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arosebyanyother-name · 2 years ago

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Sometimes When I Get to Thinking pt 7

4643 words

This fic is mostly smut, so you’ve been warned. It also contains choking and restraints. I hope you enjoy! (+ sorry it took so long to write)

Also cw for a slightly implied miscarriage. Please take care of yourselves!

gif credit @godzillawillsaveus

You’re lying on the bed you and the doc share, your head comfortably resting on two downing pillows, and your wrists bound to the intricately carved bed head by your own stockings. The doc had tied you there an hour ago, right after you both finished dinner, in fact you were both in such a rush to get into bed that your dirty dishes and pot of food are left abandoned in your kitchen. Clean up can surely be left for later, you both think. There are much more pressing matters to be dealt with.

So, for the past hour the doc has been ‘playing’ with you. He enjoys being a tease, and likes to work on you slowly whenever he can stand it. You squirm, pulling your silky restraints tighter around your wrists as your back arches, as if against your own will. A debauched moan escapes your mouth, one of many, as the doc fucks you tantalisingly slowly with two fingers of his right hand, choking your neck with his left. Being choked is a feeling you very much enjoy, and he knows it. Amos intermittently releases your now tender neck from his grip, allowing you to catch your breath, and for your pooling blood to reach your brain once again. He chokes you until your ears ring, but never too hard, and never for too long. His medical training has made him the perfect breath play partner. Choking was not something he’d tried before he met you, but your enthusiasm for it makes him like it just as much as you do. His ability to give you orgasm after orgasm is more addictive to him than any drug in his possession.

So, he releases you neck once again, leaving you panting between moans. He holds eye contact with you constantly, surveying your reaction, ensuring you’re alright, that you can take what he’s giving you. He takes his role as love maker and pleasure giver just as seriously as he takes his role as doctor. His fingers curl up inside you, and you squeeze your eyes shut, your moans becoming louder.

“Please, fuck me Amos... fuck me with your cock!” you beg, still panting, and although your eyes are closed you can still feel the docs eyes on you. The way he watches you turns you on to no end.

“Uh uh,” he denies you. “Not yet honey, not just yet,” he says as he pulls his fingers out of you, and inspects your egg-whitey wetness on them before he enters you again with three.

“Oh god!” you cry out, your eyes flying open. His face is so close to yours, and he’s red and sweating. You let your eyes wander down his body, pulling at your restraints to try to get a clearer look at his unclothed cock. You bite down hard on your bottom lip, a loud sigh exiting your lips. He’s hard as a goddamn rock, and the precum escaping him tells you he’s more than ready for you. The restraint he must have to keep himself from fucking you senseless is absolutely unfathomable to you. You want his cum... no, you need it.

“Careful, you’ll break the skin,” he comments, gesturing to your lip. You release your lip from your tooth’s grip just as he takes your neck back into his grip once again, squeezing good and hard. Your legs rise and wrap around his hips as he rocks his fingers in and out of you, entering you as deep as he can.

“God. I can feel your cervix,” he comments breathlessly. He’s concentrating hard, eyebrows furrowed, and although to some his words may sound oddly medical, you know how much it turns him on to enter you as deep as he can possibly go. He’s been edging his fingers higher and higher since he first entered you an hour ago.

The pleasure is becoming too much for you. You’ve thought that same thought so many times during this lovemaking session, thought that ecstasy would finally take over your body, leaving you trembling and sopping wet, and your husband wholly unsatisfied. Sure, you can take multiple climaxes in a row like a champ, but you know how much Amos loves the feeling of your pulsing cunt squeezing around his cock after being teased by him for so long. You need him to cum inside of you, and you know that stimulation or no stimulation, if you cum whilst his cock is outside of you he’ll cum anyway.

“Please Amos! God, doctor please! I need your cock! I need it! I need i-“ and before you can say another word his hand is removed from your neck, his juice drenched fingers are in his mouth, and he’s readying his cock to enter you. Teasing your clit first, he lets out a soft low grunt as precum spills onto your vulva. Not much, just a few drops, but it’s enough to wet your appetite.

“Are you... you ready for me?” he asks, slightly apprehensively. Despite his facade of confidence, and despite your unyielding begging, he’s still slightly unsure of himself. He’s often like this, both in and out of the bedroom. You think it might be a symptom of his time serving as a doctor in the war. He has told you of his time there, vaguely, and often in abstractions, but you understand. More than once during the war he had to make decisions regarding his patients health that ended up killing them, not saving them. Of course you could see that he had never been at fault; he had done the best he could, he had followed his Hippocratic oath to the best of his ability, and between the shooting and the noise and the blood... well no man could have done any better than your husband, not matter his training, but he still blamed himself, and as a result second guessed himself still. He’s a stickler for consent.

You nod in response to his question, giving him your last gesture of consent before he enters you, slow but firm, and intentional. He rests his forehead against yours, both of your eyes closing as you savour the feeling you’ve both been craving all day... and suddenly you hear a voice cry out, a mans, Johnny’s in fact.

“Don’t answer,” you find yourself whispering to the doc. It was certainly not an ethical request, but you truly feel that you’re more desperate for a fucking climax than any man could possibly be for medical attention. Johnny calls out for the doc once more.

“Goddammit!” the doc exclaims, opening his eyes again. “What?” he yells out to Johnny, awaiting his answer. The doc pulls out of you slowly, beginning to untie your wrists when he hears your disappointed sigh.

“Someone’s been shot at the Gem, one of the whores!” Johnny replies.

“I won’t be long,” your husband whispers to you, running his ringers lovingly through your hair before he gets up from the bed and begins to dress. You rub your sore wrists as you sit up (it’s a feeling you somewhat enjoy), and the doc gets up. He begins to dress frantically, huffing in anger the way he usually does. You find it awful endearing.

“I’ll get dressed and meet you at the Gem in case you need a hand,” you tell him, fastening his shirt buttons. He tries his hardest to position his cock in a way that will hide his erection in his pants, and is mildly successful, however to you it’s still slightly obvious. As he takes his hat in hand you kiss him on the cheek. “Be safe,” you say. You know your husband always does his best to be safe, I mean he knows how to mind his own goddamn fucking business, but your request to him serves as a little reminder of what’s waiting for him at home as he goes about his stressful and often dangerous business. He nods in reply, and thinks that tonight he will be extra careful... he knows what’s waiting for him.

“I’ll make this up to you,” he promises, furrowing his brows as he grabs his medical bag and heads out the door, leaving you alone in your house once again. This, you think, is an exemplary example of what it’s like to be a doctors wife, but somehow Amos always makes every moment you spend alone seem worth it.

You can hear Johnny and the doc talking softly as they walk down the thoroughfare towards the Gem, and you begin to dress. You don your corset, then your dress, no bloomers or stockings. You want to give Amos easy access. You put on your boots, purposefully leaving the left untied, and fix your hair before grabbing your cane and a shawl. You head out of your house only to see Charlie waiting for you, leaned up against a tree across from your home.

“Did Amos put you up to this?” you ask him as you walk towards him. He takes your shawl from your hands, wrapping it around your shoulders snugly.

“He ran into me, asked me to escort you over to the Gem,” Charlie replies. As always, he’s a complete gentleman, and takes your free arm in his as you begin to walk. Not having the most affectionate father figure growing up (to put it lightly), you imagine having a loving father might be something like your friendship with Charlie. He’s loyal to a fault, caring, protective. You love the man, and you hope he knows it.

“Why don’t you come over for breakfast tomorrow Charlie? Or dinner? Or both!” you ask him with a smile. “You know our door is always open.”

“I might just do that (Y/N),” he tells you, smiling back. You reach the door to the Gem, and now in better lighting than in the dimly lit thoroughfare, Charlie’s eyes zero in on your neck. “I hesitate to ask... did someone hurt you? Did Doc Coc-“ Charlie begins to speak, but you stop him, talking over him.

“I’m going to confide something in you Charlie, as a friend, in the hope of putting your mind at ease,” you pause for a moment taking a deep breath, your eyes falling to your feet. “I enjoy when the doc chokes me. I-I know it may sound strange to you but in the throws of passionate lovemaking my body finds it very agreeable, and god only knows why I enjoy it, with all the men who have choked me out in my lifetime, without my consent. Now, you know the doc could never hurt me, he could never hurt anyone for gods sake,” you look up to your friend, your cheeks reddening when you see him looking to you with shock every so subtly written on his face. This is a conversation neither of you are particularly comfortable having with one another. “So please don’t worry yourself over me Charlie. Please don’t. Now, I’d better find the doc. He may need my help,” your take his hands in yours, letting your cane hang off your left wrist. Lucky for you the lace on the end of the sleeves of your dress cover the marks on your wrists, for you’d hesitate even more to explain your proclivity for being bound, or how much you enjoy having all control and autonomy stripped from you. “Thank you for being my escort, and I hope I’ll see you tomorrow, even after my little confession,” you say with a shy smile and a nervous laugh. Charlie nods his head, an intense look of understanding on his face. He knows better than to pry any further, and he gives your hands a firm and affectionate squeeze before letting them go.

“Goodnight (Y/N),” he says, gentlemanly as always, and tips his hat before leaving you in the doorway of the Gem, a building you’d spent more time in than you ever imagined you would.

Walking in now you make a bee line to the whores recreation room, past the bar. You pause once you get to the hallway, spotting your husband attending to one of the whores in the closest room to your right. She’s alive, thank god, and getting her wound closed by the doc. You love watching him work, and in a strange way his care and concentration turns you on, wetting your cunt all over again. As much as you want his concentration to continue, you can’t shake the thought of doing something slightly provocative, of catching his attention despite the chaos of the saloon. There’s a wooden bench where you’re standing, just as you had planned. It’s now time to enact your rather devious idea. You lift your left leg, letting your foot rest on it languidly, and lean your cane up against the wall. Reaching down you begin to move your flowing skirt from between your legs, lifting it up to give you better access to your boots, and revealing your unclothed cunt. Lucky for you there are no Johns in the hallway, otherwise god only knows how many men would have gotten a glimpse of your snatch, for free no less! You clear your throat, finally drawing the docs attention to you. He looks up over his glasses, then moves them up with the back of his left hand, needle in his right. He lets out a flustered cough, face turning red. This reaction may have been a remnant of his sickness from consumption, which thank the lord he was able to overcome, but you’re almost sure it isn’t. Your husband can’t take his eyes off of you, and he squirms in place a little, trying to make his painful and straining erection more comfortable no doubt. Lucky for the two of you that the poor whore, Sara you’re almost sure her name is, is in too much pain to notice the doc has even stopped attending to her, let alone notice the bulge in his pants. You finally tie the laces of your boot and pull your skirt back down again, just in time for Al to come between the two of you. Amos clears his throat, turning his attention back to the injured whore. He takes a moment to compose himself before tying off his suturing thread.

“You come here to help the doc or are you just looking for new employment?” Al asks, taking no time to start shit stirring you. You take your leg down from the bench, getting your balance again with a little help from your cane.

“The doc seems to be handling the situation well on his own, so I guess you’d better find me a few eager men to fuck,” you reply playfully. The doc, in his transparentness, can’t help but look to you when he hears you say the word ‘fuck’.

“I can think of someone,” Al comments, looking in on the doc. You hit Al’s arm, only half playfully.

“Watch it mister,” you warn. “So what happened to the guy who shot her?”

“You don’t want to know,” he tells you, looking over to the bloodstain on his hardwood floor. Your breath hitches slightly. Despite knowing the reality of Al, and this town, and all the goddamn wrongdoing people in it, murder sometimes still shocks you. You keep your eyes on the blood, almost captivated by its morbidity as you begin to speak again.

“Make sure you let Amos look at the man before you feed him to the pigs,” you say absentmindedly. You’re brought out of your stupor by Amos entering the hallway, medical bag in hand. “How is she?” you ask him, almost in a whisper. She’s lying down now, passed out.

“Just a flesh wound, she’ll survive,” he replies, his eyes never leaving yours. They beam with love and adoration for you.

“Good,” you say, breath hitching. In moments like this you truly believe that his gaze, and his gaze alone, could make you climax. The pulling in your stomach is becoming unbearable now. You’re barely able to stop yourself from touching yourself, right there for all the towns men to see.

Al begins to speak again, a slightly annoyed and teasing shit eating grin on his face at the sight of your obvious romanticism.

“Would you two like to accompany me to my office?” his voice is sarcastically inviting.

“We can’t tonight Al. Another time-“ your husband begins to make excuses, which you thank god for, but Al is adamant.

“Tonight. Now,” he states firmly. “I need to talk to the fucking both of you.”

So the two of you concede with a disappointed sigh, and Al makes his way up the stairs in front of you, the doc walking next to you, a supportive hand on your lower back. As you ascend the doc lets his hand stray lower and lower, earning an amused warning look from you. Once in Al’s office the three of you sit, but you can hardly sit still, and the doc is fidgeting a little too.

“Drink?” Al asks. “If anyone needs it it’s the two of you.” “Will you just get on with the goddamn business Al?” Amos demands, rocking in his seat, hands rubbing his knees. You place a hand on his thigh in an effort to placate him, but it only makes his cock twitch.

“Jesus Christ! I’ve never seen you two so fucking antsy,” Al comments as he pours the drinks. As you both down your shots Johnny bursts into the room.

“Tolliver’s just walked through the door Al. Looks mad as all hell,” he relays, urgency evident.

“Alright then. Fucking stay here and wait for me, and don’t think of thieving. I know what’s in this room.”

You roll your eyes at Al’s tired fucking joke, and he walks out, closing the door behind him. Turning to your husband now, you see such urgency in his eyes. He’s bouncing his leg up and down, and eyeing you like an animal. You know what’s about to come, and you couldn’t be happier about it. You stand, and suddenly the doc is pushed up behind you. He bends you over Al’s desk, and begins to fiddle with his belt eagerly as you rush to pull up your skirt, letting the plumes of fabric gather around your waist.

“I’m ‘onna fuck you (Y/N), okay?” he asks, now with his bare cock readying itself at your entrance. You’re absolutely sopping, dripping, and he half thinks he may not be able to wait for your reply.

Even through your daze of arousal it still amazes you how commanding and unsure he can sound in one breath. A walking paradox, your husband could sometimes be, and any man would find it evident how much you need to be fucked... nevertheless you reply.

“Amos, please. I need you! I need you! I need,” and he enters you, eliciting a relieved and pronounced moan from your lips. He grunts, squeezing his eyes shut as he begins to thrust. Neither of you are going to last long, but with the two of you fucking in Al’s office and all that’s probably for the best. The doc moves your hair to one side and leans over you, laying lustful kisses on the back on your neck, and you push your ass further back into him, trying to get him to penetrate you deeper. The doc takes the hint, and bottoms out inside of you. He hits your cervix and exhales deeply, pausing there for a moment, savouring the sensation. He loves to fill you.

“God Amos! Don’t stop don’t fucking stop!” you yell, sounding almost angry in your desperation. Your husband hushes you and starts up again, giving your bare ass an affectionate tap. He holds onto your hips firmly as he fucks himself into you, good and fast. You know that people in the saloon must be able to hear your screams and moans, and you’re just hoping that with all the other sounds of debauchery coming from all the other rooms no one will be able to say for certain it was you and the doc making those noises. Amos begins to grunt breathlessly, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Honey... honey, god! Fuck!” he exclaims, and you can feel from his rhythm that he’s just about ready to burst. “I’m ‘onna cum in you, I’m ‘onna cum so deep!”

“Oh god Amos!” you yell his name before you can even stop yourself. Your climax is approaching quickly now, and his thrust are becoming erratic. He’s losing control of himself, fucking you as hard as his body physically can after a long day. The way he fucks you is goddamn euphoric. So deep, so skilled, with such care for you. His stomach is pushed up against your back now as he tries desperately to stay upright whilst his climax plummets towards him.

“Gonna cum... gonna cum in you, gonna cum,” he whispers to you in that rough gravely voice of his that you find so arousing. He puts his arm underneath your right shoulder and grips onto it, his left hand grasping onto your waist, and within seconds he explodes into you, plumes of steaming potent cum entering your pulsing cunt. This sensation, coupled with your husbands irresistible moans, and his desperate moans of your name, sends you climaxing. You scream out, trying to grip onto anything you can, your hand landing on the docs hand on your shoulder. Your body shudders, every part of you shaking, and your walls clenching around your husbands cock, milking all of his cum from him. Your ears begin to ring and your sight darkens. For a moment you truly believe that coming this hard is going to make you pass out. He fills you, god he fills you so fucking good. The doc begins to kiss the back of your neck again, leaving little red marks where he bites and sucks on it. Between kisses he begins to speak again. “You like feeling my cum in you, don’t you?”

“I love it,” you reply breathlessly whilst he’s still speaking. “I goddamn love it, I love it. I love you.”

Your body begins to relax now, and your legs turn to jelly. The doc slowly pulls out of you, standing up straight as he does, and you almost fall to the floor, but he catches you, lowering you down carefully onto your chair. When you turn to him, and sitting in his chair now, you notice that his glasses have fogged up. You’re both sweaty and red in the face, panting feverishly. The doc takes his glasses off, then points to your chest with an amused smile on his face. You look down, noticing that both your tits are now situated outside of your dress. You laugh lightly, looking to your husband in sweet euphoric adoration as you begin to tuck them back into the bust of your dress.

Suddenly Al walks back in, swinging the door to his office open. You jump, and fix yourself quickly, but you realise hiding your sinful deed is futile once you begin to look around the room. Al’s desk has been pushed back, and is crooked, and his whiskey bottle has toppled over and is rolling around on his desk (no whiskey spilt though, thank god). You look from the desk to Al, then to your husband.

“Jesus Christ!” Al says in a sing song voice. He’s beyond amused.

“Shut the fuck up Al,” you say deadpan, your voice slightly horse. You clear your throat, and the doc tries to smooth your ‘just been fucked’ hair a little. Al begins to fix his desk up, moving it to its previous position. This is a grace he has decided to afford you (most others he would make fix the room up themselves), because despite your teasing and shit talking you are good friends, and he is friends with your husband also. He pours all three of you another shot, which you all drink, and within moments it’s back to business.

“You need to stop visiting my whores,” he tells you, and your mouth opens, shocked.

“Sorry?” you ask obstinately.

“When the doc comes for his weekly visit stop fucking accompanying him. You’re filling their minds with stories of ancient societies run by fucking women and ideas to leave my fucking employ,” he explains further.

“I’m trying to enrich their lives Al. All they do is fuck and get high on dope! They know nothing of the outside world! I can’t see why it’s such a bad thing to educate them a little on arts and culture.”

“That’s my girl,” the doc chimes in, winking at you.

“Oh so you agree with her doc? I’d remind you that without my whores you’d be out of a job.” “And have any of them left Al?” Amos points out. Besides Trixie none of them have, and her leaving was a turn of events you had no part in.

“With the girls living conditions to boot I would have thought my accompanying the doc would be a welcome change. Surely high spirited women fuck better Al... that has certainly been my experience. Until the end of goddamn time there will always be women willing to fuck for money. It’s called the oldest profession for a goddamn reason. They like me Al, and they like the stories I tell them! I’m not gonna stop accompanying my husband to his weekly visits, and that’s fucking that!” you end the argument.

“Staunch fucking cunt,” Al says under his breath, and the doc glares at him.

“You know I’m fucking right Al. You know I am,” you begin to tease him again, the mood lightening. Al thinks for a moment, before reluctantly conceding your point.

“Well no fucking tales of women leaving their pimps or the like, or I will murder you where you sleep,” he threatens, but you know his threats are hollow. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

“You’re a sore looser Al,” you say and stand with a grunt. You look down, and see a small puddle of fluids forming between your legs. “I think I just leaked cum on your floor Al,” you tell him, and your husband stands also, passing you your cane.

“You’re not the first,” Al replies, leading the both of you to the door.

“What did Tolliver want to see you about anyway?” the doc asks Al, and you both pass him by.

“That, doc, is not a story that should grace a woman’s ears.”

Walking out of the saloon you smile to the whores and Jewell, then you and your husband enter into the cool night air, finally relieved of your fiery arousal, and wonderfully satisfied. Your arms are linked, and as you look both ways down the thoroughfare you spot Charlie, leaning up against a building with a whiskey bottle in hand. He tips his hat to the two of you, and somehow you just know he had waited for you, to make sure you made it out of the saloon okay. You smile to him, and think of what a loyal friend he is. Walking off leisurely towards your house, you begin to speak again.

“Well that was my first time fucking in a brothel Amos. Was it yours?” you ask, amused, and in reply all you receive is a coy smile from your husband. His silence speaks volumes. “A story for another time I gather...” you laugh, and pause for a moment, your satisfied smile growing even larger on your face. Your voice turns to a whisper. “And don’t ask me how I know this doc, but I think you may have just impregnated me again.”

The docs smile grows also, and you finally reach your home.

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anarchy-n-glitter · 11 months ago

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Blood of the Dragon

Another long chapter just a heads up. I don't think I have any warnings this time, maybe just for Viseryon's previous behavior being mentioned.

Chapter Summary: A mystery begins to unfold in Edoras as the city erupts into chaos. What better time is there to sew the seeds of doubt into the king's mind and embed yourself within the king's court?

(Chapter 1 HERE, Chapter 2 HERE)

(Song inspo: Me and The Devil - Soap&Skin, The Green Dress - HOTD soundtrack)

CHAPTER 3:

Lady Aelora Dressed in Red

It was dawn. The sky was clear and painted with different shades of orange and lavender as the sun rose slowly over the snowy peaks of the mountains on the horizon. The air was as frigid as the day before, the winds whipping harshly for so early in the morning. In the distance, just beyond the grand Starkhorn, grey clouds gathered and grew darker. A storm was coming, and it was likely to bring the first snow of the season.

Rohan had not seen a snowy winter since the Long Winter, and with each morning that grew colder and colder, and as the clouds grew darker and darker, the people of Rohan worked harder to prepare.

If the next cold, unforgiving winter was not to come that year it certainly would come the next, bearing its ugly teeth through icicles that clung to the sodden rooftops and frostbite that killed their livestock, young, and the sickly.

Hilda stifled a yawn, pressing the back of her hand hard against her mouth to hide the slight way it opened as she was given her morning assignment. The lead housemaid, an older woman named Godiva, handed Hilda clean linen and fresh water for the Lord Draecyr. The look of disappointment in the older woman’s wrinkled eyes did not go unnoticed by Hilda. The younger woman had been late; her dress was wrinkled and her strawberry blonde hair was still tousled from when she woke up, and the wind certainly didn’t help straighten out her appearance. It seemed as if Hilda hadn’t gotten much rest the night before, but in truth she overslept.

The young woman was surprised when the dawn came so quickly, for it never felt like she fell asleep at all. She slept so soundly through the night, yet that morning she hardly felt rested. She stifled another yawn.

Godiva huffed and ran her hands along Hilda’s skirt, aggressively trying to straighten out the wrinkles before sending the younger maid to Lord Viseryon’s room. “You better hope he isn’t awake.” The lead housemaid grumbled. “Don’t let him see you like this.”

The older woman’s instructions and warning sent shivers down her back. Hilda was well aware of Lord Viseryon’s awful temper; she'd watched him snap at her fellow maids on multiple occasions, raising a hand to them even if he never did strike them. He would apologize immediately, of course, running a hand across his face and flashing his large, grey eyes. He would smile bashfully as if he hadn’t been acting like a toddler moments before.

Most of the women feared him, the men hated him and avoided him, and most recognized what a nuisance he truly was. Hilda noticed how people would rather stand beside Wormtongue than be near the Lord Draecyr and it was all due to his sour attitude. I would much rather be made uncomfortable by Wormtongue’s quiet, creeping presence than be snapped at and nearly hit by Lord Viseryon, thought Hilda. She had noticed even his own creation thought the same. Lady Aelora had been spotted alone with Wormtongue quite a few times, and Hilda heard from a few of the wash maidens that they saw the two in a loving embrace.

She had been walking along the banks of Snowbourn, carrying a basket full of cloth that she had washed thoroughly. Hilda had been on laundry duty that day, as much as she hated the job, and she was on her way to report back to Godiva when the conversation of two other wash women caught her attention.

The wash women giggled at the scandalousness of it all, making jokes about the advisor and his new dragon blooded mistress as they washed their clothes and linen in the river.

“I can’t believe she lets him get that close to her!” One exclaimed in a hushed tone. “He looks like he smells of fish.”

“I saw him following her around when she first got here, then, last night, I saw him enter her chambers! He’s so creepy… why she would ever entertain his presence I have no idea.” The other answered before going back to scrubbing the garment in her hand.

“She is a dragon blood, maybe he’s the first man to give her attention. He seems desperate enough.” The other maiden gasped and lightly slapped her friend’s shoulder.

“You say that like Lady Aelora is ugly.”

“Well…” The first maid trailed off, prompting the other to roll her eyes.

“It’s alright to say you’re jealous because no man in Rohan would look at you the way he does her.” Hilda arched a brow at that. Certainly they hadn’t been close enough to see how they looked at each other. She left the girls alone, their shrill laughter fading as she rushed to find Godiva in Meduseld… and then she saw them.

Just behind the hall, partially obscured by the grand walls of Meduseld, she saw Lady Aelora and Wormtongue. Indeed, they were kissing, and from the looks of it the lady didn’t seem to mind where the grotesque advisor’s hands wandered. Hilda let out a gasp and dropped her basket before hurrying behind a rocky formation, laying flat against the ground so as to not be seen by the lovers. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. The maid let out another, quieter gasp, for her eyes did not deceive her.

When the duo pulled away she saw how tenderly Wormtongue caressed the lady’s cheek. She saw the bright smile that grazed Lady Aelora’s face. She was almost taken by the breathtaking beauty that Aelora was, with her silver hair and otherworldly smile. The dragon blood was nearly elf-like in grace and looks. She wondered, just like the maids before, why Aelora would entertain Wormtongue’s presence like she had been. Certainly she could have anyone she wanted. For a moment, Hilda could have been fooled into thinking the two had been in love the whole time and had known each other for years. Wormtongue led Aelora slightly further behind Meduseld and sat in the grass, his form nearly disappearing completely in the sea of green. She heard Lady Aelora let out a small giggle as she lifted her skirt and joined him in the grass, straddling his hips.

Hilda determined she’d seen enough, hoping to get out of there before seeing parts of either party she’d rather not, and since she felt like a dirty voyeur as it was. The noises Lady Aelora made were embarrassing enough to have to listen to. The maid hopped to her feet, collecting the now soiled laundry back into the basket before finding the established path to Meduseld. Her feet found the stone steps and it felt like she’d found sanctuary.

She wondered what she’d do with this newfound information. Would it be wise of her to forget what she saw, or would she engage in gossip alongside her fellow maids? Hilda was shocked by how little discretion they had about this dirty little secret. She would have thought the king’s advisor would be more careful to not expose a potential affair, and with a dragon blood nonetheless.

Hilda had rushed inside the Great Hall that day, shutting the doors as quickly as possible. She let out a small squeak and pressed her back onto the heavy, wooden doors, as if she were hiding the advisor’s secret herself. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the darker atmosphere of the hall, at the moment she was only able to see silhouettes of people in the distance. When her eyes did adjust she noticed just how crowded it was. A number of noble women were lounging about the space, some were seated at tables, while some laid across the steps by the throne. They were all accompanied by handmaidens, some of which the maid recognized. Hilda’s eye was caught by a woman wearing lavender whose golden hair was being braided by the maiden Cwenhilde.

This woman, with fair skin and dark eyes, was Lady Beolyn. Her father, Beonræd, had served the court of Edoras for decades before his service was determined to be no longer needed. Her family was well respected and still lived in the lap of luxury. Beolyn was seated on the steps closest to the center of the room. The little sunlight that filtered through the roof fell upon her, casting a cool white light on her, as if even the heavens above favored her. Her focus was taken by the larger than life man before her.

He was seated on top of a table in the middle of the hall, practically lounging on it with one foot on the wooden top with the other resting on the bench below. Surrounded by women, he strummed at his lute and sang softly and sweetly a ballad about love and longing. His sapphire eyes were glued to the lady in lavender, and with how passionately he sang it could be assumed he was singing about Beolyn. The small smile on his face told Hilda it would be hard to get him alone.

The man, Kenric, was a musician who traveled with other musicians across Middle Earth, performing in different courts and cities for the noble men and women. Kenric especially loved performing for the women. He was a very flirtatious man whose only weakness is a pretty face, and to him it was clear Beolyn was the prettiest of all. He enjoyed having the freedom of moving from place to place, yet he seemed to love lingering in Rohan, and Hilda knew he lingered for Lady Beolyn. His carefree, womanizing nature could never hide how he looked at the Lilac Lady of Edoras.

The way Kenric looked at Beolyn hurt.

“Oh Hilda, you’re all dirty!” Cwenhilde exclaimed from behind Beolyn, drawing everyone’s attention to the maid. Cwenhilde was right, Hilda was truly a mess. Mud clung to the muted green of her skirt and corset and soiled the sleeves of her turquoise blouse. Every time she shifted she could feel the dirt grind uncomfortably against her skin, and she felt the way it clung to her cheek. The maid smiled sheepishly and tucked a strand of reddish blonde hair behind her ear. She would not spill the advisor’s secrets in front of - what used to be - half of the king’s court.

“I fell outside.” She lied, much to the amusement of some of the ladies there. Kenric’s sky colored gaze fell upon the basket of dark colored linen in Hilda’s grasp. He could see splotches of mud and clumps of grass clinging to the drenched heap. Drops of water leaked through the straw and dripped onto the stone floor. There was a puddle.

“Looks like Wormtongue will be without bedding tonight.” Kenric smirked. The women all giggled amongst themselves at his observation. His eyes met hers and she felt her throat tighten. “Godiva might actually kill you for this one after she rushes you back out to fix that. Or she’ll give you a worse assignment than this one was as punishment.” Washing Wormtongue’s sheets was supposed to be a punishment for tripping and breaking an entire table’s worth of dishware the day before. She couldn’t possibly imagine what worse fate Godiva would sentence her to for this blunder. Hilda grimaced at the thought.

“I am not reporting to Godiva like this.” Hilda stated firmly before waltzing up to Kenric. The women around them began to whisper amongst themselves, most likely making fun of Hilda for her appearance. Beolyn still stared at the musician. “I was actually coming here to ask you to walk me home so I can change.” The blond man arched his brow.

“I think you’d be perfectly safe walking home in broad daylight, Hilda.” Kenric began before gesturing grandly to the women who surrounded him. “And as you can see, I am still entertaining an audience.” He winked at Beolyn which prompted a cacophony of giggles from the other ladies and handmaidens.

Hilda found it hard to watch as red dusted along Beolyn’s porcelain cheeks. The display was almost sickening.

“Remember that guard I told you about?” Kenric frowned.

“The one who kept petitioning your father to let him marry you? The one who trapped you in awkward conversations by that very door? That guard?” Kenric asked, stifling an uncomfortable laugh. He did, however, remember this guard as being the reason Hilda asked him to accompany her home, hoping the sight of another man would ward him off. Kenric had been under the impression it worked.

“Yes, that one.” Hilda answered in an impatient tone. Kenric stood in an instant, hopping off of the table’s bench seat with his lute firmly grasped in his right hand. He turned back to the women with a small bow.

“Excuse me, ladies, I’m afraid a man must go teach a boy a lesson.” Hilda rolled her eyes as the women giggled at the theatrics.

Kenric rushed to Hilda’s side, opening the doors of the hall for her before slipping outside behind her. He’d almost forgotten the chill that lingered in the air and he shivered. The sun’s powerful rays still fought to break through the dull blanket of clouds in the sky, and the brightness of the outdoors made Kenric squint. It certainly didn’t help that Meduseld’s great hall was so much darker during the day and empty than it was outside. He had spent all day performing for and chatting with the ladies of the court, something he knew he would never tire of.

He linked arms with Hilda just as he had many times before and began to walk down the steps of Meduseld, but she refused to budge.

“Hilda?” There was a sudden look of mischief in her eye. “Oh Hilda, what are you up to?” Kenric sighed as his grip loosened on her arm.

“I saw Wormtongue and the dragon blood behind Meduseld.” She said finally, amusement present in her voice. Kenric’s eyes widened.

“What?” Kenric had talked to the dragon blooded Lady a few days prior, nearly swayed by her beauty. She seemed quiet and polite, and she laughed at his usual antics. He considered writing a song about her to sing amongst the other courts, for Kenric didn’t consider Lady Aelora to be monstrous like many did about dragon bloods, in fact, he didn’t consider dragon bloods monstrous at all. He used to be fascinated by the creatures, despite the horrific tales his mother weaved about them as he drifted off to sleep as a child.

He had witnessed Wormtongue lurking in Lady Aelora’s shadow, constantly watching her throughout the week and even lurking beside Meduseld when he had stopped to speak to Aelora. It was he who pointed out to her that Wormtongue had been watching her. He did think it odd that she simply laughed. She didn’t react how the other women would - she didn’t show she was alarmed or disgusted. Instead she simply thanked him and went back to writing in her journal. He thought that was odd, but he never expected her to seek out Wormtongue herself.

“It’s true! They had been standing in the fields in an embrace, kissing!” Hilda exclaimed. She loved gossiping with Kenric, it was something they did rather often, but nothing had ever been as juicy and scandalous as this.

“You lie!” He gasped with a large smile on his face.

“That’s why I’m covered in dirt! I had to hide behind that ledge over there.” She gestured as much as she could with Kenric still holding her other arm. The ledge was a bit further from the path they stood on, nearly hidden in the grass but gave a perfect view of the meadow behind Meduseld. The blond man smirked. “Do you think they’re still there?” He asked. Hilda slapped his chest lightly.

“I am not interested in finding out.” She giggled. “Besides, the noises I heard coming from Lady Aelora were enough to send me away, I’d rather not learn what Wormtongue sounds like when he’s being pleasured.”

“I beg your pardon?” A regal voice sounded from behind the two causing them to jump. Lord Viseryon stood behind them, a look of bewilderment upon his face and madness present in his eyes. Hilda felt her stomach drop at the sight of him, recounting the many horror stories her fellow maids had told about him over his short time in Edoras. He seemed to be masking his anger about their choice of topic, and she thought of the maids he physically threatened.

“Lord Viseryon!” Hilda bowed, elbowing her ditzy companion to do the same. Kenric halfheartedly bowed, rolling his eyes when his head was down. “To what do we owe the pleasure? It’s not often we’re graced by the presence-”

“Quit your pathetic groveling, what was it you were just talking about?” Hilda felt a bead of sweat trickle down the back of her neck despite the chilling weather. Viseryon’s scolding silver gaze was focused solely on her, and she feared her gossiping had awoken some beast that lay within the lord.

“It was nothing-”

“It was not nothing, you spoke of Aelora and the king’s advisor, a grave accusation at that. What was it you said?” The lord demanded. Hilda was frozen with fear, unsure of whether it was safe to report to him what she saw. She glanced at Kenric from the corner of her eye. The blond man was not afraid of the lord, he’d bore witness to Viseryon’s fits quite a few times and realized the man before him was all bark and no bite. He even wondered why Lord Viseryon cared who Lady Aelora was seeing in the first place, his concern didn’t seem to come from a place of fatherly caring.

Kenric would understand if Lord Viseryon saw Aelora as his child and was more concerned with finding a suitor for her, thus caring about her purity, but the look on Viseryon’s face was one of jealousy and possessiveness. The musician, as privy as he was to emotion, figured Viseryon viewed Aelora as property - his property to use in whatever way he saw fit. Kenric wanted to spit at the nobleman’s feet.

“We saw Lady Aelora and Wormtongue making love in the field just now behind Meduseld. We think they saw us and stopped but we aren’t sure.” Kenric stated, embellishing the original story in order to get a rise out of Viseryon. The lord’s face grew red out of embarrassment and anger. “They’re there now?” The silver lord asked. Kenric shrugged.

“I’d assume they’ve made their way indoors by now. Lady Aelora certainly saw us for she gasped quite loudly-” The lord turned on his heel and marched back indoors, already calling for Aelora in his usual shrill, annoying way. Hilda glanced at her friend and bit back the urge to shout at him.

“Well, that took care of that.” Kenric stated nonchalantly as if he didn’t start a nasty rumor about the king’s advisor. It was rooted in truth, that much she knew, but to say they were openly making love…

“He seemed furious.” The maid muttered. She sounded guilty. Kenric shrugged.

“It’s no longer our problem.” The musician sighed as he walked down the stone steps. He looked back at her. “Well? Don’t you have to get changed?”

That had been a day ago, and now Hilda stood before the ornate door to the room Lord Viseryon had been staying in for the last five days. She always thought the intricate carvings on the doors of Meduseld were breathtaking, even if she knew they were reserved for the noble men and women who stayed there. That number had dwindled in recent years to just the immediate family of Théoden king and Wormtongue. The Lord and Lady Draecyr were a welcome addition at first, seemingly livening up the halls with the excitement of new people walking around, but that feeling quickly soured with Lord Viseryon’s behavior.

Her legs and arms were shaking. She was still quite nervous to be face to face with Viseryon after what happened the day before. She wondered if he would still be mad at her, especially after Kenric decided to spin what she had seen into his own lie to make the lord angrier. If Lady Aelora denied Lord Viseryon’s accusation, which she most likely would, would he lash out at her today? Would Hilda be the first maid he’d actually hit?

The halls were eerily quiet that morning. Hilda knew it was still very early but she was used to guards and other remaining members of the king’s court wandering about, preparing for their days. Usually on the fifth day of the week the maid would even see the king’s nephew, Éomer, up bright and early. She had seen absolutely no one on her journey to Lord Viseryon’s quarters aside from Godiva. She could feel something was terribly wrong, and that feeling chilled her to the bone.

Her hand hesitated as she raised it to knock on the door.

She knocked three times and waited.

There was not so much as the rustling of sheets or the familiar whiny groan to tell her there was someone inside. Hilda let out a sigh of relief, hoping this meant Lord Viseryon woke up early that day to harass some other poor soul and she could do her job without worry. Yet, when she opened the door and was met by the darkness of his room, she could see his bed was still made. The curtain was still down over his window, and the door to his bathroom was slightly ajar. Hilda rushed inside and drew the curtain, letting the white light of the outdoors brighten the room enough for her to see. It let in the chill. The plush furs were still on the end of his bed and the jade green blankets were still tucked tightly under the mattress. She placed the new pitcher of water on his nightstand and collected the old one, only to realize it was still heavy with water from the night before.

Hilda placed the new sheets and the old pitcher of water down on the desk in the corner of the room and looked around, still not finding a single thing wrong with the room. The fresh candles that were brought the day before had not been lit and still were in their pristine condition. It was as if Lord Viseryon never stayed there in the first place, as if he never even stepped foot in the room. The only sign of life was a maroon tunic draped over the back of the lounging chair in the corner by his bed.

The maid chewed on her bottom lip anxiously. Was she to change the sheets now, or just leave them for the lord if he felt the need to change them. It was clear he hadn’t touched the bed all night. That unnerved feeling returned and crept up her spine. Without a second thought, she collected the clean bedding and left the room in a hurry, holding the linen close to her chest as she slammed the door.

She rushed down the hall, lost in her thoughts as she silently hoped Lord Viseryon decided to leave with his companion in the middle of the night. Perhaps he felt the need to keep her away from Wormtongue, perhaps he-

Her train of thought was interrupted as she ran into someone and fell to the floor. The bedding fell into her lap and unfolded slightly. Hilda glanced up to see the cold, dark gaze of Godiva as she stood over her with her arms crossed over her chest. She seemed angry.

“What has been taking you so long, Hilda? We have other things to do and you can’t just be wandering about and…” She trailed off at the sight of the white sheets in the younger maid’s lap. “Did you change Lord Viseryon’s sheets?” She asked, her voice growing angrier and more bewildered by the moment. Hilda quickly shook her head.

“His bed was still made when I went into his room, it was like he was never even there! The water was still full, too, I swear it!” The older woman cocked a brow, contemplating the younger maid’s words before offering a hand to help her up. Hilda gathered the unfolded sheets in her arms and took Godiva’s help.

“Perhaps he spent the night elsewhere? Well, what he doesn’t know won’t kill him, we’ll leave the blankets be. For now, use those sheets for Lady Aelora’s bed. She’s on the other side of Meduseld.” Godiva commanded, and Hilda abided.

The walk to Lady Aelora’s room was much less stressful. Along the way she even saw a few people, obviously having just roused from their slumber, getting ready for their days. Guards who stood tightening their armor and ladies of the court yawned as they awaited their handmaidens with hair still down and unbrushed. They all looked just as exhausted as she did that morning, sleep still present in their glassy eyes.

When Hilda arrived at Lady Aelora’s door she was still quite nervous. Kenric said she was a nice woman when he spoke to her alone, but Hilda still feared she would be gutted by the woman. Kenric had spoken to her in an open area where anyone could stumble upon them, and while he was not bothered by the tales told of dragon bloods, Hilda most certainly was. Her shaking hand knocked on the door.

Like before, there was no answer nor was there any stirring. With more people rushing around the hall and beginning their days she assumed Lady Aelora had risen early… or that her earlier theory was correct and Lord Viseryon had forced them to leave. She felt slightly more at ease with the fact that the dragon blood was not in her room and she opened the door confidently.

That confidence left her body in one shrill shriek that tore through the air and alerted everyone around her. Her eyes welled up with hot tears and her head became light. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, her arms felt heavy. She dropped the linen to the ground and dropped to her knees, fighting the urge to throw up at the scent of copper in the cold air.

✵✵✵✵✵

When she was sure Gríma had fallen asleep Aelora slipped out of his arms, an action she was entirely too familiar with. Under the dim light of the nearly dead candles, Aelora collected her discarded clothes, managing to only find her dress in the dark. She slipped her nightgown back over her head before tiptoeing over to the bed.

Her lover, so deep in sleep, looked peaceful. His bare brow that was usually furrowed in thought was relaxed, and the frown lines around his mouth were non-existent. She felt a pang of guilt as she looked upon his sleeping face, knowing she would have to leave. She feared him waking in the night to find his bed empty and most of all she feared him assuming betrayal. With everything she told him she wouldn’t blame him for assuming the worst when she disappeared without a trace in the middle of the night.

Aelora, no matter what happened in the future, would always be grateful for Gríma. Despite his oddities, he managed to show her that her life didn’t have to be lonely. Not everyone would look at her with suspicion and fear. She was not a monster…

But she is a dragon. And a dragon is not a slave.

Her knife gleamed in the flickering soft light of the candle, almost winking at her, egging her on. Even it seemed to know what she had to do, and it thirsted for blood. Viseryon’s blood. The blood of the last true Draecyr.

Looking around the room she searched for something that could aid her in getting away with her crime. His room was quite dark, leaving her to feel around for any item that might hold magical properties. She tried to mind the clothes left on the floor and the various furniture that might block her path, trying her hardest to stay quiet so as not to wake Gríma.

She stumbled her way through a door in the farthest corner of the room, and within this new area there was a window. Cool, blue light from the large moon filtered in and cast long shadows over the walls and floor. The floor was stone and cold and had a small step down from where the wood of the main room stopped. The room was mostly empty aside from a large tub toward the back and a wooden stand that stood before her against the wall. Atop the wooden stand was a single ivory comb that seemed to be made from the bone of some sort of animal, and beside it was a handheld mirror with a silver-colored metal handle and backing. Just above the stand was a couple of shelves with various bottles of liquid lining their surfaces. She could see different flowers stuffed into the bottles, and immediately she recognized them as perfumes.

She collected the mirror and perused the selection of perfumes Gríma collected, carefully searching for a particular flower and hoping he had it lying around. Even in the moonlight, the tall stalk of the violet flower stood out to her, practically calling out to her. She took the glass bottle with the Lavender stuffed inside and pulled the cork out from the narrow opening. She waltzed to the tub and sat on its rim, placing the mirror in her lap, and she poured the liquid out into the chilly water that sat inside its basin. It was clear Gríma had been planning on bathing before their escapade.

She had no way of knowing how long the plant had been soaking in the water other than the way the sweet aroma filled the air so suddenly, and immediately she made a mental note to buy Gríma a replacement for the fragrance.

Carefully, she pinched at the narrow stem of the plant with her nails and pulled it from the bottle, eyeing its drowned form with scrutiny. No, that wouldn’t do.

She held the flower away from her face at arms length and took a deep breath. She felt the burning sensation rise in her chest and throat as she blew gently. A warm amber and copper glow rose beneath her skin, trailing up the length of her chest and neck before brilliant flames erupted from behind her lips. The heat from her fire rid the flower of any excess wetness and dried it to the bone. The formerly violet petals turned an ashen purple and curled upwards unto themselves. They became brittle and nearly baked.

With the flower now dry, Aelora stood and brought it to the window. She placed the mirror face down on the windowsill and crumbled the lavender in her hand. She spoke firmly in a hushed tone: “I invoke the power to plunge the kingdom of Edoras into a deep slumber. Let them not wake til the first light reaches above the snowy peak of Starkhorn. Let my creator be exempt, and let my Gríma be easily awoken at the sound of me calling his name when the time comes.”

And with that, she blew the broken, dry petals out of the window and into the wind. As the breeze carried the lavender out into the village, Aelora held the mirror up to the moon, and in an instant the sky became a bright turquoise color as the moon glowed violet. She watched as the aqua color melted into a mist that cascaded down onto the sleeping kingdom, and it remained heavy upon the buildings like a fog upon the water. It glided into the window and filled both the room she was standing in and the room where Gríma slept soundly. He would remain that way for a while.

The candle’s flame was finally extinguished, smothered by the fog.

There was not a sound in the world that could wake the sleeping kingdom of Edoras without Aelora’s say so, and that was exactly how she wanted it. With everyone now under her spell, she grabbed the curved hilt of her knife from the desk and exited Gríma’s room.

Her door was a mere few feet away, yet it felt like a lifetime getting to it. Each footstep felt heavy and prolonged, like she had never walked before in her life. The closer she got to the oak door the less she felt like herself. Her body felt numb and she found it hard to think about anything at all - her mind was blank. Her hand came to rest against the wooden door as she stood still for a moment, taking deep breaths as she fought off tears. She had made it.

She hated Viseryon with every fiber of her being, yet part of her still loved him like a daughter would a father. He was spoiled, and vain, and his feelings for her grew inappropriate over time, but that did not change the fact that he was all she had her entire life.

He raised her. He taught her how to speak and how to read and write. He fed her and bought her the nicest of clothes, even when they were banished to the outskirts of Erech. She admired him at one point in her life, like all dragon bloods did their creators, and she couldn’t help but mourn the bond they used to have, even if he only created her to entrap Aemma.

She was afraid more than anything. She hoped that having Gríma suggest she murder Viseryon was enough for her to get away with it. In the history of Arda, there has never been a dragon blood who killed their creator, it was thought to be inherently against their nature. She could imagine the uproar now, the frightful looks, the suspicion, the accusations. If she could kill her creator, what's stopping her from killing anyone else? What’s stopping her from killing the king?

It mattered not what her creator might have been doing to her, or what he was planning. She hoped the bruises on her neck that took the shape of his hands were enough for them to understand, even though she knew deep down they would never understand. Anger began to chip away at the sadness, slowly bubbling beneath her skin and burning in her gut. She would make them understand.

With one last shaky breath, she opened the door to her room.

It was dark inside, but after a moment she was able to see the silhouette of her sleeping creator. She quietly slipped through the door, closing it as gently as she could, before making her way to the covered window on the wall farthest from the door. She’d kept the window covered all night, unable to look out at Edoras without thinking of what happened earlier in the day and how she may never see its green beauty again. It saddened her, but she needed the light now.

She wanted to see the fear in Viseryon’s eyes, the very fear she had every night when he was around. The very fear she experienced when he wrapped his rancid hands around her throat that afternoon.

She drew up the curtain, the violet light from the moon rushed in almost instantly, despite it residing on the opposite side of the sky from where her room was. The spell made it bright.

She watched her creator silently, observing the steady rise and fall of his chest with every breath he took. Rising and falling that would cease soon enough.

Up and down.

Viseryon’s face scrunched at the new presence of light, and he stirred restlessly before silently waking, blinking the sleep from his eyes as a look of confusion came over his fair features. Aelora stood over him, a blank look in her eye and her hands behind her back. He stretched his arms out, reaching toward her side of the bed when he suddenly realized that her side of the bed was cold. She had been gone for a while. “Aelora? Where did you run off to?” Was all he could choke out. Sleep was still heavy in his voice. The question was not accusatory, or at least, not yet. There was a genuine curiosity in his tone, like how one would speak to a pet after they had been missing all day. Her stomach turned uneasily.

Aelora walked to her side of the bed and knelt on the mattress, allowing her to still tower over her creator. It was almost a display of dominance. She hoped he wouldn’t recognize the violet moon and realize that they were the only ones awake in the kingdom - she hoped he was too tired to put the pieces together. She smiled bitterly at him as she thought of answers to his question.

His silver eyes shone brightly in the moonlight, as if the supernatural occurrence served to emphasize the otherworldly nature of their people. She tucked her knife further into her sleeve and brought her other hand to his cheek. Gently, she caressed his face, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes, yet the look on her face was that of a predator. She wondered if he knew how it felt now, to be leered at by something so dangerous.

“Where was I?” She repeated the question, and her creator nodded. She let out an airy laugh. Her heartbeat sped up, for she knew if she spoke she would have to kill him quicker. She licked her lips to combat the dryness that overcame them. Her hand tightened around the knife. “I was in councilman Gríma’s bed. I let him fuck me.” She repeated the very words Viseryon used against her before, though this time there was truth in them. She let the advisor fuck her and she enjoyed it.

There was sadism in the dragon blood’s smile as she watched recognition flash over Viseryon’s face, then anger, and then sadness. She wasn’t expecting sadness. He choked back a sob, which only served to confuse Aelora further.

“Oh, Aelora.” He cried. She was not moved, in fact, she was repulsed by his pathetic whining. For someone she thought so highly of as a child, she saw now that he was nothing but a pitiful worm. Instead, she readied her knife, holding it over her head as she watched the fear overcome his sorrow. She was not his, she would never be his. Aelora belonged to herself and no one else. Not Viseryon, not Gríma… her. She would make it known to Viseryon that he did not own her, and in that moment, he certainly understood her message.

His eyes were glued to the knife which shimmered a faint violet in the moonlight. He wondered if it was enchanted, he wondered what she would do to him. He looked back at her and could not recognize the beast in front of him, even if it was a beast he created. His dry, cracked lips opened and a gasp left them.

“Aelora, please.” He begged quietly, and she smiled. That was why she wanted him to be awake, she wanted to hear his pitiful cries and pleas. Her eyes were still focused on him, though it felt as if they were looking through him. He attempted to sit up but she grabbed him by his tunic, the same, dirtied white tunic he’d worn to bed for years. She pushed him back into the mattress and took the opportunity to straddle his hips, making sure he would go nowhere.

“I have asked and begged, just as you are now, for years and my pleas have fallen upon your deaf ears, Viseryon.” Aelora seethed. Her grip tightened around the knife’s handle to hide the way her hand shook.

Somehow, somewhere deep within the sneering woman he saw before him, he still managed to see the little girl he raised.

Aelora plunged the knife into his throat.

✵✵✵✵✵

A crowd gathered around Hilda, murmuring amongst themselves as they attempted to get a look into the room. The poor maid was lying on the floor unconscious, an arm over her forehead and the linen laid across her body. Most paid her no mind, finding the spectacle of the bloody body within Aelora’s room more interesting than the maid who discovered it. A guard pushed passed followed by two more, all who looked as if they had just been awoken by the commotion. They each let out a gasp and covered their mouth and nose at the scene before them.

Blood painted the wall just behind the bed near the headboard and stained the white sheets and pillows. Lord Viseryon’s cold, pale hand hung off of the side of the bed, where crimson dripped down the length of his fingers onto the cold, stone floor. His white tunic was darkened and made damp by his blood. His head laid beside his body, pointed up at the ceiling with its mouth slightly agape. His hair was tangled and frizzy, making it hard to see the way his haunting silver eyes were still wide with fear, gazing out into the unknown. The flesh of his neck was jagged and a deep red at the ends, with untrained cuts that made it clear the person who did this beheaded him with a knife instead of something like a sword or ax, meaning this was not the work of a true executioner or a careful assassin. This had gone unplanned.

“Someone get Lord Éomer!” The first guard shouted, feeling his stomach turn uneasily at the sight of the brutalized lord. He feared he would vomit.

The guard to his left took off down the hall to look for the king’s nephew, while the other shifted uneasily. They knew this would be a matter for the king after they found the culprit. Of course, they all knew he would not make a decision without Wormtongue’s say, and they all would wonder if he was the one behind this.

Kenric saw the crowd gathered at Lady Aelora’s door and quickly picked up his pace to join them. They all seemed rather upset, with some letting out quiet sobs and others whispering to the people around them. He immediately felt uneasy as he pushed through, and as he saw the traumatizing body of Viseryon he forced himself to look away, feeling his heart jump at the sight. He had never seen so much blood in his life. He was not one for violence.

Upon turning around, he kept his eyes to the ground and saw Hilda still lying there and his heart sank. Panic flooded the musician’s mind as he dropped to his knees. In a frenzy, he felt her forehead and listened carefully to make sure his friend was still breathing.

Without a second thought, Kenric scooped Hilda up into his arms and demanded everyone get out of his way. He would take her someplace to safely rest and find a healer. He hoped whoever killed Viseryon didn’t harm Hilda. He saw no blood or wounds upon her, which only slightly set his mind at ease. No one seemed to trample her, most likely too frightened to go near the horrifying scene within the room.

In his hurry, he failed to see the king’s advisor peeking from behind his own door at the commotion in the hall.

✵✵✵✵✵

When the deed was done Aelora sat numbly upon her bed. Red stained her hands and face, and it soaked her dark nightgown. The smell of blood was overwhelming, it filled the air and made her head spin. The sight of Viseryon’s metallic eyes staring blankly at her was haunting, and it did nothing but add to the surreal feeling she found herself experiencing. Her intention was not to behead him, yet the way she continued to stab his neck made that decision for her. She felt as if she couldn’t form a coherent thought. The way he choked on his own blood was burned into her mind. The gurgling sound he made as he tried to scream and breath and cry played on a loop in her head. She feared she would never be able to forget that sound.

What would happen when they found him? She slid off of the bed and felt the blood that drenched her dress drip down her legs. Her gown stuck to her skin uncomfortably and the way her thighs seamlessly glided against each other made her want to scream. She glanced back at the carnage she created, and part of her mind wandered. Her knife was still embedded in the jagged stump of his neck, surrounded by still oozing blood. She wondered how much pain he was in when he died. Her eye trailed to the red that stained the tangle of his silver hair - no part of him went unsoiled, clearly. The scene was sickening. Surely they would kill her for this. She knew she couldn’t stay there.

Aelora stumbled her way out the door, feeling her once dry mouth fill with saliva as she fought the uneasy turning of her stomach. She leaned against the wall, breathing heavily and feeling the cool air fill her lungs. Her stained hands spread against the wall, and she knew there would be blood left in their wake. Her tear filled eyes met Gríma’s door. The air was sobering.

She pushed herself off the wall and tumbled to the door across from her. Her hand ghosted across the wooden surface before she gently rapped on it. “Gríma…” She whispered. It was time. There was a shift in the air as the aqua haze before her faded ever so slightly, and the spell she cast on the kingdom was lifted only for her lover.

Gríma awoke with a startled gasp, looking out into the darkness of his room while he slowly remembered where he was. The violet glow poured in through the bathroom door which had been left open by just a crack, and in the low light he realized he was alone. He heard the gentle tapping at his door. He paused for a moment, trying his best to compose himself and think through his sleep-addled mind.

He slid out of bed and felt around for something to cover himself. His clothes were strewn about the room and there were far too many layers to struggle to put on, so he made his way to his desk where a long, dark tunic was draped on the back of his chair. He slipped it over his narrow shoulders and made his way to the door. He opened it slowly.

The sight before him was frightful. Aelora stood in his doorway with a blank look in her eye. Blood painted her hands and face, and it drenched her long, silver hair. He couldn’t help but take a step back out of fear. He never expected her to kill Viseryon that night, he figured she would have waited. Despite his fear, he reached out for her and caught her collapsing form in his arms.

“Aelora?” She looked up at him through half lidded eyes. “Come inside, my love. I’ll run a bath for you.” He chose not to bring up what she had done. He took one last look down the hall to make sure no one could see her, and he made sure her door was shut, before leading her inside. She seemed to be in a daze. He guided her to the bathroom and rushed around to light the coals beneath the tub, grateful that the water was still there. He couldn’t summon someone to fetch water at that time of night, especially not with Lady Aelora in his room at all, let alone covered in blood.

“It’s done.” She muttered. He glanced back at her from over his shoulder and nodded curtly. “I know, my love.” He kept calling her that, it came so naturally to him, falling from his lips with no resistance. The coals glowed a deep orange and a fire grew beneath the tub, and the smell of smoke filled the air and competed with the overbearing smell of metal that came from Aelora. He turned to face her finally, still kneeling on the ground while she watched the water silently.

“The people of Rohan will be grateful for what you’ve done… eventually.” He tried to find a silver lining in all of this, a way to make her feel better. He tried doing what he did best, and that was kissing up to people. He didn’t mind doing so to Aelora. Her red gaze flickered to him, and behind her eyes there was suspicion. “Will they?” She spoke in a harsh whisper.

“Of course they will. If you were telling the truth then Viseryon would be a traitor and a potential usurper. I think we both know he would have been unfit to wear the crown.” He rose to his feet and rubbed soothingly along her shoulders. “You made the right choice. And they may fear you now but in time they will see the way your actions served the realm.” Blood stuck to his palms.

“They’ll want me dead. They’ll have me killed.” She stated. Gríma shook his head.

“I won’t let them.” He said firmly. He would never admit it to her, but he needed her to kill Viseryon - the lord jeopardized everything he had worked to achieve. Of course, the plan had been slightly derailed with Aelora around, and as of now he was content with remaining the king’s advisor. Her crimson eyes met his and she gave him a small smile, though there was still a sadness to her.

The water in the tub began to bubble slightly and warm steam began to rise off of its surface. Gríma quickly turned around and put the flames out, but when he turned back to Aelora she was already stripping. She dropped her blood soaked gown to the ground and he could see the way the red clung to the pale skin of her thighs and stomach. Her long hair came to rest over her breasts, the length of silver stopping just below her navel. There was blood clumping parts of her hair together toward the ends.

She walked toward the tub, much to Gríma’s alarm. He reached out for her, grabbing ahold of her wrist and stopping her just before she was able to climb into the boiling water. “Aelora, wait. You’ll burn yourself.” She looked back at him with her same tired eyes. She shook her head. “Don’t worry about me.”

Gently, she pulled her hand away and turned back to the tub. She took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for what may happen. He watched her closely with wide, wild eyes, unsure of what she was thinking. He desperately didn’t want her to hurt herself, but he wondered if the boiling water would snap her out of whatever trance she was under. Would the water even hurt her?

“I’ll be fine.” She sank into the water, submerging herself from head to toe. Gríma froze. There was no thrashing, she didn’t rise from the water with a scream, there were no signs to indicate she was in pain. She simply sat still. He waited quietly, holding his breath for as long as she remained underwater. The steam from the bath filled the room and chased the cold back out the window, which had remained open since Aelora cast her spell. Sweat beaded at the back of his neck and beneath his tunic. He could barely hide how afraid he was for her.

It was odd. He had known Aelora for only four days now, yet he couldn’t deny he cared for her. He wondered if it was due to her being so unafraid to be near him, or if it was the way she held his gaze and touched him. In all of his life he’d only wanted one woman, the Lady Éowyn, and much like everyone else around him she would never let him near her. For years he had watched the king’s niece from afar, only dreaming of having her affection. He thought there was no one fairer than she in all of Middle Earth, and then Aelora came along. He certainly saw the parallels when he first started following Aelora around, convincing himself that he was following her out of his duty to the throne as opposed to the fact he found her attractive.

He moved slowly toward the tub, realizing she had been underwater for far too long. As he stared into the water at her white locks floating around her, he thought of how she proved the impossible was possible. Someone could love him, even if so far it seemed she was only interested in the physical. He hoped with Viseryon out of the way their affair could blossom into something more. Ah yes, the other reason he wanted the Sohnyar lord out of the way. He would never admit it aloud, and he hardly liked thinking about it, but he desperately wanted Aelora to stay. With all of Viseryon’s scheming and the way Aelora was essentially his property, he knew he could never have her with him around.

Gríma was and always would be a selfish man.

Aelora arose from the water with a gasp, pushing her hair from her face as the red tinted liquid dripped from her arms. She seemed more awake now, and she looked at Gríma with aware eyes. He dropped to his knees once more, resting his hands on the rim of the tub as he looked at her with awe. She let out an airy laugh that gradually grew into a more manic, uncontrolled laugh. Tears brimmed in her eyes and he could tell something was terribly wrong. She quieted down after a moment, sniffling and wiping her tears away.

“I’m sorry, I just… I can’t believe I did that.” She admitted, hiding her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I’m finally free.” He did wonder what hell Aelora had been living in for most of her life.

“Are you alright?” She looked at him again before looking over herself, and she let out another small chuckle.

“Oh, right. The water.” She stopped and smiled sweetly. She seemed much more lucid now. “The heat doesn’t hurt me, fire won’t hurt me either. Fire does not burn those born of dragons.” She explained simply. Her pale flesh turned a rosy pink in the water, and he couldn’t help but mentally cringe at the sight. She said she wasn’t hurting though, and he supposed that was all that mattered. He inched nearer.

“If I may,” he began, awkwardly clearing his throat as he struggled to word his question, “what exactly did you do to him?” Aelora froze. With how much blood covered her he was sure it was gruesome. She clearly had a lot of vitriol reserved for her creator. She let out a sigh.

“I’d rather not say.” She whispered. He understood.

“Then I’ll ask another question. Why tonight?” Gríma had several questions he needed answered, but of course that one was the most important. When he suggested Aelora kill Viseryon he didn’t expect her to act on it immediately. He hoped Aelora would wait and consult him, perhaps go about things in a more subtle way. He would have given her the poisons to do it without a second thought. The way she did it, and the suddenness of her actions, made it incredibly hard to spin a tale absolving her of the blame. She shifted in the tub, coming closer to the rim and her lover. The violet moonlight shone down on her and made her hair look like pure white. Then, as he looked a bit closer, he saw it.

Around her neck were large, blossoming bruises in the shape of Viseryon’s fingers. They seemed much more vibrant in the unnatural lighting, but that didn’t change the way Gríma’s breath hitched. He knew she mentioned that her creator had tried to kill her before they drifted to sleep, but she never mentioned how. He couldn’t believe it, and he wondered how he missed such a thing earlier in the night. His face was so close to it, his lips brushed over it, and yet he never noticed. He took her hand in his and her flesh nearly burned his.

“I told you he tried to kill me.” She began. The raven haired man nodded. “I said he couldn’t find out about us or he would kill me. Going back to him like that…”

“I’ll find a way to help you.” Gríma promised, bringing her steaming knuckles to his lips. She blushed at the action and smiled. He loved seeing her smile, especially knowing what he knows now.

The steam continued to rise from the tub and he wanted nothing more for the water to cool enough for him to slip in beside her. He reached for the stand against the wall and pulled an old rag from the drawer. It was a pale blue color and looked as if it was falling apart. It looked like it would be scratchy against her skin. He dipped it in the water, ignoring how hot it still was, and brought the cloth to Aelora’s cheek where he gently wiped away the blood that remained after her soak. The blood that still stuck to her skin was flaky and broke away easily with each pass of the cloth.

Aelora closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. “You will tell them what you told me.” Gríma stated firmly. She glanced at him, hardly able to hide the uncertainty and apprehension in her eyes. “Lay low tomorrow. Leave the king and his decision to me.” She nodded. He handed her the cloth so she could finish up wiping away the evidence of her crime. She took it gingerly and began scrubbing her arms and hands.

Gríma turned and gazed at the violet moon, filled with uncertainty. He let his mind wander as he wondered why the sky looked the way it did. He looked back at Aelora, almost afraid to ask about the moon. He thought about the way he woke up so suddenly when Aelora was at his door, and the way the kingdom seemed so quiet, even for the middle of the night. The moon had not budged since he fell asleep.

“I shall fetch a bucket to clear the water before the maids find it.” He told her, rising to his feet. She let out a sigh, sinking back into the water up to her shoulders while her hands gripped the edge of the tub.

“Yes, it would be best to dump the water before everyone wakes.” She remarked calmly. “At least you won’t have to worry about sneaking around.” Gríma frowned.

“What do you mean by that?” He asked. She smirked.

“The spell invoking a violet moon puts people in a deep sleep. Nothing will wake them until the caster says so, or unless they set specific requirements that need to be met. I can assure you we’re fine for the time being.” Aelora explained as she closed her eyes. The way she constantly seemed to switch between alarmed and confidently calm was confusing, to say the least. He should have known she would have taken the precautions to make sure no one would interrupt her.

“Was I-”

“You were. I made sure you would wake when I called your name.” That explained why he woke so suddenly.

When she was done bathing they both worked to drain the tub, dumping the red tinted water out the window by the bucket full. It seeped into the ground slowly, pooling on the grassy surface and splashing mud on the wooden wall. By the morning it would be gone.

Gríma dressed Aelora in a spare tunic he had, and together they went to bed. She curled up in his arms as she did hours before, and for a moment it was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

✵✵✵✵✵

Éomer stared down at Viseryon’s remains, masking his horror.

They had set up a pyre to display the carnage for the king to see, and for anyone who might have wanted to pay their respects. His head had not been reattached, but it was aligned with his neck and a single red ribbon had been draped across the split. The Sohnyar lord’s eyes had been closed, and his hands were neatly folded across his chest. They had someone dress him in the clothes he arrived in: a black overcoat embroidered with diamond patterns and a maroon tunic with black pants, and a bronze pin adorned with a snake-like dragon encircling the world was placed over his left breast. On his left forefinger was a similar bronze ring adorned with a red gem in the center of the dragon’s eye. His long hair had been carefully braided into a single braid that was laid under his body.

He looked like a proper Sohnyar for the first and last time. The last of the Draecyr line, laid to rest in a land foreign to him by his own creation. He might have been unbearable in life but Éomer couldn’t help but feel bad for the nearly forgotten family. Their last son…

It reminded him of the recent loss that plagued his uncle.

Of course, Viseryon’s situation was different. His parents had died by the time the lord turned thirteen, the year the Sohnyar boys were to cut their hair signifying that they were men. The length of Viseryon’s hair showed he kept with tradition and refused to cut it again. He seemed much more at peace now, dressed up by those who tended to the dead, than he did that morning. The image of his detached head and bloodied body would stick in Éomer’s mind for a long time, and he feared seeing it appear in his nightmares.

It would not be the last of the horrific things the young heir would witness.

Théoden king sat upon his throne, wheezing with each labored breath and staring down at the scene before him from behind white bushy brows. Beside him sat Gríma, perched in his seat in his usual gargoyle-like way, who uncharacteristically had not said a word the entire time. He hardly moved to whisper in the king’s ear. His dark aura was a plague upon Éomer’s uncle, who was already a distressed and troubled man. Ever since the death of Théodred, Théoden king’s health began to decline. The already aging man seemed to give in to the effects of time almost rapidly, and he slowly became unable to think for himself. He trusted Gríma before all of this, and he continued to trust the man now, much to the dismay of his nephew. Éomer blamed the advisor for his uncle’s failing health.

In the corner of the room stood his sister, Éowyn, who watched the room wearily. She was dressed in a deep emerald green that juxtaposed her brother’s maroon armor. The velvet dress was embroidered with golden thread. She looked similar to her brother, with golden hair and fair skin. They both had the same round face and sullen eyes. He was taller than her by a few inches, with dark facial hair and an all around rougher exterior.

She stayed close to the shadows, shrinking away in the corner of the room in hopes of staying out of Wormtongue's sight. It didn’t work as she’d hoped, for his eye found her the moment she walked into the room. She came to the great hall to see just what everyone was whispering about, much to her brother’s dismay, and was slightly relieved to see that the body had been mostly restored and made presentable.

The last person in the room was Kenric, who silently sat to the side, opposite of Lady Éowyn, where he tuned his instrument. He rushed back to Meduseld after leaving Hilda with a healer near her home. He was assured she would be alright. He watched out of curiosity, waiting to see what would happen and find out who killed Viseryon.

The front doors to the hall had been left open just enough for people to file through if they pleased, and the bright light of the sun shone through the crack. Its white light fell upon Viseryon’s body and Éomer like a spotlight, and it stretched their shadows across the floor before the king and his advisor. Despite the light, the room was somber and cold. It showed just how empty the hall was, and the contrast made the shadows appear much darker than they were.

“I’ve yet to receive word on the dragon blood’s whereabouts. We found a knife that we suspect belongs to her in his neck this morning.” Éomer’s strong voice echoed through the hall. He reached into the satchel he wore on his hip and produced Aelora’s curved blade, and Gríma felt his body tense.

Aelora was still in his chambers, most likely sleeping soundly in his bed. They discussed the plan one more time before going to sleep, and he decided then to do most of the heavy lifting. He would attempt to convince everyone she was innocent and kidnapped, and if that didn’t work then she would tell the truth of why Viseryon was there in the first place. After agreeing to this, she requested he bring some of her own clothes when it was safe to do so, and when he returned later that day with a few of her dresses she was asleep again, holding the pillow he’d laid on the night before tightly. The dire situation didn’t change the fact that the image before him was one he’d imagined a million times before - though it was always with a different woman than her.

The dark haired man was surprised the guards hadn’t ransacked his room yet, given how much he was sure Éomer suspected he was behind the killing.

Gríma turned to the king and for the first time that day he whispered, “And he suspects the dragon blood of such a crime? They’re renowned for their loyalty to their creators. I have my doubts about this accusation, my king.” Théoden’s tired eyes met Gríma’s, and he thought about the words being fed to him. It was true, dragon bloods were supposed to be loyal to a fault. The day the Draecyrs arrived in Edoras, his niece had reminded him of the tale of Naessa, the dragon blood created by usurper Queen Caecelia of the Six - also a Draecyr, who was executed for carrying out what her creator wanted - which was to kill the then king of Rohan, Alrid, who had been crowned before the first line was established with Eorl. Caecelia plunged the realm into a brief chaos before Eorl slayed Naessa and executed the Sohnyar woman. Ever since then, there had been very few Sohnyar welcome back into Rohan, especially Draecyrs.

From what his fragile mind could remember, Naessa was a pitiful creature. Aelora hardly seemed comparable to her, though.

“Dragon bloods… are… loyal.” Théoden’s voice wavered as he huffed each word out. Gríma nodded.

“Excellent observation, my liege.” He turned his attention to the king’s nephew. “What makes you think she was able to go against her own nature?”

The younger man’s expression darkened with anger. He had to tread carefully and not jump to accuse anyone just yet, given he heard the rumors about the advisor and Aelora. He knew Gríma was lying, as he usually did, but his lies couldn’t completely cover up the evidence. That was Aelora’s knife, it was a particular blade found only amongst the Sohnyar, there was no denying it.

“This is her knife, Gríma. I know it.” He stated firmly, holding the knife by its handle and the tip of its blade. The advisor narrowed his pale eyes at this and frowned.

“How are you so sure?” He asked, leaning forward ever so slightly. If he could continue to sew the seeds of doubt into the young lord then he could easily absolve Aelora of any guilt. “For all we know that was Lord Draecyr’s blade, after all, I don’t see her name branded on it. It’s simply a Sohnian blade, it easily could have been taken from Viseryon earlier in the day and used in the murder later.”

“Do you consider me a fool, Gríma?” Éomer boomed. The lord was quickly losing his patience. The pale man shifted in his seat uncomfortably, practically shrinking back into his over cloak, looking like a pile of cloth seated beside the king.

“Of course not, my lord.”

“Then do not force me to call your character into question in front of my uncle.” That had to be a threat. Gríma brought a hand up to his chest where he nervously played with the bronze chain that hung beneath his cloak.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” He seethed. The blond glared at him.

“I will not sit to the side and watch as another situation like Naessa evolves before my eyes. I will not lose my uncle.” It took everything in his power to not call Gríma out. He chose the safer route. The treacherous man before him opened his mouth to speak - to spew more lies to protect the woman he’d come to love.

Did he truly love her? Surely it was too early to decide.

“All I suggest is that we mustn’t jump to conclusions. The king is right, a dragon blood would be incapable of such violence against their creator.”

“He was found in her room.” The blond man countered in a harsh voice. Gríma was hardly affected by the outburst.

“This is true, yet we haven’t been able to find her. Who’s to say the killer didn’t kill her too. Perhaps they kidnapped her, not that they would get very far with her in that case. I’d imagine it’s very hard to capture an angry and defensive dragon blood.” Gríma suggested, to which the throne’s heir scoffed. He turned his dark gaze to his uncle, who seemed to listen less and less to his council in favor of Gríma’s as of late. He hoped, for his own sake, that Théoden would listen to him.

“Uncle, please.” He began, his face softening. “I believe she’s dangerous. We don’t know where she is and I fear for your safety.” He was never in danger, Gríma thought exhaustedly.

“We have no reason to believe she would want to kill you, my liege. Your nephew is simply playing up his usual hysterics to convince everyone his own prejudices are rational. Lady Aelora has been a rather polite guest, and I followed her around myself to be sure she and her creator weren’t planning to usurp you. She is not a threat.” Gríma whispered to the king. Théoden sat blankly, taking in the information all at once and struggling to process it. He had hardly been around Éomer as of late and could not confirm whether his nephew did have something against Lady Aelora. He supposed if Gríma had been following her around he would have witnessed this behavior. He trusted the man beside him.

“Have I ever lied to you, my king?” Gríma continued, “I have every reason to believe Aelora was not behind this, and in the unlikely case that she was, there must be a reason behind it. I don’t think a girl of her stature could even behead Viseryon in the way it was done. Look, his hair is uncut. Do you really think Lady Aelora, a woman raised so entrenched in Sohnian culture as herself, would really kill Viseryon without cutting his hair? It signifies defeat in their culture, she had every reason to do so, and yet it remains untouched. Don’t believe Éomer’s fear mongering.”

Théoden supposed they should look for her first and then go from there. He wholeheartedly believed the girl was in trouble, like Gríma suggested, and if they could find her they could get the answers they so desperately sought.

“We… must find her.” Théoden began, his voice less weak than before. “We must… ask her who… did this.”

Then, a large shadow rose over the hill, stretching along the stone floor of Meduseld and casting Éomer, Gríma, and Théoden in darkness. Between the doors now stood Aelora, dressed head to toe in a bright scarlet. Her silver locks were braided back into a single braid that cascaded down her back like the sterling waters of a waterfall. Around her neck was a large, ornate golden choker that took the shape of a dragon. The creature coiled around the length of her neck, hiding most of her skin beneath its golden scales. And on her fingers were two golden rings that connected to a bracelet on her wrist by a golden chain. She waltzed into the great hall, catching the eye of everyone inside and everyone who waited outside.

Aelora usually dressed in black. Every time Éomer saw her she wore a dark dress with red rarely showing on the garment. It was more common to see her draped in gold jewelry than to see the red underneath the sleeves of her dresses. To see her now, when she should be mourning, dressed in such a bright shade of red, was alarming. She had no shame.

Gríma couldn’t believe what he was seeing either. He was the one to bring her clothes when they woke up in the morning, after the crowd had dispersed and the guards moved Viseryon’s body from her room. He brought her three dresses like she’d asked for: two black ones and a red one. He never expected her to choose the red one. He felt his silver tongue turn to lead in his mouth.

The dragon blooded woman stopped before Viseryon’s body, staring down at him silently while everyone watched her. Éomer grit his teeth and pushed toward her, yet she did not flinch. Her hands laid on the pyre gently.

“Lady Aelora,” Éomer began, “where have you been?”

She glanced up at him. He saw nothing but calmness in her eyes. Not sadness, not anger, there was no malice, only calm. Her gaze traveled past him and to the king’s advisor. It was a subtle look, but it was all Éomer needed to confirm his suspicions. The rumors were true, and Gríma had Viseryon killed for his own selfish reasons.

“I was resting.” She answered honestly, looking back down at Viseryon.

“And where were you las-”

“I killed him.” Aelora admitted, though that much should have been obvious. Gríma’s eyes grew wide as he watched everything he worked hard to convince Éomer of burned before him. If he had a little more time he would have been able to subdue the lord. He watched everyone wearily, at a loss for words for the time being.

“So you admit it?” Éomer breathed. Aelora stood up straight and looked the lord in his dark eyes. The look set the hairs on the back of his neck on end, though he would not show it. He was a seasoned warrior and he knew that there was never a proper time to show fear. “You killed your own creator in cold blood.”

“Not everything is as it seems, Lord Éomer.” The dragon blood spoke. Her hands came up to her neck as she undid the golden clasp at the back of her choker. The dragon split and she lowered the necklace to reveal the bright purple and blue bruises that adorned her neck. She dropped the heavy necklace on the ground.

“Viseryon was a dangerous man. He was sent here to kill you, Théoden king, and dragged me along with him. I was to do the killing. He never said what would have happened to me, and I came to love this place. He made me destroy our carriage in order to stay longer, so out of fear of what he would do to me I snuck off in the middle of the night to burn it. He told me the plan, that we would kill the king by the seventh day and he would be rewarded with the throne. I thought about it, and I knew this kingdom would be doomed if he wore the crown. Then I realized I would be the one to take the fall for his actions. If I killed the king I would be blamed and executed. I refused to kill for him.” She stopped and fought back tears. “I refused to kill for him and he tried to strangle me. He said he would kill me for not obeying him… it was him or me, and I refuse to betray the crown.” She cried.

Éomer froze as his heart dropped. He had a sneaking suspicion that was what the Draecyrs were doing in Rohan, much like everyone else. The only person who seemed to think it was a good idea was Gríma himself and from the sounds of it, he didn’t entirely trust them either. Aelora brushed past the pyre and to the steps leading to the throne. Éomer was quick to jump in front of her, fearing for a moment she would attempt to assassinate the king.

“The things he tried to do to me…” Aelora trailed off, finding the new revelation of why Viseryon acted the way he did around her was too much to bear at the moment. She took a deep breath. “He treated me like property. He isolated me from anyone and everyone. When I had begun to make friends here in Rohan he accused me of terrible things and insisted on sleeping with me in my bed for the rest of our stay, as if I was the one who couldn’t be trusted. I did everything he asked me to. He was all I had, my safety, my world… until he wasn’t. The moment he wrapped his hands around my throat was the moment I realized I had to get away.” She explained. She dropped to her knees, her skirt collapsing around her legs like the flaming feathers of a phoenix.

“I beg for your forgiveness. I know what I have done is a horrible crime, but I ask you, am I not a person like you? Do I get no say in what happens to me just because I am the creation of another? Am I not allowed to fight to live, just as you would?” She couldn’t see the way Lady Éowyn’s demeanor changed. She was almost sympathetic to Aelora. Almost.

Gríma, on the other hand, was rather impressed with her display. She was telling the truth, technically. Though she left out the crucial detail of why Viseryon tried to kill her, twisting it in her own way to garner sympathy. One look at Théoden and he knew the old king was falling for her act. Hell, the way she cried about Viseryon’s controlling nature pulled at his own heartstrings, though he knew it would. It happened before.

“You can’t argue self defense with this. The man was beheaded.” Éomer argued, much to Aelora and Gríma’s dismay. The pale man quickly got to work to counter this point with the king.

“She must have been gravely upset, after all, the man did try to kill her. We don’t know if he tried again in her chambers, and in my opinion he must have, wouldn’t you agree?” The king nodded.

“And how do we know those bruises are from Viseryon? The kingdom whispers of how you lay with snakes.” Or perhaps worms would be the more accurate word, Éomer thought as he watched Aelora’s face drop. She looked betrayed, but not angry. The way she was able to camouflage her emotions was impressive. Gríma nervously pressed his thin lips into a thinner line.

“Who I’ve shared my bed with previously has no bearing on the matter, but if it concerns you so I will have you know I am still a virgin, my lord.” She lied to his face with no malice or annoyance in her voice at the accusation. “And I know the people who vie for my affection wouldn’t harm me in the way Viseryon had.” She stood up straight and made her way back to the pyre where she grabbed one of Viseryon’s cold, rigid hands.

“Here, I’ll prove to you it was him.” She bent down slightly and pulled his hand to her neck, readjusting his fingers to fit the pattern left behind from the day before. They fit perfectly, each one sliding onto its designated purple line like a puzzle piece falling into place. She felt her heart beat faster with his hand touching her neck again. The feeling brought her back to the hall the day before, and she didn’t like remembering that.

Gríma quickly turned to the king and began whispering. “His hands are a perfect match, lord, see? She must be speaking the truth.” He gestured to Aelora, and the king nodded. Gríma made plenty of sense to him, it had to have been a self defense killing, and one that preserved his own life at that.

Éomer felt slight guilt as he spoke again.

“We cannot be sure that was him, his hands are about the size of mine.” He stated somberly. Aelora let out a sigh. She wouldn’t give up just yet.

“It’s the truth.” Spoke a meek voice from behind them. Both Éomer and Aelora turned around and their eyes met the small frame of the maid Hilda. Kenric immediately sat up, overwhelmingly relieved to see his friend awake. “I saw Lord Viseryon strangling Lady Aelora in the halls yesterday. He was furious with her, for what I don’t know, but it truly seemed like he would kill her. I saw her face turn purple before he let go.” She recounted, stepping shyly into the hall.

“I wouldn’t doubt it was because she refused to kill the king.” Hilda finished, coming to a stop beside Kenric in the corner. The dark haired man turned to the king once more and whispered one last request.

“Let her stay. She’s proven herself trustworthy.”

Théoden struggled to get to his feet, reaching for a black staff with a handle made out of some sort of bone. His joints creaked and his hand wobbled as he supported himself. Gríma quickly stood, reaching out his arms in an attempt to help the king up and to make sure he didn’t fall. Théoden waved his hand, and his advisor stood to the side. Slowly, the aging king hobbled forward and down the steps. His nephew stepped out of the way, but Aelora stood still. He stopped before her and caught his breath.

“I thank you, then.” He began, “You show loyalty… to… a land that isn’t your own…” He struggled once more, moving his face away as he coughed. “You have earned your… place here.” The room fell silent, but she could tell the king’s nephew was far from pleased. A small smile formed on her lips as she curtsied.

“Thank you, your highness. I am forever in your debt.” She stated as sincerely as possible, when really she knew the person she owed the most was Gríma. She turned back to Viseryon’s body. She had one last request.

“The Sohnyar are to be burned when they die. We see it as a connection to Arien and a way of returning ourselves to her.” She stated lowly. “Viseryon deserved nothing in life, but I ask we at least grant him this.” The king nodded.

As Aelora fled the hall, and Éowyn and Éomer rushed to help their uncle back to his chambers to rest, Kenric strummed lightly on his lute. Gríma stood before the throne, listening as Kenric sang softly.

Lady Aelora, dressed in red,

Not a tear she did shed for her creator

who now lay cold and dead.

____________________________________________________ Some things of note:

This story is a mix of book canon and movie canon

I've taken some liberties with the timeline and had Theodred's death moved up by a year because this story takes place in 3017 while LOTR takes place in 3018.

The lesser born characters Hilda and Kenric will be making multiple appearances throughout this story.

The Sohnyar are a race of man that I came up with, they come from the mostly volcanic island of Sohn which was scorched when Morgoth attempted to ravage Arien. It's mentioned here that the Sohnyar are burned when they die as a means of reuniting themselves with Arien, so that's what that's referring to. Queen Caecelia of The Six is mentioned because she is a very important figure in Sohnian culture. She is the second born Draecyr and the second of The Six original Sohnyar who were created by Morgoth and Arien. The Draecyrs came from the ground and made up the first three of The Six, while the other Sohnian family, The Aeryses, came from the smoke in the air. Their island was sunk by Morgoth in an attempt to wipe his failure from the earth, but the Sohnyar fled and made their way to middle earth where they settled in Gondor. The Sohnyar have a special connection to dragons and are the only group of people on Arda to have created dragon bloods, and the creatures originated with the Aeryses. Caecelia, who married Alrid, was jealous of Tyrienne Aerys who kept her last name after marrying, and opted to create the dragon blood Naessa to obtain power. Just a bit of a lore dump. I plan on writing about this more later after I finish Aelora's story.

Also, Imma be real, I really tried to keep Grima in character but idk if I was able to do it so sorry if it's a bit ooc :)

#lotr #lord of the rings #lotr fanfic #lotr x reader #grima wormtongue #grima wormtongue x reader #grima wormtongue x oc #oc x canon #fanfiction #lotr fanfiction #brad dourif #my fic: Blood of the Dragon #my OC: Aelora Draecyr

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