickly grew scared and when my mother found out she took me to see a children’s therapist. The apparitions did not stop, they poured forth latching onto my fears, my desperation and hopelessness. It was as if I had become a house for them to dwell within.

I became haunted.

I passed through the hands of multiple therapists, too many to even count. None of them could help me. I was a child becoming a teen that was out of their depth. They either pitied me, despised me, or feared me.

Eventually, my mother heard tell of a spiritual healer, who was no more than a witch, yet she was the only one who could help.

Instead of claiming that I was delusional or sick, the healer praised me for my abilities and told my mother I was gifted, however, the healer sensed the dark energies threatening to consume me and crafted the satchel that had been blessed and enchanted with wards to keep me safe.

And from then on, I carried it with me wherever I went.

That is, until the day the tornado hit.

I’d left work feeling hopeful that I would make it home before the storm became dangerous. But the further I went, the harder the storm raged. I lived in an aged and historic town and was lucky enough to be within walking distance from my work. A few blocks and I would have been home.

I dashed through the rain, taking care not to slip and hurt myself. My keys jangled loudly against my hip.

Rainwater was pelting my eyes and I had trouble seeing. I was soaked. Lightning flashed while thunder rumbled threateningly.

If I would have left a few minutes earlier from my work maybe things would have been different.

If I would have not forgotten my purse with the enchanted satchel within maybe things would be better for me.

Being a human means making human mistakes and mistakes breed consequences that are not often too kind.

I’d rounded a corner at the French district, splashing through puddles when I came to the wrought iron, overgrown with ivy and tangled weeds, entrance of the graveyard.

People often said the graveyard was haunted, cursed.

There were ghost walks and spirit tours that brought groups of people to this very cemetery so they could “Oooo” and “Aahhh” and romanticize about all the horrific deeds that had taken place here. They would return home or to their inns or their taverns and tell the stories they had heard over a beer with a friend, or sitting in front of their fireplace, or tucked into a cool bed on a winter night.

The locals all knew this cemetery was bad news, nothing good ever came of it except for the endless revenue of the ghost tours that the cemetery enticed.

I planned to continue on down the block, straight past the graveyard, but a harsh streak of lightning cut through the sky overhead and thunder cracked so loudly I could feel it deep within my very bones.

Though I cringed at the thought, I knew that if I cut through the graveyard I would be home in half the time.

I gulped and with a look of harsh determination on my face, I ran into the graveyard, pushing my body through the gate.

It closed behind me with a harsh clang, but I continued.

I wasn’t interested in taking my time like some of the tourists do when they come here to meander and ponder while they look at the ancient graves, too old to even have names or dates on them, or too overgrown with tangled foliage for anything to be made out.

There was a worn path beneath my feet, and the rainwater had caused it to be treacherously slick with red clay mud. It threatened to be surpassed and covered in its entirety by tall and leggy green weeds. They slapped relentlessly at my calves and thighs as I ran through.

The weeds made me run blindly. I thought if I stayed on the path it was safest, but I was wrong.

My foot caught on a thick, twisting root that lay horizontally before me. It snaked from one set of graves to another, likely gaining nourishment from the rotting corpses underneath the ground.

I fell, catching myself on the heels of my hands. My pants leg was ripped open and a sharp, sudden pain could be felt above my knee.

I sat up, thoroughly covered in mud and grime from the cemetery, my hair completely soaked through, my clothes stuck against my skin and inspected the gaping wound above my knee. It wouldn’t need stitches, but as soon as I got home I would have to place some butterfly bandages on the wound, or it was sure to leave an ugly scar.

A wet warmth spread along the skin of my knee as my pants soaked up the blood that was pouring forth.

Just then the wind gushed maddeningly, causing the trees in the graveyard to sway and the grey Spanish moss to dance. The trees creaked and groaned with their movement.

Nearby I heard a clicking noise and I couldn’t place it to anything natural. I shifted, sitting up straight, remaining still so I could hear whatever the noise belonged to.

A shadow crossed my periphery and I turned my head towards the movement.

Whatever it was, was using the headstones to hide and shifting between them, manipulating the shadows of the graves to appear “natural”.

But the feeling of dread I had that I often associated with the shadow beings from my past was all too familiar.

My hands fumbled around for my purse. I would grab the enchanted draw-string satchel and would put an end to this shadow thing coming after me.

It was then, I realized my mistake. I had left my purse at work.

“Shit!”

The clicking grew louder and before me, the shadow began to take form.

I knew I couldn’t turn around. All I could do now was keep moving forward, towards home-- towards safety.

The shadow-being before me darkened, swirling and shifting menacingly, and I rose to my feet charging through it.

When I passed through its still collecting form, I felt a cold that seeped into my bones and gripped with a deadly claw around the deepest parts of my being. It was as if, in doing that it knew me. Everything about me.

My darkest desires, my deepest fears, my hopes and my failures.

I ran from the storm.

I ran from the graveyard.

I ran from the shadow that threatened to abolish me.

Things have been a nightmare since and the depression I was treated for long ago with the help of the spiritual healer is slowly lurking back.

I am certain the shadow beast followed me home, and what I am most uncertain of is how to get rid of it.

**** Hope you all enjoyed chapter 1! Please get this fic out into the tumblr verse by reblogging, commenting, and even sending asks if you feel like it! If you would like to support me head on over to my Patreon where you will get access to my fics before anywhere else and much more! Or fuel me with Ko-fi! Until next time! Peace, Loki’s Pet Tiger

[be11atrixthestrange]

Thank You For Dying

Just a run-of-the-mill Deathday party in the Prefects’ bathroom, #PartyLikeIts1492

...because I guess this is what I write now...

The typically-bustling fifth floor was void of any living creatures, repelled by the putrid odor wafting from the Prefects' bathroom. Argus Filch was aware of the smell — and the fact that it probably meant shenanigans — but he still hadn't moved his pending investigation higher on his to-do list.

The fact that even the school caretaker scrunched his nose was concerning. Filch had built up an impressive tolerance to the fouler aspects of maintaining a centuries-old home for grimy teenagers, thanks to his sustained exposure to the greasy mop of hair on his head, which emanated its own unique brand of stink.

The strong stench was no accident. Inside the Prefects' bathroom laid an expansive buffet table, assembled by a reluctant team of house-elves at the request of the Fat Friar. The previous week's rancid leftovers were delicately displayed, having been harvested from mealtimes and kept out in the steamy kitchen left to spoil, another unusual ask from the Hogwarts ghosts.

"It smells so strong!" said the Hufflepuff ghost, his eyes swirling with excitement at the array. "I can almost taste it!"

The pool-sized tub was brimming with bubbles and bustling with activity. Thanks to the begrudging elves, neon lights colored the bathwater, and music echoed off the walls, amplified and melodious, which elicited a few nods of appreciation for the castle's stately acoustics. A sudden splash sent a wave of displaced water into the air, which crashed onto the buffet. The table collapsed under the force, soaking everything and leaving the already-spoiled food squishy and soggy. Peeves then erupted from the water, cackling and pointing at the table, now a useless pile of rubble.

"Peeves!" groaned Nearly Headless Nick. "Why is he here again? He's not even dead."

"Because we need him to hang the banner," said the Grey Lady with an air of expended patience. "Unless you'd like to do it."

Nick glanced at the banner, coiled in a pile next to the destroyed table, and then at his hands, translucent and purposeless. "Fine. Peeves, hang the banner, and then get out."

"Nicky so angry, he's not my fan," chuckled Peeves. "Why would Peeves listen to a grumpy old man?"

Nick rolled his eyes and turned to the Bloody Baron, who was busy directing the elves around the tub so they could get to work on fixing the table. "Can you tell him?"

The Bloody Baron huffed at Nick before raising his voice to the Poltergeist. "Peeves. Hang it up."

"Wheeeeeeeee," sang Peeves as he swooped down to snatch the banner. It unraveled into a ribbon as he launched into the air. Peeves pinned it to the wall so that it hung visibly from the entry door, its message now clear and bold:

Happy Deathday, Myrtle!

"Why does he only listen to the Bloody Baron?" asked Nick under his breath, earning a scowl from the Grey Lady.

"Because the Bloody Baron has quite the temper," she said.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry to bring that up," said Nick. "Things are still weird between you two, then?"

Helena Ravenclaw scowled, and Nick immediately realized he had made things even more awkward by asking about it. He groaned to himself — they had coexisted for centuries, and he still couldn't manage one smooth conversation without reminding her of the whole murdered-by-her-ex thing. It didn't help that the Bloody Baron was always there, keeping his possessive eyes on her, glaring at Nick from across the room whenever he managed to get her alone for a chat.

He knew he couldn't die again, but he still feared the Slytherin ghost. Why did the Bloody Baron have to be so bloody terrifying?

Nick startled as the object of his silent rage appeared between them, as if he had been summoned by Nick's thoughts.

"I apologized for that," said the Bloody Baron through gritted teeth.

Nick glided away slowly, barely catching her response, "Apologies don't bring people back to life…"

"Everyone, quiet!" The conversations died as the room's attention turned to the speaker. The Friar was floating above the newly-repaired buffet table, addressing the group from up high.

"If she breaks your heart, use your head! Just be a man, don't strike her dead!" sang the Poltergeist, his tune echoing from wall to wall.

"Shut up, Peeves!" came a chorus of voices. Peeves cackled.

"Get out," ordered the Baron, pointing a crooked finger toward the door.

He didn't have to ask twice. Peeves zoomed out of the room and into the fifth-floor hallway, his maniacal giggles growing quieter as he whisked away.

Nick sighed, scowling at the door and wondering what it would take to get some goddamn authority in this place. Besides murder, of course.

"Anyway," said the Friar. "Let's all get into place. Myrtle should be here soon. And please, for the love of Merlin, save the arguing for another day," he added with a pointed nod toward the Ravenclaw and Slytherin ghosts.

Everyone found a place to hide — the Grey Lady glided up to the window to mimic the position of the stained-glass mermaid, and the Friar hovered behind the buffet table, his nose conveniently buried into what used to be a treacle tart, maybe. The Baron retreated into the shadows, leaving Nick to submerge himself into the tub, obscured by the bubbles.

They heard Myrtle before they saw her, her nasally voice screeching through the air vents, riddled with gasps, groans, and 'how dare you, Olive Hornbys.' She pendulated between sobs and giggles with impressive efficiency, demonstrating a startling lack of emotional control. It sent a shiver of annoyance through Nick's spineless body so fierce that he almost sympathized with the Bloody Baron's compulsion to kill. It was a good thing that Myrtle was already dead.

Her mumbling and grumbling stopped as soon as she reached the door. When she glided through the entrance, the Fat Friar, the Bloody Baron, the Grey Lady, and Nearly-Headless Nick erupted from their hiding places.

"SURPRISE! HAPPY DEATHDAY!".

Myrtle's eyes grew wide as she scanned the room, passing over everyone's faces before landing on the banner across from her. Its large, drooping letters swayed as the sign rippled in the breeze from a nearby steam vent.

"Deathday?!" shouted Myrtle. "You're celebrating my DEATH?" Her face contorted in anger and her voice crept dangerously close a level of shrill that only Hagrid's pets could hear.

"Why yes, of course!" beamed the Friar, unfazed by her reaction. "You deserve a celebration like the rest of us!"

"So, you're saying that you're happy that I DIED?" she screeched. "Why is everyone so happy that I'm dead?!"

"Myrtle—" began the Friar as his giddy features fell. He couldn't finish because she had already stormed out of the bathroom, her sobs ricocheting through the empty hall.

"What is her problem?" said Nick, shaking his head so that it popped out of its precarious position. "Oops," he added, jerking it back into place.

"What's so bad about being dead?" asked the Bloody Baron, earning another pointed look from the Grey Lady.

"She just needs time to get used to being dead," said the Grey Lady, her eyes glued to the Baron. "It's not like she killed herself."

The Baron scowled back at her. "Now that's cold."

"Enough!" said the Friar. "This isn't about you. Someone should go talk to her."

The four ghosts looked warily at the bathroom entrance, unwilling to volunteer.

"Ooooor," said Nick, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "We could just… stay."

"Yeah," said the Grey Lady, now addressing the Friar. "I haven't been to a party in a while. Would be a shame to waste all the planning and hard work that you did."

"Right," said the Baron. "It's not our fault she can't accept that she's dead." He smirked as the Grey Lady rolled her eyes again.

"At least we tried to include her," said Nick. "I know that was important to you."

The Friar sighed, his guilt evident by his furrowed brows. His expression softened when he inhaled a waft of rancid food and looked longingly at the buffet table. "You're right. We planned a party, so it's only fair that we get to celebrate."

"That's the spirit!" said Nick with a grin.

"Oh, what the hell. To Myrtle!" said the Friar, raising an imaginary champagne flute into the air. "Thank you for dying!"

"To Myrtle!" chorused the ghosts, pretending to chug their drinks, ever-so-thankful for the inevitability of death.

[tragedybunny]

The Blade’s Edge - A League of Legends Fanfiction - Chapter 20

Hello, Lovelies. Here we are again, closer to the end. Thanks for waiting for this. You all mean the world to me. ❤❤❤

They had a simple arrangement. She was the weapon to be used on his enemies. Things get more complicated when emotions bleed into what should simple. Now the two of them find themselves on the precipice of something that was entirely unexpected.

“WAKE UP!” I can’t, everything hurts. The blackness is soothing. “Get up girl!” I force my eyes open despite the blinding pain.

Through bleary vision, I find a massive black bird perched on my stomach, though I can’t feel its weight. “Bea?” No, my thoughts are muddled, that can’t be Bea. I cough, the dust swirls, and my vision begins to clear. I take it in with dawning horror, a creature of blackness and wings that came from some nightmare.

“Wrong.” Its voice reverberates with power and rage and I shudder unintentionally. “Now get up, Noxus requires your service.”

As the world comes back into sharp focus, I see it’s red eyes boring into me. I’ve seen them before, in the birds that gather wherever he goes, in those moments where Jericho lost control. I inhale and pain radiates out from my core. My mind still struggles to grasp the situation, and I utter the only words I can think of. “You can talk?”

“What did you think? I was some mindless gibbering thing?” It sounds offended and I laugh weakly. Of course, the demon he shares a body with is as prickly as he is. Or maybe it takes from him the way he takes from it. “Enough. Are you going to save the Grand General or not?”

I let my eyes close for a second. Opening them, I try to push myself to sit, but pain forces me back to the ground. “I’m useless, go find Darius.”

“He’s not here!” It thunders at me. “Likely that is very much by design.” It walks along my chest to my face, poking what I would loosely describe as a beak at my chin. “YOU are here. If you don’t get up he will die and the Empire will fall.” It takes to the air, flying, maybe, my mind is still pulling things together. It perches on a piece of rubble and stares at me.

I finally force myself up, letting out a pathetic sounding cry as I do. I’ve been his weapon, his lover, his confidant, his wife, why not his savior as well? I cough, causing the dust that’s settled around me to rise again, and I force my legs under me, to start bearing my weight even as the shake. I rise despite the screaming pain now in my abdomen, the real possibility I’m bleeding inside. Behind my rage and disorientation, fear is starting to take hold, fear for him. Will I be enough to save his life. “Fine, where did they take him?” I stretch, testing knees and ankles, hoping they will hold up.

“Finally, I can see some of what he sees in you. So you choose to save him, this you do willingly?” It tilts its head, a gesture that’s disturbing in its bird-like manner.

“Yes, now tell me what I need to do.” I order it, perhaps too bold, but I feel as though I could die at any moment. I don’t need the ridiculous games of some demon, I need to get moving.

“Perfect.” It’s beak clicks with a resounding snap. With a flap of ethereal wings, it rises from its perch, taking to the air and rushing straight at me.

I feel a burning ignite in my skin as it makes contact with me, disappearing in a blaze of flickering black and red. A fire ignites in my veins and I collapse back to my knees for a moment. My breath comes in strangled gasps as my body knits itself back together. The pain is surreal, and I know something inside me was terribly broken. Soon enough though, I am standing, a sureness of purpose filling me, creating confidence such as I have never known. It’s as though all the knowledge and power in the world are mine for the taking. Is this what he feels at every moment? In my hand a dagger of spectral force forms. I aim and let fly it, watching as it buries itself in the bricks. Perhaps I can do what needs to be done after all.

The deafening sound of ravens pierces my mind and I clutch my head for a moment, trying to silence them. Then I see it, an image forced into my thoughts, a chamber below the forbidden center of the Immortal Bastion, a cage of stone, the route clear to me as though I’d tread it a thousand times. I take off down the ruin of the stairs, full tilt, leaping over the rubble with ease. The noise hits me as I descend to the bottom, soldiers falling into order, officers taking command. A din permeates the background, unrest is growing in the city in the wake of the explosions. I vaguely recall hearing the noise of the multiple blasts before blacking out. My heart bursts into agony, I was alive to hear them because Jericho had me pinned under him, using the demon to protect me.

I fight back a cry. Would he have been able to escape if I hadn’t stopped him to talk? What if I can’t save him? Godsdamnit why do I still care so much after all the pain? “The Grand General is missing...Secure the City...Form up for search parties...send word to the Hand…” I fly through them, catching snippets of conversations, startling those that catch a glimpse of me. “Was that?... It can’t be...Commander?”

There are no guards left at the gates that lead into the fortress proper. Here the central towers rise from the ground, a forbidden haven of dark magic. In the shadows, wandering paths lead to doors, some secret, some not, that give entry down into very bowels of the fortress. I instinctively know the one I’m looking for, slightly hidden as it is, my fingers activating the concealed lock as though I’d done it a thousand times. I enter into the stone hallway opened before me with caution, still unsure of the power I temporarily possess. It’s only moments before I stumble on the first of the traitors, one of my former Guild members. He hears my steps and spins to face me, smile wide. “What luck, the Usurper’s whore.” He begins a charge.

“I don’t have time for you.” A spectral blade flies from my hand driving deep into his throat. Another forms almost without thought and I bury it in his chest, watching as he falls. With his dying breath, the ravens come, bringing me his secrets, burning my mind with them. I see Talon and my rage is reignited, he leans in to speak. “Once we deliver the false Grand General to her, justice will be done.”

I shrug off the vision quickly, trying to focus on my current reality, there’s no time for it to distract me any longer. I hold onto my fury at Talon, a fury that’s simmered for years, ready to unleash it when needed. I should’ve known he’d be involved. I sprint ahead, the small shaft of light from the outside fading. The only other light comes from torches set along the walls, glowing sickly green as though their illumination was from some foul magic. Another comes into view from behind, I leap onto her back, blade to her throat. She’s gurgling blood before she even can react to my presence.

There’s a fork ahead, hard right, again I simply know the way. One more guard stands before the open doorway to a large chamber, a sword already drawn. Concentrating and curious I bring my hand up, crackling bolts of energy emerge from it, similar to something I’d seen Jericho do. The guard twitches and flails, and I close the distance, another throat slit. More ravens, my head feels as though it will burst, I choke back a scream from the pain. Finally, the last of what I need, the key to the cage, and the word in old Noxian that will activate it.

The opening leads to a landing, then a set of stairs descending to an open torch lit chamber that reeks of earth and decay. A small band mills about, possibly twenty or so, I duck below the rail of the landing and try my best to get a count. Not truthfully as many as we had thought when he’d finally shared his suspicions with me, but that doesn’t mean more aren’t coming. On the other end of the chamber, as though they are purposefully avoiding it, is the cage of stone. Inside I just barely make out Jericho’s form, he’s not on his feet, and my heart catches in my throat. I need to get to him.

I know I’ll be spotted if I take the stairs, only one way to go, and I hope I know what the demon will do. A quick jump and I bound over the side railing of the landing and drop down into the shadows beside the stairs, a fall that could kill. I tuck my legs and try to land with the least amount of impact. Pain still blossoms in both my knees, too far down it seems, but it could have been worse. A sensation of warmth washes over me and the pain fades, I know whatever I did just healed. No time to think more on it, I sprint off toward the cage, throwing a glance at the conspirators to ensure I haven’t been noticed. They seem to be wandering aimlessly, perhaps waiting for something or someone, and at least keeping their distance from where I need to be.

I circle around to the back of the damned thing to keep concealed and I have a moment to study it. Petricite, of course, that’s how it works. Ancient inscriptions of old Noxian encircle it, the same faint green emanating from them as the torches. And then I finally let my eyes settle on him, he’s seated with his knees pulled up to his chest, a grimace on his features. I hold myself back from crying out to him. “Jericho!” I whisper desperately instead, kneeling as close to the cage as the demon will let me. His eyes open slowly and he turns to face me, taking my breath away. Blood runs down the left side of his face, matting his hair down over an angry, swollen bruise, and his nose looks broken. Rage like I’ve never known wells up inside me and I feel my hands begin to shake. THEY HURT MY HUSBAND. I shove it down, for once I’m fighting to not give in and lose control.

“Kitten?” That nickname is a blade in my heart, regret for what I said the last time I heard it engulfing me. “What are you doing here?” He seems to have trouble focusing on me. I need to get him out of there before that head injury does him in.

“Rescuing you.” I smile slightly, desperately trying to put him at ease.

He shakes his head, I should have expected his resistance. “It’s too risky for you alone. Leave, help secure the Empire for Darius. It needs him.” He really thinks this is an order I’m going to obey.

“We both know it’s you the Empire needs. And I’m not really so alone.” I coax out the demon’s aura, and I feel it change me as I watch his dawning recognition. I send it back to resting in the depths of my soul before I can attract unwanted attention.

He closes his eyes for a second, and I can tell he’s resigning himself to not arguing with me further. Finally he exhales and opens them. “If you must.” The slight tremor in his voice says so much more than his words alone and my heart aches at the sound of it. “Kat, I…”

“Shh.” I cut him off, feeling the hot sting of tears in my eyes. We don’t have the time. Before the turmoil can get the better of me, I stand and suck in a deep breath. “Thank me later.”

I turn, wiping my eyes, and stride out from behind the cage toward the milling group. “Hey, idiots!” No going back now. “Where’s the moron in charge of this shit plan?”

All eyes now turn to me, some of them whisper to one another. Through the demon I can just barely hear them. How did I get here? What am I doing? Are there more to come? One hooded figure steps forward to speak out loudly. “Finally, I’ve waited for this for months. One step closer and I’ll sink my blade into you.”

That voice, the Guild betrayer revealed at last. When I think on it, it never could have been anyone else, but it stings deeply and I wish it had been. I’ll mourn later though. “Ah, Inara. Couldn’t find your own way out of my shadow? Had to throw in with these traitors to feel important?”

She breaks from the crowd, charging forward to stand in front of me. So easily played. “Did you actually think I would follow you? You’re-”

“Shh.” I hold up my hand and cut her off, I don’t have time for theatrics. “You assume I care.” My hands reach back and grip my daggers, it’s not time to reveal my little surprise yet. “Fight me or remove yourself from my path.”

She sputters, I’ve stolen her momentum. “Enough Inara, I’ll handle my darling sister.” His voice comes from the back of the crowd, at last, the nobody who would’ve replaced me.

They part and let him through, the deference paid to him that I can only assume is a mark of leadership. The smug look on his face nearly pushes me over the edge. Years of hatred and bitterness stoke my rage, but I reign myself in, I need to keep control. I give him a quick look over as he approaches, and there, on his belt, is the amulet that serves as the cage’s key. “Let him go Talon, this is the only warning I’m giving.”

He throws back his head and laughs, how typically irritating. “You really came to rescue the Usurper? After everything he’s done? And to think, I tried to offer you mercy for Markus’s sake. I spent months warning you what was coming.”

A growl escapes me in spite of my efforts. The stalker, it was him, when I look into every dark spot of my life he’s there. I inhale and assess the situation, I can’t lose control now, I’m so close. I don’t need Talon dead, I just need to get near to him. And if I stoke his anger, he’ll go right along with what I need. “He’s the rightful ruler of Noxus and you are a traitor.” I stare him in the eyes, daring him to act.

“I’m a traitor?” He scoffs at me. “Who’s here to beg for the life of their father’s murderer? Who’s been playing whore for that same murderer until recently?”

It’s my turn to laugh now. “I’m not here to beg. I’m here to present a challenge. One duel and we’ll see who’s the better of father’s pupils. I win and the Grand General goes free. You win and you may do as you wish with both of us.” I mentally urge him to take the damn bait.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” I bite my tongue, he really doesn't want me to answer that. “I have him in my control, and justice will be done for father once our Matron arrives. I don’t need to answer your challenge.”

I lock my eyes on his and smile with all the malice in my soul. “Oh Talon, you poor confused moron.” Time to play all my cards. “Jericho didn’t kill father.” I lean forward, smile ever widening, and entranced, he mirrors my movement. “I did. Sunk my dagger down into his throat, and watched him bleed. It was glorious.”

He gives a primal scream and I take a step back, landing in a defensive stance. “You bitch! I’m not shocked you wielded the blade. But he had his hand in it.” He snarls again in frustration, eyes still wide with shock at my revelation. “Fine, I’ll accept your challenge, to expose you as the failure you are.” He almost makes it too easy.

At his signal, a loose circle forms around us, drawing a collective intake of breath. Before most could even react, several blades fly from his hands. I dodge them, intentionally slowing myself, and feel one nick my shoulder. I see a smile tug at the corner of his lips, he’s satisfied with what he thinks he’s done. Let him believe he is superior. I retreat a few steps and strike, a dagger loosed in his direction, meant to graze, striking only his thigh.

I leap toward him, following its path, swinging wildly, missing as expected, my momentum carrying me forward. I feel his blade carve into the flesh of my back and I bite my lip to keep from crying out as hot blood trickles down my skin. I push the demon down, refusing to let it heal the minor wound. Behind me, he gets confident and lets out a chuckle. “Losing your touch Kat? You’ve spent too much time playing Lady of the Manor.”

“Fuck you gutter rat.” I hear his sharp exhale, he always did hate being reminded of where he really came from. I turn and another of my daggers goes his way, just a hair too wide. He grins and that should seal it. He leaps at me with every bit of that uncanny agility he’s always possessed.

He’s on top of me before most would even be able to comprehend the situation, a downward slash meant to cut straight into my heart. I surprise him by slamming my body into him rather than attempting an escape. It serves as a distraction and brings me close enough to wrap my hand around the amulet and tear it from his belt. The price is that the blade meant for my heart drives deep into my shoulder and I cry out as my arm goes limp. “You could never beat me. You’re a failure who doesn’t deserve his legacy.”

“Idiot!” Now the demon makes itself known, veiling me with its power. A glance around reveals growing horror in their faces. I feel them, the wings unfurling from me, I find myself standing just above the ground, as fire sings in my veins. I use the moment and take a leap toward the cage, the distance covered in one single bound. My wounds burn as my body stitches itself back together before I land in front of the door to the vile thing. “This was never about beating you!” Talon begins to rally them leading a surge toward me. I slam the amulet into the circular depression on the door, breaking the circle of glyphs, feeling the power drain from my body. “Amon-ana-noxa.” The words ripped from the secrets of a traitor’s soul.

The sound of the lock reverberates through the chamber like thunder and the inscriptions cease to glow. I draw my daggers, readying myself for the onslaught as I feel that incredible power pass by me. “I’m going to enjoy tearing all of you apart.” My heart leaps to hear his voice, strong and confident again.

Within seconds he’s beside me, power and rage emanating from him. There’s hesitation among the conspirators and they slow. “Are you cowards?” Talon shouts, growing desperation evident. “There’s still only two of them.” He’s gone too far down this path, he can’t turn back now.

Jericho looks down at me. “No mercy.” He commands, my Grand General, and for a moment I feel a sense of awe for him that reminds me why it is he who controls the Empire.

“Understood.” I assess our situation, no matter his seeming power of the moment, I doubt he’s fully healed. We need to be quick about this. I’ll be more effective at their back lines. “I’ve got an idea, give me a hand getting behind them.”

He nods and holds out his hands, hands cupping them together. A quick run and I leap into them, the demon’s strength easily propels me behind them. My dagger finds its first target as those in front get close enough to feel the force of an arcane blast.

One turns to me and I make a swift movement, running him through before sending a blade through the air into the first that tries to break away. Several screams pierce the air, Jericho is easily dealing with those that have closed in on him. I spy Inara within the melee and set my focus on getting to her. I leap to retrieve my thrown dagger and then to my next target, opening their throat from behind. I look up, and two of them held still by arcane energy are being dragged back to Jericho.

Another falls before me and my path to Inara is clear. I ready a blade for the traitorous bitch. Over those still remaining, I see Talon make a desperate leap toward Jericho, blades flashing through the air. “Enough!” He roars, demon fully loosed, rising to meet Talon in the air, scorching those that still remain around him. I feel a chill that prickles my skin and notice a strange mist that has begun filling the chamber.

It feels me with a sense of unease that pulls my attention from the mob that is now breaking and running. “Talon, we need to leave, now!” Inara pleads. I’ve lost track of her in the chaos. No, they can’t do this and just walk away. Blackness seeps into the edge of my vision, I’ve contained my fury far too long. Not willing to let them escape, I scan the crowd for them. They need to pay for what they’ve done. Another of the cabal rushes past me and I grab her to open her throat, still searching for my now singular focus. There, a doorway with a pair of figures entering it. “Damn it!’ I snap and charge toward them, this isn’t over.

“Kat don’t.” He shouts after me, but it’s too late. Lost in my thirst for vengeance, I’m already following the passage from the door deeper into the catacombs, the mist thickening around me.

I catch them just as they turn sharply and plunge into a room illuminated by a haunting blue-green light. They’ve disappeared as the mist conceals all here, and quickly I find myself disorientated. A voice snaps from within the mist. “You fools, what have you done?” It’s her of course, the Black Rose Matron. How could this plot have come from anyone else?

A deep resonant laugh echoes throughout the mist, it’s origin lost. It freezes the blood in my veins and I suddenly feel like a child, small and alone. “It can’t be!” LeBlanc’s voice holds a rising panic that leaves me even more shaken. Her frantic chanting fills the air as I try to turn and retrace my path back out of the chamber.

“Behold this lovely little consort of death who strays so close to me. Come further into the mist, come to me, join me in my kingdom, Katarina. I will make great use of your talents.” Trance like at this malevolent presence, I’m rooted where I stand, his terrible voice filling my head. I know I should flee, but I can’t. “We will do many great things with you serving at my side.” I can’t think, but I feel myself begin to move, drifting further into the mist.

Pain blossoms in my core and shakes me from the stupor. A force grasps me and begins to pull on me. “Get away from my wife.” No, he shouldn’t have followed me, he should’ve escaped. The pulling cannot move me from where I’ve been stuck, and soon it dissipates.

Again, that sinister laugh echoes around us. “Your ‘power’ means nothing to me, Grand General. I am the embodiment of forces you cannot even comprehend.”

“I comprehend well enough the fragility of your ego, you who must brag from the shadows.” The entity lets out a primal growl. “Come on out and face me if you are so mighty.” My head begins to clear, Jericho’s taunting served as an ample distraction, no doubt as he planned. He laughs at the creature and now free, I fly towards the sound.

It seems as though I travel farther than the chamber should have allowed. “I’ve slain countless who would dare threaten me and you’re no different.” He sounds so close, but I can’t find him. Panic begins to take hold, is there no way out. “Kat.” He’s there before me, grasping my hand, pulling me to him. The mist begins to thin.

“Well played Grand General.” It sounds as though it is fading away. “Know this, when I return, she will be the first thing I take from you. The second will be your Empire.”

No more time for bandying words, neither of us react, focusing on navigating our way out of the chamber. Leblanc is still somewhere in mist and there may be threats above in the city as well given the explosions earlier. We need to get to someplace safe where we can fortify our position, plan, undo whatever harm that has been done.

[thisisamadhouse]

The Tale of Robin & Regina

For @oqmovieweek, a little something inspired by the Tale of Aragorn & Arwen from the Lord of the Rings. AO3 link

I did it , Robin thinks as he glances out the high window towards the people milling down below, some working on the final touches for his coronation, others already gathering to see their new King. After all those years of hardships, battles, and sacrifices, he is finally about to assume Earnur’s crown and reunite the realms of Men under his banner.

It should be a day of rejoicing, the beginning of a new Age for Middle-earth, but Robin’s heart is heavy with the memories of those who can’t be here by his side, family and friends lost to him forever. Most of all, Robin misses  her more than any other, the one to whom he has given his heart and soul: Regina, the fairest of the High Elves still living on this side of the shore.

Lightly touching the pendant she gifted him the last time he saw her, he wonders if she has already left Middle-earth, if her mother, Cora, has finally convinced her to give up on him and seek refuge and everlasting peace in Valinor. Cora Half-Elven, the Lady of Rivendell, is powerful, respected and feared in equal measure among the Elves. A distant relative to Robin, she had chosen to embrace immortality as an Elf rather than the mortal condition of his ancestors. She reluctantly took in Robin and his mother after his father’s death, recognizing that the last heir of the thrones of the North and the South could prove valuable in the fight against the Dark Lord. She never foresaw that he would capture the heart of her greatest treasure.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

It was a strange day for Robin. At barely twenty years of age, and almost all of those spent in Rivendell, he had finally found out the truth about his origins: the last heir of Isildur, he was the only one still able to claim the thrones of Arnor and Gondor, but the path was full of obstacles, with the Dark Lord’s Shadow growing everyday.

He was walking in the woods, pondering his fate, recalling the stories of old, tales of bravery and glory, and imagining if his name would one day appear alongside those of revered heroes. Singing one of his favourite ballads, lost in his thoughts, he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks at the vision standing in the clearing before him. He must have fallen asleep, he thought, or all those evenings spent sitting at the Minstrels’ foot had granted him new abilities he had been unaware of until then, for he had been intoning the Lay of Luthien Tinuviel, the most beautiful of all beings, mortal or immortal, that ever was, whose love for a Man had once inspired the world and moved even the Judge of the Dead, and surely there she was, conjured up from his words.

 Barefoot in the green grass, she wore a pale blue gown, with short sleeves just off her shoulders, revealing a smooth, sun-kissed skin, her long, dark brown, silky, wavy hair fell down to the small of her back, the light filtering through the high trees caught highlights of copper in them, and Robin was mesmerized, the desire to run his fingers through the soft strands overwhelming.

  Stepping closer, he called out “Tinuviel, Tinuviel”, as his forefather had once done, but when she turned, startled to find him here, she seemed confused and arched an eyebrow, asking him why he would use that name. It took him a long moment to answer, he had been struck speechless at the sight of her. All his years in Rivendell, amongst the grandest and most refined creatures in Middle-earth, could not have prepared him for how utterly enchanting this Lady was. She seemed young, but then most Elves did, one of the many blessings granted to them, her chestnut eyes were intense, appraising him, her face was as flawless and unblemished as the rest of her, only a scar marked her upper lip, but it took nothing away from her beauty, only added mystery and made him more curious. She was petite but held her head high, her bearing was regal, and looking closely he could link her features and manners to the Lady of Rivendell herself, and he wondered if they were related. 

  As he studied her, she tilted her head, still waiting for an answer, and he stammered a response, telling her of how he had been singing about Tinuviel and thought he had made her appear out of thin air.

  “I am not Luthien, though I have been told that I look like her. I am Regina, daughter of Cora, Lady of Rivendell, and I think I know who you are: Robin, son of Robert, the heir of Isildur, my mother’s ward and our distant cousin,” she told him, and he couldn’t hide his surprise at hearing this, for he had never known that Cora had a daughter.

  “I spent the past few years with my father’s kin in Lothlorien, I have just returned to Imladris, and I wanted to walk through the woods the way I used to do… before,” and though she looked away, he couldn’t possibly miss the sorrowful expression that swept over her face, even the sunlight seemed to dim, a dark cloud obscuring it. 

  He had heard about the fate of Cora’s husband, Henry, once a mighty Elf Lord, who was attacked by Orques and wounded beyond any hope of healing in Middle-earth.

  “I did not mean to cause you pain, Milady, please forgive my tactlessness.”

  She shook her head, dismissing the memories and the shadow, the clearing bathed in sunbeams once more. Robin could see that she was about to take her leave, and he couldn’t bear the thought, so he spoke up once more.

  “I must admit I have not yet trailed far from Rivendell, would you tell me about Lothlorien, whose splendour, I have been told, is without equal on this side of the Sea?”

  She hesitated, biting her bottom lip in thoughts, but then his sincere eagerness seemed to persuade her, and she sat down, beckoning him to join her.

  Robin had been smitten at the mere sight of her, but after hearing her talk about the beauty of her father’s land, evoking images, sounds and smells so precise that he felt like he had already been there, he knew that he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life by her side, listening with rapt attention to anything she deemed him worthy enough to share with.

  That first encounter sealed their destiny: though she only seemed amused by him in the beginning, after weeks of finding him always close by, never overbearing, only willing to listen, or distract her, or simply sit in silence, she started seeing him in a different light, and it confused her.

  “I never thought that Luthien’s fate was to be envied,” Regina told him once. “All those sufferings, trials and tribulations, and in the end they were given so little time together. Was it really worth it?”

  He clasped one of her hand gently, giving her time to withdraw it if she so wished, and squeezed when she didn’t. “I’m sure they thought it was, to have the chance to live their love in any way possible.”

  “But to give up everything she had, to renounce her gifts, leave her family behind, forsaking the chance to ever see them again?” She trailed off, looking away, and Robin felt a pang when realization hit him. He cursed himself for his selfishness and his thoughtlessness, he had been so spellbound that he had failed to understand what their attachment could mean for her. She had eternity to look forward to, thousands of years to see all the wonders of the world, and what did he have to offer?

  She noticed his grave mood, and offered him a small smile. “You are so young,” she said. “You know nothing of the world. Once you leave here, you will forget all about me.”

  “I doubt I would ever forget meeting you,” was his reply, but she only smiled indulgently, as if humoring a child.

  “Maybe you should.”

  It was only a matter of time before Cora got wind of their close friendship, and she was not pleased with him. She had him summoned to remind him of his mission, of the very reason she had harboured him in the first place: to prepare him for the War to come.

  “You are not worthy of her hand, Robin, son of Robert,” she told him coldly. “You should not trouble yourself with an infatuation, but should get ready for the fight waiting for you beyond the borders of this land,” and so with clenched fists and gritted teeth, Robin bowed to her and left the room.

  Knowing that he could not risk losing the Lady’s benevolence, he tried to avoid Regina after this, thinking that severing their bond would be less painful. It wasn’t though, and his heart was bleeding. She found him in the stables, less than a week later, on the eve of his departure, as he brushed his horse, readying it for the long journey ahead. She was silent at first, gently stroking the stallion’s head, feeding it an apple, as she softly spoke in Elvish.

 "My mother does not speak for me,” Regina whispered, covering his hand and stopping the movement of the brush. He turned his head towards her, holding her gaze as she stepped closer to him and cupped his jaw. She brushed her lips against his. He barely felt the pressure before she leaned back, closely watching his reaction, and he would be damned if that was the first time he saw her unsure of anything. He crashed his lips to hers, trying to convey all the passion and love he felt into his kiss. If she was surprised, she hid it well, instead returning his embrace fiercely until they had no choice but to part to breathe.

  “She is right though,” Robin murmured against her hair, after a long moment of peaceful silence. “I am no one while I stay hidden here, a mere title does not a King make. If ever I am to be the one who redeem my ancestor’s weakness, I can’t do it from the safety of Imladris.”

  She looked at him with eyes full of such intense sorrow that he was tempted to pretend he had never spoken a word. “The world out there is dangerous, you may not return. So many have already been taken, and countless more will follow before the end.” The tears falling along her cheeks were like daggers stabbing him in the heart.

  “I am not afraid, Milady. The Dark Lord himself could not stop me from finding my way back to you,” he swore.

  He left the next day, watching back to keep her in sight until she was too far away to distinguish, and then he launched his horse into the gallop, wanting to put as much distance between him and his love as possible before his resolve failed him.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  Every single moment spent with her was so clear and sharp in his mind. He hung onto them during the hardest moments of their separation. More than twenty years passed before he saw her again, in Lothlorien this time. The Lord and Lady had let him through, offering him to rest for a while. 

  He had changed, had become a Man, a soldier, a leader, he was broader in stature, and more somber in spirit, with the weight of his fate sometimes stifling him, but when he set eyes on her, he felt all of twenty again, the smile splitting his face wider than it ever had before. He didn’t spare a thought for the curious eyes on him, or the decorum of the graceful Elves around them, he couldn’t have stopped himself from running to her and pick her up to hug her against him if he had tried. And she, who mere moments before had seemed forlorn and lost, was now clutching his brand new tunic tightly in her little fists, suppressing a sob as he murmured how much he had missed her, how many times the thought of her had given him strength before battle. 

  The Lord and Lady of Lothlorien, Regina’s grandparents, are more indulgent than her mother. Her grandmother is wise, only wishing for Regina’s happiness, and she knew that their hearts were true. She blessed their union, though she reminded Robin that triumph was his only prospect, Cora would never accept that her daughter renounced her immortality for anyone less than the greatest King.

  Once more Regina and Robin had to say goodbye, but this time she would not let him go without a promise, a promise that she would bind her fate to his, that she believed in him and his victory. She had made her peace with what it meant, that she could never follow her kin to Valinor, that she would never see her father again, but her father would understand, he would want her to follow her heart. She gifted him her pendant, a jewel reflecting the light of the brightest star in the night sky who had once belonged to her grandmother.

  “Your mother will accuse me of stealing it away,” he managed to lightly tease, the emotion of the moment nearly choking him.

  “You can’t steal something that has been given to you,” she replied, and he knew she wasn’t just talking about the necklace.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Robin shakes himself from his memories, they have spent more time apart than together, his stays in Rivendell and Lorien few and far between as the Enemy grew stronger. She had her own responsibilities, her talents required to help protect the realms of the Elves. She is fierce his Regina, a skillful warrior who trained herself hard after her father was brought down by the Orques, and who inherited great gifts from both sides of her family. More than once, he thought that together they would be unstoppable, but never would he have wanted to put in harm’s way. He doubts that he will have the chance to find out now. A knock at the door and Will, his friend and long-time companion, enters the room to bring him outside, the time has come.

The joy of the crowd gathered is infectious, and he lets it fill his heart as the crown is placed on his head, and as he stands back up and walks among his people, accepting their love and gratitude, he feels Will stop and gasp by his side. Turning his head he sees people part, letting through a company amid which he recognizes many familiar faces: the Elves have come, and Robin feels his hope returning.

The Lord and Lady of Lorien grin widely at him, and even the Lady of Rivendell give him a faint smile. She stops his progress and seems to steel herself for what she is about to say.

“My judgement may have been hasty, but remember that she is my greatest treasure, I could not entrust her to just anyone.”

And Robin nods, understanding, because he is not sure he would have reacted any differently had he been in her stead. Cora moves away, and there she is, more radiant than ever, Regina, his Regina wearing the same gown than the first time he saw her, and almost a lifetime has passed since that fateful moment. He has to touch her, to make sure she is real, and his hand meets hers, bringing it to his chest and brushing his lips against it.

“You did not think I would miss this day,Thief?” She asks, her hand pressing against his heart, the tips of her fingers covering their pendant.

“Not for one second,” he says, and as she laughs, for he was never able to lie to her, he embraces her tightly, twirling her around as they kiss, everyone clapping and rejoicing.

This is the beginning of a New Age, and he wouldn’t want anyone else by his side to share it with.

[lake-ilinalta]

Hunter

Middas,  6:00 pm, 1st of Morning Star

   Y/N Loreius. Her bow was strapped to her back with two rabbits dangling from her belt, and two thrown over her shoulder. They slapped her fur armor with each hard step in the snow, every few feet she'd fall knee deep into the cold. The white powder and frost crunched beneath her feet on her way over the rocks and down the hill where dawnstar and white run met. 

    She'd always been a better shot than her brother, but when the war began... He was quick to enlist, leaving her to hunt for her family. Keep the farm running. The sun was down but the silence made her halt on her feet, looking down on her small homestead. Simple and neat, the mill would run from dawn to dusk grinding the wheat into flour and the cows would do restless laps in their pens. But the home she grew up in would stay quiet and calm. They'd host a guard every three days on their travels from Dragonreach to the far edge of the hold. 

    It was always quiet, but not like this. Not with the dragon born across the field, but his stable rested empty. Her eyes scanned the road, each direction from one giant camp to the other. Nothing. How can there be nothing? 

    She ran now, ran down the hill, through the snow. Worry sunk into her stomach and twisted in knots, not even realizing she'd dropped the rabbits in the snow. And didn't stop till her boots touched the grass and tundra cotton. Y/N stepped in thick blood the next step and her boots hesitated to leave the sticky ground, outside the cow pen. Her fingerless, leather gloved hand flew to her mouth choking back the gasp. The cows were slaughtered, having bled to death. The chickens were mutilated hastily and sprawled beside the cows. 

    "No." She hissed quietly and sprinted to the door before her mind could stop her, convince her of the danger she was putting herself in.

The lock was in shambles, busted open with a knife and the iron split handing from the tan wood. She pushed the door slowly with her shoulder and light spilled out of the door way. The small house was filled with the smell of venison stew, roasting in the fire place. The door opened further and further till she saw it. Saw them, her parents, laying in bed. Blood soaked the furs that covered their bodies. She'd never run faster than she did to her mothers side. She knelt beside the bed and her hands ghosted over her mothers throat. It was mesily torn by a dagger, a wound to her fathers chest as well. 

    Sinister cackling snapped her attention away from her tears that dripped on her moms cheek. Her back was pressed against the bed post in fear, eyes taking in the figure across the room. Red and black clothes, belled fools hat. 

    "Oh well madness is merry, and merryments might! " His voice dropped low and gruff when he took a step forward."When the jester comes calling with his knife in the night." 

    "You..." Y/N voice shook.  

    The bells on his hat jingled when he tilted his head to the side. "Me? But Cicero was innocent! I told Loreius, yes!  Told him he would pay for what he did to poor Cicero!" Two more steps forward and he growled, his eyes so cast in shadows they looked like dark pits. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, no.".   

   A burst of courage lifted her to her feet, dropping the rabbits to the floor with a muted thump. 

    "They were innocent! How-" she choked down rigged sobs. "How could you?"

    "Innocent?" He screamed jumping back as though the words visibly hurt him. "No, no! Vile creature loreius was! Said Cicero was smuggling weapons for the war! Greedy, greedy. He did not care for mother and me!" 

​​​​​  "I-i..." She stepped back into the fire pit, throwing racks of spices and garlic to the floor. 

   His steps followed her across the room till the backs of her legs met the night stand. 

    "Couldn't fix the wheel. Didn't have the tools. You didn't help us either! No, of course not. Greedy stubborn Loreius'."   

   Y/N drew the dagger at her hip. It's tip was hooked, meant for cutting rope and sawing antlers and bone. It was harsh and the thick iron was easily inhumane, but half the side of the knife the jester used on her unsuspecting parents. Her grip tightened until her knuckles drained up blood and her flesh grew white. 

    The only sound was that of Cicero's incoherent mumbling while he greb closer with each step. He towered over her so high his chin pressed against his chest to meet her eyes. Terror and dread filled her lungs at the thought of sharing the murderers air. 

    Her knife sliced the open space between them, hearing it's way through his shoulder. The same stroke brought his dagger across her arm and her ribs on it's way back to his side. Only it clasped his shoulder on reflex while the blood pooled quickly through his red, darkening,armor. He threw her into the dying embers and scuttled back, withdrawing to the dark corner he'd been hiding in. 

    "I'm bleeding!" He screamed. 

     She burned her hands lifting herself from the fire. Her blisters did nothing to mask the pain of her knife wounds. By some miracle or blessing of whatever divine listened, she made it through the doorway, past the mill before collapsing. She could force her body no further, couldn't raise herself from the sharp grey grass. There was only silence. Teeth chattering silence. 

    How far did she even make it? She heard nothing over her self deprecating thoughts, or the heavy spilling of her blood. Not the howling loud enough to burst her ear drums. Not the rhythm of stead feet. She couldn't see the goat horn light or feel hands undressing her bare. 

    Magic shouldn't be painful, but this- this she felt. There was screaming that could only come from her own throat. She stilled before long, her heart slowed and breath stuttered but a small hand squeezed hers through that night and the night which followed it. 

---------------

   "Father! Father, she's awake!" 

    His footsteps were loud down wooden stairs and halted the busy homestead. Not before she caught the hints of a lute in the background and smell of baked bread. 

   "Not so loud, Lucia." A man's voice scolded gently before the bed dipped. 

    The weight next to her caused a wince to cross her Nordic features. "Where am I?" Y/N croaked.

   The child hushed her while she was lifted to a sitting position with pillows propped to her back.​​​​​

​​​​   the girls fingers brushed over her cheek, the woman's eyes could barely open on their own. 

   "Sleep."

​​​​​

[bloodshrike-helene]

To Fall in Love with a Lion - Chapter Four || Morrigan/Andromache

Summary: The fourth installment in my story of Mor/Andromache and their timeline during the First War. I’m here for this ship. Here for Mor’s history, and I’m going to give it the love it deserves.

Rating: M

Pairing: Morrigan/Andromache

Word Count: 3000+

Chapter: 4/? (Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3)

AO3 link: Here

A/N: All characters and the Universe belong to Sarah J. Maas, not me.

“My High Lord has requested your permission to visit the palace. He wishes to be updated on the Treaty in person. The battles are intensifying in the North and he is...concerned about how things are moving.”

As Morrigan stood at the bottom of the steps before the six thrones of the Mortal Queens, she was relaying her High Lord's letter in much more pleasant terms. Orion had not asked permission, but rather had simply told her that she could expect his presence within the week. The war was becoming more violent and he wanted to discuss the terms of the preliminary Treaty that she had sent him a week previous.

It had been a little over six months since Mor had arrived in the human realm, four since she and Andromache had started...whatever it was they had together. They hadn't put a name on it, hadn't explored too deep into their feelings, but it hadn't stopped them from sharing a bed most nights, and whatever stolen moments they could.

As crazy as it was, Mor felt happy. Even with a war breathing down their neck along with death and fear, she was happy, living for the time she got with the Mortal Queen.

Even as she stood, stone faced with the dread of her Court looming over her, Mor had to steel herself from reacting when she met those amber eyes for just a moment before quickly looking away, heating licking along the back of her neck as she recalled waking up to meet those same eyes gazing up at her from between her legs.

“And can we expect a large party to visit with your High Lord?” It was a layered questioned, carefully asked by the Queen who was second in line, Briala.

“It will be a fleeting visit. The High Lord will probably be accompanied by a handful of sentries and perhaps an emissary from our Court,” And the sick feeling in Mor's stomach already gave her an indication of who that emissary would most likely be.

And she was right.

Three days later, the High Lord of the Night Court, with several Illyrian sentries, his Shadowsinger and her father, the emissary from the Hewn City.

Keir had brought two of his darkbringer guards, one Mor recognised as Gregor, a particularly horrid creature and a favourite of her father's.

Whatever brief happiness she had felt upon seeing Azriel, had disappeared the moment her father's presence had entered the room. The man didn't even look at her with the exception of a disgusted glance her general direction. Gregor however, barely took his eyes off of her, a wild grin on his features.

Andromache hadn't pried when Morrigan had asked to borrow a dress, one of Mortal design. It was an act of defiance, not towards her Lord or her Court, but towards her father, who would see the attire as one more mark against his disowned daughter. Keir hated the humans. In fact, her father had refused to offer aid during this war, and she had no doubt that he wasn't going to change his mind. He was here to satisfy his curiosity and make her feel uncomfortable while he did so.

Mor's dress while beautiful was more modest than her normal gowns, the layers, bustled skirts licked the marble floor, the corseted middle pulled her waist in and while her cleavage and collar bone were accented by the sweeping neckline, it was done so in a lady like manner as sleeves fell to her forearms and her hair was swept into a delicate knot Andromache had fixed for her. She was as beautiful as ever, but dressed in mortal wears with only her Fae ears reminding those of what she was.

Standing at the foot of the stairs before the Mortal Queens throne, Morrigan had curtsied before her High Lord and Uncle who had greeted her with a small nod, and her gaze had flickered momentarily to Azriel whose shadows had shrunk back, allowing her to see that handsome face and while he didn't smile, she saw the familiar warmth in his eyes.

Mor introduced each party of the Court; her High Lord, Azriel, sweeping over the Illyrian guard and stumbling when it came to her father. Silently she cursed herself, before in turn, announcing each of the Queens. Andromache was watching her, curious, contemplating, her beautiful face furrowed in a frown as she looked to the new arrivals and back to Mor.

Orion, her High Lord, took it from there, and respectfully, she stepped back, allowing him to speak. Azriel arched his eyebrow as he looked to her, his eyes flickering over the skirts of her dress and she offered a half smile, shrugging her shoulders slightly. She wanted to see him in private. She'd missed him but at the same time Azriel being here made things complicated.

Their relationship had always been that way, ever since they'd met, more so since he'd rescued her from certain death at the Autumn Court. And Azriel looked at her in the way she was certain she looked at Andromache.

Yet where Azriel was one issue, her father was something else entirely.

Keir still didn't look at her and while Mor held firm, there was still something tight and sickly in her chest. It made her want to run. Yet she would not be afraid. Would not cower from him.

“We've arranged a small celebration to welcome you to our home for this evening. We will hold a formal meeting tomorrow to discuss the Treaty. Until then, our servants will show you to your quarters.”

Mor didn't miss the sneer on her father's face. Nothing in the Queen's palace would be good enough for him. Maybe not for her Uncle either, but he had the ability to feign gratitude as he swept into a slight bow, if it could be classified as that, before the newly arrived members of the Night Court were led from the throne room.

-------------------------------------------

The small celebration was bigger than expected and held in one of the finest dining halls of the palace. Lords and ladies from the nobility of the nearby lands had been invited, though many had refused when it had been stated a Fae High Lord would be present. Others were no doubt curious enough to be led here.

Generals and commanders from both her forces and the human men had been invited, and casks of ale and plates of food had been sent down to the barracks for those not in attendance.

Mor had spent an hour after Orion's arrival with her High Lord, quickly updating him, answering questions, not just on what she'd been doing but about the Queen's, the palace, the lands. On the attacks and battles and everything she had involved herself in since arriving. He reacted to little of it, dismissing her once he'd fed his curiosity.

The woman had changed for the dinner, clad in a sea-green gown that swept in long waves of skirts and clung to her breasts, the back of it was open and a split along the leg allowed her more movement.

Tonight, she wasn't to sit with the Queens. Her seat had been taken by her father, and the High Lord sat at the head of the table, the guest of honour. Mor however, sat at the table next to it, Azriel at her side, three of her best commanders across from her and Gregor next to them. She wanted to talk to her friend. To find out what he knew of the war, of the Courts and more importantly, of Rhysand and Cassian. Yet with her father's general smirking at her, she didn't feel like talking. Wasn't sure she could.

It wasn't until the dinner ended that Morrigan was able to relax.

The tables were pulled to the sides of the room and music began playing. Servants milled around with jugs of expensive sparkling wine, nobility mingled and gossiped, all the while shooting glances at the visiting Fae.

One thing she would never get used to was this normality at times of war. The whole world as they knew it could be about to change yet they were throwing a party. Or at least it seemed like a party. What it really was, was a display. A show that even mortals had luxuries, wealth, culture, beauty. Things worth saving, preserving, even if it couldn't match whatever the Fae had, it was still here.

And the wine was good.

“Seems like you're settling into the human lands, Mor,” Azriel's cool voice was like a whisper on a night breeze. As usual, she hadn't heard him approach, as swift as the shadows, even as they shrunk back from her. Siphons glowed in several spots across Azriel's body and she basked in the familiarity of them, of him, suddenly home sick. She missed Velaris.

Leaning against a wall, Mor cradled a cup of sparkling wine to her chest, offering him a little smile. “Oh don't worry, Az. I've not traded loyalties. I know you'd all miss me too much at home,” There was a slight quirk of his lips which for Azriel was practically a grin. “But I haven't hated my time here,” As she spoke, her gaze settled on Andromache and she hoped her friend didn't catch the gesture.

Tonight, the golden Queen was clad in a gown that matched her name. Layers of white, embroidered generously with gold thread which shimmered when it caught the light. Her dark skin was deeper, her figure hugged to her waist where the voluminous skirts bellowed out and her hair was pinned in an elegant up-do that was accentuated by expensive combs.

Breathtaking.

Mor let her gaze linger for a moment longer, on the woman who mingled easily with those around her. Who brought a smile to the lips of the nobles and even an Illyrian warrior as she nodded gracefully at him, before she looked away, glancing back towards Azriel who seemed not to have noticed her lingering stare.

“Have you heard from them? Rhys or Cass?” The question was reluctant, almost fearful of what news he might or might not have because if anyone knew anything, it would be the Shadowsinger.

“Rhys sent a report last week. He’s in the thick of the fighting and Cassian, it’s been even longer. Last I heard was the general was leading them towards the coast of the Night Court but I’ve heard nothing since,” Though Azriel was not one to let his emotions ever get to him, there was a waver in his voice, a quiet note that only someone like Mor would notice. He was worried.

“They’ll be okay,” They had to be. The idea of not seeing them again hurt her heart in more ways than she cared to dwell on. Azriel’s silence was answer enough. It wasn’t guaranteed. Nothing was.

For the longest time, they stood together without a word, Mor simply grateful for the familiar presence of her friend and the shadows which gently brushed against her skin. When a young, brave human man marked with a noble house crest approached her for a dance, she didn’t refuse. There too much she wanted to say to Azriel, and too many people watching and listening to do so.

So instead, she danced. She drank sparkling wine and let herself be passed from man to man, human and Fae. Keir barely looked at her unless it was to offer a look of contempt and disgust. If this was war, their end, then she would savour whatever good she could while it was hers to have.

It was after the chime of midnight when Andromache slipped past her, with nothing more than a sideways glance that even Morrigan barely recognised, yet the intention was there.

The Fae counted her breaths.

Five minutes.

Then ten.

Morrigan excused herself from the young noble man she had been speaking to, needing some air because the wine had absolutely gone to her head and she made a show of giving a flustered giggle as swept from the hall.

The corridor was quiet, empty or so it seemed as Mor slipped from the festivities. It was from a side hall to her right that Andromache appeared from, grabbing the Fae’s wrist and dragging her from her path. The Queen’s giggle was tipsy as she pressed Mor against the stone wall, finding her lips in a giddy kiss, winding her arms around the woman’s neck.

For a moment, Mor was more than happy to return the gesture, looping her arms around Andromache’s waist, dragging her close as she kissed her deeply, fingers curling around the expensive fabrics which clad her exquisite body.

“You're drunk,” Mor finally murmured against her mouth, pulling back with a grin, captivated by the answering smile on the other woman's slightly swollen lips.

“I'm not. I'm just happy,” That was a lie. The Queen wasn't beyond functioning, but she had certainly been enjoying the wine. Lips pressed to Morrigan's neck, her collar bone, a hand dipping under the split at the leg of her dress, tracing the bare skin. Apparently, she was tipsy enough to throw away the inhibitions that kept their moments solely to private quarters. Despite Mor also having enjoyed her fair share of wine, she was less inclined to let her guard down like that, especially not with the visitors who occupied the main hall.

“Let's go back to my room,” Mor hummed against the shell of her ear, shuddering as fingers slid between her legs, tracing along the delicate underclothes beneath her dress. The Fae twisted her fingers within the golden curls of the Queen who seemed to barely acknowledge the words, nipping a trail along Mor's pale skin, along the tops of her breasts baiting a soft moan from the woman.

“I've wanted to do this all night,” Andromache whispered against Morrigan's skin, and the Fae had to bite down on the groan which bubbled into her throat.

She heard the footsteps before the scent reached her and Mor stiffened, gripping the Queen's wrist and dragging her hand from under her skirt. “Stop,” She hushed, and Andromache pulled her head back, peering up at the other woman with a confused fluttered on her dark features.

“What's wrong-”

Mor held up a hand, cutting the Queen off in a gesture for silence. It was Fae, that much she could tell but it wasn't Azriel, the scent wasn't right. A wave of panic washed over her and she grabbed Andromache's hand, dragging her further down the hall.

“Morrigan,” That sing song voice sent a shudder down her spine. It was Gregor. Her father's guard. “Where are you, little bird?”

There was a storage cupboard at the end of the hall and Mor practically shoved the Queen into it who immediately opened her mouth to protest but before she could speak, the Fae cut in. “Stay here. Stay quiet. No matter what. Please,” There was a pause, and Andromache nodded slowly, she understood.

Leaving the door open a crack, Mor quickly threw up a glamour, hiding the Queen's warmth, her scent before slinking back down the hall, just as Gregor appeared in front of her. “Now, now, what are you doing out here all alone, Morrigan?” The man was smiling like a wolf, his black eyes glistening as he stood, bulking and intimidating, blocking her way.

“I needed some air,” The words were dismissive as she made to push past him only to be stopped by a rough hand gripping her arm, pulling her back to the spot in front of him, right beside where she and Andromache had been mere moments before.

“Too much to drink? You do seem to be enjoying your time with the new human pets,” The look in Gregor's eyes was dangerous, like a predator that had caught it's prey, but she would not be helpless, would not let him get to her.

“I'm fine, Gregor. Leave me be,” Mor snapped her arm from his hold, her chin tilted upwards, shoulders back, looking him in the eyes. She would not flinch.

“Have you traded in your loyalties for the humans? And here I thought you couldn't sink lower than the cocks of the Illyrian bastards you so favour.”

The words were like a slap.

It had been so long since everything that had happened with Eris and her father. Time spent not thinking about it. So to have it flung at her, even by an asshole like Gregor, it hurt, and it showed on the features of her face.

“Do not speak to me like that.”

“I'll speak to you how I wish. Tell me, if you're not going to fuck the human men who are hounding after you, are you planning on bedding the Shadowsinger? He looked ready to bed you then and there when you swept into the hall earlier.”

“That is none of your business, now get out of my way,” Morrigan snapped, her cheeks flushed with anger, gaze narrowed as she shoved the man roughly and he staggered back a few steps.

“Do not touch me, whore,” The word was spat like a dagger at her and when she stormed forward, Gregor threw an arm out, stopping her in her tracks and pushing her back, the sweeping skirts catching under her feet, tripping her so she fell without any delicacy, landing on the hard stone floor. Pain flared in her wrist, and a trickle of embarrassment as Gregor's low laugh rattled through the hall way.

“Get away from her.”

The voice was masculine, cold and deep, filled with quiet rage.

Azriel stood behind Gregor, shadows flaring from him, his features contorted in dark fury, siphons glowing dangerously. It was those that the darkbringer eyed nervously, jaw tight, looking like he was torn between fleeing and driving a fist into Azriel's face.

“I have no desire to touch that,” The man spat, glancing towards more as she pushed herself up into a sitting position, refusing to meet his gaze. Instead, Gregor merely smoothed his hand over his tunic, taking a few steps towards Azriel, then just past him. “Hopefully, your little friend, Cassian, right? Didn't die with the rest of his battalion. I'm sure you'll both want to compare notes on how tight she is.”

Darkness exploded in the hall and Mor flinched away from the power which danced around her.

When it cleared, Gregor was unconscious and bleeding against a wall as Azriel strode towards her, offering out a scarred hand. Mor took it, letting herself be hauled to her feet.

“Are you okay?” Az's brows were knit together in a deep brow as he looked her over for any sign of injury.

“I'm fine. I'm okay. Is he?”

“He's not dead. Though I'm tempted to correct that.”

“Don't. He's not worth the fallout,” The last thing Morrigan wanted was for Orion to punish Azriel for protecting her and killing one of Keir's men. She didn't want her father to have that chance to hurt the man. A little sigh rattled from Mor as she wrapped her arms around Azriel, hugging him, a silent thank you. He understood. Knew what she had been through. What it was to have those things thrown at her. “Thank you.”

“You're sure you're okay?” Azriel pulled back from her, the shadows building around him slightly again, acknowledging Mor's nod of reassurance.

“I'm okay, Az. Can you...just get rid of him? I want to go to bed.”

There was no refusal from Azriel, who merely turned to grab the man by his arm and with ease, hoisted him up. There was a protesting gurgle from Gregor, though he didn't struggle as Azriel winnowed them both away, to deposit the man wherever he saw fit.

A small sigh escaped Morrigan as she tried to compose herself, ignoring the tremble in her hand and the quick, rapid pound of her heartbeat. Readying herself to retrieve Andromache, but as she turned, the Queen was already standing at the other end of the hallway, a million questions in her amber eyes.

The glamour had kept her from being found but it hadn't stopped her from hearing what Gregor had said. From the spiteful, horrible names and lies about her, about Azriel. The Queen had been shown snippets of a past Mor had concealed from almost everyone around her. Of the world she belonged to beyond the palace and the place she had come from.

There was a growing nausea in the pit of her stomach that had nothing to do with the wine as she took a few uncertain steps towards Andromache.

“Can we talk?”

[lillotte17]

My first stab at writing the Clusterfuck AU I would strongly suggest having read the other stuff Fey has for it  and our Sacrifice RP if you want to actually have some sort of sense about what is actually going on. ...this whole thing is a mess, tbh.

Uthvir belongs to @feynites 

They have been staying at the manor in Mana’Din’s territory for just over a month, and things have finally started to settle into place. Well. As much as they can be expected to under the given circumstances.

Her beloved is not particularly thrilled with the wards placed around their little suite of rooms, but Aili would be lying if she said that it did not afford her some peace of mind. They keep potential dangers out just as well as they keep them locked in, after all. Besides, having spent a little time looking over them, she is fairly certain she could break through their magics if they truly needed to escape. They are hardly as complex as some of the enchantments Ghilan’nain had laid down to protect her less than legal laboratories during the rebellion, but that is a skill she’d just as soon keep to herself, for now.

No point in showing her hand just yet.

Aili is not entirely sure what to make of all of this, truth be told. Mana’Din had described it as some strange nexus hub, where dimensions seem to spill into a single point and then all mingle together. There are many questions in that. And in the knowledge that different versions of the same people might have come here as well. More refugees from dying worlds, and others seeking sanctuary from various forms of injury and heartache. It seems impossible, but given how she came to be here, she must concede that some portion of it must be true.    

The manor itself is a huge, sprawling place, closer to the human approximation of a palace in terms of size, though the décor is not nearly as opulent as what one might run into in the halls of someplace like Halamshiral. Fine enough in its way though, a simple elegance she can appreciate. This Mana’Din has decent taste, at least.  Much better than displaying bits and pieces of her followers on the walls as some sort of dark joke.

Aili has yet to see all that much of it, however, outside of the route from the eluvian they came through to their rooms, which she made certain to take note of, and the path to and from the dining hall. And a few brief walks around a nearby courtyard to keep them both from clawing at the walls. But today, for the sake of safety, and to stop her from going completely stir crazy, that is about to change.

The first few times Uthvir had fallen into a deep, still sleep, she had been terrified. Scared that they were slipping even further away from her, pulled down into the Dreaming, never to wake again. But she supposes that there had to be some sort of compensation for their survival, after all their body has been made to endure over the centuries. And at least this seems relatively harmless.

It also affords her the opportunity to get the lay of the land, as it were.

Not that she wishes to be apart from them, of course, but they are a bit…conspicuous. One of the main reasons she was an effective agent for the rebellion was because, by and large, people tend to overlook her presence. The deadliest weapon of the serving class.

She employs this tactic as she wanders the hallways now. An air of timidity hanging about her to suggest she would not make much of a target, with a surety to her gate that implies that she knows where she is going. As though she has been assigned some task or other by a higher-ranking follower. As though she belongs.

Once she has made a decent canvas of the inside passages, or as much as she can without breaking into people’s private chambers or cracking through a few more warded off areas and causing a scene, she heads out to inspect the grounds.

Her fox shape is easier for this, small and stealthy, padding quietly beneath shrubs and between shadows, tucking herself into corners to watch and learn. Her magic surges for a moment when she calls the spell, as it has been since she came here, but she pulls it back and bends it to her will without incident. It has been a long time since she could hold this shape for more than a few hours, but now she pulls it on like an old familiar coat, and she knows she could stay like this for weeks if she wanted to. Possibly longer. The Dread Wolf’s Veil had made so many magics harder to wield, the distant Dreaming that much more difficult to shape into an alternate perception of oneself, and even more so to keep it for any length of time. She suspects that Uthvir never had much issue with it due to their peculiar arrangement with Fear. And because their altered form is so familiar to them that to not hold the changes would likely feel more strange to them now than their original features.  

Probably for the best, in the end. Confused as they were, she doesn’t know what sort of calamity would have ensued if they had woken up looking like Glory. Not to mention the sort of reaction that might have prompted from the people of this world. Maybe nothing. Maye something catastrophic.

There is another Uthvir here.

Aili tries not to think about it too much. She knows they will be different. Different looks. Different ways of speaking. …Different heart. And still she finds herself lingering on the idea as she wanders through the refugee camp that has settled outside the manor proper, almost as though she expects to see them milling about with the little bunches of frightened humans and dwarves and the surly Qunari and the awestruck elves who never truly dreamed of what their kingdom had once been. Part of her feels as though it would be fitting to find them here, amongst the lost and the broken. A lovely fragment of a shattered dream.

But they are not, are they?

This version of her heart has lived in this place long enough to have a position of importance. A life. A…family, of some kind or another.

There is nothing ruined about that.

Aili shakes her head dismissively, chiding herself as she continues her inspection. There are people right in front of her who could use assistance. Mana’Din’s welcoming arms are kind enough in their way, but the camp is a bit of a mess. Half of the people here can’t even speak to each other, let alone wield the native language of the country they’ve landed in. Even most of the elves are struggling with it. There seems to be a lot of gesturing and grunting going on. And, perhaps understandably, frustration.

She could help them. If the thousands of years she spent traversing Elvhenan and all the countries that sprang up in its wake are worth anything, it is in the knowledge of languages and cultures she acquired. Her ability to speak ancient Dwarven might be a bit rusty, but outside of that, she thinks she can at least manage to communicate with just about anyone who might make their way here. Sometimes a friendly word in a familiar tongue can do wonders. And she knows the weight of grief all too well, and that can be a relief sometimes, too. Perhaps there is some way for her to make amends for the things she helped Pride tear down. If Mana’Din will allow it, of course.  

After taking some time to roam through the crowded outbuildings and the hastily thrown up barracks, and the even more hastily thrown up little clusters of tents for people still waiting to be settled somewhere, and getting a general idea of the size and scope of the estate they are staying on, Aili heads out towards a large wooded area that she assumes to be some sort of hunting grounds. After all, there are a lot of people that need feeding, and part of that means bringing in fresh game. She is sure there must be wards placed around the perimeter, at the very least, and she would feel better knowing exactly where they are.

She passes the stables, taking note of the various mounts, but not lingering overlong. There are a few types of steeds being housed together that should probably be separated if Mana’Din wants to keep everyone alive and untrampled, but she is not certain she has the standing to point out such errors. She doesn’t exactly have a rank as of right now. And, she supposes, that there is a possibility that their gracious hostess simply does not care. Beasts and stable hands are both fairly replaceable, after all, especially when you can simply scrape up new followers from other worlds as often as you please.

Along the edge of the forest, there is a large roomy paddock that has been cleared of trees. At first, Aili thinks it might be empty, meant for some creature that has either died, or not been acquired yet. And then she sees it, a patch of gleaming white against the green. A single halla grazing in the distance.

Her breath catches in her throat.

There had been halla after the Veil, of course. Smaller and short-lived and much more prone to illness and injury. They had still known the old herding calls imprinted on their ancestors though, and watching a group of them move together across a sunny meadow or a shady glen had never once failed to ease a little of the weight baring down upon her troubled soul.

‘Remember who you are. Kindness. Keeper. Tender.’

This is one of Ghilan’nain’s herd, like the ones she had cared for at Andruil’s palace. Not a refugee like herself then, but likely a gift presented to Mana’Din. She can tell by the size, and the shape of its horns.

Still wearing the form of a little golden fox, she furtively slips beneath the fence and out into the field beyond. The halla lifts its head, dark eyes searching and ears pricked forward, sensing the intruder. Aili shifts back into an elf, sitting in the grass, and extends a hand towards the creature, whistling softly. Beckoning.

The halla hesitates for a moment, sniffing at the air, possibly feeling around for a hint of intention lingering about her, before slowly ambling in her direction. She gets to her feet and comes to meet it halfway, smiling softly as it snuffles briefly at her hands. Looking for treats, most likely.

The halla is a doe, and a fairly old one, if Aili had to take a guess. But she is trusting and gentle, which speaks well of Mana’Din. She has lead a good life here, safe and well-cared for. She does not startle when Aili moves closer to stroke her neck and scritch behind her ears. She snorts into her hair, of all things, concerned, perhaps, at the grief curling around her visitor.  

It is hard…impossible, really, to not think of her old charges. She wonders what happened to them. If they, too, had managed to escape from Andruil’s madness and slaughter. If they were able to live to the end of their days before the Veil and the fall of Arlathan.  

There are times when it is difficult to believe she is the same person as the girl who had spent days laying out in the sunshine surrounded by her little herd, composing love letters she would never be able to send for fear that they would somehow fall into Andruil’s hands. She supposes that, in many ways, she is not that woman anymore. That some part of her had perished when she had fled from the palace and joined the rebels, when Arlathan had fallen, and her parents had died, and her heart had been…lost.

Centuries of wandering, sometimes with another agent, but frequently alone. Trying to nudge history into the right direction, and slowly losing faith that she had any idea what direction that might be. Witnessing new generations of their people wither and die, barely old enough to be considered adults in her own time, most of them slaves or desperately impoverished. Her doubts about the choices she’d made growing more and more as the truth of history and magic was forgotten or corrupted. Watching the blood of everyone negatively affected by Fen’Harel’s Veil leave stains on her hands.    

And then she had won something back. Her heart reemerging from the darkness to save whatever fragments of her soul she had left.

But the world was dying. And Pride was still endeavoring to fix things by breaking them, and she wondered if perhaps that is the only way the Evanuris and their ilk had ever known how to solve a problem. By smashing everything around them into ruins. Uthvir had been sick, even worse than they are now, and there was no one to turn to. No one to ask for help. Everything was falling to pieces and all they could do was run, and keep running until there was nothing left.

It feels like a millennium since she just…stopped. Since she breathed in deeply and really felt the air in her lungs. Since she’d really felt any sort of peace.

It is not here. Not yet. But there is a chance for it in this place. And it has been a long time since she had anything like hope either. Or anything that seemed like a future.

Unbidden, the tears well up in her eyes, and before she knows it, she is pressing forward, burying her face into the soft white hair of the halla’s coat.

There are still so many things to be uncertain of, to mourn, to atone for. Her whole world is gone, and she had a hand in it, no matter how small her role might have been. And then there is Uthvir and their troubles to consider. They are all she has left in the whole of creation, and their existence is a strange, sad, broken thing. She has not let herself feel it, for the sake of keeping them focused on the positives, on the simple happiness of having what they can of one another again. But she feels it now. The weight of their suffering. And she wonders if it was…selfish, in some way, to let them languish in such a state of being. To cling to them so tightly just for whatever scraps of their memories manage to bleed through.

The sorrow around her is stifling, permeating the air around her to the point where the halla shifts in slight dismay at her distress, and she finds it is hard to draw breath between sobs, but some part of her needed this, she thinks. Something in the center of her being unclenching ever so slightly. It hurts, it aches like an open wound, but there is relief, too. Tenuous, perhaps, but enough to hold onto. And that seems to be all she can manage anymore, to grasp at life with both hands and hope that things take a turn for the better.

She is not certain that she deserves it, though.

“I do not think our illustrious leader would appreciate someone using her prized halla as an impromptu handkerchief,” a smooth voice drawls out behind her.  

For half a moment, she thinks she must have fallen asleep somehow. That she has strayed into the Dreaming and some spirit has pieced together one of her old memories as a lure. Because she knows that voice. She knows it as well as she knows the features of her own face, the feel of her own magic, the beating of her own heart.

But they should be asleep. She knows she would have felt them wake.

Aili turns to see a figure in red leaning casually against the fence, and the force of her surprise is strong enough to send the halla jerking back and away from her. She feels a distant trill of guilt at that, but most of her attention is fixated on the person lingering outside of the paddock. Staring at her with narrowed eyes. Suspicious.

They have different vallaslin, but other than that…they look the same. Exactly the same. Same face, same hair, even the way they hold themselves is precisely the way she remembers them. Sharp and lucid and whole. Before…everything.

Emotions come flooding out of her in a torrent, as though she is screaming them at full volume. Tender devotion, and poignant longing, and staggering grief. Unthinking, she stumbles a half step towards them, raising a hand to reach out, needing to confirm the truth of her own senses.

They pull away from the fence, and the paddock, and her, emotions tightly concealed, suddenly on guard.

Aili blinks, suddenly remembering where she is. She lowers her hand back to her side, focusing on drawing her feelings back into herself. She did not have to worry about such things when the Veil was present, and it is easy to forget, sometimes.

“You…you must be…the Uthvir who came here with Thenvunin?” she scrapes out after a moment, biting back the sting as she realizes that there is no recognition in their gaze.

“…Yes,” they admit, still eyeing her warily, “You…knew some other version of myself, I take it?”

“Yes, I did,” she nods at them, daring to walk a bit closer, moving slowly, “I mean, I do. I do know them. Still. …Always.”

“They came with you, then?” Uthvir asks, glancing about for some sign of their counterpart, “Your reaction at the sight of me was somewhat…visceral. I assumed they had been lost.”

“No, they are simply…not very social,” she hedges awkwardly, “And you are…different. I was caught off guard.”

“Different, how?” they wonder, folding their arms across their chest.

Aili stares at their face for a moment, entranced. Clear eyes. Confidence. No shaking or sweating or suddenly changing shape without warning. No reaching out to pull her into their arms. The list goes on, and she is not sure how to answer them.

“You are so…young,” she declares softly. It is not a lie, even if it does not even begin to cover the ways in which this Uthvir is divergent from the one she fell in love with. “You remind me of how they were when we first met.”

“And how did that come about?” they ask, quirking a brow, seeming genuinely curious.

“A party for Andruil. In the city,” she replies, a grin spreading across her face. Wistful. “I was a server, and you were quite the boorish hunter, so I put soap in your wine. You thanked me by dumping the pitcher over my head and ruining my dress. I managed to peg you with a passing tray of oysters before you hauled me out of there, though. It caused quite a scene.”

Both their eyebrows rise in astonishment.

“And you were…fond of this other version of myself?” Uthvir queries, seeming bewildered and amused all at once, “You are close to them? By choice?”

“Let’s just say they grew on me with time,” she grins, “And I am as close to your alternate self as one person can be to another.”

“Married?” they ask with an air of mild disbelief.

“Never officially,” she shrugs, a hint of bitterness stealing across her features, “Your former lady would never have allowed it. I could never be more than a casual dalliance, in public anyway. One lover among many.  We are…bound to one another, though.”    

“And she did not… Andruil did not harm you?” they ask, ducking their head slightly, as though possibly dreading the answer, “She did not order you to serve the other hunters?”

“Well, I suppose she did try to have me killed that one time,” she replies dryly, a slight frown forming on her face, “Though my understanding was that she was merely looking for more expendable servants to use as blood sacrifices, so it didn’t really have much to do with romantic entanglements. At least, I never thought so. I belonged to Ghilan’nain, and that was my most apparent shield against her whims while I lived in the palace. Your alternate self was, naturally, my other great source of protection. I’m not sure how many times they scraped me out of trouble, but I’m willing to bet that it was…a lot.”  

“For nefarious, selfish reasons of their own, no doubt,” Uthvir comments with a smirk.  

“Well, that is what they always told me,” she laughs, and it feels so good. To have something to laugh about. To look at the past and feel something other than pain.

She gives them another long assessing look, eyes bright with unmistakable fondness.

“You are… not exactly as they used to be,” she notes, “Softer, perhaps. Quicker to let others see how you are kind. Was that from raising a child, I wonder…or something else?”

“You have me a quite the disadvantage,” Uthvir replies, stiffening in slight discomfort, “You attempt to read my character as though it is an old book that has been sitting on your shelf for years, and I do not even know your name.”

“I’m sorry,” she hastily backpedals, wincing, “I didn’t mean to presume so much. I…would like to hear about your life, if you care to share it with me someday. I admit, I…am not quite used to the idea that I am unknown to you. …She must be very lonely, I think. The version of myself in your world.”

“I doubt she knows the difference,” Uthvir drawls, not quite meeting her eyes, “And you still have not told me who you are.”

“…Aili,” she breathes out after a pause, as though expecting it to spark some sort of recognition in their eyes. But of course, it does not. They are not her heart, no matter how similar they might seem. “My name is Aili. Former tender of Andruil’s halla, and occasional agent of ill-advised rebellions.”

“An interesting conglomeration of titles,” they note, and then their eyebrows rise a second later as revelation strikes them, “You are the woman Thenvunin met. The one who…who came with the monster.”

“Don’t call them that,” she snaps, bearing her teeth slightly in irritation, stepping up against the opposite side of the fence in a clear challenge, “No one gets to call them that. Not even you.”  

“Then it is… They are…” Uthvir stammers for half a second, caught off guard. Then the air around them grows strangely chill. The shadows around them lengthening as they suddenly grasp her by the forearm. “Do not tell Thenvunin,” they hiss out, “Do not tell anyone. That that creature was once… That I am…”

Their eyes meet and Uthvir scowls at her.

“How much do you know?”

She decides that she does not care much for being manhandled. Even by someone who mirrors the old memories of her Heart so closely. She does not want to hurt them, but she’s not about to let them push her around, either.

By way of an answer, Aili reaches out with the fragment of Glory that had merged with her so long ago, coursing up through the hand they’ve grabbed her with, searching for those shinning places deep within them. They are still there, humming in perfect harmony and sameness, as it does when she touches her own Uthvir, though without the added link of emotion. She takes hold of the connection and pulls.

Uthvir gasps, stumbling away. Fear rushing up and flaring out behind them like a long dark cloak laying in the grass. Caught between warring impulses to flee or fight.

Aili takes their moment of indecision to move further down the fence and vault over it. She does not press forward to close them in, but she makes certain that she has a clear shot back towards the manor, if she needs it. The air is thick with tension, her hand hovers over the hilt of her spirit blade, and…this was not how she wanted this meeting to go.

“Everything,” she pants out finally, “I know…everything. Who they were. Who they are. What was done to them. I…promised that I would find some way to protect them. I wasn’t very good at keeping that promise, as it turns out. I…would not blame you if you wanted some sort of retribution for that, but I cannot allow it. My Heart needs me, and I have to think of them first. If you kill me, I am not sure what they will do, or what might happen to them. I…do not want to hurt you. Ever. Please, if there is something I can do to convince you…”

Uthvir gives her a look, and she can tell they are doing their best to dissect her motives and likely course of action. Trying to pick apart her fears and worries and find some trace of malicious intent. At length, they sigh, and relax their stance slightly, though she can tell it is mostly for show. They will still be on edge after her trick with the piece of Glory.

“You are a strange little creature,” they tell her with a faint smirk that does not quite reach their eyes, “I admit, I am not certain what to make of you. I suppose the most judicious way to begin things would be to ask for your word that such delicate information about myself will not be shared with others.”

“Granted,” she acquiesces easily, “It is a promise I have made before. Though I must include a caveat that certain parts of their past may be shared with Mana’Din in the interest of helping to find a manageable solution to handling their…condition. Nothing about before you were given to Andruil, of course, and as few details about Fear as I can manage. It is fairly obvious that they have joined with a spirit, after all, but we do not need to make it apparent that you are in a similar condition.”

“I…suppose that is not…unreasonable,” Uthvir allows begrudgingly. Aili grins, a tenuous, uncertain thing, but she holds out a hand to them none the less. An offering of peace.

Uthvir takes it, and there is a slight flash of magic as the agreement seals itself. A relieved sigh slips out of them. Aili’s smile grows wider.

“I’ll protect you this time,” she says suddenly, still with a grip on their fingers, “Vhenan must come first, but… I will do my best, to keep you safe from harm as well.”

The magic flashes again and Uthvir blinks down at their hands, startled, before pulling away.

“I am not them,” they point out firmly.

“No,” she agrees, “You have a different story. A different life. Different memories. All those things that piece a person together into different shapes. But…your heart is much the same, I think. The same spirit at your core. You still…shine.”

“Who are you?” they ask, seemingly baffled.

“According to you, I’m a wondrous fool,” Aili laughs. She glances away suddenly as she feels a sense of confusion and wanting reaching out for her, still languid, as though thick with sleep. “Forgive me, but I must go. Vhenan will be awake soon, and I do not want them to think I have left them.”

“You…do not mind, then?” Uthvir calls after her, as though they cannot quite seem to help themselves, “It did not bother you to learn what they were? …What I am? You…want to stay with them regardless? You still…care for them?”

She looks back at them over her shoulder, making a face at them as though they’ve just said something foolish. She softens after a moment though, smiling gently, and letting her emotions flood out of her again, gently this time. Boundless adoration and devotion, and a genuine, warm affection flowing out to brush over them like a tender caress.

“Oh, how the sun loved the moon.”

[fableweaver]

Arc of the Mother Witch

Bailey wearily held Matt up to her breast and he hungrily took to her nipple. It had been two weeks since they left Barrow Múr in ruins, and already she was exhausted by the twin mouths to feed. Ian stood nearby walking back and forth with Will in his arms. Will liked to move about while Matt needed stillness to rest. Which meant one was always awake while the other was asleep.

Taras had been driven off by the two babes’ crying, riding ahead to make plans. He had been impatient with their pace, but Kree’s wagon couldn’t travel very fast. Usually Bailey rode inside with Glen, Ian riding the mare alongside the wagon. Taras seemed to trust Kree in his place, though Bailey did not trust her. She looked across the fire at the Rhodin woman, once again feeling a stab of envy. Kree was beautiful and had Aldan blood like Bailey.

She had yet to say even two words to her however; Taras’ little taunts still stinging. He had told her more than once that Kree would lure Ian away with her beauty and charm. He had pointed out her swelling belly and Kree’s lithe form, saying that any man would choose Kree over her. Bailey tried not to take what he said to heart, but it was hard when she felt like a lazy sow most of the time.

“Are you hungry?” Kree asked looking up from the fire. She pulled several sweet potatoes from the ashes, deftly peeling one and putting it in a bowl.

“I be fine,” Bailey said.

“You’re eating for three,” Kree said. “The first thing to dry up will be your milk if you don’t eat.”

“Ye’ve had children afore?” Bailey asked and Kree smiled sadly.

“Do you know why the Aldan blood is so rare in the Rhodin?” Kree asked. “It’s because most are born sterile. Our races don’t mix well.”

“I be sorry,” Bailey said ashamed.

“Now you know how fortunate you are,” Kree said still smiling. “Both in children and in the Elder Magic.”

“Ye mean…”

“I have little more than a drop,” Kree said. “No more than any other Rhodin. Most do not know, since we keep the secret well, but we can see auras around people. The aura is the shadow of their spirit and tells us their mood and intentions. I can read auras a bit better than most, and it makes me a good fortuneteller.”

“Do ye ken o what be bout ta happen with the Phay?” Bailey asked and Kree nodded.

“The Rhodin felt the stir in the aether,” Kree answered. “I’m not blind nor deaf. Do you know when they will march?”

“I baint ken,” Bailey said looking down at Matt who was still busy suckling. Both were identical with the Daunish coloring of brown skin, but their hair was like Bailey’s dusty grey. Their eyes when they opened proved to be a deep indigo, their ears pointed but their features reminded Bailey more of Ian if his nose had never been broken.

“Eat,” Kree said holding out the bowl. Bailey’s hand went to her still large belly unconsciously. “Oh come now you can’t be thinking about your figure,” Kree said rolling her eyes. “Your husband is blind, if anyone doesn’t care about looks it is him.”

Blushing from both embarrassment and shame Bailey took the bowl. Resting it on Matt’s stomach she started to eat the still warm baked sweet potato. A hand joined her own and she turned to see Ian sit next to her and take a piece of potato.

“I kennin Will be hungry,” Ian said as he popped the potato in his mouth. Bailey looked to see Will routing against Ian’s chest looking for a breast and finding none. She sighed and there was a moment of juggling as they traded babes. Ian took Matt and burped him before he began feeding her sweet potato. Bailey sighed as she rested her head on his shoulder, feeling both content and worried at the same time.

Ian put his arm around her and Bailey felt his hand trail down her back. She gave a start when his hand grasped her rump and she turned to him angrily.

“Baint do that,” she whispered.

“Why nowt?” Ian asked grinning.

“I mean it Ian,” Bailey warned. “I baint be in the mood.”

“Aye, ye be tired I ken,” Ian said regretfully. That wasn’t it at all, but Bailey dared not voice her fears. She had kept them close since Kree had joined them. Part of her very well knew that he was not cheating on her with Kree, he barely knew Kree existed. But there was that little dark voice of doubt that spoke every night, saying that she was fat and ugly so of course Ian was sleeping with Kree. Every time he touched her she would wonder if he had touched her the same way.

Ian let go of her, but still sat close, Bailey feeling his silent concern. The next few days were harder and harder, Bailey getting little sleep. Part of it was Matt and Will and their constant care, but another part was her troubles. She was getting more and more moody, snapping at Ian or Glen. One day Ian’s patience ran out.

“Here Bailey,” Ian said handing her a bowl of stew.

“I baint be hungry Ian,” Bailey snapped.

“Eat,” he said tiredly.

“Nowt!” Bailey slapped the bowl out of his hands and Ian swore. He turned to her, his blind eyes unable to see her, but his expression was thunderous.

“Fine starve then!” Ian shouted and his fist clenched. For a moment Bailey thought he might hit her, but she saw his eyes flicker uncertain. He couldn’t see her to strike her and the moment passed. His face drained of blood and Bailey saw his horror as he realized what he had been about to do.

Guilt stole her breath and she leapt to her feet, hurrying away from their camp. The fact that she had driven Ian to feel such anger, and then made him nearly become like his father turned her stomach. Only Will’s muttered sounds reminded her of herself and the fact that she still held him. Swallowing her sobs Bailey stopped to sooth him; he looked up at her with dark indigo eyes as if truly seeing her. For a moment she felt such utter joy looking into his eyes, and she forgot her other troubles. She gently touched the light fluff of his gray hair soothing him.

Feeling slightly better Bailey looked up around her. She was standing by a stream, a ticket of holly and oak trees on the other side. A hillock was behind her and she could still see a trail of smoke from the camp. He Who Reaps was strong now and a little color was beginning to touch the leaves of the oaks. She heard hounds baying and turned but saw nothing through the holly trees. As Bailey watched a doe came bounding out of the trees, her tail high as she ran. The doe saw her and veered towards her, splashing across the stream.

“Help me!” the deer pleaded in the animal voice. She ran and stood behind Bailey, her sides heaving and coat dark with sweat. Bailey noted quickly that the doe was heavy with fawn. “They hunt me!”

Bailey turned to see hounds running though the bushes, horsemen hot on their heels. Anger rose and Bailey looked to the stream, where she could see undines swimming about.

“I call fer yer aid!” Bailey called out as she reached into the water and splashed some up into the air. The undines cried out as well, leaping out to chase the water Bailey had splashed. As they fell back into the stream the water rose, frothing and rising over the banks. The dogs came out of the thicket and a few tried to cross the stream. Though it wasn’t flowing hard, it was now full of undines, and the little wild kin snapped and bit at the dogs driving them back.

The horsemen came out of the thicket, milling about startled that the dogs would not advance. The handlers blew whistles and there was some confusion as the hunt tried to organize itself. The horses would not cross the stream any more than the dogs, their eyes rolling as the undines snapped at them.

Bailey was surprised to see it was a troop of Daunish nobles, their tunics fine and leather boots polished. One man stood out with a circlet of gold on his head. He was about Ian’s age; his dark red hair tied back in a que and face shaven in the southern fashion. He was handsome, his green eyes flashing with authority.

“Who are you to stand between me and my prey?” He shouted as his horse danced under him. It was a southern breed horse, one of the more common breeds coming from the Mark.

“Who be ye ta hunt a doe heavy with fawn?” Bailey asked gesturing to the doe whose head now dropped as she tried to catch her breath. “Be ye un with so little sense?” No one hunted a doe when she was with a faun, it was better to hunt bucks or elderly does.

“I am Dylan Rawn, King of Daun!” the man answered insulted. “These are my hunting lands! You trespass here, now stand aside.”

“I will nowt,” Bailey said hardly. “Ye’ll have ta kill me n mine babe just as ye plan ta kill her n hers.”

“Fucking whore!” the King muttered, Bailey unsure if it were just an oath or an insult. He dismounted, a servant looking startled as he handed over his reigns. He marched over to the bank and started to wade through, blind of the undines in the water.

“Nowt!” Bailey shouted but the undines were in frenzy. They grabbed the king when he was half way through the stream pulling him under the water. The servants and guards cried out, some running for the water. “Stop!” Bailey shouted and the men on the other side heeded her.

She looked to the stream, focusing on one of the undines there. The creature felt her gaze and looked up at her grinning. “Give him back!” Bailey ordered. The undine laughed and others joined it. Bailey shivered and focused her will on the creatures. They flinched, feeling her power on them. “Give him back,” Bailey said lowly.

Slowly the undines calmed and sheepishly they let go of the king. He came to the surface gasping for air, coughing and sputtering as he hurried to the bank on Bailey’s side. He got to his feet, water cascading from his fine clothes. Bailey noted he wore linen and silk rather than Daunish wool. He looked up at her, anger in his eyes.

“You… You had something to do with that,” he gasped and Bailey held Will closer to her fearfully. The doe stepped between them, glaring at Dylan and snorting threateningly.

“Majesty!” one of the guards shouted; they were able to ford the stream now that the undines had retreated. One let loose an arrow and it just missed the doe who gave a start of fear.

“Run!” Bailey shouted to the doe, but she still stood her ground between Bailey and the King. The men began crossing the stream, advancing on her with bows and swords. A howl sounded and everyone froze, Bailey turning to the moors behind her. Walking down the hill was Ian, his eyes wild.

At first Bailey couldn’t see the gnome that guided him, until she looked into Ian’s eyes. They were focused, no longer blind, but the spirit behind them was not Ian’s but the gnome’s. Ian held his blunt ceramic sword, advancing on the men that surrounded her. One raised his bow and let loose an arrow. Bailey cried out as the arrow lodged in Ian’s arm, but he shook it off, his mail absorbing the blow.

He charged howling and the men flinched back from his sudden ferocity. He knocked aside two men with ease, fighting among them like a wild beast. Bailey felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Glen holding Matt.

“W-we have to r-run,” he said lowly.

“Nowt,” Bailey answered. “Take Will.”

She handed Will over to Glen who barely held both babes. She ran, not towards Ian and the fight, but towards the stream. She forded the water and the servants left on the other bank shrank back from her. She ignored them and went to one of the holly tress. She drew her dagger and cut a branch from the tree.

“A ring o leaves n a ring o thorns,” she intoned as she wove the branch into a wreath. She wove in a strand of her own hair, the silver standing out among the dark green leaves of the holly. Holly was gaining power now as oak’s waned with the rising of the He Who Reaps. She turned and ran back towards the stream, fording it again and dipping the holly wreath into the water three times. Ian was possessed by an earth spirit; she would need water to banish it.

She came up on the bank to find Ian now fighting the King. His men lay groaning along the bank, none were dead but many were knocked unconscious.

As she watched Ian kicked Dylan’s feet out from under him, and the king fell to the ground. Ian howled in victory, raising his sword over the king.

“By holly n water I banish ye!” Bailey shouted as she tossed the wreath into the air. It flew true, landing on Ian’s head neatly. He stopped, Bailey seeing the gnome leave his head looking cross. It turned to her and shook a fist but Bailey ignored it, running to Ian. He stood like a statue, his eyes glazed. She touched his face, feeling the stubble of his beard on her fingertips.

“Bailey,” he said softly, his eyes still sightless but returning to awareness.

“Hush, ye be alright now,” Bailey said softly.

“I heard em attackin ye,” he said. “I could do nowt, I asked the gnome ta help me.”

“Ian it possessed ye,” Bailey said shaking her head. “Baint ever do that gain.”

“Sorry,” he said brokenly. He took her hand in his and turned his head, kissing the inside of her wrist tenderly.

“Bailey!” Glen shouted and Bailey turned. Something was coming crashing through the wood, Ian moving to stand protectively between Bailey and the approaching danger. A great big dray horse came barreling out of the woods, a Daunish Knight riding upon its back. The knight was in full ceramic armor, his helmet and visor hiding his face.

“Sir Conor!” one of the servants shouted like the knight was the hero of some fable. Looking at the situation Bailey realized that was sort of what he was. She couldn’t see Sir Conor’s expression but he looked around before lifting the ceramic bladed glaive he bore and drove his heels into his horse’s sides.  

The dray horse snorted and leapt across the stream charging for them. Bailey grabbed Ian’s tunic and pulled him aside out of the path of the glaive. They rolled aside towards the hill and Glen, both immediately getting to their feet. The knight still sat astride his horse, now between them and the fallen king. Bailey saw him raise his glaive again and felt fear. They couldn’t dodge with Glen and the babes behind them.

An arrow flew out and bounced off the knight’s armor, his horse shying as it flew past its head. Bailey turned to see Taras standing atop the hill, an arrow resting in his long bow.

“Daunish armor is stronger than I thought,” Taras shouted. “I’ve a good eye though and I have an arrow pointed at one of the gaps. Try my aim.”

“Who are you bowman?” the knight asked, his voice calm.

“Taras Law, Ranger for King Lonna of the Mark. These people are my charges; are you so callow to attack a blind man, a cleric, and a woman with two babes in her arms?”

“I will defend my king,” the knight answered levelly.

“And he was in every right!” the king shouted stepping forward. His men were rallying around him now, some groaning as they got to their feet. “That man and woman are both witches, using foul magic to attack me and mine.”

Before anyone else could speak the doe walked forward. She raised her head and looked right at the king.

“You are lost and misguided,” she said, her words falling on deaf ears. “May pleasure fade from your life until all you sense will be ash.”

Bailey felt the doe’s curse linger in the air about to fall flat; she had a touch of the Elder Magic with her impending motherhood, but not enough. Bailey breathed in and let the breath out, giving the curse the power it needed. Dylan staggered as the curse settled on him like a mantle, his own mind taking on the curse. Bailey saw it alter his aura; his own spirit fueled the curse now.

“Thank you,” the doe said as she turned to Bailey. “May your children prosper.”

“N yers,” Bailey answered. The doe bowed to her before running off into the moors.

“Majesty?” Conor asked worried as Dylan straitened.

“I’m fine,” he said shaking his head. “You did something to me witch.”

“I gave her curse power majesty,” Bailey answered. “She said ye were lost, n til ye finds yer way pleasure o life will fade fer ye.”

“What does that mean?” Dylan asked.

“Ye be cursed now, n only ye can remove it,” Bailey answered.

“Enough!” Conor shouted. “All of you are coming with us, for crimes against the crown of Daun.”

“We have places to be so I don’t think so,” Taras said turning his arrow towards the king.

“And I will run down your companions before you let fly,” Conor answered leveling his glaive and tightening his fist on his reigns. “If you have not noticed, you’re out numbered.”

The other guards stood ready for a fight, even though some still lay unconscious or injured. Ian hadn’t killed anyone; Bailey knew that if the gnome had spilled blood with Ian’s hands it would never have been able to let him go. She turned and looked at Glen who held Matt and Will and her heart melted. Both were making a fuss, Glen wasn’t holding them well.

“We surrender,” Bailey said as she turned back to the king and his men. “I only ask ye leave Glen the cleric alone n let mine babes in his care.”

“Bailey!” Glen said startled. Ian put his hand on her arm, his hand was shaking. She put her own hand over his but kept her eyes on the king.

“Your babes may go in the care of the Sect as orphans,” King Dylan said. “And you sir, Taras Law, if you lower bow I will forget your earlier arrow you fired at Sir Conor.”

Bailey looked back at Taras who looked at her glaring. He lowered his bow, relaxing the draw and putting away his arrow.

“Very good,” Dylan said pleased. “You are dismissed Sir Law.”

Taras glared at the king but turned on his heel and left, disappearing down the hill. He’d go back to Kree, and Bailey hoped then to try to rescue them.

“He’ll be back,” Ian whispered and Bailey answered with a squeeze of his hand.

“The rest of you are in my custody,” Dylan said. “I will see the cleric and babes taken to the Sect in Dun Eald as promised. You two are for the dungeon. Tie them up and confiscate their things; we’re going back to camp.”

The guards advanced on them and one pulled Bailey away from Ian. She saw his struggle not to grab her back; that would have earned him a blow. Ian was stripped of his mail, sword, tunic, boots, and undershirt, leaving only his trousers. The guard tried to remove the holly wreath but yelped when the spiny leaf bit him. The crown remained; Bailey knew the gnome could try to possess Ian again without the crown.

The guard let Bailey remove her own clothes, looking away from her as she took off her girdle, dress, stockings, boots and sheepskin cloak. Wearing only a smock she folded her clothes and bundled them together, her bundle and Ian’s going to a servant. Their hands were bound with rope before them, a leash trailing before them.

Ian’s lead was tied to Sir Conor’s saddle and Bailey’s to King Dylan’s. The king led the way back into the woods, Bailey grateful that the trees slowed his progress so she could keep on her feet. Still she kept glancing back at Ian or Glen with the babes.

The misty afternoon turned to a cool evening with a drizzling rain. Bailey shivered in only her smock, her feet becoming muddy and bruised. She felt a calm settle over her as she walked through the wood. The rain falling on her skin, the earth beneath her bare feet, Bailey could feel the Elder Magic flowing through her.

Dylan yanked on the rope making Bailey lose her balance and fall, waking from her trance. He dragged her for a few spans before Bailey managed to scramble to her feet, muddy and scrapped. Ian was trying to get to her, but Conor was holding his leash taunt. Bailey brushed herself off, her knees scraped and hands shaking. Bailey heard Matt start to cry and Will quickly tuned in.

“Wait,” she gasped. “They be hungry, let me feed em.”

“Once we get to camp,” Dylan answered with a merciless tone. “If you hurry we’ll get there faster.” Bailey followed faster, soon out of breath and gasping. She had to admit she wasn’t in the best shape. Ian seemed to keep pace easily, he didn’t trip at all.

At last they arrived at the King’s camp. Several large pavilions were set up in a forest clearing, servants hurrying about here or there on errands. The king’s arrival caused a flurry of servants and grooms to swarm the group and take the horses away. Bailey followed Dylan as he still held her lead as he went to the largest pavilion.

Inside was dry and warm; Xinian carpets blanketing the bare ground and a brazier burning in a corner. Camp lanterns had been lit, giving the tent a warm feeling. A great chair rested in the room draped with furs and sporting a pair of ram horns on top. Conor came in leading Ian, Glen hurrying in after them. Ian and her lead were tied to one of the tent poles out of the way and Glen came forward with Matt and Will.

Eagerly Bailey took Matt and pulled back her smock to feed him. Matt took her nipple and suckled, Bailey wishing she could hold him properly without her hands tied. She looked up to see Ian held Will, trying to calm him a bit. Both babes were wet from the rain, but most of their wraps had protected them. Bailey looked back at Dylan and Conor to find both men staring at her.

“Ye baint ever seen a woman nurse afore?” she asked frowning at them. Both turned away. Conor finally reached up and removed his helm, Bailey surprised to see he was young, younger than the king and Ian around her own age. He too was handsome, though sporting the southern fashion of a saved jaw and long hair. He was Daunish though, no hint of another race in his features. Glen sat next to her, occasionally glancing at her exposed breast as well.

She looked at Matt in her arms and worry felt like a stone on her chest. Had she chosen to do the right thing for them? All she could do was hold Matt closer to lessen the worry.

“You aren’t fully Daunish are you?” Conor asked as he took an average camp seat as Dylan took to his throne.

“Mine ma were Aldan,” Bailey said and hesitated, before deciding to risk the truth. “She were Eileen V Alvar, the lost princess o Alda.”

“Bailey…” Ian said worried as both men looked astonished.

“You’ve no proof….”

“I do,” Bailey said as she pulled out the ring on the cord around her neck. She had managed to keep it as the servant hadn’t searched her. She held it up for both men to see, the silver ring twirling in the lamplight. Conor got to his feet and took the ring to examine it, but Bailey held the cord so he could not take it.

“I looks real,” he said looking at the ring and then seemed to realize how close to her he was. He blushed becomingly and instantly dropped the ring and hurried back to his seat. Bailey sighed and Matt finished. She and Ian, with Glen’s clumsy help, juggled the babes around until Will got to get his turn at the tit. Glen had to burp Matt as Ian’s hands were tied, Matt spitting up over his robes.

“Sorry,” Ian said with a slight smile as Glen passed Matt to him.

“It’s m-my luck,” Glen said resigned. Bailey smiled at him, not having the energy to laugh. She turned back to look at Dylan and Conor, who both looked like they had swallowed something that was choking them. Their regrets were obvious but Bailey knew not to challenge them, men had too much pride to admit they were wrong.

“What will be our fate then?” Bailey asked making both men jump a little. “I be nowt only a green witch but the unwanted heir ta the Alvar house, n the high throne. Will ye burn me? Hand me o’er ta the Regarians? Er marry me?”

“Marry?” Dylan asked caught off guard, this time he was blushing.

“Accordin ta Glen I baint be legally married since mine and Ian baint married in a Sect,” Bailey said. “Sos I still can marry, n mine sons Matt n Will be bastards, n I can still bear the heir ta the high throne. Ye have a chance ta be the father o the next High King.”

She was pleased to not see greed in Dylan’s eyes but fear, perhaps there was hope for him yet.

“I need to discuss this with Father Elisha,” Dylan said shaking his head looking shell shocked. Glen’s head snapped up and he stared at the king astonished.

“Elisha Drakon?” He asked in a small voice.

“You know him?” Dylan asked.

“Only by r-reputation,” Glen stuttered.

“Of course,” Dylan said with a grin. “Uncle to the High Queen is a prestigious position. The Drakons were Regis’ kings before the King’s Wars and Drasir claimed the throne.”

Bailey looked at Glen and saw him biting his lip. She guessed Elisha’s full reputation painted a much different picture.

“Conor, get me some wine,” Dylan said seeming bored.

Conor went to the tent flap and shouted out at a servant. He sat back, Bailey wondering if he ever took his armor off. Will finished and Glen burped him, again getting a fair stain over his tunic. He passed Will back and Bailey moved closer to Ian. His skin had dried easily and the tent was warm, her smock dry now. The twins snuggled down and fell asleep, the excitement of the day too much for both of them.

Servants hurried in with food and wine, setting up a table before their king. Bailey looked at the food hungrily, white bread, cheese, roast pork, and of course apples. The king was drinking Aldan wine however, a dark red wine in a crystal goblet. He took a large mouthful and coughed, spitting the wine back into the goblet.

“What is this?” he asked crossly turning to the servant that had poured his wine. “Are you trying to poison me? This is sour!”

The servant only stared at him startled, her mouth hanging open. Conor took the goblet and took a sip, frowning.

“It tastes fine Dylan,” he said and Dylan looked at him startled. He turned to the food, taking a piece of pork and eating it. He gaged, spitting the morsel out. Horrified he looked at Bailey.

“Why does it taste rotten?” he asked afraid.

“The doe’s curse majesty,” Bailey answered. “Nowt pleasure o the senses, I guess tastes be goin first.”

“You did this!” he said leaping to his feet.

“Ye did this,” Bailey said, soothing Will as he stirred at the raised voices. “This be the consequences o yer actions.”

“Remove it,” Dylan said lowly.

“I baint able ta,” Bailey answered. “It baint be mine curse, I gave it power aye but it were the doe what set it. It baint be mine curse, even so only ye can remove it.”

“How?” Dylan asked.

“Ye find yer way,” Bailey answered and saw his next question. “I baint ken what the doe meant bout ye bein lost.”

“So I have to live with this?” Dylan asked. “I’ll starve to death!”

“It only tastes foul,” Bailey answered. “Ye’ll just have ta eat past it. There will be worse though.”

“Like what?” Dylan asked.

“It be all yer senses majesty, sight, hearin, touch, smell,” Bailey said. “Soon enough all will be like yer sense o taste.”

Dylan visibly paled, falling back in his chair looking stunned. Conor dismissed the servants and sat as well, looking like he too was lost.

“We’ll find a way to break the curse Dylan,” Conor said after some thought. “Elisha might be able to break it.”

“You think so?” Dylan asked hopefully.

“The gods will guide us,” Conor answered. He started to reach for some bread and stopped, looking at Dylan.

“Go ahead, I’m no longer hungry,” Dylan answered.

“You need to eat,” Conor said. “Try the bread, maybe you can swallow some of that.”

Dylan ate a few pieces of bread, his face gray and tears in his eyes. Glen stood as he ate and took a few apples from the table, only to knock over the wine jug. Conor caught it before it spilled too much and Glen looked pale.

“I’m s-sorry, I was h-hungry,” Glen said timidly.

“Go ahead, you’re not a prisoner here Sect Glen,” Conor answered.

“I’m not a S-Sect yet,” Glen said. “Just an a-acolyte.”

“What brought you here?” Conor asked. “Please sit.”

Glen sat in a camp chair and began to tell his tale, Bailey listening as he had never told her the full story before. She noticed Glen slipped a few apples down to the floor and kicked them over to Bailey. She quickly scooped them up and passed one to Ian. He took it with a smile and ate it quickly. Bailey ate hers, savoring the fresh crisp apple.

“Can I take this off?” Ian asked lowly as he pointed to the wreath. Conor and Dylan asked Glen about the Sect and Regis, unconcerned of them in the corner of the tent.

“Nowt Ian,” Bailey said sadly. “Nowt fer a while. The wild kin baint be like the Phay, they have a different magic.”

“I kenned they had the Elder Magic?” Ian said puzzled.

“Nowt, they have Wild Magic,” Bailey answered. “We use the Elder Magic ta control em is all. When the gnome controlled ye he left some Wild Magic in ye.”

“That be bad?” Ian asked.

“It be neither good nor bad,” Bailey answered. “Wild Magic be just that, wild. Little be kenned bout it er hows it be. But it’ll change ye, sos baint take that off til I be sure that gnome will leave ye be.”

“Alright,” Ian said nodding. Bailey took his hand and opened it, tracing the lines of his palms. He had thick callus, his skin a slightly darker shade than her skin.

“Ian, the reason I been so snappy were cause I thought ye were sleepin with Kree,” Bailey said softly.

“Ah,” he said as if he suddenly understood. “That be it. I swear I miss Pepper, she would have told me right. I weren’t sleepin with Kree, I baint even ken what she looks like Bailey.”

“I ken, but Taras been whisperin in mine ear,” Bailey said and heard him growl a bit. “It baint be his fault Ian. I just been havin those dark thoughts what sneak up on ye in the night.”

“I ken,” he said softly and she got the sense of empathy in his voice, everyone had thoughts like those. The warmth of the tent and Ian next to her soon lulled Bailey to sleep, Will asleep in her lap. She slept so soundly she started to dream.

She was now familiar with the sensation of having her spirit wander and walked with purpose now through the aether. She passed the burning tree and knew this was the marker for the border into Tir Aesclinn. She walked cautiously, hiding behind bushes and trees as she sought out that meeting place again. She had to cross a few of the bridges and go through a few more strange woods until once again she heard voices.

Mab and Titania had arrived and order seemed to have come to the gathering. Bailey could tell now who the kings and queens of the Phay were, they stood out with their power and might among their kin. Bailey could recall names now and watched the gathering with a wider mind.

“Ease your hearts,” Mab said soothingly after an uproar. Titania still looked cross and Bailey guessed her to be the cause of the upset. “We must be ready to march when the time comes, right Titania?”

“That is all I meant,” Titania said. “My passions rule my heart.”

“As it is known,” Mór Ríoghain said from her perch on a stone. “How much time has passed in Miread since the song has been sung? Weeks, months, years? I do not doubt Eileen will answer, but how long must we wait? Others have sung the song before and no answer came. What makes this time so different?”  

“I sung the song,” Mab answered. “I sung it because I spoke to my daughter before she was reborn. I told her the import of it; she knows she must reply this time.”

“Knowing and doing are two different things Mab,” Mór Ríoghain said. “Ages have gone by since we last marched, how are we to know that the song has not been lost. Certainly, Eileen is no longer in possession of it.”

“Mór, always the dark cloud against the sun,” Enfys said lightly and the troll queen turned to the Rainbow King lashing her tail angrily. Thallo the Flower Queen seemed unconcerned with the proceedings, casually weaving a crown of poppies and buttercups.

“I speak what we all fear as is my way Enfys,” she hissed like a cat.

“And I speak of light and hope as is my way,” Enfys said. “Just now one of my children in Miread has spoken to me. He met a human who was being guided by one of my daughters. There is hope she will find the song if she is so guided.”

“Where is the daughter that guides this human so we might ask her where the song is?” Mór Ríoghain asked her glowing eyes narrow.

“She is lost,” Enfys answered casually. “Arke got lost when we marched.”

“And this is good news Enfys?” the troll queen asked mockingly. Bailey saw the lord of the rainbow’s eyes flash dangerously with mixed colors.

“Enough,” Mab said smoothly. “Thank you Enfys for this news. Arke must have found a lost place to take refuge and is working to aid us in our march. From Tir Aesclinn we can do nothing, but perhaps from one of the lost places Arke can see into Miread and guide Eileen to the song.”

“When is the only question we have now,” Ghillie Duh the King of the Beasts said as he stroked the lamb that sat in his lap. “Are we just to wait here?”

“We shall until all our kin are gathered at least,” Titania said. “They must be told of the march lest they be left behind.”

Just as she spoke there was a stirring at the east side of the clearing where darker shadows from the trees stood. The Phay moved back as the shadows entered the clearing, mounted men on black horses. The horses were skeletal, nothing but a black pelt stretched over their bones.

The riders were Dullahan, Long Be Their Shadow, men in dark cloaks that flowed like shadows over them. Pulling back their hoods they revealed their headless necks, none of the men had heads. They were not grizzly or bloody wounds, rather than blood they seemed to bleed shadows.

“Dubhshlaine, He Reaps Shadows, you have awoken!” Mór Ríoghain said pleased. She got along well with the King of Shadows, though Enfys didn’t seem so pleased to see him. “Where is your head Dubhshlaine? You do not carry it.”

The Dullahan King did not answer as Mór Ríoghain said he had no head to answer her with. Instead he turned and they looked behind him. Ravens flew into the clearing, some roosting in the trees, others alighting in the grass. These were no ordinary ravens; their wingspan was as long as a man was tall. As one alit before them it changed, rising up to take the form of a woman.

She wore only a cloak of black feathers that rippled with rainbow light like oil, and a head dress of black feathers and a bird skull. Her skin was purple like old bruises, her hair midnight black, and eyes burned like yellow coals from her face. Clíodhna, Sing Shall She, Queen of the Banshee, Singers of Ages, turned and looked right at Bailey.

Bailey fled and woke with a start, her heart pounding in her ears. It took a moment for her to calm down, and she could tell that she had not been pursued again. She was lying now in Ian’s arms, Matt and Will nestled between them. Will was waking up, Matt joining him. Bailey sat up and took both in her arms to calm them, Ian still dead asleep.

Both calmed easily and looked up at Bailey earnestly. For a moment Bailey felt as if they looked at her knowingly, as if they had seen what she had. The twins settled down and slipped off to sleep again, nuzzling against her. Bailey felt such a sense of warmth holding them, wondering how she could fall so in love with them. She lay back down against Ian and slipped off into a dreamless sleep.

It seemed like moments later when they were rudely woken by someone yanking the carpet out from under them. Will and Matt let loose with startled cries as Bailey tried to pick them up with her hands still bound. Ian sat up angrily and received a vicious punch in the face.

“Stay down dog,” Dylan growled angrily as Bailey looked up at him startled. He had deep dark circles around his eyes, which were haunted. She guessed his curse once again had robbed him of even the comfort of sleep. Conor stood by looking startled and Glen was wringing his hands.

“Shut up that racket!” Dylan shouted as he grabbed Will from Bailey. She cried out as she tried to reach for him, but her hands were brought short by the rope that bound her to the tent pole. Conor was faster though and he pulled Will out of Dylan’s grasp and quickly handed him to Glen.

“Calm down Dylan,” Conor hissed to Dylan, holding him back. Dylan’s rage cooled to hate, and Bailey shivered as he looked down at her. Ian leaned on his elbow, protecting Matt who was still wailing.

“Brother Glen, please take charge of the other child,” Dylan said.

“M-majesty…” Glen started to stammer, still struggling with Will in his arms.

“Now before I lose my temper again,” Dylan said coldly. Glen jumped and hurried forward, scooping up Matt and hurrying to the back of the tent to collapse in a heap. Dylan drew a dagger and everyone froze in fear. Instead he cut Bailey’s bonds, freeing both her hands. Bailey only had a second to wonder at this when Dylan grabbed the front of her smock and pulled.

She shouted as he pulled it off her, cloth ripping as she was stripped naked. Ian shouted angrily, but he was still bound and Conor looked on in horror. Dylan grabbed Bailey by one of her braids and dragged her out of the tent, Bailey holding onto his wrist to reduce the pain. Outside a thick autumn mist hung in the air, cool and wet among the trees. The servants had already woken and started to break camp, but they all stopped as their King emerged dragging a naked woman by her hair.

“Fetch me a mule!” Dylan shouted but no one moved. “Now!” A boy jumped and ran off, coming back with an ill-tempered mule in tow. He stood holding the mule in place, Bailey looking up at him, but he would not meet her eye. “Rope!” Dylan shouted and another servant hurried to fetch rope.

The servant handed the king the rope before running away like a deer. Dylan turned and pushed Bailey down onto her stomach. He pulled her arms behind her back and tied them at the wrists tightly. He lifted her up by her arms and Bailey cried out as her arms were wrenched in their sockets. Almost effortlessly Dylan tossed her onto the back of the mule, making her straddle its bare back shamelessly.

Then he tied a noose and slipped it over her head and pulled it tight. He tied the other end around the mule’s neck, pulling so Bailey had to slump or she would be strangled. She looked at Dylan and met his eyes, and saw how much hate he felt then.

“Conor, bring the man!” Dylan shouted turning away from her. Conor brought Ian out struggling and Dylan kicked him to make him stop. Dylan guided Ian over behind Bailey and she felt him tie a lead to Ian’s bound hands to her own behind her back.

“If you lag, if you trip, if you try to escape, you’ll pull her arms out and strangle her,” Dylan said darkly.

“Bastard,” Ian growled and Bailey heard a blow fall. She cried out as the line went taunt and yanked her arms painfully, and the noose around her neck went tight. The mule brayed as it shifted under her, but Bailey’s vision went dark at the edges. The pressure on her arms and neck released as Ian quickly straitened and let the lead go limp. The mule calmed, but it wasn’t pleased to have Ian standing behind it.

“We ride!” Dylan shouted. “Get my horse!”

Bailey could barely spare her mind for anything but keeping her seat on the boney back of the mule. Still Bailey tried to raise her head enough to look for Matt and Will. She spotted Glen with a servant woman who was helping him swaddle the babes onto him. Dylan pulled the mule’s lead and tied it to his saddle before mounting. Bailey winced as the mule started out, both ropes pulling on her arms and neck.

She felt helpless tears fall to hear Ian behind her struggling not to trip or even lose speed. Bailey could only bow her head and endure.