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damneddamsy · 1 month ago

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part v)

a/n: on this episode of Stark Fluff, claere gets a visitor, and cregan has mixed feelings about threesomes. also, cregan learns the harp.

Winterfell wore the slow creep of winter like a familiar cloak. The skies had grown paler, casting the looming walls of the castle in a sallow light, while the cold nipped steadily at its people, urging them to quicken their preparations. From the kitchen to the stables, grain stores were replenishing, the last of the harvest before frost could claim the fields. Blacksmiths hammered iron, the women mended at worn cloaks and men bundled hay for the livestock. Winter was not yet here, but its shadow lingered on the wind, always whispering its warning.

In the heart of the keep, the Glass Gardens had begun to take shape. The towering structure Claere had envisioned stood as a defiant tribute to life in a place where death crept so close. As the days passed, the curved iron frames of the brilliant garden grew taller, and panes of glass steadily fitted into place, though fewer hands worked than before. Claere's journey to the Wall and the ominous silence she had shared upon her return had compelled many away. And yet, those who remained—the builders and labourers still assigned to the task—seemed to grow fond of her, drawn to her quiet kindness, the way she listened with impossible patience to the complications.

But today, the hour she usually spent overseeing the glass gardens came and went. Claere was nowhere to be found.

Cregan noticed her absence first, though no one else seemed to. He strode through the courtyard, determined footsteps echoing through the Great Keep as he searched for her. He had asked the guards, the servants—none had seen her. There was concern in his chest, though his outward manner remained calm, and controlled. His pace eased when he finally came across a group of children playing by the kitchens. They must know something.

He crouched to their height and asked, “Have you seen Lady Stark?”

One of the girls, with red cheeks and tangled braids, blinked up at him. "She must be in the crypts, my lord. She's there on the third day of every sennight."

“The crypts?” Cregan frowned, his confusion evident. “Why?”

The girl only shrugged, her young eyes widening with uncertainty. “My lady says it’s of great benefit.”

A vague answer, but there was little else to go on.

The cold air within the cavernous crypts was still, undisturbed by the world above. As Cregan descended into the darkness, his eyes adjusted to the flickering glow of torches, casting long shadows over the stone effigies of his ancestors. He passed the statues of old kings and queens of the North, of Starks long gone, their direwolves carved faithfully at their feet. Their vigilant, stone eyes seemed to follow him as he walked deeper into the crypts, past his forefathers and mothers, the ancient guardians of Winterfell’s legacy.

It was then that he saw her, like a blossom of blue satin and grey furs in the black earth.

Claere sat on the cold stone floor by the statues of his parents, Lord Rickon Stark and Lady Gillianne Glover, her small form dwarfed by the towering effigies. Candles burned softly around her in quiet vigil, casting a gentle glow over the garlands of winter roses she cradled in her lap. A sea of wilted, woven flowers lay swept to the side—a ritual she had tended to every night, and with a pang in his gut, he realized her abnormal habit had all been for his bygone parents.

His breath caught, a warmth spreading through his chest. She had been honouring them. His own parents. In a way that even he had long forgotten to do. Though why would she, of all people, care?

As he approached her, he heard her familiar song, her voice faint, carrying a resonant yet soothing melody through the crypt. They never rhymed anymore; just lines scrambled and sung to confound.

A rose of blue in the cold earth lay, A fire burned bright, Silver threads in the night. A crown of dreams, A heart of flame, Forgotten now, Yet still the same.

"Claere," he called softly, his voice echoing against the stone walls.

But she didn’t answer. She stayed motionless, her fingers deftly weaving the garlands, her eyes distant, lost in a trance-like reverie. Cregan stepped closer and gently cupped her shoulder.

“Love?” he murmured again, more intent.

This time, she stirred, blinking slowly as if emerging from a dream. Her gaze shifted up to him, soft and dazed. She rubbed at her eyes, her fingers stained with the petals of the roses.

As Cregan crouched beside Claere, the silence was thick, broken only by the distant drip of water echoing somewhere in the depths of Winterfell. He took her bare hands into his, startled by how frigid they were. The touch of her skin was like ice as if she'd been sitting there for hours. He blew gently into her fingers, trying to warm them.

"What are you doing down here alone?" he asked, concern lining his voice.

“They like to speak to me,” she whispered, her voice calm, distant, as though her mind were adrift in another realm. “I heard them the moment I crossed the threshold of the castle. They spoke your name.” She waited, eyes wide. "Did you hear that?"

Cregan's brow furrowed. "There is no voice but ours, love."

She looked away, mumbling, "I heard it."

There was a time when her words, her abnormal ways, would have unsettled him deeply. It was woven into their lives like her rose garlands, a constant. Her peculiar way of seeing the world was no longer alien to him—it had become familiar. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet unease stir in his chest.

“Go on then. What else do they say?” he asked, more to humour her than out of belief, but the curiosity in his tone was real.

“I think they're calm,” she replied, her gaze drifting to statues of his parents. “Content. Now that you're here.”

Cregan exhaled, surprised by how much those words affected him. It was comforting in a way he hadn’t expected, though he didn’t believe in such things—spirits, voices from beyond. He wasn’t a man of superstition, but the idea that his parents might be at peace warmed a part of him he didn’t realize had gone cold.

“What do they say about their son? Do they kick up a big fuss?” he asked, his lips curving into a faint, teasing smile. He carefully balled the long garland she had weaved into a neat pile on her skirt.

“They’re proud,” Claere murmured, her voice gentle, as though the words had floated to her on the breeze. “Your mother—she calls you her little wolf. She wants to hold you once more.”

His heart stilled at that. Little wolf. His mother had called him that, when he was still small enough to crawl into her lap after a long day, his face buried in the scent of her hair. His chest tightened, the ache of loss rising up in his throat. Could Claere really hear them? Was there truth in her words, or was it all part of her unconventional mind?

Cregan lifted his gaze toward the stone faces of his parents, his father's chiselled jaw and his mother's serene expression were immortalized in cold marble, watching over him as they had in life. Claere's soft hum floated through the still air, and something in her melody seemed to stir the memories of those long gone. He couldn’t bear the weight of their unblinking eyes. His throat thickened, and he looked away quickly, the familiar ache of loss sharper than he’d prepared for.

“And my father?” he asked, his voice rough now, bearing apprehension now, the question almost catching in his chest.

“He knows you’ve transcended him,” she replied, her tone soft, as if the words were delicate things. “But he’s glad. He wishes he could be here to see you rule the North as he did once."

That broke something in Cregan. He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes, and before he could stop it, one escaped, rolling down his cheek. His father had always been a stern man, proud but distant, and those words, even if he believed they weren't real, cut deeper than he expected. He had been alone since three and ten, sparing no effort in being a man where he should've been a boy. Such was the duty of an early heir, he had grown up between burdening winters and blades.

Cregan blinked rapidly, turning his cheek to her, trying to clear his vision, but Claere saw it. Her expression shifted—confusion flickered across her features. She reached out, her fingers brushing the tear away with the lightest touch.

“Have I hurt you?” she asked, her voice uncertain, innocent in its concern.

Cregan shook his head, sniffing back the rest of his tears. He smiled softly at her, a smile that was half sorrow, half joy. "No, of course not."

"No?" she echoed.

“I’m grateful. I’m very happy.” His voice cracked as he laughed, almost in disbelief at the way she had managed to stir emotions long buried. "Although I'd rather be gelded than have you see me cry again."

Claere tilted her head, watching him with that dream-like gaze, her mind always half elsewhere. “Tears are the sign of a good heart,” she said simply, though there was still a hint of hesitation in her voice.

As Cregan's deep laugh trailed off, Claere’s gaze slipped to the flickering candle before her. She watched the flame, her fingers hovering near its light as though she could shape the glow with her will alone.

“They’ve gone silent,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. “Since I returned from the Wall… the voices, they’re almost gone now.”

Her words chilled him in a way that had nothing to do with the cold of the crypts. He watched her fingers dance in the flame’s heated tip, and something about the way she spoke—so distant, so lost—made his chest constrict.

“I keep seeing these things. Awful things.” She still wouldn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the candle’s flame as though it held the answers she sought. “Visions, riddled with frozen fire, no men of women born, blue flames that burned cold, dragons—dead dragons—and spilt blood. Endless dark, unending night.”

Her voice was soft but steady as if recounting some terrible dream. The Wall, the omens, whatever visions or feelings had driven her—they had unsettled her in ways she wasn’t used to conveying.

Cregan swallowed, unable to suppress the shiver that ran through him. Claere rarely expressed her visions with such transparency, yet this time there was something raw in her tone, a dread he had never heard before. If only these people could truly see what she had to bear.

“I believed the lands past the Wall would show me the days of yore,” she continued, her words slipping from her lips like a confession. “I thought it would reflect what I see, but it didn’t. None of it. So now I think—”

She stopped herself, her voice catching in her throat, and for a long moment, she said nothing.

Cregan waited, his heart solemn with tension. Finally, Claere’s gaze lifted from the flame, and when her violet eyes met his, there was a tremor of fear in them, an emotion so unfamiliar in her usually distant, dream-like gaze that it struck him silent.

“I think it is things not yet come to pass,” she whispered, her voice tight, as though it pained her to say it. “I think… they’re coming. I don't know what to do. No one else can see." She shook her head, almost violently, and her hands trembled, her calm veneer fracturing before him. Tears welled at the corner of her eyes. “I cannot stop it, Cregan. It terrifies me.”

The vulnerability in her voice, the aching helplessness, shook him to his core. Claere, who had always been silent and intangible, now stood before him utterly mortal, fragile, and afraid. He had never seen her like this, not in all the time they’d been together. It was as though she carried a brewing storm on her shoulders, and she didn’t know how to face it alone.

Cregan’s instinct was immediate. He gently pulled her toward him with a shush, enfolding his arms around her, and gathering her into his chest.

“No, my love,” he whispered into her hair, his voice soothing. "I'm here. It's alright. They're just dreams."

She melted into him, her body trembling against his, her head resting against his chest. He stroked the side of her head gently, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breath. Her hands clung to the front of his cloak, desperate, as though his warmth was the only thing tethering her to the present. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there, as though willing his strength into her.

“The North has weathered long nights before,” he said quietly, his voice steady, filled with the same resolve that had been passed down through generations of Starks around them. “Stark blood runs deep in these stones. We’ve stood through the darkness, through cold that could break men’s bones. And yet, we stand. Every time, Claere.”

She looked up at him, her wide eyes searching his face, her breath still uneven but slowing.

"What are our house words?" he asked, as if reminding her.

"Winter is coming," she answered breathily.

“Winter is coming,” he echoed, his voice assertive yet tender. He cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing against her cheek as he looked into her eyes. “We will do what we must to defend the realm, through whatever comes. As we always have. You have nothing to fear.”

His words sank into her like warmth, thawing the icy fear that had gripped her. She exhaled, long and slow, her body finally relaxing into his arms. Cregan kissed her cheek, softer this time, feeling the shift in her, the tension ebbing away.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, holding each other in the flickering candlelights, surrounded by the silence of the crypts. The dead watched over them, but their presence no longer felt foreboding—it felt calm and peaceful, as though the ancient Starks could see and approve.

She nodded, her face resting against his chest once more, her breathing finally even. He could still sense the undercurrent of fear that rippled through her, but the worst of it had passed. His mind worked quickly, searching for a way to guide her thoughts away from the darkness she had spoken of.

Softly, he murmured against her hair, "There’s news from Dragonstone."

Claere shifted in his arms, lifting her head to look at him. The mention of Dragonstone sparked a flicker of curiosity in her gaze, enough to break the hold of the haunting visions.

"A raven arrived last night," he continued, his voice casual, as though easing her into something lighter. "Prince Jacaerys flies north on his dragon. He’ll be here within a fortnight."

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say more, but the thought seemed to drift away before she could grasp it. Something was grounding in the knowledge of Prince Jacaerys’ arrival—something beyond the shadows she had seen, a thread of the present to hold on to.

He gave her a slight squeeze, his thumb brushing a strand of her silver hair behind her ear, a playful glint in his eye. "We'll find out soon enough. But for now, let's get you warm. You'll turn into a sculpture yourself if you're here any longer."

Claere’s lips quirked, a touch of amusement flickering through the lingering shadows in her eyes. “A lady of ice.”

Cregan smirked. “Not on my watch.”

The fruits of labour are often hard-won, and in Claere’s case, it was quite literal. A month past, she had flown on Luna, disappearing into the night for three days. Although it had endlessly upset Cregan, upon her return, it was with the spoils of her journey—seeds from distant lands, collected with care and intent. These seeds were her gift to Winterfell’s glass gardens, her quiet revolt against the fatty northern diet.

Among them were golden beets from the Reach, hardy winter squash, and sweet, bright carrots from Highgarden. She’d also returned with seeds of hearty cabbages and turnips, the kinds of food that could survive even in the harsher climate of the North. And now, after weeks of tilling and patience, some of the plants had finally sprouted, tiny green shoots peeking through the soil like fragile promises of life.

But her project had not remained hers alone for long. Claere, with her quiet strangeness, had drawn the children of Winterfell into it, gradually involving them in nurturing the new glasshouse. The saplings became theirs as much as hers, and the little Northerners guarded them as fiercely as they did their direwolves. Though they laughed and played around her, tending to the glass gardens with dirt-smeared cheeks and eager hands, the adults stood back—watching with cautious, measured eyes.

Now, it called for a celebration. Claere had returned from an early morning flight on Luna, bringing with her the largest haul yet—sacks of ripe persimmons, plucked from the orchards of the Vale. The children gathered around her, eyes wide and filled with excitement. Persimmons were rare in the North, almost unheard of past the Twins, and to them, this was a treasure trove.

She stood there, composed and aloof, while the children crowded at her feet, clutching at her skirts.

"My lady," one small boy asked in awe, peering into the sack, "what kind of fruit is this?"

“Persimmons,” Claere told them. “From the Vale. If honeycomb were a fruit, it would be this.”

One of the girls hesitated, looking up with wide, curious eyes. "Persimmons. But why do they look like little jewels?"

Claere glanced down at the fruit in the child’s hand. “They are… in a way,” she mused, her fingers brushing the leathery skin of a persimmon. “Jewels of the trees. Careful not to crack your teeth on them.”

The children giggled, their awe unabashed. But from the edges of the courtyard, some of the adults watched the scene with guarded expressions. One of the mothers—an older woman with a stern face—made her way toward them, half-heartedly pulling her child back.

"My lady," the woman began cautiously, her tone respectful but wary, "your kindness knows no limit… but persimmons, foreign fruits—are they not better suited for lords and ladies’ tables? Perhaps the children ought to…?"

Claere turned her gaze to the woman, her eyes calm, as if considering the unspoken reluctance. She did not speak at first, only handed the sack to one of the boys who held it up for the others to reach.

“They’re fruits of the earth,” she said softly, “not gold meant to be hoarded. What grows must be shared. It's why the Glass Gardens are being built.”

There was a pause, tension still lingering in the air. A few of the men exchanged glances, unsure of this Targaryen's ways—so different from the daughters of the North they knew.

Then one of the fathers, a grizzled man with a thick beard, broke the silence with a short laugh. “As long as my son doesn’t bring more seeds to my house, we’ll thank you, my lady.”

His words loosened the air, drawing chuckles from others. The children cheered as they dug into the fruit, but the adults, though warmer now, still watched her carefully. In small, deliberate ways—through her gifts, her gentle efforts to nurture life in this land—she was inching closer, bridging the invisible divide between herself and the North.

"Come now, pups," a young lady led the children away with their happy squalls, "one for each. Share it with the others."

"Arrys took three! Fatty!"

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Mine's a little green!"

It was subtle, this shift. Like the first, almost imperceptible thaw after a long winter, when the snow begins to soften at the edges, and the hard ground yields just enough to suggest that spring might, one day, arrive.

Claere’s eyes lingered on the adults for a moment longer, as though she understood. She wasn’t sure she could ever be loved like one of their own. And while they still watched her warily, with eyes that carried centuries of cold caution, there was a slow, begrudging acceptance in their gaze. The kind of acceptance that wasn’t born out of understanding, but out of recognition—recognition that, for all her strange ways, she was not giving up.

“My lady!” A breathless guard stumbled toward her, his face flushed with urgency. He dropped into a quick bow, his words fumbling as they spilt out.

“Scouts have spotted a dragon. We believe... it’s your brother, the prince.”

Her brother. Jacaerys.

The news sent a ripple through Claere’s thoughts, pulling her out of the quiet reverie she’d fallen into. She nodded, dismissing the guard and strolling away from the castle entrance, and soon turned her gaze skyward, watching as Vermax circled in the distance, preparing to land. Luna twitched behind her, growling low, sensing another dragon’s presence but remaining calm as Vermax descended.

Jacaerys landed some distance away from Luna, cautious not to provoke the larger dragon. Vermax was a mere hatchling in comparison to Luna, poised by her rider protectively.

As her brother dismounted, Claere observed him from afar, her emotions a tangled web. She hadn’t seen him in many long months. The boy she remembered had been full of vigour and promise, but now, standing before her, Jacaerys had grown in ways she hadn’t fully anticipated.

The man who approached her was taller, his shoulders broader, his gait that of a prince who had known the significance of command. His dark hair, tousled by flight, framed a face more serious than it had once been. There was a formality to him, a distance that felt almost like the expanse between them, even though they were blood.

Their relationship had not always been like this—distant, formal. He was once her buffer against her vengeful uncles, Aegon and Aemond, and her safest confidante in the Red Keep. He only happened to sour to her presence after their mother, Queen Rhaenyra, had blissfully betrothed them when they were children of nine, for the strengthening of their bloodline and her irrefutable claim to the throne. It was declared null when her mother faced the threat of dispersion from Lord Corlys on Driftmark that she joined Laena Velaryon's daughters to her prince sons in holy matrimony.

Where Claere had somewhat bonded with her younger brothers Lucerys and Joffrey, Jacaerys had remained like a stranger thereafter. He had never been unkind to her, never prodded at her oddities, only stayed apathetic, their connection one of duty rather than affection. He had always seemed uncertain of how to approach her, and she had never sought him out. They had lived like shadows, passing by each other but never truly meeting.

“Sister,” Jacaerys greeted her upon reaching her, his voice polite, measured. He dipped his head, ever respectful, the heir to the throne. "How you've grown in mere moons. And so has Luna."

She imparted a brief nod. "Brother," she greeted back quietly. Her eyes darted to Vermax, his green-scaled dragon, beady eyes watchful of his rider. "Vermax has come to be formidable."

"Indeed," Jace said, sounding proud of himself, peeking back at his dragon. "You'll also be pleased to know that Tyraxes has finally taken to wing. Ought to see Joff instead of me next time."

Slightly hesitant, she asked, "And this time?"

"I've come to see how you're faring," and quickly included, "upon mother's request. As her envoy."

His eyes flashed down to her flat abdomen for a split second, possibly gauging the extent of a prosperous marriage. So far, he was not convinced. It had nearly been six moons, yet no cries of a Stark lordling sounded in the halls.

“I am well,” Claere answered, her tone just as restrained as his.

His dark eyes flicked toward the great castle, then back to her. “There have been… rumours. Whispers from the North that have reached the Queen’s ears. She was concerned.”

Rumours. She knew what he implied—the discontent among the Northerners, their ever-growing suspicion of her, the whispers of a Valyrian witch who crossed the Wall and lived to tell the tale. It had been expanding slowly, like frost creeping across the ground before winter.

“They matter little,” Claere replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jacaerys didn’t respond at first, his gaze sharp as he studied her. Then, with the smallest hint of reluctance, he responded, “I am still your brother, Claere. Marriage cannot dissolve that. I rule over Dragonstone with Baela and if you wish it, I will gladly have you back home or with our brothers in the Red Keep."

It wasn’t quite an offer, more like a suggestion left hanging in the cold air between them. A way out, should she want it. Simply renounce a vain, hopeless marriage and move on.

Claere’s eyes met his, and for a moment, she wondered if he meant it. Did her dear brother truly want her back, or was this merely a way to ease his guilty conscience? To not have suspected the consequences beforehand, before she was ever traded off to the unaccepting North? She glanced at Luna, standing watch behind her, and then back to Jacaerys.

A brief silence passed between them before he spoke again, his voice lighter, though still formal. “I'd like to speak to Lord Stark. Perhaps he'd have a response for the crown.”

The Great Hall of Winterfell felt colder than usual that evening. The large hearth blazed, but the warmth seemed to be swallowed by the heavy silence hanging between the three nobles seated at the long table. Cregan sat at the head, his posture relaxed yet every muscle tensed beneath the surface, his eyes occasionally drifting toward Claere on habit, who sat beside him, ever the silent enigma. Across from them, Jacaerys Velaryon sat straight-backed, his dark eyes flicking between his hosts, clearly working up to something but holding back—for now.

The tension was palpable, thick enough to slice through with a blade, but neither man addressed the looming unspoken questions yet. Claere seemed unconcerned, as she picked at the modest fare before her, her pale eyes focused on nothing in particular. She was present yet did not seem so, lost in her world.

Cregan noticed her silver crown of braids, how they were styled in the manner of a Southern lady, perhaps to butter up to her brother. He never thought he would infuriated over something as foolish as hair, and ought to chastise those handmaidens of hers who only worked around his cause.

Jace cleared his throat, breaking the silence as he reached for his goblet, swirling the golden ale inside. He offered a polite smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

"This beverage is excellent, my lord," Jace began, a tentative olive branch. "And the pie—'tis the heartiest I've had. Sustains the North, I’m sure. Though I can imagine it’s difficult for... some to thrive on such fare."

His gaze dashed briefly to Claere, lingering on her thinner frame. It wasn’t a pointed stare, but the implication hung in the air. Her weight loss, her difficulty sustaining herself on the limited northern diet—it was not lost on him.

Cregan’s jaw clenched, though his smile remained courteous. "We manage well enough," he said, his voice patient. "The Glass Gardens have begun to yield fresh crops. Our granaries our vast. We make sure every Northerner has everything they require come winter."

There was a subtle challenge in Cregan’s words, a quiet assertion of his control over his household and his care for his wife. The implication was clear: I’ve got it covered.

Jace gave a tight nod, his lips pressed thinly together. The conversation lulled back into awkward silence, the crackling of the fire and the clinking of cutlery the only sounds between them. Claere remained as she had been—detached, her pale eyes drifting from the flames in the hearth to the fruit on her plate.

Jacaerys hesitated before speaking again, as though weighing his next words carefully.

"Has Claere ever told you," he drawled, his tone lighter but carrying an undercurrent of something more, "that she and I are twins?"

Cregan’s gaze shifted to Jace, then to Claere, and back again. It rattled him, if only for a moment. Twins? It seemed impossible. Jacaerys, with his dark ringlets and strong build, bore the hallmarks of House Velaryon though, some whispered, his true father, Ser Harwin Strong. Claere, on the other hand, was the image of Old Valyria—silver hair, pale skin, violet eyes, as if fire and ice had mingled to create her. The stark contrast between them had always been striking, and now it seemed even more so. He simply deemed it unlikely at first glance.

"Yes, we were inseparable," the young prince continued, his tone cautious. "We shared the same womb, weaned from the same breast, and learned together as children. We were even betrothed for a time, like our ancestors before us."

Jace's eyes narrowed slightly as Cregan's fingers fisted, and though his tone remained neutral, there was an edge to his words. "But even after all that, there are things about my sister I still cannot begin to comprehend."

Cregan’s eyes darkened, understanding the implication. Jace wasn’t just talking about family ties; he was probing, testing for weaknesses, for fractures in the foundation of Claere’s place in Winterfell. It was a subtle attempt, cloaked in brotherly concern, but Cregan was no fool.

"Aye, that may be," Cregan replied evenly, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping against his goblet. "But what man can claim to entirely understand a woman, even one he’s known all his life? Claere may be... finding her feet, but that doesn’t make her any less at home here."

Jace raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile. "You speak as if she’s already oriented herself here, Lord Stark. Though from what I’ve heard, not all in the North share your sentiment."

The jab was delivered mildly, but it hit its mark. Cregan’s expression hardened slightly, his palm tight around his fork, though his tone remained calm. "Winterfell is nearly frozen over. It takes time for new blood to warm itself to these halls. But we’ve had Targaryens here before, and they’ve got by just fine."

"Mm," Jace hummed into his glass, "dragonblood runs hotter than you can imagine."

"Makes it easier then."

Jace leaned forward, setting his goblet down. "That’s just it, isn’t it? Claere is no mere Targaryen. She’s my twin. She has just as much claim to our mother’s throne as I do."

The implicit tension snapped into something sharper, more dangerous. The Iron Throne. The claim. It hung between them like a storm on the horizon, unstated but ever-present. Should sides be drawn in the future, blood could be spilt—not over affection, but over power, the oldest and most treacherous currency. He could imagine it: Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Claere Targaryen, and her king consort, the King in the North, Cregan Stark. It tasted foul on his tongue, withered to ashes as soon as it appeared. Claere was queen, here. She was the winter's queen, a fire that would burn a beacon in the North.

Cregan’s eyes narrowed, though his expression remained stoic. "Are you suggesting something, my prince? Sowing seeds of war in my soil, possibly?" he asked, his voice low, enduring as a mountain before the storm. "Because it sounds as though you’re questioning my lady's fealty to her home."

Jace’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t back down. "I’m simply reminding you of who she is. And that, as much as you may think you understand her, there are parts of Claere that no one can reach." His gaze drifted to Claere then, who sat as still as stone, her eyes on the flickering flame. "Not even me."

Cregan studied Jacaerys for a long moment before turning his gaze to Claere. She had been a quiet, odd presence throughout this verbal sparring match, content to let the two men duel with words over her head. But now, as Jace’s words hung in the air, she finally looked up, meeting Cregan’s eyes with her own.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, a calculated look forming as his hand rested on Claere’s thigh.

His voice lowered, carrying an undercurrent of challenge but framed in civility. "It seems we find ourselves at an impasse. Perhaps a better question, my prince, is not who has known Claere through six moons or sixteen years, but who has tried to understand her the most."

Bitterness flickered in Jace's gaze. He leaned forward, not willing to be outdone. "It’s not the little things that bind people. It’s blood, shared history. We came into this world together."

Cregan’s lips curved into a cold, knowing smile. "Aye, you did. But who stands by you in the darkest hour matters, not who was there when the sun first rose."

Jace’s face flushed with frustration. He glanced at Claere, who sat impassive as ever, and then back to Cregan, clearly at a loss. It seemed like he wanted to argue for a moment, but nothing came. The Stark lord's words had landed.

"Jace is right," she said quietly, her voice soft but collected. "He doesn't know me fully, nor do I know him as I should." Her eyes shifted toward her brother, a faraway sorrow touching her expression. "We've spent years apart—fates pulling us in different directions. He's not wrong about that."

Jace straightened up, a gleam of triumph surfacing in his expression, but before he could speak, Claere turned her gaze back to Cregan, her voice clearer, firmer.

"But that doesn’t imply I am not where I am meant to be."

Jace's smile faded. Her words were simple, undefined as ever, but they carried the gravity intended. It was a quiet reminder that she had chosen Winterfell, that she had chosen Cregan. And though her ways might be unconventional, she was committed to that choice.

Cregan’s expression softened slightly as he looked at her, the tension in his stance easing. Every inch of him swelled with pride at her words.

"I belong here now, Jacaerys," she declared to him.

"These people whisper at you like cravens, sister," Jace told her irately. "They have no regard for the power at your helm. Seven hells, you ride the White Dread. Yet they disparage you and hail you a witch."

"I will not have her leave her home for it," Cregan cut in sharply, his words slicing through the thickening tension.

Jace’s lips pressed into a thin line, his earlier confidence ebbing into frustration. "Home?" he repeated, the word laced with disbelief. “She is of the blood of Old Valyria. She belongs in a throne room, with her dragon soaring over Blackwater Bay—not wasting away in the most forgotten corners of the realm.”

"Wasting away?" Cregan’s voice dropped to a deadly stillness, his eyes narrowing. “She flourishes here, despite whatever Southern comforts you think she’s lost.”

Jace’s gaze sharpened, unwilling to back down. "Look at her, Stark. She's barely a shadow of—"

"Stop."

Claere’s voice cut through the rising tension, abrupt and shrill, though her tone was calm. Both men fell silent.

For a heartbeat, neither Jace nor Cregan moved, their stances locked in defiance, accusations hanging gravely in the air. The room seemed to shrink, the air charged between them as if the two men stood on the brink of war than the moment itself.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his gaze darkening as he regarded the prince. His voice dropped to a dangerously calm whisper, more powerful in its restraint.

“You speak of power as if it is the only thing that holds this realm together. But it’s not power that keeps this castle standing. It’s hard work, loyalty, honour. Do you think strength alone carried Winterfell through the long winters and centuries?”

Jace’s eyes flicked to Claere, then back to Cregan, the frown on his face deepening. “Loyalty?" he said, his voice tinged with scepticism. "Yes. But loyalty can break as easily as ice, especially when those in the shadows do not see strength."

“They see what I choose to show them,” Cregan shot back, his voice steady, unflinching. “And they see a queen standing beside me. She is spoken for in my name. That’s all they need to know.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy as if the very stones of Winterfell had taken a breath and held it. Jace’s brow furrowed, his jaw tight as he tried to digest what Cregan said. Queen? The word hung in the air between them, a title not formally bestowed, yet it carried a deeper truth.

Jace’s gaze flicked between them—Cregan, with his unyielding confidence, and Claere, with her quiet, ethereal presence. He tried to grasp it, to make sense of how this odd, reserved sister of his had become something more in the eyes of these Northern people. For all their whispered words, all their doubts and suspicions about her, they still regarded her as something more than a mere consort. She had carved out a place here, without needing to raise a sword or a dragon in her defence. She was no longer a pawn at their mother's behest.

Jace exhaled, his hands resting on the table, his earlier edge of confrontation slipping away.

"I have only wanted what's best for her. And to my mother, it was to bring her back to Dragonstone. Live out her days as she wished, rid off calumnies." Finally, he nodded, settling into a reluctant acceptance. “Now I see... she's not alone."

Cregan’s gaze was unflinching as he spoke. “She never was.”

Jace looked between them, Cregan’s words settling over the table like a thick winter’s snow. Claere’s eyes met her brother's in a fleeting but meaningful look.

Jace, for all his formality, nodded, understanding more than words could say. "Then we place our trust in your hands, my lord, and the princess' peace of mind."

And the Stark, ever the wolf in his den, would guard her with teeth bared if need be. Cregan’s hand tightened on Claere’s, his voice low and relentless.

“You’ll leave Lady Stark in the only hands she needs.”

Claere stood in the doorway of Jace’s chambers, her presence barely announced by the soft scrape of her shoes on stone. In her arms, a basket, small and modest, yet unmistakably precious—the glint of warm dragon eggs nestled within.

Jace looked up from his desk, startled by the sight of her, and rose slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Sister."

“For the new princess,” she announced, her voice low, measured.

She offered the basket, her fingers lingering on the handle for a moment before retreating into the folds of her gown. Her gaze remained fixed on the gleaming eggs as if their presence alone carried the message.

Jace blinked, surprise flashing across his face before he laughed, though the sound lacked true mirth.

“Of course. You always seem to know more than most,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “No one’s spoken of the babe—not even to the Queen.”

Her lips barely moved as she responded, her tone distant, almost cryptic. “The winds carry luck and warnings alike.”

"We've named her Laena."

She inclined her head ever so slightly. “An auspicious name. May she prosper.”

Her words were curt and formal, as though there was nothing more between them than this exchange. The air between them felt colder, stretched thin by years and decisions not their own. He had always hoped for more—some kind of familiarity, some bridge between their shared past—but that hope had been dashed time and time again. The rift, born of their mother's scheming and expectations, had only deepened over the years.

“I wish you good fortune, brother,” Claere said finally, her voice flat, the words of courtesy hollow.

Jace sighed, the weight of lost years heavy on him. He had wanted to speak with her, to find some common ground, but she had always been like this—elusive, indistinct, a world apart even when she stood in the same room. Time had slipped away, and no ravens sent across the vast expanse of that distance could ever reclaim what was lost.

"Lord Stark seems quite fond of you," he tried to say, softening his tone. "I am glad you've found someone to treasure. I also hear that you crossed the Wall alone—"

"The hour grows late. I should leave you to your rest." So blunt, a blade cutting through any illusion of warmth between them.

"Claere, wait," he muttered as she turned to leave.

His sister paused, though her back remained to him, her silence stifling. She did not look at him, and yet he felt her eyes upon him, offering no solace, only the unyielding distance that had grown between them.

Jace hesitated, searching for the right words. “The throne… it’s a cage, not a crown. You know that as well as I. You don’t need it. You don’t want it.”

Claere turned, her gaze indistinct, as if she were dissecting his meaning without revealing any of her own. He took a breath, willing her to understand.

“We were born the same. But only one of us can sit up there. And you’ve never belonged in its shadow. You’re beyond it.”

The silence that followed was thicker, heavier than before. His words hung in the air, an unspoken plea for her to step aside, to yield something that, by all rights, was hers to claim.

She said nothing, but her silence screamed louder than words, and in that void, Jace felt the weight of all that had passed between them, the years lost, the closeness forsaken.

"I'm sorry, sister," he admitted, his voice a soft plea. "For all of it. I wish it did not come to this."

She raised her brows, her eyes sharp as violet shards. "Come to what?"

Jace faltered, caught off guard by the calmness of her tone, the way her words sliced through his own hesitation. He swallowed hard, searching for something to grasp onto. "This anonymity. Our own mother's ambition has turned us into strangers."

Claere's lips lifted to a bleak smile. "Our mother did not do that, Jacaerys. You did."

She stood there, her face unmoving, the silence thick between them. There was no anger in her eyes, but neither was there forgiveness. Just that same cool, detached calm. And with that, she turned and left, leaving him alone in the echo of his apology.

He stared after her, the basket of eggs still warm in his hands, and the cold truth of her departure settling like frost, realizing that whatever bridge he had hoped to build between them had crumbled long ago.

As night closed in, Cregan and Claere's bedroom was bathed in darkness, save for the pale glow of moonlight sloping through the windows, casting long shadows over the stone floor.

Cregan lay awake, his mind restless, replaying the tension of the evening with Jace. He’d handled it as he always did—with authority and force. But had he thought of her? Claere had said little at dinner, her quiet presence always hard to read. Yet Cregan couldn’t shake the feeling he should have asked her, should have drawn her into the conversation instead of battling it out alone.

Beside him, Claere stirred. He watched her wake from the pillows, her bare feet silent against the cold floor as she moved, a familiar routine. Her nightdress clung to her form, delicate and flowing, the pale fabric shifting with each step. She drifted toward her harp—a massive, exquisite instrument that seemed to be attached to her as much as her dragon did. He'd watched her do this countless times, slipping into her world of music as if it were the only place where she could find peace.

Cregan’s eyes followed her as she sat, the harp resting between her legs. She flicked her long, silver hair over her shoulder, tucking the loose strands behind her ear before her fingers found the strings. Each pluck sent a soft note into the air, a lulling melody filling the room, soothing and haunting all at once. Her eyes stared unseeingly at the carpet as she hummed, a low, wordless tune that rose and fell with the notes. Her fingers danced across the strings effortlessly, creating music that seemed to be born of the night itself.

She was the vision of every man’s dream—stunning, elusive. And yet, even as she sat there, calm and poised, Cregan could feel her unease, buried beneath that impassive exterior. He knew her anxieties, could sense them in the way her shoulders tensed, in the small tremor in her breath. He should have asked her, should have given her the space to speak her thoughts, to let her feelings surface.

Quietly, he pushed off the furs and moved toward her, sitting behind her on the long bench. His broad hands slid over her waist, firm yet tender, grounding her as he drew closer. Claere’s fingers continued to dance over the strings, but he felt the stillness in her body, the way her breath caught as his presence nudged against her. He straddled her from behind, thighs sweeping hers, his chin resting on her shoulder, carefully sweeping her hair aside to expose the pale curve of her neck. Soft, lazing kisses followed—his lips grazing her skin, teeth teasing in between. The touch was enough to break her concentration; her fingers faltered, missing the next note. Her humming stilled, but she didn’t pull away.

"It's as if you were made to indulge me," he murmured against her skin, the words low and warm as he kissed her ear, drawing her closer to him with every word.

A soft smile tugged at Claere’s lips. "Not long ago, this used to scare you witless."

Cregan chuckled, a low sound that rumbled against her back, his lips pressing more firmly into her cheek. “Maybe earlier,” he admitted, his breath hot against her skin, “but now. Now I think of immensely bold acts I'd like to see play out.”

His hands slid up her sides, pulling her in closer, as though she was the only thing that could still his thoughts. He pushed another kiss at the seam of her jaw, teeth sinking in to tug at it.

"Do you want it, love?" he rasped.

Her fingers idly plucked at the gold strings. "You?"

"You already have me. I meant the Iron Throne."

Claere’s fingers stilled on the harp strings, the delicate melody faltering, as though his offer had reached even the instrument.

Cregan had always been a man of ancient power, cold winds, and the endless stretches of the North—they were in his blood as much as his duty to his people. He had never wanted the games of the South, the crown’s politicking, the endless pursuit of power. All he had ever wanted was to serve his house and to care for the woman he had sworn his heart to.

But as he held Claere close, her warmth seeping into him in the quiet of the room, his mind was at war with itself. For her, he would march on King’s Landing, he would challenge any lord, any crown, if she asked it. And that thought ate at him, for it wasn’t a war he desired—it was her. Only her.

“I'd give it to you when the time comes,” he whispered again, reluctance carefully concealed. He pressed another kiss into the soft curve of her jaw, his breath heavy against her skin. “If you said it, I’d rally all the houses under my yoke, raise my banners and claim what’s rightfully yours. I'll lay all of Westeros at your feet.”

Her body tensed beneath his touch, but she said nothing at first. The silence stretched, and it unsettled him. He felt her thinking, felt her calculating in that quiet way she had. She always had a way of making him question himself without uttering a word.

“You would march south for me?” she finally asked, her voice low, like a ripple across still water.

Cregan's hands gripped her waist more firmly as he processed her quiet words. She hadn't given him a direct answer, not about the Iron Throne, not about power or the realms beyond the North. But there was something in her silence, the way her fingers had resumed their light plucking at the strings of the harp, her eyes half-lidded in thought. His heart clenched, torn between duty and desire.

His voice was a low rumble, roughened by the cold and tension. "Aye."

"Then what?" she mused.

He was evidently thrown. "You... you could have it all—power, praise. No one would ever question your place. They’d fear you, respect you. The entire realm."

She paused, her hands resting against the harp strings, but her face remained unreadable. After a moment, she tilted her head slightly, her silver hair brushing his chin.

"And what would you do then?" she asked. "Once we have seized the Red Keep, and slain my brother and his heir, would you rule by my side, or would you abandon me in that gold cage with bloodstains?"

His jaw clenched as the simplicity behind her cruel words settled.

"There must always be a Stark at Winterfell," she claimed in a mumble, her tone unyielding, almost teasing. "Would you leave me to be poisoned by the court of vipers while you return home?"

He swallowed, his throat tight. The truth of her question was too clear. The North was in his blood, a responsibility that was older than any crown. And yet, for her, he had entertained the unimaginable. He could see it in her eyes now—the depths of her meaning, the question he hadn’t fully understood.

“You fit in here, with me," she said softly, her fingers brushing over his wrist, still resting on her waist. "This is the only place I’ve ever truly felt at peace. The North may whisper against me, but it has been kinder to me than any throne ever was."

Cregan let out a slow breath, his hand sliding up to her throat. The magnitude of her words pulled at him, grounding him in a way no talk of crowns or power could. He urged her cheek against his forehead, seeking warmth in her closeness.

"Here is good," she murmured, cupping his jaw. "Here, where the cold is real and not the cruelty of men."

And for the first time since he had offered her the world, he understood the answer. It was never about gold, crowns, or kingdoms. It was about the home they had made together, in the harsh, unyielding North.

Cregan pressed a lingering kiss against the pulse of her neck as if drawing strength from the steady rhythm beneath her skin. “You’re my queen, always,” he whispered, the words no longer about crowns or thrones.

At that moment, he knew he needed no banners, no throne to claim. He had already won the greatest battle of all—he had her.

Claere's lips curved, her hand tracing the shadow of his beard.

"A queen without a crown," she murmured, more to herself, the playful glint still present. "And without subjects, save perhaps you."

He laughed deeply, the sound rumbling against her skin before he glanced at the harp resting before them. With a grin tugging at his lips, Cregan reached for it, his large frame seemed out of place with the delicate instrument, but he was undeterred.

“Or I presume,” Claere teased, her back leaning against him, feeling the warmth of his chest. "The King in the North who fancies himself a minstrel?"

Cregan plucked a string awkwardly, the sound that followed more of a discordant twang than music. He winced but smiled, undaunted.

“There’s more to me than swords and axes, you know," he pointed out. "I am quite the bard myself. Listen to this."

He cleared his throat to sing out in a low-pitched voice, fumbling with the strings and producing another off-key note. Claere listened eagerly, holding all the stars in the sky captive momentarily.

Claere, oh, sweet Claere, She plays like a queen, Every note is like a spell, And here I am, A loopy fuckin' fool, Breaking her strings Oh, she hides her laugh well!

Claere burst into laughter, hiding her face behind her hands, a rare sound that filled the hushed space between them, and Cregan looked even more pleased with her reaction than his musical attempt.

“You’ve got that laugh locked away like a prize, don’t you?”

“I don’t laugh at just anything,” she said, her voice warm but with that familiar edge of wit.

Cregan arched a brow. “I’m special then?”

"Very much."

Moving close and her hands over his, she guided his fingers to the proper strings, her touch gentle, her movements graceful. Together, entwined, they coaxed a soft, sweet melody from the harp.

Cregan barely cared for the music. His focus was entirely on her—her warmth, the way her fingers danced across his own, the rare smile that hadn’t left her lips for a long time. How wondrous would it be to be stuck here, this way, with nothing but time to keep them apart?

“I admit defeat,” he murmured, his voice low, amused. “I think the harp is yours, love.”

Claere’s smile softened as she continued to guide his hands. "A queen with a harp," she mused, her voice low and warm. "Perhaps that’s all I require."

Cregan, eyes crinkling with a smile, leaned in closer, his breath against her ear. “That, and me.”

"Perhaps..."

Claere laughed, a soft, clear sound, and kissed him, her warmth banishing any lingering tension. He moved his grinning lips with hers, holding her safe in his palms, now truly untouchable.

"I’ll settle for just you," she whispered.

I'm opening my inbox for asks for one-shots on Claere and Cregan! I'm not sure how that works, but I'll learn as I go :)

a question for my kind ones: if Cregan and Claere had a date night, what do you think that would look like? go as wild as you can!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @justdazzling , @lv7867 , @piper570 ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

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naffeclipse · 5 days ago

Text

To Survive Pt. 2

Reader x Orca!Eclipse

Commission Info

I'm back with more cuteness requested by dear @crazedauthor with an orca!reader and orca!Eclipse. Now, the two of you have children, and things are so peaceful after so much grief. A little scare happens when you wake alone, but Eclipse arrives quickly to make it better. Family shenanigans occur.

Content Warnings: Mentions of death and blood, and a reader with children.

———

On a crisp, pale morning, you open your eyes to a gentle new dawn. Awareness rushes you like a tide, but it does not drown you. The memory of the night before swishes against you, as soft as sea form, and you smile in your sleepy hazy.

You went to rest upon an ice shelf, carved into the side of a great wall towering pale blue over the Arctic sea, with your mate and children. In the arms of your love and cradling your two babies, one new, one a little grown, you drift into sweet, milky dreams.

After agonies of loss and isolation, you have found your pod again.

This very home was hollowed out by Eclipse’s hands. Tirelessly, he worked when you both learned you were expecting a child. You’ve never seen him in such excitement. His eyes shone like shards of ice in sunlight and he never slowed a moment until you begged him to come hold you and sleep a while.

Your eyelids flutter, crusted with sleep. Lounging in the bliss of the quiet, you appreciate the stillness for so rarely is all so peaceful. Once the baby came, there were tiny cries little hands grasping, and tiny flukes flipping. Eclipse held the babe in his clawed hands with a tenderness that stirred you with emotions. You fed your little one and whispered promises. Your little pod is safe. Your little pod is whole.

Then the second child came, and now an eager toddler was swimming quickly away around a bend of ice only to be snatched by Eclipse and cooed at in rumbling tones. The baby stayed in your arms when Eclipse wasn’t trying to hold both. Their wriggling bodies combatted his strength and gentleness, and you would laugh.

Sighing gently, you turn over, mindful of your dorsal fin against the frozen floor.

It’s quiet… Your mind returns to bloody seas and wicked nets tossed by human hands, then silence.

Your palms slide over the emptiness beside you. Bolting upright, your tail slaps against the floor in your alarm with a cool sting. You swivel your head. The dome blue of your home holds no refractions except for the barest light off of your body alone.

Your mate. Your babies. The youngest should be in your arms, mewling for milk. The eldest should have fussed long before the sun rose over the horizon for a playmate. Somewhere between, Eclipse should have kissed your shoulder and asked a question: what fish would you like for your morning meal?

You slept too long. Exhaustion should crawl at your edges and your patience should wear thin as your babies require ever-present attention. Horror crashes upon you. Adrenaline pumps through your veins as you thrust yourself off the ice shelf and into the icy waters below. Blubber and thick skin keep you safe from shock, but your heart swings against your rib cage and pounds against your sternum. Breathlessly, you intake air. You swim under the entrance and out into the vast expanse of the ocean.

Your pod. Where is your pod?

You cry out over the waves. A rawness invades your throat as Eclipse’s and your babies’ names drag at the vulnerable softness within you. Stinging arises at the corner of your eyes. Opening your arms, you dart back and forth over the entrance to your home. Do you set out to find them quickly or do you stay home should they return by themselves?

The ringing in your ears peaks and then stops under a familiar echo of your name. Twisting in the waters, far out beyond the wall of ice, is your mate. He bobs above the surface. Brilliant red frills frame his face as his eyes land upon you. In his arms, he cradles your children.

Almost collapsing under the surface, you inhale a tight breath. You force another one through, and another, deepening each inhale and exhale until the constriction around your chest eases.

The sight of your mate and babies keeps you afloat.

Eclipse carefully swims and closes the distance between you. The moment he nears, you open your arms for the youngest one. Maffei. Your darling daughter. Her face is round and plump, and what tiny frills adorn her are deep with deep red and orange hues. Her arms are thick with fat rolls. Her tiny fists unfurl, and a squall leaves her in demand for your arms around her.

The eldest, Fornax, excitedly calls for his parent. You answer with reassurance. You are here. You gaze over your child, your lovely son, the firstborn of your pod. He pushes away from his father quickly, showing off the cool tones of his flukes and fin-tips. Eclipse told you he looks so much like, but you see his strength in Fornax’s smile, in the way he swims after a fish though he’s too slow now to catch one.

Eclipse suggested the names you so dearly treasure now. He’s imagined for many years children, and the names he had prepared are perfect for the bundles now wriggling in your arm and swimming around you like a tiny whirlpool.

Now you both have a family.

“Maffei, Fornax,” you breathe and then hold Eclipse’s gaze. “Where were you?”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, love.” He draws himself closer, resting an arm around your waist. You shift until your back rests against his chest. The familiar weight of his chin pressing lightly into your shoulder cools the rising panic within you. “I believed you would sleep longer. Don’t be afraid.”

For several moments, you collect yourself as Eclipse gathers you in his arms. He presses a kiss to the crook of your neck. Looking down at Maffei, she fits perfectly in your arms. She babbles lightly. Little coos rising and falling in musical notes lay a gentle hand over your heart.

Fornax splashes. The cool wave of water hits you gently, causing Maffei to squirm and pout her pink lips.

“Fornax,” Eclipse says in a firm but gentle voice, “Don’t splash your sister.”

“Sorry, papa.” Your son’s tail flicks. A slight sheepishness overtakes him as he drifts up to you and looks down at his little sister in your arms. “Sorry, Maffei.”

“Good boy,” you murmur and bow to press a kiss to his forehead.

He smiles with small, nubby teeth lining his gums before darting away with another ripple. The water crashes against each other. You keep Maffei shielded this time.

Eclipse rumbles a pleased sound. Looking back down at you, he presses his cheek against your head.

“Are you alright?” he asks in a low rasp.

“Yes.” You crook your finger and softly brush Maffei’s cheek. “I am now.”

“You looked so weary,” Eclipse continues softly. The vibrations in his chest touch your spine. “Last night, you were up so late with Maffei. I meant to return before you awoke. The little ones were so eager to spend energy. It is my duty as your mate and their father to take care of you all.”

He brushes the hair from your forehead softly. You lean deeper into his touch while watching Fornax explore a side of the ice shelf, touching and digging at loose bits of the frigid wall.

“They are very rambunctious,” you tease and turn back to grin at Eclipse. “Just like you.”

He laughs, deep and hearty. Maffei gives a small cry of complaint. You can smell the faint scent of milk on her. Eclipse coos sweetly.

“Little love, don’t fuss. We’re both here. It’s alright.” Eclipse tenderly strokes Maffei’s head. Seemingly content with the attention, she leans against your chest and settles. Her tiny tail is not yet developed enough for swimming on her own. She requires constant arms to hold her above the surface as her ability to hold her breath grows stronger and stronger.

You turn slowly back to Eclipse. Your heart has grown softer and fonder of your mate since watching him as a father. He is attentive and constant in his efforts to provide for their every need.

Gently, you press a kiss to Eclipse’s mouth. His eyes, twin flames of burning yellow and red, widen before he returns the gesture with equal fervor. He pushes gently and cradles your mouth with his before releasing you.

“You are a wonderful father,” you speak softly. “You are the most loving mate. And this,” you look at your children, “feels like home.”

Eclipse’s tail flicks underneath you as his body seems to tremble with emotion before he gently presses his forehead to yours.

“How so, my love? Tell me all,” he demands in a rumble.

You take a moment and fall back to days when you were in the shelter of your mother’s arms, and your aunts would sing lullabies to your younger cousins.

“Babies were held close, and everyone offered a hand,” you recount gently the memories of your childhood, “No one went without.”

You gently tickle Maffei’s chin, and she grabs your finger with her fat little hand. She gives you a searing look. A soft laugh escapes from you. You apologize to her before she returns to settle against your bosom.

“My mother would have loved to hold our babies,” you whisper softly.

“Yes,” Eclipse rumbles low, “My mother would have been pleased to see our children, and she would approve of my mate.”

You flush softly at such a thought, then grow somber within it. Despite all the pain, you are both still here. Your family is beautiful and worth every moment of agony.

Fornax returns but stops short of splashing Maffei. He instead treads slightly to swim around Eclipse, and tug at his arm, begging for a playmate.

A wicked grin spread across Eclipse’s maw.

“My father would play with me often,” he begins, and you eye him suspiciously as he takes Fornax under the arms. “Like this.”

He lifts Fornax above the surface. His body is small and slipstream, and his tail drips heavily back to the sea as he giggles at a high-pitched sound. To your dismay, Eclipse tosses the child over the surface and back into the water with a heavy splash.

“Eclipse!” you shout, aghast.

Flicking up small waves, Eclipse darts for Fornax and scoops up your not-so-little baby, and he’s laughing. The boy demands relentlessly that Eclipse toss him once more. Thundering in joy, Eclipse obliges. Fornax sails through the air and back into the water with a furious splash.

“Eclipse,” your voice climbs shrilly. “Stop tossing my son around like a baby seal!”

“I would never allow harm to befall him,” Eclipse promises in a mischievous roll of his tongue.

“Again! Do it again, papa!” Fornax slaps the water with his hands and his tail cuts through the salty brine.

Then Maffei turns in your arms. Her little eyes fall on her brother and father playing roughly along the surface, and she chortles in a way that reminds you of Eclipse. Her tiny face ignites with delight.

Slowly, with all forces against you, you relax. Fornax beams brightly when he emerges from another tossing. Constantly, Eclipse is calculating, carefully adjusting the throwing of his son and watching him closely to ensure there is no harm done.

Perhaps he might feel your radiating judgment, for Eclipse turns back. He tucks Fornax underneath his arm and drags him back to you despite your son's protests and needing to be thrown once more over the waves.

He nears, a great grin splitting his maw. You are helpless in returning the gesture in the radiating heat of his joy. His arms surround you, and Fornax is caught in the embrace as well as Maffei.

Looking down softly over his pod, Eclipse surveys you quietly. Fornax wraps his arms around you in kind. He blows raspberries at his sister who giggles quietly. Their tiny tails squirm against your side, and you feel at peace.

“I will always protect our pod,” he declares, his eyes searing with his intent and truth.

Your heart swells in your chest. Pushing close, you kiss Eclipse sweetly, until the baby fusses and Fornax asks when he can be tossed again.

You will never lose your pod again.

#naff's writing commissions #apex polarity #orca!eclipse #orca!reader #reader with children #just toss your kid around like a football #they'll love it!#and your spouse will definitely appreciate it trust me #naff writing

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afsalovesnikolai · 2 months ago

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Hi there dearie!!(⁠´⁠∩⁠｡⁠•⁠ ⁠ᵕ⁠ ⁠•⁠｡⁠∩⁠`⁠)

Megumi X reader argument angst to fluff, mhm my favourite, heheheh if you're comfy writing arguments that is, if not feel free to skip this one mwah

Gonna be honest its a GN reader, but i think somewhere in there i accidently kept on writing she/her pronounces. if there is any tell me please.

To begin, You actually forgot what the conversation was even about. Megumi and you had now found ourselves in a heated argument over something seemingly small but you actually forgot what it was about. But all you knew was the tension in the room was tense, as you both stood your ground, refusing to back down. Megumi's eyes narrowed, his eyes almost darkening with intensity as he stared down at you. Something very opposite with the patient yet firm gaze he usually gives you.

"You're being completely irrational about this!" Megumi exclaimed, his voice cold and sharp. He took a step closer to you, his tall, slim frame towering over your’s. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if he was barely restraining himself from lashing out physically. But the truth was he wouldn't actually hit you, he was doing it to remind himself that this was reality. "This isn't even worth arguing about, but you're making it into such a big deal!" He continues.

You, unfazed by Megumi's intimidating presence, stood your ground and retorted, "Oh, so now I'm being irrational? You're the one who started this whole thing by insisting that your way is the only right way! And don't you dare try to dismiss my feelings!”

You continued, voice rising in frustration and anger. You took a step closer to Megumi, closing the distance between them. Your eyes with determination as you looked up at him, refusing to be cowed by his imposing demeanor.

"My feelings are just as valid as yours, but you keep brushing them off like they don't matter! We're supposed to be partners, but you're acting like you're the only one who knows what's best. I know what I'm talking about!" You retort sick of him trying to order you whether your decisions were right or wrong.

"Fine, you want to play it that way? Let's hear your brilliant idea then. I'm sure it's so much better than what I've been suggesting," *he said sarcastically as his eyes won't leave your figure.

Megumi's eyes narrowed further, a mix of frustration and curiosity flickering across his face. He uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on his hips, his fingers tapping against the fabric of his dark blue jacket. The sound echoed in the tense silence of the room, emphasizing the weight of the moment.

He studied your face intently, as if trying to decipher your thoughts and intentions. The air between them crackled with unspoken challenges and hidden desires. Megumi's gaze lingered on your lips for a split second before he caught himself and looked away, clearing his throat.

"Well? I'm waiting," he said, his voice low and controlled. Despite his best efforts to maintain a neutral expression, a hint of vulnerability crept into his eyes. He found himself genuinely feeling a bit of guilt, so he sort of wanted to hear your perspective, even as he tried to conceal it behind his usual stern facade. The room felt smaller, the walls seeming to close in on them as they stood locked in their heated exchange.

You decide to fuck it as you turned to leave, Megumi's eyes widened in surprise. He hadn't expected you to simply walk away from your argument. His instincts kicked in, and he found himself reaching out to grab your arm before you could get too far.

"Hey, wait a minute," he called out, his voice a blend of frustration and concern. His fingers tightened around your arm.

Megumi's hand fell to his side as you slapped his hand away, the sting of the slap lingering on his skin. He watched as you stormed out of the room, your footsteps echoing down the hallway. A mix of emotions swirled within him - frustration, confusion, and a hint of guilt.

He stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot, unsure of whether to chase you or give you space, what he did know was his mind raced with thoughts of their heated exchange, replaying the argument in his head. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret for how he had handled the situation.

With a heavy sigh, Megumi ran a hand through his spiky hair, disheveling it further. He knew that he had a tendency to come across as cold and dismissive, but he had never intended to hurt his partner's feelings. He really did value you.

Three hours passed, and Megumi found himself pacing the room, his phone clutched tightly in one hand. He had sent multiple texts and calls to you, all unanswered. The guilt that had been gnawing at him grew stronger, and he realized that he needed to make things right.

Finally, he made a decision. He wouldn't wait for you to respond; he would go to you. He didn't know where you had gone, but he was determined to track you down.

Megumi spotted you sitting on the swings in the park, the park where you usually had your dates, as you ranted and he listened. You're back to him as you gently push yourself back and forth. He approached cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest. As he got closer, he could see the tension in your shoulders.

He took a deep breath and called out to her softly, "Name? Can we talk?"

Your head snapped up at the sound of his voice, your eyes widening in surprise and you turned to face him. You didn't say anything, but your gaze spoke volumes.

Megumi took a few steps closer, and he kept his voice low and gentle, not wanting to startle you. "I know I messed up. I should never have dismissed your feelings like that. I was wrong, and I'm truly sorry."

You remained silent, your arms crossed tightly over your chest as you stared at Megumi. The hurt and anger in your eyes cut through him like a knife, making him feel even more guilty for his actions. He took another step closer.

"I know that my apology doesn't erase what happened, but I want you to know that I hear you. Your feelings and your ideas matter to me, and I promise to do better in the future," he said, his voice wavering slightly with emotion. "I never meant to make you feel unimportant or unvalued. That's the last thing I want."

Megumi's heart raced as he waited for your response. He knew that he had hurt you , and the thought made his stomach churn with regret. He wanted nothing more than to take back his harsh words and actions, to show you how much you truly meant to him.

“Okay.” You admit, you're not that mad at him, but at the same time you don't have the heart to forgive him so fast.

Megumi's shoulders sagged with relief as you finally spoke, even if your response was muted. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He knew that your forgiveness would take time, and he was prepared to put in the effort to earn it back.

He nodded slowly, a small, grateful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Okay," he echoed, his voice soft and sincere. "Thank you for giving me another chance.”

Megumi gestured towards the swing next to you , asking for permission to sit down. When you nodded, he carefully lowered himself onto the seat, maintaining a respectful distance between them.

They sat in silence for a while, the gentle creaking of the swings and the rustling of leaves in the breeze filling the space between them. Megumi could feel the tension slowly dissipating, replaced by a sense of cautious optimism.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice gentle and thoughtful. "I want you to know that I really do value your input and your ideas. I know I didn't show it well, but I truly believe that you matter the most to me.”

Megumi's breath hitched as he you interwine your pinky gently with his. The simple, intimate gesture sent a wave of warmth through his body, and he couldn't help but smile softly. He gave your finger a gentle squeeze, savoring the connection between them.

As they swung side by side, Megumi found himself relaxing, the tension from earlier slowly melting away. The gentle swaying motion and the peaceful surroundings helped to soothe his nerves, allowing him to focus on the present moment and the person beside him.

He glanced over at you, taking in the way the soft sunlight illuminated your features. In that instant, he felt a surge of so much love. Despite their differences and the occasional conflict, he knew that you were someone he could count on, You to him.

#sub jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #hurt/comfort #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro #megumi fluff #megumi smut #megumi angst #megumi x you #jjk megumi #fushiguro

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cloudedcurses · 1 month ago

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Never To Forget

⥽ an: Surely, I wouldn't cause such pain and misery for a second time now, would I? I absolutely would. Feel the pain. Hope you like it ᡣ𐭩

⥽ incls: S.GojoXfem!reader ᡣ𐭩.

⥽ Word Count: 1.1k

ᝰ incls: death, angst w/happy ending. SPOILERS WARNING too!

─── ᯓᡣ𐭩 ───

“What are you doing? Why do you have that camera?” you asked, squinting with confusion at the figure who seemed to levitate in front of you, Megumi, Yuji, and Nobara. A soft chuckle came from the now-clear camera, revealing Satoru Gojo.

“What’s with the recording?” you questioned again as Nobara began adjusting her hair. “Are you getting me ready for a modeling gig, sensei? You should’ve told me!” She grinned, and Megumi scoffed quietly.

“No reason, really. I just wanted to capture these moments…it’s good to have memories for the future,” Satoru explained, easing down from midair and turning the camera on himself beside you. The height difference was stark, his towering frame shadowing yours.

“For the future? Why now?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged, nonchalant as always. It was typical of Satoru—spontaneous, unpredictable. Even when you’d been friends, he’d show up at your place unannounced, claiming he was too tired to make it back to his apartment…though it was hardly far.

Satoru handed the camera off to Yuji, the vessel of Sukuna, who clumsily lifted it, barely managing to frame the group. Nobara flipped him off, while Megumi looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Hi, future me! Don’t eat Sukuna’s finger, okay?” Yuji called out, to which Megumi deadpanned, “That’s in the past, you idiot.”

───

“I’ve always admired the way you use your powers, your curse technique…with such caution and control,” Satoru’s voice drifted through the recording. You were training Megumi and Yuji to handle a dragon curse that fed on anxious energy, the creature coiling and spinning within the gym as you repeated the rules. It wasn’t the hardest curse, especially for Megumi.

“Oh? The camera again? Wonder why?” you questioned, moving to sit beside Satoru on the bench.

“Well, it is our five-month anniversary. How does it feel to be with the strongest?” he teased, his smirk making you sigh and smile.

“Pretty damn great…I love you,” you murmured softly, catching his playful grin. “What was that?” he taunted, leaning in.

“Nothing! Megumi, need help?” you stammered, springing up to cover your flustered retreat, Gojo right behind you.

“Huh?! What was that?! Say it again! C’mon, baby, let me hear it!” he called, his long strides closing in on you as you ran, laughter echoing through the gym.

───

“Happy one-year anniversary,” Satoru’s voice came through a grainy video, revealing him holding the camera with a beaming smile. “I’m not sure if you’ll see this, but you’re getting all dolled up now. I picked out five dresses from your Pinterest, booked a glam squad, and hoped you got your nails done…” He grinned, revealing a brilliant diamond ring. “It’s got three stones, one blue like my eyes, one matching yours, and the one in the middle represents how clear you make my days. Around you, I don’t have to be Gojo Satoru, wielder of the Six Eyes…I can be Satoru, your husband, if you say yes.” Hearing footsteps, he quickly slipped the ring into his pocket.

“You saved me! I was stuck in the closet!” he lied, his face a picture of mock distress when you opened the door. Then, he caught sight of you, dressed beautifully. “You amaze me every day,” he whispered, his voice full of affection, before the video cut.

“SHE SAID YES! WE’RE GETTING MARRIED!” Gojo’s excited shout filled the screen, the camera trembling as he shook it in excitement. One hand held the camera, while his other arm wrapped around you, showering kisses across your face.

Yuji jumped up and down, cheering alongside his sensei, until Megumi grabbed the camera, allowing Gojo to lift and spin you like a Disney princess.

“Congratulations…you two,” Megumi’s deep voice murmured before stopping the recording, just as Yuji popped a confetti cannon in the background.

“Why am I doing this?” Nanami’s deadpan voice came through, the video revealing a stunning wedding setup. With mild annoyance but perfect framing, Nanami filmed as Gojo flashed a thumbs-up.

The setup had transformed the gym into an elaborate venue, despite the rush due to Gojo’s impatience—he “didn’t want to wait another day.”

You walked down the aisle, locking eyes with Satoru, all the love between you evident. Your hastily chosen dress fit perfectly, a testament to Gojo’s black card and your determination. You exchanged vows and rings, finally becoming Mrs. Y/N Gojo.

The camera shifted to Yuji’s excited face. “Hi, Momma and Papa Gojo! Thanks for adopting me,” he began, his tone earnest. “My gramps always said, ‘Love is strange and fascinating.’ Maybe one day, I’ll feel that too.” He turned the camera to you and Satoru, dancing mid-air above the guests.

───

The video paused, and you sighed softly.

“Well…did he?” a soft voice asked. Your daughter, Sora, peered at the laptop, her bright blue eyes sparkling.

“Did Uncle Yuji find happiness?” she asked, her innocent curiosity illuminating her young face, though you sensed Satoru’s curse technique within her.

Sora, the name you and Satoru had chosen together before he was sealed. You both sat beneath a cherry blossom tree on a picnic blanket, watching the memories Satoru had insisted on creating for you.

The memory of that fateful night felt fresh—the devastation Sukuna left in his wake, without the chance for an evacuation or rescue efforts. Nanami, fallen. Nobara, injured. Yuji, refusing to return home. Thousands dead, and Gojo sealed.

After nineteen agonizing days, he returned but was gone again far too soon, his drive for revenge consuming him. Watching Yuta wield Satoru’s body as a weapon was excruciating.

Your pregnancy had been difficult, yet Sora became the blessing that kept you going. She was born the day Gojo died, and you liked to believe he was there, welcoming her into a world he’d fought so hard to protect.

“Mommy, look, there’s more…” Sora said, startling you. The video usually ended with Yuji, but now it continued. You pressed play, revealing Gojo, dressed for his final battle.

“Hey, baby…hey, Sora, my little buttercup. If you’re watching this, I’m probably dead—Sukuna must’ve got me,” he chuckled, eyes warm with his usual mischief. “Y/N, never doubt that I loved you. My life was better the moment you walked into it. And Sora, you’re strong because you’re ours. I may not be here physically, but I’ll always be with you both. Make sure Megumi gives you a lift to reach the stars, okay, Sora?” he added with a soft smile, the video ending.

You let out a breath, a tear slipping onto your lap, as a white butterfly landed on your nose. You gently lifted it onto your finger, then placed it on Sora’s head, watching it flutter towards Satoru’s grave, where it was soon joined by a yellow, purple, and black butterfly.

“Bye-bye, Papa! I love you!” Sora squealed happily, erupting into a happy giggle. Even Satoru’s ghostly figure could help but smile at the sight of her with Nanami and Geto standing beside him, watching you two enjoy sweets together.

An image even the dead would carry forward forever.

#jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk gojo #jjk imagines #gojou satoru x reader #satoru x you #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #jjk angst #jjk spoilers

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writteninlunarlight-years · 2 months ago

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Please Don't Prove I'm Right

This is based on the song Please Please Please (Epic Version) - by Morgan Clae. I haven't written in a long time; my mental health has taken a significant toll not too long ago. I have been going to some consistent therapy as well as taking things slowly on my own terms. I thank my support and followers right next to me as I recover. The banners are all from @venomhound. Please reach out to them for some excellent help with the Tumblr blog. They have been a big help to me. @literallurker is their main account. Thank you everyone for bearing with me. You are all amazing. My moons~

TW: AFAB Reader, Hurt, Graphic Details of Harm, Religious Truama's, Yandere Reader for a moment

In the beginning, heaven was a breathtaking expanse of glistening white, where clouds floated like soft pillows in an endless sky. The angels above drifted gracefully among them, their laughter echoing with pure joy, and the air held an ethereal light that felt almost alive. It was a realm of boundless beauty reserved solely for God’s beloved.

But everything changed when Lucifer, once the most cherished of all angels, was cast down. The pristine clouds darkened, their softness replaced by a bitter heaviness that weighed down the heavens. The once-gleaming landscape morphed into a realm of towering structures and watchful exorcists. The loss was palpable, as if the heavens themselves mourned the fall of its brightest star.

When you first encountered Lucifer, you were just a baby angel, a mere child of the heavens. You were newly formed, wide-eyed, and full of wonder, destined to guide the three humans wandering in the paradise of Eden. You felt an unshakeable bond with him—a connection transcending mere friendship. He was your sun, your air, the essence of your existence in this perfect world.

Lucifer was intoxicatingly brilliant, his spirit igniting something that felt sinful within you. Yet, whispers of his rumored affections for a human stirred around you. It was said that he had fallen for one of them—impossible, you thought. God’s favorite should follow divine order, untouched by earthly desires, especially for a mortal once destined for Adam and soon rejected.

As you flitted anxiously through the heavens, awaiting his return, you could feel the eyes of the other angels upon you, judgment simmering in their stares. Sera, a newly appointed Seraphim, approached her voice a gentle choir against your rummaging thoughts.

“Y/N, you seem troubled. Is everything all right?” Her youthful features were unmarred by the weight of time, yet you could sense the unspoken warnings in her tone.

“I’m just waiting for Lucifer,” you replied, forcing a smile. “He’s never taken this long before.”

You could hear the skepticism in her voice before you even looked up. “Y/N, he’s trouble. He doesn’t see you the way he sees that woman. His heart is blind to your devotion, lost to her instead.”

Each word struck like a dagger, stinging your eyes with tears. “No, Sera. He cares for me. He tells me everything about his adventures in Eden. He will come back for me.” Your voice trembled with hope and desperation as if your sadness could summon him.

Just then, like a flash of lightning, Lucifer burst through the gates, the embodiment of energy and life. He swooped down, wrapping you in a joyous embrace, spinning you through the clouds, laughter spilling from his lips like music. You could feel Sera’s disdain radiating from behind, but you didn’t care. In that moment, you were weightless, untouchable...his.

In an instant, he whisked you away to a secluded corner of heaven, where you could gaze down upon Eden. Confusion washed over you as you settled on a fluffy cloud, watching him pace with uncontainable excitement, his wings shimmering behind him. He was always so proud of his beautiful wings.

“Y/N! I’ve discovered how to make Father recognize the humans as equals!” he declared, his eyes alight with excitement.

“Why would you want that?” you asked, a knot tightening in your chest. “We’re different for a reason. We’re not meant to be like them.”

His face fell as he paused, the thrill evaporating. “I need them to be seen as equals so I can bring them to heaven with us! Don’t you remember everything I’ve shared? All the dreams I have?”

The ache in your heart deepened. You wanted to forget, to lose yourself in his bright hair and vibrant blue eyes, but the thought of Adam, Eve, and Lilith standing beside you twisted like a knife, no, not beside you...beside him. Two perfect couples, it seemed.

“Of course, I remember,” you said, forcing a smile. “Please, continue.” But inside, a storm raged between your heart and mind.

What if you could just keep him for yourself? What if you shattered his wings, leaving him grounded and broken? What if you descended into the chaos below and extinguished Lilith’s light? What if you bound him to your will, claiming him as your own?

In that moment, you felt the weight of your thoughts, and the realization stung sharper than any blade. He was meant for her, not for you. There is no way when he spoke of you to her, if he did that, she had these thoughts...were you even an angel?

A chill ran down your spine as these dark fantasies engulfed your mind, each thought more treacherous than the last. You gasped, the air thick with dread, realizing you were still with Lucifer, his presence a paradox of comfort and ongoing torment.

He rushed to you, his fingers brushing your cheek with a heavenly and cruel tenderness. His soothing yet distant voice echoed in your ears as a haunting melody. He was perfection incarnate, and you couldn’t fathom why those mere mortals deserved even a fraction of his devotion. You were willing to sin to keep him all to yourself...

After countless attempts to gain your attention, he realized it was futile. With a gentle sweep, he lifted you into the air, his wings unfurling majestically as he flew you to your resting zone—a serene haven that now felt like a ticking clock counting down to your last moment of peace.

If only you had known this would be your final day in his embrace, perhaps you would have listened more intently, held him tighter against the wind, and begged him to affirm that your bond was real—that his heart belonged to you, not to that woman on the surface.

But morning shattered the tranquility, a sudden onslaught of light and chaos. Angels gathered, their faces a storm of judgment as Lucifer stood before them, shackled and tormented, bound to that woman from below.

Tears blurred your vision as the reality of betrayal washed over you. He had chosen her, and in a cruel twist of fate, you were forced to witness your shame laid bare before God and all the Angels you shared home with.

Then came the searing pain—the molten metal of chains biting into your neck and wrists, dragging you toward the center of the circle of wrath. Confusion clouded your thoughts as you locked eyes with Sera, whose disdainful glance pierced through your confusion like a dagger.

“Y/N, DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU’VE BEEN SUMMONED HERE WITH THESE TWO TRAITORS?” The voice boomed, a thunderous echo that reverberated through your very essence. You looked past Sera to see Him—the man the Archangels called Father, his presence both majestic and terrifying. With a shaky breath, you swallowed your fear and shook your head.

“No, Father, I don’t understand. Why am I being punished?” Each word felt like a desperate plea, even as the burning sensation clawed at your skin, choking you of your right to breathe.

“Father, please! Y/N is innocent! She knew nothing of my plans; she was ill when I confided in her last night!” Lucifer’s voice, once a safe haven for your soul, now felt like salt in an open wound. The sincerity in his plea twisted your heart, revealing the depths of betrayal you had yet to fully grasp.

“Silence, Lucifer, for God speaks! The matter at hand isn’t who has wronged whom but that this angel knew of your treachery and chose to remain silent!” Your world crumbled hearing Sera’s voice. You were to fall alongside those who had deceived you, tethered to the very man who had strung you along with promises and soft whispers late in the night, now choosing to partake in those nights with Lilith instead.

“FOR YOUR PUNISHMENT, Y/N, YOU WILL BE THE JUDGE OF THE SPACE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. YOU WILL DETERMINE THE FATE OF SOULS, FOR YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO WALK AMONG BOTH SIDES! YOU WILL FACE ETERNAL LONELINESS AND ISOLATION FOR YOUR TRANGRESSIONS UPON HEAVEN AND EDEN!” Fear engulfed you, a suffocating darkness that threatened to consume all hope. You were to be cast into a purgatory of your own making, alone and forsaken.

“Release her shackles!” As Sera’s voice cut through the air like a blade, you felt the chains around you dissolve, yet the burn marks remained, a permanent reminder of your choices. You were thrust away from Lucifer, your heart pounding against the confines of your chest, and when your eyes finally met his, you saw the flicker of concern. It ignited a deep-seated rage within you.

Pain shot through your back like lightning as your wings began to transform from gleaming white to a deep, obsidian black. Your halo, once a radiant gold, dulled to bronze, and your skin took on a gray hue. The purity of your existence was now tainted by your one-sided love for Lucifer.

“FATHER, NO! SPARE HER!” Lucifer’s desperate cries echoed through the heavens, but they fell on deaf ears. You stood there, hollowed out, your heart aching not for the punishment before you but for the betrayal that had led you here.

As the Archangel Michael took his stance next to Lucifer, he raised his sword, poised to sever Lucifer's wings. You were forced to witness the agony of his fall. His screams of anguish faded into the abyss as the clouds beneath you crumbled, sending you spiraling into your new reality.

For years, you lingered in purgatory, a silent reaper of the soul’s passage, guiding some to Heaven’s light and casting others into the depths of Hell. With each soul that passed through your hands, your heart grew heavy with bitterness, festering into a resentment that twisted into distaste. You found yourself haunted by thoughts of Lucifer—by the life he now shared with her, the woman who claimed his heart and turned your world upside down.

Then came the day you were summoned to Heaven, tasked with presenting your report on the balance of Winners and Sinners. It was there, amid the looming towers and the changed landscape of your once home, that you first laid eyes on her—Charlie Morningstar, a living echo of Lucifer, with his fiery spirit shimmering in her every gesture.

As you sat in the grand jury meeting, the air thick with tension, you listened to the murmurs of angels discussing Lucifer and Lilith’s child. Your heart ached as you watched Charlie fight for her dreams, her passion reminiscent of his—how he had once battled for his aspirations, now he was seemingly forgotten till Charlie showed up.

Then, as if summoned by fate, Adam snapped his fingers, opening a portal to cast Charlie and her partner back to hell. Just as it threatened to close, a surge of instinct propelled you forward, a desperate need to reach him again, the man you loved, to grasp the fleeting connection you had lost. You rushed toward the portal, your heart racing, your soul crying out to see him missing you.

On the other side, Lucifer stood, his eyes wide with shock and recognition. Amidst his hand, a cold golden band sat, showing where his commitments lie. Time froze as you locked gazes, every unspoken word hanging heavy between you. He extended his hand, a lifeline reaching through the veil, but the portal snapped shut instantly, severing the moment like a blade.

Tears welled in your eyes as despair washed over you, your head drooping low as the chamber emptied around you. Sera approached her presence, a gentle reminder of all those years ago, offering solace amid your sadness.

"It's time to let go, Y/N," she murmured, her voice soft yet firm. You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle heavily in your chest. With a trembling hand, you reached out to the wall where the portal had been, yearning for the connection that had vanished.

As Sera sighed and stepped away, you whispered, “Please, please, please prove I’m right...Please, please, please don’t bring me to tears for one more night...”

Years of pent-up emotions, longing, and heartache surged in a wave. A soft black glow began to envelop you. It consumed you, drawing you back into the solitude that Lucifer had unwittingly gifted you—a prison of your own making. Purgatory was your new and forever home.

Instead of proving you right, Lucifer had always been a master of disappointment, a beacon of hope that burned too bright yet always flickered just out of reach. He would continue to choose her, leaving you alone in the shadows, grappling with the remnants of a love that had never truly belonged to you. Or...did it...

Thank you again, everyone, for the support; I will slowly take steps back into the community one foot at a time. I hope you enjoy my pieces and stick around for my growth <3

#x reader #lunarwritings #moons #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel imagine #Lucifer x reader #Lucifer x you #Lucifer x reader fluff #Lucifer x you fluff #hazbin hotel Lucifer #hazbin Lucifer #Lucifer fluff #Lucifer #Theduckyking #thekingofhell

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eternalstarlitwonderland · 14 days ago

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Empyreal Butterflies

As the starlit hour drew to a close, the forest began to transition into darkness, transforming into a mere silhouette of its vibrant self

The last vestiges of light flickered faintly, like ephemeral sparks lost among the shadows

The starlight danced gently through the trees, shimmering momentarily before fading into the night’s embrace

After her departure, the joyful melody that filled the air faded away, leaving the woodland in tranquil silence

In her absence, the remaining butterflies that used to brighten the landscape drifted aimlessly, their once-radiant colors now muted and lost within the deepening gloom

Gradually, the forest became entirely shrouded in a shadowy veil, giving it an otherworldly quality

The butterflies lingered like faint echoes of their former splendor

Their luminous beauty is now hidden deep within the depths of the darkened woods

Suddenly, with a silvery flash, the sky erupted into an aurora, splashing the night canvas with ethereal hues that danced and swirled in an enchanting display

The first rays of dawn began to break, heralding the arrival of a new day

Daylight has an undeniable way of revealing the world’s intricate beauty, unveiling the landscape under its warm embrace

Gentle rays bathed the forest floor, casting a beauteous subtlety over the scene, while the lovely sound of birds began to trill a joyful morning song, filling the air with a sense of renewal

The sunlit glint delicately permeated the forest, draping it in a soft, radiant glow

As if responding to the awakening magic of the day-spring, fluorescent butterflies materialized, flocking toward the woodland once more

Although she had yet to return, her essence lingered within the very heart of the forest, entwining with the vibrant life around her

The day-spring’s beaming glimmer gleamed overhead, promising new beginnings and whispered secrets carried on the gentle breeze, inviting the early birds to begin their eagerly awaited journey

The incandescent butterflies dance gracefully through the air, their vibrant colors shimmering as they catch the sunlight

As they flutter among the lush greenery of the forest, each delicate wingbeat casts a gentle glow and softly weaves a tapestry of light that brightens, filling the air with a magical luminescence that brightens even the shadowy corners of the woodland

The trekkers were entranced as they gazed upon the delicate glimmer that sparkled like a thousand tiny stars dispersed across the landscape, that radiated from each tiny glimmer catching the sunlight like scattered jewels

Some of them felt an irresistible pull, as if the ethereal light seemed to weave a spell, drawing in those who paused to admire its enchanting allure, leaving them spellbound in its captivating embrace

Amidst the dense, shadowy embrace of the forest, one of the trekkers wandered deeper into the labyrinthine chasm of towering trees and found themselves lost

As the silence enveloped them, a mounting sense of panic began to creep in, evident in their trembling hands and quickened breaths

Unbeknownst to them, a vibrant flurry of butterflies fluttered gracefully through the air, their delicate wings glistered like gems, in the hues of orange and blue sensed the wanderer's distress

Instinctively, they flitted through the air, their delicate forms drawing closer to the troubled soul as if to offer solace amid the chaos

Caught off guard by the breathtaking sight of the brilliant butterflies emerging from the shadows, being stunned by the unexpected arrival

They hesitantly approached, their hearts racing with curiosity, With wide eyes

Pondered aloud, asking the ethereal creatures whether were harbingers of hope or mere figments of their imagination

A vibrant butterfly emerged, its wings shimmered in a sparkly silvery glitter and were painted with exquisite hues of soft rose and vivid chartreuse, creating a breathtaking display as it fluttered gracefully before them

With a gentle flick of its delicate antennae,

the butterfly emitted a soothing and clear voice that resonated with warmth and reassurance, captivating those who listened

It beckoned them with a subtle, inviting motion, guiding them along a hidden path that wound through a lush forest, where sunlight filtered through the canopy above, creating a tapestry of dappled light on the forest floor, as the butterfly leading them away from peril, and its presence was a comforting beacon on their journey and guiding them safely into the embrace of the vibrant wilderness, filling them with a sense of peace and wonder

The trekker warmly expressed their heartfelt gratitude for the skillful guidance provided throughout the winding paths of the forest,

feeling a profound sense of relief and appreciation for their safe journey, ensuring their safe passage amidst the towering trees and tangled underbrush

The butterflies fluttering around the daylit forest

Their delicate glint illuminates, keeping it mystical and magical

Making their mistress proud, honoring her legacy

She left a brilliant legacy that lives on through the fluorescent butterflies

They elegantly maundering in their ethereal glint, guarding the forest and protecting it from evil entities

#my writting #written by me #astronomy #stars #my words #words #starry writes #original poem #poem #poetry #empyreal butterflies

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moonlight-prose · 3 days ago

Text

STRANGE ADDICTION

➻ 01. BEAUTIFUL DEATH

a/n: i have rewritten this chapter about two times just to get it right. i want it to feel like the show, but also i'm a perfectionist when it comes to posting in a new fandom. this story has been in my head since s1 dropped and well it feels great to finally put it somewhere. even if the love for silco has sorta died down. i've had the most fun writing this so i hope you enjoy!

summary: dinner with an old friend leads to revelations about your past. about whether you chose the right path - the future meant for you. or if time indeed stands still beyond what science and magic tells you.

word count: 4.5k+

pairing: silco x f!reader; viktor x f!reader (platonic)

warnings: not explicit, angst, friendships, flashbacks, arguing, hesitation to tell the truth, pining (not by reader), the haunting of past relationships.

NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

The sun beat down harder than ever before. A bright scorching ball of light that seemed intent on searing through the fabric of your gown. Although you weren't entirely opposed, given the weight of the material that clung to your skin.

It seemed that the sun favored topside more than anywhere else. You'd known this for a while, your eyes fixed on the horizon at each turning of the clock. Dusk assumed its duties for the day, bringing forth the moon that hid until the time was right to reveal herself. Flames licked across the sky and suddenly you were a child again. Stunned by the magnificence and beauty of something so normal.

When you were younger you held the belief that only those in the grand city would be able to witness this. To watch as sunset broke along brilliant blue before sinking below—away from the towers of the grand house.

Although the term house felt humble and dishonest given the lavish setting. Castle seemed like a better word. Or kingdom.

Piltover. The land of progress.

How ironic that just below the surface lay the vastness of a city that thrived on the opposite. You felt like royalty amidst the opulence around you. Someone who was crowned long ago by the people who deemed you worthy enough. Yet it wasn't that long ago that you were a young kid vying for a glimpse at a clear sky. Topside rarely accepted those that didn't belong; unsurprising but still a bitter disappointment.

How you managed to trick them—fool their wits—into allowing you access escaped you.

This felt too extravagant. So unlike the person you once knew. It felt fictional. A tale as old as time now finally bestowed upon someone like you.

"Unbelievable," you muttered, eyes wide at the brilliant orange that painted itself over pinks and yellows.

A voice echoed in the distance, someone calling your name, and with a sigh you were pulled away from the ambience of this view. You preferred a chance to stay here but you recognized the lilt of his voice, the familiar drawl of his words. With a sigh you let go of the balcony railing and turned towards the room you were staying in. His room. He offered and gave no room for an argument.

That didn't stop you from trying.

"Dinner is being planned," he announced, balancing his weight on the cane held in his tight grip.

"All this trouble isn't necessary." Pulling the chair by his bed close, you took the opposite one with a grin. "I'm not that important."

He huffed, long and loud enough to keep you quiet. "I don't see you often enough. Dinner is the least I can do."

"Viktor–" His hand went up before you could state your case—the argument ready to fly off the tip of your tongue.

"I've argued with you enough over the years to know when you will start." His smile is warm, an old piece of the past that still resides in the back of your mind.

"I call that an unfair advantage," you muttered.

"I would call it strategy."

"Strategy requires the mind of a politician," you joked. The words rolled out of your mouth with ease as you scrutinized the man before you.

He shrugged. "I've got politician friends."

"Right."

Over the years you often wondered where your paths might cross again. Where on the timeline of your lives Viktor would once more become your ally. You both found one another in your younger years—when things were simpler. The time in your life where you were starting to be recognized for your mind and him with his mind.

Two intellectuals forged in the fires of the Undercity. At one point in your life this might have felt humorous. Almost ironic.

Now you tried to grasp at what kept the two of you together. Especially since your step back away from the atmosphere of progress.

"I–"

"While you are here, would you mind—uh—looking over the research I have accumulated over the years of your absence?" The notebook he draws from the table beside him is crammed with scraps of paper. The binding was ready to burst at the seams. A sight that so utterly and undeniably the young man you met in the Undercity. "I trust your intelligence more than mine sometimes."

You could recall the hours spent pouring over books, each one filled with information you never thought you'd have the opportunity to learn. They brought the both of you closer to something that he felt would do the world some good. Knowledge was power in Piltover—you simply learned to utilize it for your own good. As a way to escape the past you tried your best to ignore.

Flipping to the first bookmarked page, you attempted to discern his writing. At times it was illegible, but you knew it better than yours. After years of looking at the same scratch marks and symbols, you were able to pick through Viktor's work with ease. Your heart stuttered at the research before you—the truth that rang silently in his hopeful expression.

"You want to find a power source?" you exclaimed, glancing up to see his eyes grow apprehensive.

Of course he would be wary about this. Every line scribbled, each night of hard work, all amounted to his life's legacy. The weight of his name was placed on loose pages and ink that bled between the compact journal. Running your finger over the foreign symbols etched onto each page and margin, you felt their power—the meaning behind each mark made.

"Viktor it's..." You wanted to call this emotion pride but the word felt minuscule given how much effort had been put into this. "Magnificent."

He grinned, settling back with a sigh of relief. "My partner Jayce—who you will meet tonight—has made a remarkable discovery."

"Remarkable is putting it lightly," you cut in, absentmindedly following the curve of the largest rune on the page, marking it in your memory.

Ducking his head, you watched his hands clasp together tightly, his thumb pressing against the pulse point of his wrist. "I have to do something...that will help."

That much you could understand.

"Ever since I've known you–" Shifting, you felt the skirt of your gown tug upwards—your leg exposed to the slight chill in the evening air. "You wanted to be remembered as a great scientist. Someone whose mind would be their legacy. I think you're closer to that than you think."

He scoffed. "I only told you that to stop the questions."

"About where you came from? Or something else."

The silence gave you enough of an answer. Explanations of his past came with little to no details. Merely stories that were fleeting, sinking beneath the depths long before you got a chance to figure them out entirely. He remained a mystery to you even now. Although...you couldn't say you were any different.

"Did you ever want that for yourself?" He leaned closer, his gaze attempting to pry beneath the depths of your mind.

"No," you breathed, catching one last glance at the sky. "It has always been better for my name to die with me."

"That I don't believe."

"No?" His eyes burned into the side of your face. A silent plea to finally let him in on the secret. To spill about the past you couldn't even accept for yourself.

Even as the years passed quicker than you could comprehend, Viktor never changed. Despite his age now surfacing across his face, he still felt familiar with each new slight wrinkle and faint mark that hadn't been there before. Beneath the fancy clothing and grim expression, he was still the boy you once knew. The ravenous scientist with a hunger to know more.

A man on a never ending journey for knowledge.

"You're brilliant," he said. "You always have been. I never quite understood why you chose to only be a..."

"A healer?" He nodded. "I didn't fit into Topside as smoothly as you did."

Whether he wished to admit it or not, the turmoil that tore through his body and mind was there. Hiding beneath the surface. Even as he refused to meet your gaze. Time may have intertwined you with him, but his dreams remained different—his hopes were vast enough to drag him away from the life you once knew.

Where he found the grandeur of a scientist working for someone brilliant, you found solace in your small shop surrounded with various concoctions and potions. A space that let you be the person you were always meant to be.

"You're talented enough to make a name for yourself. If you let me talk to the counsel–"

"No." The word sliced the air swiftly, silencing him with the sharp end of a whip.

He froze, drawing you out of the stupor your mind hastened to put you in. Upsetting him was the last thing you wanted, but you knew if he didn't stop now things would already be too late. Viktor had a tendency to escalate matters far more than necessary. It's why you were hesitant to even take his call—to give him leeway back into your life like this.

"Why?" he asked, his brows furrowed and eyes piercing through to the depths of your mind.

The answer lay at the back of your tongue—clear and ready to be pronounced with ease. But saying them out loud felt like a feat you'd never be able to manage.

"There are things in my past that are better left where they are," you replied, brushing off the way he looked at you.

A puzzle yet to be figured out. A math problem that held a solution to fix all that was broken.

But that was the thing...you couldn't be fixed. There remained no potion, no herbal remedy that could heal what had torn you to shreds. Who shattered you beyond repair.

Viktor left to pursue his Topside dreams—his pride in himself larger than anything you'd seen. Yet you remained behind. You stayed in the darkness of the Undercity with the promise to one day find him—to celebrate your dreams together. But that was before the battle plans, before you were recruited to help heal those that couldn't heal themselves. Before...him.

When it came down to it, you found yourself in a life far different from the one you dared to imagine with Viktor. The intention to follow him still existed somewhere as a fading dream that might never come true. But once you grew up, saw the world for how it was, you understood why you would never receive the same welcome he did.

You were a soldier first above it all and that was the one thing he would never know.

The secret you held in the confines of your heart.

"My past is the same as yours," he said. "We come from the same land. Surely if they accepted me, they will do the same for you."

You didn't fall in love with the devil.

The words that would never see the sunlight of Topside.

Reaching forward, you pat his knee in a gesture that offered a friendship despite all the secrets. Viktor would do what he wished; you couldn't stop him. That had always been the way of things since you were younger and so it would remain.

Merely two people who once offered to save one another from the bleak aspect of a future ready to eat you alive. Yet now there you were as adults. Sitting close enough to be friends yet miles a part from where you originally started.

You snapped the notebook shut and handed it back to him with a reluctant smile. The distaste of keeping him in the dark was pungent in your mouth, but this choice wasn't up to you to decide. It was always a mutual agreement between two people that were forced to be parted. He wouldn't speak about what happened and you'd do the same.

You were always meant to become a ghost of the Undercity and he a ghost of Topside.

Two fates that were never to intertwine again.

"Tell me," you said, moving to the still open balcony doors. "What's your partner Jayce like?"

He straightened in the chair, relief crossing his face at the realization that he hadn't offended you by pushing too far.

"You will like him."

"Oh I don't know about that," you drawled, a sly smile crossing your lips. "Don't you recall the night of the dinner party?"

He cringed as the memory of that disastrous debacle came to mind. You got into it with a certain doctor he befriended—a man with an ego large enough to choke the very air out of any room. The night ended with you unceremoniously chucking your drink into the man's face to save yourself the harsh act of slapping him. You refused to see Viktor for weeks—your own self worth having been burnt to the ground and defiled.

"I did not know he was going to insult you the way he had."

Scoffing, you leaned your back against the balcony railing. "You knew he wasn't good."

"Unfortunately that I did know." He stood on shaky legs, the clack of his cane against marble echoing off the walls as he joined you. "I can promise that Jayce is nothing like that."

"I'll determine that for myself." You sighed, glancing up at a darkened sky—the stars shimmering bright enough to rival the moon. "Besides, dinner is just us, right? Not a surprise interview to induct me into your hall of science. Because as flattered as I am–"

His laughter spilled over into your chest as he nudged your shoulder with his. "There will be no inducting. Not if you don't wish for it."

"Good." The clock across the room ticked away with expedited force—as if speeding up the flow of time to get you out of here. Yet you found yourself longing to stay, to remain in this small bubble. "Does he know who I am?"

"He knows what I've told him."

"All good I hope," you humored him, offering a placating smile that could be mistaken for charm. In the hopes that you'd make it through this night unscathed.

"There may have been a few stories." Swatting his shoulder, you ignored the shift he made towards you. "Are you okay?"

"Of course." You clutched the railing behind you until your knuckles hurt, your gut filled with the foreboding dread that came with treading the waters of your past. "I'm perfectly okay," you replied confidently.

Even if the words rang with the transparency of a lie.

Piltover at night held no comparison after witnessing the beauty of sunset. Yet after three glasses of wine and a dinner large enough to feed the village, you felt the thrill of excitement fill your chest at the thought of exploring parts you'd yet to see. Looping your arm around Viktor's you fell into step beside him—mere feet behind Jayce and a woman they introduced as Mel.

Of course, you knew who she was. Everyone in the city knew her name, but for the sake of a peaceful dinner void of any politics, you didn't make that fact obvious.

"It was a nice dinner," you said, the breeze off the water skimming the bare skin of your back.

"We should do it again." His voice remained steady, like a piece of home you never thought you'd get back. His eyes however...screamed something entirely different.

A divot in the road you weren't prepared for—one you didn't see yourself wanting.

"We should," you agreed, finding a spot against the railing. The blue of the ocean gleamed beneath the light of the moon. Truly Piltover at its finest. "Maybe next month?"

The irritated sigh slipped past his lips before he could reign it in, but that was all you needed to understand his intentions. You'd been afraid of this since you came to visit him the very first time. An execrable feeling weighed heavy in your stomach as time went on and his silence prevailed.

He stood beside you now with hope in his heart. The voices of Jayce and Mel faded into the background as they walked further away. And you were left with the friend you never wished to lose—the boy you longed to keep knowing.

"I haven't said—I should have said it already but–"

"Viktor," you interrupted, standing upright.

Suddenly the wine and the excessive amount of food didn't sound like a good idea after all. Your heart pounded against your chest, reverberating through your entire body—each nerve alight and waiting for the worst possible scenario to this outcome. He'd been your oldest friend, someone you counted on when you had no one else and the thought of ruining that left you feeling sick.

Each second he looked at you as if you held all the answers to what he pined for made your heart twist painfully.

With a shaky breath, you finally relented to the truth. "I can't."

"What do you mean?" His cheeks flushed vermilion as he fixed his gaze back to the water.

Shutting your eyes to collect your thoughts carefully, you sighed. "I know what you want me—us—to be and I can't...give that to you."

"Oh."

"I do care for you." Somehow the words echoed with hollow deceit, despite how true they felt in your heart.

"It's because of him."

You reared back, startled. "What?"

His eyes—plagued with sorrow deep enough to slice right through you—met yours waiting for a different answer. An explanation as to where your heart belonged. But you stood as still as stone—unable to form thoughts let alone coherent words. He ripped right down to the bone, pulled at your weak tendons and bit down on frayed nerves.

Yet he wasn't done.

"I'm not oblivious. When you finally came to Piltover you wouldn't tell me about what you did when I wasn't there. I only assumed you had feelings for someone. A man you didn't wish to speak about."

You exhaled slowly—the icy chill of relief swallowing you whole. "Oh...yes I...there was someone."

"Do you still love him?"

Glancing across the water, you glimpsed the bridge standing tall—a beacon of this city's hope for progress. But to your eyes it felt like a separation—a division between the two worlds of your life. One filled with enough pain to leave you staggering where you stool and other...a world of grandeur that overflowed with the option of peace.

At one point you had wanted to watch it burn. His betrayal tainted everything good about that place. A scar carved deep enough to leave an everlasting wound that never healed. You longed to forget it—to rid yourself of the memories he plagued—but you still knew one day...you'd stand upon that same ground again.

"I don't know," you breathed, the past clawing its way up your throat—shoving towards the very front of your mind.

BEFORE

The streets were overrun with people as they moved and flowed like the waves on a shore. You felt shoulders knock into you, exasperated glances thrown your way as you fumbled with the plants still gripped in your hands. They grew at the edge of the bridge—hidden in the shadows as a safeguard from the sun. Dirt packed itself beneath your fingernails, mud coating the thin fabric of your pants from where you dug.

"You should really have that looked at," you grumbled, shoving the plant into your satchel.

Garnering no response, you were left to get lost in your own thoughts. Whether or not he was actually in pain didn't concern you. Not when you had a job given by Vander who insisted you focus solely on healing rather than fighting. It's not as if you entirely disagreed with him—you were more than happy being a healer rather than a soldier—you simply couldn't figure how this would help in the long run.

What exactly were you supposed to do when people acted stubborn and brash?

"What are you writing?" he barked, stopping abruptly. You rammed into him with a sneer.

"Nothing that's of any concern to you." Shoving your pen and notebook into the bag, you watched as he huffed in response, turning away. "I'll tell you again since you seem to be hard of hearing. You should really have your wound–" He stopped, eyes flashing over his shoulder with a glare. “–looked at."

"You sure do talk a lot," he snipped.

"It's a gesture of kindness. You don't have to be an ass about it."

How did you manage to get stuck with this man? You were more than capable of sneaking around the border of Topside without anyone's help. Vander assigning you an escort seemed synonymous with the actions of an older brother being overly protective. Yet you weren't related in any way shape or form—you were simply someone who understood the need for change.

Arguing would get you nowhere and so you did your best to ignore his quick glances. Coming up with a correct judgment for what you found took precedence over the man in front of you.

The heat of the day seeped into your clothes—sticking to your exposed skin—the longer you trekked back. If it were possible to steal some time, you'd search for that small pool you and Viktor used to play at—just to submerge yourself in cold water. But with a guard at your side, you were left with only one option. Dreaming about weather cooler than this.

"You're walking too slow," he called over his shoulder.

The desperation for escape called to you, begged you to leave him behind and go somewhere quiet. But before you could sprint in the opposite direction, he turned. Ignoring him didn't seem to be a well thought out solution, but that never stopped you from trying. Even as he glared at you.

What little sunlight remained began to dip below the horizon—a sight you'd neve grow tired of. If only you had the chance to see it over the ocean with a clear sky above.

"You need that fixed before we return." Avoiding the incensed glare directed your way, you settled on the edge of a wall.

"What I need is for you to keep going. So I can go home."

"Listen—whoever you are—I know that when you return you're going to be questioned about why you're in pain. Either you let me patch up that wound or you get Vander. Your pick."

The arguing ceased with a defiant raise of your brows, lips curling into a sly grin that pinned him where he stood. There really was no other option than submission. What was a quick check before you were on your merry way. Much to your delight, he seemed to come to the same conclusion as he joined you on the wall, undoing his vest with an indignant sigh.

Silence filled the empty space between you. Slipping between the cracks and shadows that cast across his angular face. You'd seen him before on the edge of your vision, leaning against the bar with a book in his face—long fingers trailing the rim of his glass absentmindedly. Whether you liked it or not, the two of you differed.

Where you wanted to roam, he longed to be back making plans with Vander instead of trapped in the task of guard duty for a healer he'd never met before.

"Who shot you?" The glow of sunset illuminated the pale skin beneath his shirt—a long jagged scar etched into the skin threw you off for a moment as your fingers searched for blood.

The sharp wince in his face said you'd found it. "I couldn't see their face."

Nodding, you moved his hand to keep the fabric up and out of the way. A quick rummage in your bag for the salve you made earlier caught his attention—turquoise gleamed in your peripheral, prying you open with enough ease to jar you down to the bone.

"The bullet only scraped you. This should help close it up by the end of the week." You pressed the dark mixture along his wound, catching the subtle flinch he tried to smother. "Sorry."

"I'm fine," he mumbled in a whispered tone.

"I can fix it up properly when we return. Get you a real bandage to keep it from getting worse."

You nearly missed it. That slow imperceptible grin that curled at the edge of his lips. But your eyes latched onto it like a kid with candy, savoring the quick glimpse of something surreal. It threw you off balance, forced you to reckon with the thought of never knowing him before today.

Ethereal. Empyrean.

He sat before you a stranger with the eyes of a fond ally. A friend you had yet to be properly introduced to. It seemed he harbored the same thought—his mouth forming the question as if it fell right out of your head and into his lap.

"You're a friend of Vander?" Slipping his vest back on, you noticed he left it unbuttoned.

You found you preferred it that way.

"So are you. I've seen you...uh...with him. Around the bar you know."

The quiet echo of the water lapping at rocks and voices in the distance didn't feel bitter, but rather settled the nerves leaping beneath your skin. It was nice to sit there and watch the night sky show itself to the world once again. Eventually you'd be forced to return to a life that teemed with a clear understanding that hung over everyone's heads. There would be a fight. An inevitable battle for what you believed was right.

But for this transcendent moment you basked in the few moments of peace life allotted you.

The calm before the storm.

"I don't know your name," you admitted, turning your head slightly to catch his gaze already faced in your direction. "Vander never told me."

If he caught you in the middle of a blatant lie, he didn't call you on it. You could tell he saw right through you—the glint in his eyes shining brighter than moments before. This wasn't a clarification for Vander's sake or the battle. You wanted to know his name for yourself. A small token of the man you may never interact with again save for tonight.

After a moment his voice came with a soft breath of air. "Silco."

Teeth dug into your lip to keep the blooming smile at bay. "Silco," you said under your breath.

He latched onto it, dug his fingers into the tangible feeling they created in his chest, and felt a smile pulling wider at his own mouth. You said it again, unable to stop yourself as a thrill of excitement fluttered at the base of your stomach. So simple, so smooth off the tip of your tongue. Yet filled with enough power to stir your chest with a feeling you wished to inspect further.

The lilt of it hung in the air as you turned back to the sky with a satisfied hum, relishing in the time you had left with him at your side.

#silco x f!reader #silco x reader #silco x you #silco x y/n #silco arcane #silco #arcane fic #my writing

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harmonyrae · 10 days ago

Text

Power Couple

CHAPTER 14 - Right Here

I’d like to apologize for this chapter, it’s gonna hurt. Like angst doesn't even begin to describe this. Also, this is completely my own head cannon & is ABSOLUTELY NOT lore accurate (as far as we know).

Photo: From Pinterest, all credit to original poster NSFW: Mentions/Depictions of violence, PTSD, torture, death

Your armchair is not as comfortable as you remember. You sit with your knees curled up to your chest. Your hoodie pulled down over your knees, your arms hugging your legs. You rest your chin on your knee, trying to organize your thoughts. You try to imagine you are so small that no one will know you’re even there.

The lights are dimmed, you can barely see Sylus sprawled out on the floor of the cage. You remember the night you first brought Sylus here. You were so confident, how did you end up here again?

You replay that night in your head. His voice echoing in your ear. You stare blankly at his unconscious form, digging your fingernails into your palms willing yourself not to cry.

"I’d hate to disappoint you Miss Hunter."

But he did.

"But her mind… that’s what is most fascinating. It’s brilliant, calculated, and somewhat haunting."

And now it’s haunted by him. His voice. His touch. His empty promises.

"Seems like everything about you is special, kitten."

You were a means to an end. A tool to be used and tossed aside. Nothing special.

A soft groan brings you back to the present. You see Sylus roll away from you and onto his side. His back muscles tensing as he tries to ground himself. He reaches a hand up to the side of his neck. He lets out a soft grunt as his fingers trace the sensitive flesh where the needle deposited the heavy drug. He sits up and scans the room, his eyes straining against the darkness.

You hold your breath. You know he can crush the doors of the cage and simply walk out. But this is the only place you could think of bringing him. You could at least lock him in the lower levels of your tower long enough to evacuate everyone else if it came to that. You take a deep breath before using your phone to turn up the lights. Sylus’ eyes snap to yours in an instant. He was usually hard to read, his emotions hidden behind a wall. But when you look at him, you can see he is raw and broken.

You pull your hoodie up to release your legs, you shiver as the cold air hits your bare skin. You stand and slowly make your way closer to the cage. The room is eerily quiet, the soft pitter patter of your bare feet on the linoleum echoing through the room. As you approach the cage, Sylus shifts to face you. He makes no attempt to stand up. He draws one leg up and props his arm on his knee.

“There’s a shirt on the chair.” Your voice is void of emotion. You barely recognize it.

Sylus glances over to the chair to see the sweater you brought for him to put on. He returns his gaze to you. His eyes have glazed over, if it wasn’t for his ragged breathing you’d think he was perfectly calm. He tilts his head as he looks you over. From your head to your toes, it doesn’t feel sensual this time, he’s sizing you up. Trying to determine your motives.

“Why?”

One word. That’s all he says. The base in his voice is amplified, the simple question rings in your ear. You straighten up, your eyes narrow and you cross your arms. You’re the motherfucking leader of Himitsu, time to act like it.

“That is the question of the hour, isn’t it Oni?”

At the mention of his code name, his eyes close. He drops his head. He sighs deeply before looking up to you once more.

“Did the kid tell you before you killed him or did you dig that up on your own?” His words cut through you like a razor.

“Have you heard of a hacker who goes by the name of Macintosh?” Sylus nods. “He’s on my payroll. Took him less than 24 hours to narrow it down once he had the burner.”

His jaw clenches. He brings a hand to the back of his neck, his eyes finally dropping to the floor.

“Bit of advice. Tossing a burner off the pier is not the most effective disposal method.” Sylus chuckles.

“And what would you suggest then, kitten?”

That’s when you lose it.

“Don’t fucking call me that. I’m not your goddamn kitten. But I am, apparently, your plaything, right? Distract me, fool me, fuck me. Was that your plan? So you could stroll into my territory and do as you please? Attack my clients? Destroy Himitsu?”

Sylus jumps to his feet and stalks over towards. He tries to grab you through the bars, but you’ve moved far enough back. He uses his evol to pull you forward. Before you reach the bars your gun is in your hand. Your body slams against the bars, you look up to see the barrel of your gun resting at the center of Sylus’ forehead. He doesn’t back away or try to pry the gun out of your hand. He rests his head against the barrel and holds your upper arms tightly against the bars.

“Do you really think I fucked you as a distraction?”

You can’t stop your bottom lip from quivering. The tears you’ve held back threaten to fall once more. You take a deep breath and try to force a smile.

“I wouldn’t be surprised at this point. You’ve lied about everything else.”

“I’ve never lied about how I feel about you. I can’t.”

“But you did lie.” Sylus finally reaches a hand up to your face, holding your chin steady. His thumb slowly brushes against your jaw.

“I’m sorry.”

You break away from him. He doesn’t try to pull you back. You drop your gun on the table next to your armchair. Your fingers rake through your hair as you try to calm down. When you turn back to Sylus, he has an arm propped above his head leaning against the bars of the cage. His other hand extended through the bars to you.

“Please let me tell you why. Why Ridgeway and why I couldn’t tell you.”

You stare at him. His bare chest and strong arms make you ache for him. Your body craves him and it hurts to resist. Your heart hammers in your chest. Should you give him the chance? Your mind drifts to earlier that morning. Sitting in the tub, your body pressed against his, his voice in your ear, that heartbreaking tone as he tells you about your shared Aether fragments.

"You wished we could be free. And I made you a promise, that I would find a way for you to be free."

Your heart wanted nothing more than to reach out to him. To hold him close. You see his arm drop and retreat back into the cage, his head pressing against the bar. You take a cautious step forward. His eyes flutter up to meet yours. You wrap your arms around yourself.

“Why?”

“Ridgeway has a brother. Goes by Sinclair. He’s a member of the board for a medical tech company. I needed information on Sinclair and I was hoping Ridgeway had records that could lead me to whatever hole he has crawled into.”

“Why are you hunting Sinclair? And how does burning down Ridgeway Liquors help you with that? And why couldn’t you have just talked to me about this?”

“I needed to send a message to Sinclair. His family will suffer if he crosses a line. I couldn’t tell you… I couldn’t…” He struggles to form the words, he starts to tap his head on the bars. Slowly building the intensity until his forehead is red.

You close the distance and grab onto his hand that has reached up to hold onto a bar. He stops and looks down at you. His eyes are hazy, a tear finally falls.

“I couldn’t risk them finding you.”

You blink rapidly, trying to process what he could mean.

“Sinclair was one of the doctors that worked on us. He’s looking for you.”

Your eyes widen and you shake your head.

“I made a promise to you. I promised I’d find a way for you to be free. And I found a way. As long as I knew you were safe, I could deal with what they did to me. But when I heard he was leaving to look for you, I couldn’t let that happen. You’ve kept your identity hidden, it’s bought you time. But if he finds out, he’ll come for you. You being unaware kept you safe, at least that's what I convinced myself.”

“What do they want with me?”

“You’re an energy source. The most pure and regenerative source ever discovered.”

“Is it the Aether core? What about you?”

“The Aether core amplifies your evol, changes it. Possibly adding to it if you’re unlucky. They used me for… honestly, I don’t know how long. But my energy isn’t enough it seems.”

“Is Sinclair working alone or…”

“The group he runs, their slogan is A New Kind of Energy for a Brighter Tomorrow - safe to say he most likely has a small army hunting us.”

“I thought I knew every major corporation in the Zone.”

“It’s not in the Zone. It’s in Linkon. But they have their people everywhere.”

“What’s the name?”

“Ever.”

Your heart skips a beat. The name feels burned into your memory. But something Sylus said before is the only thing you can think of. You are afraid to ask, but it’s tearing you up inside.

“You said you could deal with what they did to you… What did they do?”

Sylus drops his gaze to your hand, still wrapped around his hand on the bar. You see his eyes dim, as if he has retreated into his mind. You squeeze his hand, reassuring him.

“After I helped you escape, they punished me. More experiments, more surgeries. As I became more powerful they put more security measures in place. I can’t access all of my power. They called it a 'bio-metric inhibitor'. All I remember is I couldn’t get out of bed for weeks. Eventually they installed a patch over my eye so I couldn’t control anyone. My cell was the energy conduit they used to…”

He looked up at you now, the pain in his eyes so great you could hardly breathe. You hadn’t noticed you had started crying. He brings his arm down to reach through the bars and brush the tears away. You lean into his touch.

“I’ll stop.”

“No. Sylus. Please tell me.” He takes a deep breath before looking down to stare at his feet.

“The regenerative part… when they drain the energy… it… it kills you.” A sob escapes your throat. Sylus doesn’t look up.

“When they first tested their theory… they chose you. No matter how much I begged and fought, they took you away. And when you came back, you had no idea who I was. After that, I spent every day, every hour, every minute working on a plan for you to escape. A month later, I succeeded. You were free. I don’t know how long it was before they needed another energy transference but when they strapped me down I found myself hoping to forget. To forget losing you. But then I woke up. And I remembered everything. My first surgery when they cut into my eye, the first time I saw you, the first time we touched, the first time we kissed, the first time we made love, every time there was pain in your eyes, the fear in them when I put you on the shuttle…”

His grip on the bars was weakening, his body shaking as he spoke. You were frozen, listening to what he went through, for you. Your heart ached. But nothing could have prepared you for what he said next.

“And I remembered how it felt to die. Pain so intense I wanted to tear myself in half. Blinding heat then complete stillness then everything was cold. So fucking cold. And dark. It was completely dark, no light anywhere, I searched for days but it was just dark. I found myself wishing for pain and then I’d feel it, like a knife in my chest, my heart started again. I opened my eyes and I was back. I don’t remember how many times I died. I stopped counting. But every time I woke up I would look for you. Wishing that my previous life was a dream and you were still there with me. And every time I would see your empty room and… and I…”

His voice finally broke. His grip on the bars faltered and he sank to the floor. He pulled his legs up to his chest, for the first time he looked small. You ran to the door of the cage and pressed your thumb to the lock. The door swung open and you rushed inside, crashing down next to Sylus, your arms wrapping around him. You pull his head to your chest and run your fingers through his silver hair. His body was shaking and he didn’t dare touch you. He wouldn’t even look at you. Desperate to bring him back to you, you start placing gentle kisses to his shoulders and up to his neck. You see his eyes close and you move to sit behind him, your legs on either side of his torso. Your arms pull him back towards you. You caress his chest and place kisses on his back.

You sit like that for what feels like hours until one of his hands reaches up to take yours. He strokes your palm slowly.

“Y/N…?”

“I’m here. I’m right here.”

Tag List (comment if you wanna be added!): @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer

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mandalhoerian · 2 months ago

Text

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 3

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pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: Leon, a paladin of the temple who became a disillusioned oathbreaker, returns from years of war with a noble title and shattered faith. Once devoted to the Saintess who healed him, Leon's admiration has twisted into repressed desire—feelings he could never express, tainted by guilt and shame. Now a celebrated hero, he’s drawn back not to the kingdom’s praises, but to the chance of one last glimpse of you to move on with his life.

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 14K

warnings: period-typical conservative values... bechdel test failure 💔

author's note: i am a liar. this isn't the end. the finale will be the next one... im sorry 😭

🌀 READ ON AO3 !

The small candle flickers in the corner of the room, casting faint, dancing shadows across the stone walls. The soft snores of the other maids fill the space around you, their breathing steady, their bodies resting in untroubled sleep. But you are awake. Kneeling at the edge of your thin, rough bed, the worn fabric of your nightdress brushing against your knees, you clasp your hands tightly together in silent prayer.

The small idol of Ethelion rests before you—a crude wooden carving of your making, stained with the blood you shed clumsily cutting into your flesh over and over in the process, no taller than your hand. It’s a far cry from the towering statues of Him that once surrounded you, carved from marble and adorned in gold. Those statues commanded awe, reverence. This one, however, looks small and sad, like the devotion of the people who crafted it was just enough to create something that could barely hold the likeness of a god.

Your hands are trembling, the beads of your prayer bracelet rattling softly with the movement. You take a shaky breath, glancing around the room as if to make sure no one has stirred. The air is stifling, the thick warmth of the shared space pressing down on you like a weight. The scent of sweat and old straw clings to the air, mixed with the faint sweetness of the single candle burning beside you.

How different this is from the temples you once knelt in. The hallowed halls of Ethelion, with their lofty ceilings and polished floors, where incense filled the air and your prayers echoed off the sacred stones. There, the light streamed through stained glass in brilliant colors, casting a holy glow over everything it touched. Here, the room is dim, cramped, and suffocating. The candle’s flicker feels more like a reminder of how small the world has become around you.

You bow your head, trying to steady your breath, the whisper of your prayer barely audible over the steady rise and fall of the other girls' breathing. “Ethelion, guide me,” you murmur, though the words feel strained, thin. “Forgive my wandering heart.”

The idol doesn’t respond, of course. It’s nothing more than carved wood, far removed from the grand images of your god that once surrounded you. Still, you pray. It’s all you know. All you should do. Must do.

The sound of a creaking bedframe startles you, and your heart lurches. You glance over your shoulder to see one of the maids, Sarah, shifting in her sleep. Her face is calm, untroubled by the worries that gnaw at your mind. You envy her.

Biting your lip, you turn back to the idol, lowering your head once more. But the words are harder to find now. Your thoughts are too loud, too tangled, too restless.

How long has it been since you truly felt His presence? Pouring into your veins like sunlight every single time you reached out to Him?

You were supposed to be His chosen one. The vessel through which His light would shine. But that light has dimmed, and you don’t know if it’s because He has abandoned you, or if you have failed Him. Maybe it’s both. Maybe you were never worthy to begin with.

Your fingers curl around the prayer beads, the cool touch of them grounding you, but they feel foreign now. When you were the Saintess, they were a symbol of your connection to Ethelion, a reminder of your place in the world. Now, they’re just relics of a past life—one that feels more distant with each passing day.

“Why did you leave me?” The question slips out before you can stop it, a breathless whisper that hangs in the air, fragile and desperate.

You grit your teeth, trying to suppress the bitterness that rises in your chest. You’re not supposed to question Him. You’re supposed to trust, to believe without doubt, without hesitation. That was your purpose, the sole reason for your existence.

Your hands drop into your lap, the weight of your own thoughts too heavy to hold up anymore.

Is this what your life has become? Praying to a god who's turned away from you, living in the shadows of who you once were? You glance at the idol again, the dim candlelight making it seem even more pathetic, more distant.

There’s no divine presence here. Just you, alone, in the dark.

The flicker of the candle casts long shadows across the small room, its light barely reaching the corners. You can hear the rustle of straw from the other beds as the girls shift in their sleep, unaware of your turmoil. This space is so different from the serene, almost divine solitude of the temple. Here, you’re surrounded by people—by warmth, by the soft murmur of life. But you’ve never felt more isolated.

Being the Saintess had its burdens, but at least you knew where you belonged. You knew your purpose. Now, you’re adrift, clinging to a god who might not even remember you. Who might have never cared to begin with.

But oh, how you love Him. How you ache for Him. Even in this moment, when grief threatens to choke you, the longing in your heart burns brighter. It stings your eyes, your throat. How desperately you want to belong again, to feel His light filling you.

It's you. You're the problem. Not Him.

You close your eyes, pressing your palms together so tightly they ache. If you just pray hard enough—if you just focus—you’ll feel Him again. You’ll find that connection, that sense of peace that once filled your every breath.

Leon's wrong.

You've grown accustomed to hard work, to physical exertion. It's far better than the hollow nothingness that's left in the aftermath of losing the divinity you'd been given. Yes, the job is strenuous. Exhausting. But it keeps you from falling back into the endless spiral of self-doubt. You're not miserable here. You're... content. As content as a person in your situation can be. And that's not nothing.

Besides, it's the best thing that could have happened to you. Compared to the streets, compared to the empty abbey in which you dwelled alone, this is a blessing. You cannot deny that. To be able to bathe and dress and eat is such an immense gift. Ethelion hasn't left your side, not for one second.

...went back to what you know best once more. Serve. This time, under a different name. A Saintess. A servant. It's not all that different, you know.

You press your forehead to the cool stone wall beside your bed, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. You thought you could find solace in prayer, in the familiar rhythms of devotion. But no matter how many words you whisper, no matter how tightly you press your hands together, his words keep tearing at the fragile seams of your heart.

The memories rise unbidden. Days spent fasting until your vision blurred, your body trembling under the weight of divine obligation. Nights spent kneeling on cold marble floors, your prayers stretching into the early hours, the ache in your legs a reminder that your suffering was part of the duty. Every blessing you gave, every drop of blood shed from the blade into the mouths of those in need, every prayer you offered, was a part of the divine plan. You had accepted it. You had embraced it. You believed in it.

Leon's whisper sneaks up into your mind, like a snake coiling around your thoughts, And it still wasn't enough.

You shake your head, willing the thoughts away, but they cling to you like thorns. There had been a time when you thought you were content, when you believed your life had purpose. Even after losing your title, even when you were stripped of the robes, the veil, and everything that once defined you, you told yourself you were free.

I can still be of use, you had thought. I can find a way to live the way I used to. Perhaps Ethelion had granted you mercy. Gifted you with a path to follow that didn't lead to complete disgrace, to ruin.

Your eyes sting, but no tears come. You've cried too much already. Instead, you pull the thin blanket around your shoulders, huddling closer to the wall and shutting your eyes tight, clutching the idol tight. It's as close as you'll get to feeling the divine now, a piece of wood cut to look like your God, reduced to a mere object to be held.

You miss the simplicity of being used. The serenity. The fulfillment. You miss knowing that your suffering meant something, that your blood, your body, your soul, served a higher purpose, and that's all you had ever desired. And now, all that seems to be left of you is this empty husk, chasing fragments of memories like fireflies on an endless summer evening.

You glance at the other maids, their forms barely visible under their threadbare blankets, their breaths even and untroubled. They sleep so soundly, unaware of the turmoil that grips you.

You envy them. You envy the clarity of their lives, the ease with which they move through their days. For them, there is no loss of grand purpose, no heavy weight of fallen grace. They scrub floors, they mend clothes, they serve meals—and they rest. They don’t carry the burden of a god’s silence.

You thought you were free when you came here. You thought you had left the life you had in the temple behind. But Leon saw through you, saw the truth you didn’t want to admit to yourself. You haven’t left. Not truly. You’ve simply traded one form of servitude for another. For the sake of feeling whole again.

You wonder if he can see through you. If he can pick apart all the pieces you are trying to hold together. If he can see the cracks in the image you try so hard to project, the invisible scars that have been healed by Ethelion's hand ritual after ritual. But then, he doesn’t even know who you are, not really. Not like he thinks he does.

You don't know who you are, either. You've only been the Saintess, always guided by someone else, fulfilling duties for Ethelion. When the grace flowed through your veins, you were confident, firm. Calm. Resolute in the knowledge that you were the only one who could do what you did. Your mind clear as crystal. Then you lost everything. Or at least, everyone who recognized you. Your place in the world.

That's who Leon knows. He doesn't know anything of you, or the mortal who lived within you. No. He just sees you as the Saintess. Nothing more.

That's why marriage is the only way he can continue his duty as an Oathbreaker. He sees you as holy and elevated above others. And he needs to reconcile himself with what he thinks he failed to do, what he thinks he must fulfill for you, to atone for his sins. You understand. You were made to understand.

When you look at him, you can't help but see an echo of your former self, a kindred spirit bound by duty to your cause. He yearns to honor his promises, to fulfill his responsibilities, just as you once did.

Leon's a good man, with a noble heart. And his devotion is true. But it isn't because he loves you. It's because he pities you.

And you hate it. You hate it because you know you don't deserve this. This kindness. This sympathy. You're nothing but a shadow of what you used to be. A remnant of a time gone by. Your wings have been clipped. Your fate sealed. Yet here he stands, offering to take your broken, battered self in, to care for you, to cherish you, when that loyalty should belong to the new saintess. To the woman who will be able to keep his oaths intact and secure his salvation, who can guarantee his place in Ethelion's heaven.

His presence lingers like smoke from a burning log, impossible to dispel, choking the very breath from your lungs. You don't turn your head, but you know he's there, hovering at the door to the kitchen. A hush falls over the room as the servants freeze, caught between their tasks and this new development.

It isn't appropriate for a noble to be here, wandering the manor's halls uninvited, and yet... Leon seems unperturbed by the breach of social conduct, gazing about as though he were surveying his own grounds.

Finally, the silence is broken by a shuffle of footsteps, and the head maid comes forward, hands clasped together in respectful greeting. She keeps her eyes lowered, avoiding direct contact, but she inclines her head deferentially.

"Sir, how may we be of assistance?"

Leon glances over the room again, as though considering each of you in turn, and heaves a sigh. "I want to speak with her." He gestures toward you without looking at you specifically, focused on the head maid.

Your hands tighten around the cloth you're holding, wrinkling the fabric. He's talking about you, you know it. But your mind still drifts back to the previous night, to the tender expression in his eyes as he offered you everything on a platter, a feast spread out before a starving beggar. Your chest constricts painfully, and you suck in a deep breath, doing your best to calm your racing thoughts.

"Ah..." The head maid hesitates, clearly caught off-guard. "Of course, sir. If I may inquire about the reason?"

"Please don't concern yourself with it."

"Surely there must be some misunderstanding here?" The head maid counters gently, frowning slightly. "If she has done something wrong..."

"...no, that is not the case." Leon interrupts before she finishes speaking, his tone clipped.

He stares directly at you now, a piercing gaze that makes you feel like you're a mouse beneath the paw of a cat, unable to break free. The entire kitchen seems to tense, everyone aware of how out of place and inappropriate this encounter is, waiting for your response.

A shudder runs down your spine, and you fight to suppress the impulse to curl in on yourself protectively, to make yourself as small and invisible as possible. Heat floods into your face, creeping up along the line of your neck to settle under the collar of your simple cotton dress. The fabric feels too tight, too restrictive, pinching your skin uncomfortably, making sweat prickle along your hairline. Your palms are damp, but you don't dare wipe them on your skirt. It's improper to fidget. To let weakness show.

To be seen.

"I apologize," Leon continues after a moment's pause, seeming to recover his composure somewhat, "but there's something private that I'd like to discuss with her. And, uh...alone, please."

Another shiver wracks your frame. Goosebumps erupt over the back of your exposed arms, trailing up the length of your bare forearms. Your stomach roils nervously as all eyes swivel toward you, boring into the back of your skull, drilling holes straight through you. The room feels stifling. Overly hot and overwhelming, as though you're drowning in the heavy air. The taste of ash coats your tongue, and you struggle to swallow around the lump lodged in your throat. You wish you could disappear right now. Melting away and leaving nothing but a faint outline of yourself would be better than enduring the scrutiny of this moment.

The head maid takes a step back, and then another, backing up until she's standing near her colleagues, all of whom stare expectantly at you, waiting, and you can't jog quickly enough towards the door to escape the sudden oppressive atmosphere.

You hear him, quick steps matching yours as you push forward, and he places himself next to you, keeping the pace with effortless strides. The contrast between your hurried walk and his composed saunter is striking; the way his height and his strength tower over your frame, swallowing you whole with an instinctive reflex. But, unlike most men, he doesn't impose it upon you—at least, not intentionally.

"Saintess—"

The old name snaps you out of your momentary daze, and you halt in your steps, stopping to glare at him. "It's Saintess no longer."

For once, he falters, blinking. You imagine he wasn't expecting you to cut him off with such brusqueness, but hearing it used gives you an unpleasant jolt. You'd been called the same title for so long that your name was nothing more than a memory, a fading dream of what you once were. It's difficult to think of yourself as anything other than Saintess—it's hard to believe in what else you could have been in that past, without being granted such sacred gifts.

But now? Now it's something tainted with bitterness. Of what could have been, if your gifts hadn't faded like the last golden rays of sun melting into the ocean.

"Sorry. Forgive me," he murmurs quietly, looking oddly apologetic. And perhaps it's this display of genuine contrition that softens your resolve.

"Why did you seek me? Is this about what happened yesterday?"

It's subtle, but you catch a glimpse of shock in his eyes, the hint of widening in them. He clears his throat and says, "Yes. About that. I had some things I needed to clarify. Some questions."

There's a pause, a beat of silence that drags on, until it's filled with a sort of anticipation, a curious hope. You know the kind—the one that builds up within, swelling, threatening to burst out of confines. You know it well, because that feeling used to drive your prayers, your words murmured in fervent whispers, rising to a crescendo before crashing down, like a wave cresting into foamy seafoam before its ebb. But this is different. What compels him is entirely different.

"Questions? Such as?" You tilt your head curiously, trying to mask the wavering nerves. You're not used to having conversations like this, and even though his company should bring a sense of peace, it only makes your pulse flutter in nervous agitation. It's so strange to be the sole focus of someone else, and while the attention would have been coveted by your old self, now it feels uncomfortable, itchy, like something is crawling over your skin.

He glances around. The hallways are empty and quiet, but you're both alone in public, and he won't voice his thoughts unless you prompt him to. Your mind wanders to how easily he slipped into the background of the manor, hidden among the rows of people going about their day, so natural in the way he navigated the spaces around you.

So unlike how he acts around you.

Then, as if picking up on your mental whirling, he asks, "Are you happy here? Are you comfortable? I don't mean to pry, I'm just concerned that I..." He seems to fumble for words, like a child who lost his footing, then recovers, adding with haste, "I’m sorry my offer made you feel like I was degrading your position. That wasn’t the case at all."

A sigh escapes your lips. The apology brings no sense of relief or ease to your tension-ladened shoulders; rather, it leaves you feeling guilty. The shame of burdening him eats away at your gut, gnawing like a parasite growing into something vile inside you. His words from the day before replay in your ears—of the indignance at the thought of you serving, of you working as a servant.

Is this what this is? Him pitying your plight? Feeling as though it is his responsibility to 'right' your situation? It's a noble notion, but it isn't his to handle.

"You didn't offend me," you admit slowly. A part of you is afraid to meet his gaze, scared to see the pity in it. You have no doubt he means well—you could almost feel the sincerity emanating from his body, the kind that radiates from people who sincerely want the best for others, not out of an ulterior motive. You had encountered this type often, though it was in a more ceremonious setting. "Your intentions were noble."

"I'm glad." He offers a smile. A genuine, relieved one. Something blooms within you at the sight of it.

"...how is it that you’re permitted to stroll the halls as you wish?" You ask, raising your brows. It doesn't pass your notice, the way people would jump to action as soon as Leon walked in.

"Well, the Redfields are all familiar with me. I'm a guest. And not a particularly troublesome one."

"Indeed."

"So..."

His voice trails off, leaving the end of that statement hanging there, unsaid but nonetheless understood. A silence falls between you again. You can't say much about the other occupants, but even you are uneasy around Leon when he has that serious, unreadable expression.

And that's how he usually looks. With a little sadness, a touch of longing in his gaze. Maybe regret. But mostly, he wears this pensive look, as if he's lost in thought, deep in concentration, mulling over the words in his head.

Right now, his face is blank. Completely void of emotion. Just that somber stare, contemplating the situation in front of him. His expression would be unassuming and neutral if not for those troubled eyes, constantly flickering back and forth. It's frustratingly annoying, like he's weighing the options and can't decide which side he wants to go with.

Yet, you're fascinated at the same time. How his lashes flutter delicately, the creases forming between his brows as he ponders. All these little details, all of these signs, he is putting on display. Intentionally or otherwise. He used to be an open book, now it is closed, guarded and locked with no keys. You crave to peer at whatever lies within, but you've already seen glimpses. Fragments, snippets. Moments. Enough to stir your interest, though.

So when you hear him clear his throat, you find yourself glancing back up. Caught staring.

"If I may be so bold..." he begins, his tone betraying nothing. "Why stay here?"

You're taken aback by his frank question. So much for subtly.

"I don't understand..."

"I've learned that retired saintesses choose to become nuns at convents and dedicate their lives to prayer and acts of charity. Which is what I assumed you would have chosen." He crosses his arms, and you note that he has a very strong, muscled physique when the movement makes his arm and chest pop. It's distracting through his clothes, and it's making you very conscious of yourself and the differences between you both, even physically. "But here you are, doing labor that is deemed... less desirable. And I'm confused. Why is that?"

You shrug, averting your gaze. It's a difficult answer to provide, especially when you haven't given yourself the chance to contemplate it yet. But... maybe it's because he asked. It doesn't seem fair to brush him off, not when he's opened himself up so genuinely to you.

"Perhaps I am tired of prayers." That seems to startle Leon, so you continue with renewed bravery. "Is it that bad to want to experience the world, to understand humanity, instead of seclude myself away from it? And I can only do that by walking in their shoes."

The silence stretches out again, but the atmosphere doesn't feel stifling anymore. Instead, you find yourself breathing easier, leaning into the softness of it.

"Come," Leon says suddenly. He holds out his arm and gestures toward the end of the hallway. "Let me walk you to a place better suited for this conversation."

The thought of taking him up on it—of stepping away with him—doesn't horrify you like it would have yesterday. He's somehow more open now, his defenses slightly lower, his words more fluid, more casual. Relaxed. Like you're two old friends meeting for a pleasant stroll, reminiscing on times past. Or maybe just acquaintances getting to know each other better. Either way, it feels nice, and the thought warms your heart.

Something about this feels right. Natural. Almost as though it was meant to be.

And so, you loop your hand into the crook of his elbow and let him guide you out of the narrow passageway and out into the sunshine. The bright morning light blinds you briefly, and you blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the harsh contrast between indoors and outdoors.

Leon guides you towards a row of large stone benches facing the pond at the center of the garden, shielded from view of anyone walking nearby, providing the illusion of privacy. He motions for you to take a seat, and you do, scooting closer towards him as he settles beside you.

There is an indescribable tranquility about the scene before you: the sun shining down on the glistening water, the breeze rustling the leaves of the surrounding trees, the chirping of birds echoing around you. The warmth seeping through the fabric of your clothing envelops you, and you breathe deeply, relishing the fresh air. You've always been captivated by nature; there's an undeniable beauty in simplicity, in things unhindered by manmade restrictions. There's purity and innocence in it too, and you bask in the peacefulness of it all.

And with Leon beside you now, it... almost feels right. As though everything has clicked into place. As though it's meant to be like this. A shared moment. Between equals. Between people who matter to each other. You savor the feeling of normalcy in your veins, warming your cheeks, your stomach fluttering with nerves but also comfort.

This moment—this fleeting moment in time—is perfect.

There is nothing more beautiful than freedom. That much is certain.

"How are you finding life outside of the temple?" The question breaks through your haze of contentment, causing you to jerk up and turn your head in surprise.

Leon sits perfectly still beside you, watching you intently, and that pocket of small silence is striking enough for you to be confronted with how a splash of dark ink he is in the midst of the popping colors of the garden.

A long, midnight-black coat sweeps past his knees in a fluid motion, its tailored cut accentuating the figure with sharp, clean lines, the surface gleaming faintly in the light, as if woven with threads of shadow, and its cuffs and lapels are embroidered with fine golden patterns. Beneath the coat, a double-breasted vest, also black but subtly different in texture, wraps snugly around his strong torso. The vest is fastened with polished brass buttons that gleam with a soft, antique sheen, each button precisely aligned. A chain, slender and golden, drapes elegantly from the vest’s pocket, suggesting the presence of a pocket watch. At his throat, an indigo cravat is tied with meticulous care, its silky fabric mirroring the coat’s inner lining, and at its center is a dark jewel gleaming with understated brilliance. The trousers, pressed to perfection, follow the form of his legs with a tailored precision, and gloved hands, encased in supple black leather, complete the ensemble. The suit fits perfectly, and it looks impressive enough for your first guess to be that it is tailor-made. The overall effect is that of a man who commands power, presence, and authority, and the sharpness of his gaze emphasizes this impression even further.

A man dressed to impress, no doubt. For what occasion, you dare not ask. A court function, perhaps? You cannot help but wonder just how many layers there are in the clothing he wears beneath that coat—and how many hands were required to help him into such an elaborate outfit.

It's such a far cry from the white robes he wore as a paladin, with their simpler forms and design, yet it's equally elegant, in its own way.

"...is there something wrong?" Leon asks, catching you staring. He tilts his head to the side, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. "Was that the wrong question—"

"No. It's—fine. There's nothing wrong," you interject hastily, averting your eyes from his intense stare. Ogling him like that, out in the open, what is wrong with you! It's so unbecoming, so improper! "Life's... Life has been different. An adjustment, to say the least. I didn't know how to put it for a moment there, but... yes. It's been rather, uh..."

You trail off, your mind drawing a blank, unsure what word you're searching for. The sensation is awkward and unfamiliar, and you worry he might think poorly of your lack of eloquence, but he waits patiently, letting you stumble through it on your own.

Finally, you find your voice again, saying, "I enjoy it. Here, I mean. I came here hoping to gain some experience, learn the ways of humility. It's satisfying to be useful."

His expression grows contemplative, his eyes dark and unfathomable, but he doesn't speak. This close, you can smell the faint scent of perfume on his collar, the sweet aroma mingling with the crisp freshness of soap and dewy linen, mixed with something that's distinctly him, something you can't quite identify but makes your insides twist all the same.

"And before you say anything," you add, feeling a sudden rush of courage, "I know now, yes. That it's just a different path of servitude. But the difference is that I chose this. I could have become a nun as you said. I don't know, I... I guess I just needed some semblance of control. In the absence of Him, I could choose for myself for once."

"I suppose I can understand the feeling." He nods thoughtfully. His voice is gentle, understanding. And you find yourself wishing that he wouldn't act like this towards you—a woman who's just a mere maid. A nobody. "I've had to make that choice in His absence as well. Not exactly similar circumstances, but there are parallels to be drawn."

The admission stuns you momentarily, your lips parting in surprise, but your shock soon morphs into curiosity, and you lean closer, eager to hear more of him. "You're faring way better than me, I'd say, Sir Leon."

He laughs. It's low, rich, and smooth, like silk against your skin, and you nearly shiver. "You don't need to address me like that. Just 'Leon' is fine. My... former role isn't relevant to where I am now."

There's a touch of self-conscious humor to that remark. You've never heard him sound so playful, almost cocky—and certainly not with you—but it's refreshing. Almost comforting. "Of course." You shift in your seat, turning toward him so that your knee brushes against his. It's a small gesture, but it makes his whole leg jerk for some reason. "...may I ask, how are you adjusting?"

"Better, lately." A wistful smile plays about his lips, as if he's reflecting on fond memories. "The years haven't been easy... But they were necessary. They were worth it."

"To get where you are now?" you complete for him, your expression matching his, a mirror. "Why did you choose this new path, if I may inquire?"

For an instant, he freezes, seemingly caught off guard by the question, but he recovers quickly, his face remaining placid save for a brief flash of emotion that passes too quickly for you to decipher it. His gaze turns inward, focused on some point in space beyond you, and he lets out a breath. "That's a... heavy topic. One which I'm not sure we should discuss in public."

"Oh... My apologies," you blurt out, instantly regretting having been so direct. Of course it would be an inappropriate subject of conversation. What were you thinking? A former member of the Church blatantly questioning him about his oathbreaking, of all topics. You drop your gaze in shame. "I'm sorry, I overstepped. We can talk about something else if you wish. Something less personal. Anything. You can—if you want—ask me questions in return."

"Oh, no, please don't apologize," he interjects quickly, gently. His eyes meet yours once more, and although they're still guarded, there's also tenderness and reassurance behind them. "I don't mind sharing this story with you. There just needs to be another time and place for it. Is that alright?"

"...yes, yes, absolutely!" You nod vigorously, surprised at yourself for accepting his offer so eagerly, yet strangely excited about it nonetheless. You never would have expected a former paladin to invite you to talk to him, to spend time together... Though in truth, you hardly know anything about this man before you, other than his past deeds. The thought causes butterflies to flutter in your belly.

Leon chuckles softly at your reaction. "Wonderful."

Then his expression becomes serious again as he surveys your surroundings, pausing for several beats before speaking. When he does, his voice is calm, measured, and careful. "Back to you, then... You've mentioned you chose to do this of your own accord... Do you enjoy doing domestic tasks? Having your own space, your own things?"

"Most of those, I mean, uh... I don't have my own space, but I appreciate the accommodations here, so, yes." You give him a little smile. "Sharing a room doesn't allow for much ownership. About the work... I do enjoy it most days. Sometimes I grow tired but I keep at it. And the staff has taught me a lot, so I don't feel too clumsy. You should have seen me try my first laundry session—"

A cough cuts in, and you stiffen.

Turning around, you catch a group of maids hiding behind the hedge, peeking from their shelter with reddened faces. You wonder if they have been listening in on the two of you. Embarrassing. "...We should return to the main building. Before the gossips begin."

He hesitates briefly before nodding. You notice the tip of his ears redden before he pulls away, leaving your side colder than before, and offers you his arm once more. You loop your hand into the crook of his elbow and let him guide you back onto the cobbled path back towards the house.

His pace is leisurely as he leads you toward the manor proper, guiding you along with ease. Every so often, his gaze darts around, seemingly keeping an eye out for someone approaching. Perhaps he wishes to avoid being seen with you, you think wryly, trying to suppress the hurt that thought gives you. It's not his fault. You both must maintain a certain image. It's only natural for him to not want to be associated with the likes of a servant girl. Still, as you make your way through the hallways, you can't stop yourself from noticing the odd looks you garner from the servants who pass by the two of you, and you wonder why, as he's just escorting you.

You're quick to learn, however, that you were too caught up in the appropriateness of a paladin escorting the saintess that you forgot to consider how it would translate to a noble in a maid's company, no matter her status. It takes a pointedly raised eyebrow from a knight you recognize to bring you to your senses, to realize what might be running through the minds of the household members you walk by.

A noble does not take a maid by the elbow. That's apparently reserved for a lady. And even among that select circle of women, it's for a more private audience.

The gossip has already started, in earnest.

It's not Lord Chris that calls on you later that week after the gossip reaches an all time high, but Dame Jill and Lady Claire, sisters in all but blood.

When you answer their summons, they greet you warmly and immediately whisk you away, leading you through the twisting corridors of the castle until you arrive in the courtyard, where an elaborate picnic is spread out before you. It seems as though they had it all planned out: the plump cushions, the fancy drinks and dishes, the lavish decorations. You relax that this isn't about the etiquette fiasco with Leon for a second, and figure they'll ask you to serve them instead. That you can handle—just don't spill wine on their dresses, and be prepared to pour a refill as they ask.

However, they don't ask you to stand to the side, but join them instead, sitting atop the cushions like equals. It's strange at first, not knowing where to settle down, but after some adjusting and squirming, you find yourself settled comfortably within reach, nibbling on fruit from the extravagant buffet laid out before you while sipping cool chilled juice served in elegant crystal goblets.

It's surreal. Strange and unusual, but not in an uncomfortable way. And yet, you can't shake the feeling that this is some kind of trap, that they must want something from you. You know their intentions are genuine, but your expectations were always that of service. Obedience. Not in the favor of others.

Maybe they sense that, because the topic shifts suddenly and unexpectedly.

"We wanted to have a little girl talk with you," Lady Claire says, picking up a grape from her plate and popping it into her mouth with surprising finesse. She licks the excess juice from her fingertips, her green eyes fixed firmly upon you. "You know, harmless stuff. About the terrifying creature lurking in the horizon and getting closer every day, that you call the what am I doing with my life meltdown. It's a common occurrence around a certain age. I'm sure you're familiar with it."

Although it's phrased like a question, there's an unmistakable ring of amusement in her tone. Amusement at your expense, but it doesn't feel mocking or mean-spirited in nature, only teasing. You're relieved this isn't about Leon, but horrified all the same that all of your anxieties can be summed up with that one sentence.

"I... I've heard of it," you mumble sheepishly.

"Oh Claire," Dame Jill admonishes loudly, throwing a warning glance at her friend, which Lady Claire promptly ignores. "This isn't the time to be making light of it."

"Still, though. The poor girl clearly needs some perspective and advice." The auburn-haired lady shrugs and moves on, not missing a beat, completely nonchalant. "So. Someone from your past appears, and now you find yourself plagued with existential doubts and insecurities. I know this would happen eventually. That's why I told you to aim higher in life before you started out here, but you went and got stubborn anyway. And now look at you."

She smiles as she says this, reaching out to pat your shoulder reassuringly. There's no malice in her voice, not even a hint of mockery; she's genuinely concerned about your welfare and her tone reflects that.

But that doesn't prevent you from flinching away instinctively, cringing internally at the mention of your inflexibility, and at the reminder that you do need guidance in life, especially right now.

And even if they don't know all the details, the Redfield family members are excellent at reading you like a book—already, they've hit pretty much every point with pinpoint accuracy, cutting to the core of your problems with frightening precision, and leaving you feeling raw and exposed underneath their keen scrutiny. It's unnerving how easily these two women managed to discern so much information just by observing your behavior and gauging your reactions, and it leaves you feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

Your eyes flick nervously towards Dame Jill. She hasn't spoken much throughout the entire exchange, simply watching you quietly with a thoughtful expression on her face, but she must notice your unease, because she speaks up at last, breaking her silence.

"You can relax. We're not here to pry into your affairs. And while you should listen to Claire's words—she does have her moments where she actually makes sense—"

"Why would you say it like that—"

"We can also offer you practical advice and assistance. The world can be tough. Especially if you're a woman."

The fact that there was such care despite your comparatively low social standing warms your heart. Like they're really relatives of yours who weren’t frequent donors to your temple and got special visits to you for blessing and healing purposes. If you hadn't gotten to know them better after becoming a maid, you could have mistaken them as real sisters.

The words themselves give you pause, though. You're grateful, yet puzzled too by this unexpected kindness from these two high-born ladies, so foreign to you.

"I do love the little life I've built for myself. Even if it's mundane." You reply slowly, unsure how else to express this unfamiliar emotion bubbling within you. "It may be menial work, but it gives purpose. A sense of accomplishment."

"And what about when you want something more for yourself?" Dame Jill presses, leaning in closer. Her gaze is piercing, almost accusatory, but her tone remains calm, steady, never wavering in its intensity. She wants answers—from you.

But you don't have any.

"I don't know what I want in the first place," you finally confess, turning to look out over the gardens, feeling overwhelmed and uncertain. "I'm just trying to survive in this world. Everything's new to me—having autonomy, being able to decide for myself... I never dared imagine much beyond fulfilling His will, or whatever duties were assigned to me as Saintess. All of this... Sometimes I find myself entertaining the possibilities of certain things now, things I didn't know I could until very recently. And I don't know if I should."

The out of guilt part, you leave out of it. That’s a box of worms you aren’t willing to dump on these poor women.

Lady Claire pipes up immediately, excitement written across her face: "Then go chase them! Go and enjoy life and love and all that fun stuff!"

A sudden wave of anxiety washes over you at the mention of 'love', and you can't help but feel mortified, suddenly realizing that what you meant probably sounded quite different from her interpretation of it.

Thankfully, the young noblewoman doesn't seem aware of your slip-up, continuing enthusiastically with a dreamy expression: "Trust me, you definitely want to start living for yourself before it becomes too late, otherwise you'll end up like some of the old prune lords you see around court."

You try to contain your laughter at the sight of such pure enthusiasm, but fail miserably, letting it burst out. They both join you shortly thereafter, filling the air with melodious peals of laughter as the sun shines brightly overhead. After all that time spent being trapped inside walls all your life, to laugh so freely feels like nothing short of heavenly bliss. And it feels good. Laughter—joyful, unrestrained laughter—is something that's far rarer these days than you would ever admit aloud.

"I wasn't going to talk about this just yet but..." Dame Jill clears her throat, regaining control of herself. She straightens her dress carefully before looking back up at you with a serious expression on her beautiful features. "Leon's offer could very well be the answer you're looking for."

"I..." you start defensively, but Dame Jill raises her hand and silences you before you can finish forming the rest of your protest.

"Hear me out. I'm going to lay it out for you from a strategic and realistic angle. The simple truth of the matter is that you have limited options, given your background and current position in society. You don't have access to power, resources, or wealth. This is the reason why former saintesses stay in the convent—it's safer and easier, compared to facing the real world head on with no experience."

It makes perfect logical sense. Dame Jill is laying out the facts plainly, and even though you may not fully understand all of the nuances involved with regards to the issue of marriage in noble society, you're smart enough to comprehend what she's telling you. Your heart leaps into your throat at the thought of marriage, of Leon... and then promptly drops into your stomach once more.

"In our world, it's unlikely anyone else will ever ask for your hand unless you actively seek a match for yourself, which is why people generally arrange marriages instead. It's a miserable affair for women, because they don't really have a say in who gets picked, or what kind of person that suitor ends up being. But you... I say you've been blessed. To have found someone willing and able to provide for you financially and personally—that's rare as hen's teeth among the nobility. Leon, for all intents and purposes, is a wealthy man, one that isn't difficult to get along with."

That's true, you acknowledge silently, recalling the countless stories you've heard about the brutality of many men, especially high-born ones. If the rumors are to be believed, some wives barely avoided being locked in their rooms by the husbands they never saw, as they were forced to do as told without complaint.

But so were you made to do the same as the Saintess, in a way. You shudder just thinking of it.

Dame Jill pauses for a moment to collect her thoughts before continuing, taking in you shrinking into yourself. "What I'm trying to say is... perhaps this could work? Leon's social standing is strong. He carries great weight within Ethelia due to his achievements and is en route to become one of the wealthiest in the kingdom with all the favors he has. And from the way he ignores us when he comes to our house as a guest to tail after you tells me he wouldn't take your independence away in marriage. You'll be able to do whatever you want—visit wherever you please, hire any staff you desire, live wherever you fancy, and be with whomsoever you like. As long as you remain discreet about certain affairs, of course."

The last subtle suggestion about taking a separate lover after marriage is received with a loud snort of displeasure from Lady Claire, but the comment has served to jar you back into awareness.

"Which is to say, you'd be happy with him. From my perspective, that's the best deal any woman can ask for. In fact, it's quite literally out of a fairy tale, to be honest. An agreeable man who cares and will give you whatever you wish for. Wealthy. Great status. Do you not want that?"

Of course you would want that! That much you cannot deny. A happy, comfortable life with stability and freedom is exactly what you dreamt of during your worst hours in the convent. And Leon would be a decent husband. Kind, dutiful... handsome, honorable... you know those aspects already.

"But... At least I have my own freedoms as a commoner who has a job, no matter how small. I'd feel too bad to be financially dependent on him..."

"I went through the exact same thing, so let me tell you," Dame Jill states in a firm voice, raising her chin proudly as she does so, "Even with a dowry, I still depended entirely on my husband's good graces at first. But I managed to gain privileges and my own investments through him, and paid him back with my own income later. The system isn't perfect but it works. You have the luxury of starting on a higher foot than I did, and will undoubtedly earn better terms in marriage because of it. You should take advantage of that. If you use your cards right, you'll become independent from Leon soon enough."

You can see that argument. And you trust Dame Jill knows what she's talking about—she and her betrothed have lived together happily, and she doesn't hold his title and still retains her own surname. That must have taken incredible maneuvering on her part to achieve. She's the living monument of her argument, evidence of it working out if a woman decides to pursue her interests under the rules set forth by noblemen by using those against them. And you suppose that if it worked for her, then perhaps...

And yet, you're still hesitant, unconvinced. "How would you suggest I do that?"

"You can become a patron for artisans and tradesmen, or fund shops with your inheritance." She shrugs lightly. "Invest in enterprises and industries related to Leon's territories—there's so much potential, considering all he controls. Or join a guild to start up a company of your own. I've helped build my family's fortune through my own contributions and activities."

Oh… That would be…

Your mind is spinning at all the possibilities opened up to you by the prospect of marriage—a whirlwind of ideas and options.

Suddenly, your future is filled with exciting prospects and opportunities, whereas before, it had only seemed bleak and dull. A chance to improve upon your life, rather than settle for what you had before. It sounds tempting. So tempting that you're almost inclined to leap at the opportunity and accept it right away because of the sole hope of somehow working your way up to something that belongs to you and yours alone, free of outside influence. Something personal.

You'd be a fool not to consider it—but the idea is just too overwhelming to contemplate fully in a single day. You need time to process everything, to come to terms with how drastically different life would be if you agreed to the proposal. You need to take things slow. Start with the basics first—the practicalities of getting used to spending time around Leon and making sure he truly is what Dame Jill says.

"It's... I don’t know," you murmur softly, looking down at your hands resting atop your lap. They're clasped tightly, holding onto something invisible. Your heart. Perhaps... your hopes and dreams as well... "I wouldn't even know where to begin with any of this. All of these opportunities... What if I ruin everything? I’m not qualified like you ladies."

"All valid concerns. That's why we're here with you today and all the tomorrows to come."

A gentle squeeze to your shoulder from Lady Claire brings your attention back to them, and when you meet their gaze, you find no judgment there. No mocking. Just kindness. Understanding. Love, even.

It makes your chest ache painfully to be on the receiving end of a helping hand when you were the one extending it to others before, and you force yourself to push back the tears that threaten to form at the corner of your eyes.

You can't afford to cry now, not in front of the two people who've given you their support and guidance, who've listened without question as you poured out your fears and frustrations without judging you for expressing your emotions, who've treated you with respect and dignity despite your humble roots.

They've made sure to explain things to you in a way that makes sense—something that you appreciate immensely, since you've had no experience with financial matters outside the scope of charitable donations in service of the temple—and haven't belittled you or looked down on you for your lack of knowledge regarding these topics. You wouldn't have considered this marriage without them in the first place, wouldn't have even known what you could do with said marriage to help build up your own capital. How lucky you are to have met such wonderful women, who are guiding you towards discovering your own agency! You owe them far more than mere thanks.

And Leon... Leon certainly isn't a bad choice of husband at all.

After the day’s work has slowed to its natural ebb, the warmth of the hearth fills the maids’ quarters with a cozy, amber glow, it smells of fresh-baked bread, slightly burnt at the edges, and the faint, lingering scent of rosewater from one of the girls' perfumes. You sit cross-legged on your shared bed, your hands busy with a piece of mending, though your attention is far from the needle and thread.

The other maids bustle around, tidying up their own small spaces, chattering softly about the day’s events. One by one, they settle into the room, their eyes flicking in your direction, and you can feel the weight of their curiosity mounting like the slow build of a storm.

Finally, Maria, one of the bolder girls with sharp green eyes and a wit to match, plops down beside you with a mischievous grin.

“Alright, out with it then!” she teases, nudging your arm. “We’ve all been wondering—what's going on between you and him that both ladies called you out to talk today?”

Your heart skips a beat, though you try to keep your face neutral. “Him?”

Maria rolls her eyes dramatically. “Don’t play coy with us, girl! We’ve seen the way Lord Leon looks at you whenever he visits. Always trailing after you like a lovesick puppy, isn’t he?”

The room erupts in giggles, and the other girls gather closer, abandoning their pretense of work to join the conversation.

“He’s always hanging around,” adds Lila, her voice low and conspiratorial. “And didn’t you two have some private chat the other day?”

“That’s right!” Maria jumps in, eyes twinkling with excitement. “I heard he came looking for you in the kitchen. Just you. Alone. If that doesn’t mean something, I don’t know what does!”

You try to wave them off, but the girls lean in even closer, their faces alight with the thrill of gossip.

“Come on,” Lila presses, basically dripping with eager curiosity. “Spill it! What’s it like, having a nobleman so interested in you?”

Your pulse quickens, and for a moment, you’re at a loss for words. The thought of sharing anything about Leon’s marriage proposal feels too intimate, too unreal. How could they possibly understand?

Still, the girls’ eyes are bright with expectation, so you decide to tread carefully. “It’s... nothing like that,” you say softly, hoping to dissuade their excitement. “He’s just being kind.”

Maria snorts, clearly not convinced. “Kind? Please. Nobles don’t come slinking around after maids out of kindness.” She pauses, then leans in even closer, words dropping to a whisper. “If you bat your eyelashes at him the way he likes it, you could end up with a lot more than just kindness.”

You blink furiously, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Lila grins wickedly. “You know what she means. A mistress! Why else would he be following you around like that? It’s the perfect setup! You’d have all the perks of being with a noble without any of the chains. Gold, dresses, fancy gifts—he’d be wrapped around your finger!”

Your stomach twists at the suggestion, a rush of discomfort bubbling beneath the surface. “A... mistress?”

The word feels foreign on your tongue, sour and wrong.

“Stop playing coy,” Maria says, grinning like a fox. “He’s clearly interested in you. And you’d be a fool not to take advantage of it. Do you know how rare it is for a man of his standing to even look at someone like us?”

The other girls murmur their agreement, nodding enthusiastically.

“And think about it,” Lila adds, her tone soft but coaxing, “you wouldn’t have to lift a finger again. No more scrubbing floors, no more serving the ladies of the house. You’d be living the high life, tucked away in some lovely estate with all the luxury you could ever want. All you’d have to do is keep him happy.” Her gaze flickers up and down your form, appraising, before she smirks. "And I bet he won't be too disappointed with that either."

A sudden surge of anger rises in your chest, hot and fierce. It’s as though they’ve reduced Leon’s sincerity to a mere transaction, something cheap and temporary.

You glance around at the eager faces, each girl picturing the life they’ve described, a life of ease and opulence. But all you can think of is Leon—his genuine concern, his careful words, his sincerity when he’d offered you a life beyond this one.

A life as his equal.

You lower your head, focusing on the piece of fabric in your lap, but your voice comes out firmer than expected. “I’m not interested in becoming anyone’s mistress.”

Maria frowns, tilting her head. “Why not? It’s not like he’d marry you, you know.”

Lila nods, shrugging carelessly. Her eyes drift lazily around the cramped room as she speaks. "Let's be real here, honey—we all want to find a good man and live happily ever after, but that's not how the world works. If we're clever enough, we can get the right one to take us to the side and let us play the lady, maybe give us an allowance, but we'll never get to wear their name or inherit any property. Might as well enjoy the benefits of being the other woman. Life's easier that way."

A quiet realization settles over you like a comforting blanket in the midst of the winter of these girls' harsh reality and what they have to live with—Leon’s offer, regardless of whether you want to take him up on it, was a lot more honoring than you'd initially thought, more than it should be, when everyone else sees it as an empty promise, a tease of something better they could never achieve.

Because Leon hadn’t offered you a life in the shadows. He hadn’t looked at you as though you were something to be possessed, something to be kept hidden. He’d offered you a future—a real future, as his equal. And it’s only now, in the face of the maids’ casual suggestion, that you realize just how sincere his proposal had been.

He wasn’t offering you luxury in exchange for secrecy. He wasn’t trying to keep you as some hidden treasure. He was offering you something far more precious than wealth or status—he was offering you respect.

He’d offered you something real.

A soft breath escapes your lips, and the tension in your chest eases ever so slightly. The girls continue to chatter, oblivious to the shift in your thoughts, still wrapped up in their fantasy of you as a nobleman’s mistress.

But you know better now. You know what Leon’s intentions truly are.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to understand what you want too.

The late afternoon sun bathes the garden in a golden light, casting long shadows across the cobblestone paths that wove through the hedges and flower beds. The air carries the crisp, earthy scent of autumn, mingled with the faint fragrance of fading blooms. A gentle rustling of leaves fills the space, stirred by a cool breeze, while distant bird calls echoed from the trees, the atmosphere holding a kind of serene stillness, as if the garden itself was waiting.

In spite of the nerves coiled tightly in your chest, it reminds you of the temple's private prayer garden—your one refuge from the weight of expectations. Here, just like there, you feel a semblance of peace. This space, however, has become something different: a sanctuary from more personal burdens, from the eyes that constantly watched, speculated, and judged your every interaction with Leon.

As you walk, your fingers skimmed the soft petals of the flowers lining the path, a tactile comfort that grounds you as your thoughts swirled. The garden is quiet, save for the faint gurgling of the fountain ahead, where a lone figure sat. Leon.

He's hunched forward, elbows resting on his thighs as he watches the water trickle steadily into the basin below, completely unaware of your presence. His fair hair hangs loose around his face, partially obscuring his features, and he wears simple, unadorned clothing, a far cry from the formal attire you'd grown accustomed to seeing him in during his visits to the manor. His coat is tossed haphazardly over one armrest, vest half-undone, sleeves rolled up messily at the elbow. Even the collar of his shirt hangs open loosely, giving a glimpse of pale skin beneath. The relaxed position belies a sense of agitation and frustration, a sort of restless energy that your offer of wanting to meet him today has caused, no doubt.

This informal state of undress is a refreshing change from his usual perfectionist approach to fashion and is unexpectedly... intimate. That, combined with the way he's dressed himself down, almost in defiance, to meet you in private gives you pause.

You have no idea if he's trying to look as approachable and nonthreatening as possible or is truly so caught up in turmoil about your answer that he's forgotten how appearances make him come across, but you're struck by how attractive he looks at the moment. It's... refreshing to see him like this. Like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

As if feeling your eyes on him, Leon shifts his attention to where you've paused behind him, spotting you standing in the distance. His posture abruptly straightens before he rises to his feet, greeting you formally, clear and resonant, "Saintess."

"It's not—" you begin, instinctively recoiling at the title and reminder of all the demands that came with it, but stop yourself short. No sense in correcting him anymore. Not when you're so close to figuring out where to go next with him. Not when he looks like he's prepared for the worst. "Please. Make yourself comfortable."

He doesn't move.

There's an awkward silence. Then, slowly, reluctantly, you step forward. Your steps get swallowed by the silent garden, into the chatter of the surrounding foliage and ornamental ponds.

Now that you've closed the distance and you're standing only an arm's length apart, Leon stands impossibly tall and imposing in front of you. A shadow draped over you both by the canopy of the willow tree you've met underneath, sheltering you from the rest of the world. His blue eyes are dark like the sky in the moment before dusk, expression severe as you look up to face him properly, trying not to lose courage.

You lead with, "Have you noticed there's not one single lily blooming in the entire estate gardens?"

In the context of your talk, it comes off as an obvious subject change, and Leon picks up on it immediately, quirking up a brow quizzically, then casts a sweeping glance over the greenery instead, as if searching for any hint of the flowers you named. "Now that you mention it..."

"It stood out to me immediately," you confide. "I'm rather fond of lilies, you see. They're my favorite flower."

It sounds a little silly once you've spoken aloud, but a fond, "Ah," escapes his throat. Leon's features soften as he looks upon you again, listening carefully, intent to keep talking if you wish to speak more. There's a ghost of a smile on his mouth, tugging at his lips, like he wants to say something, but holds it in check.

"You'd think I would be able to convince Piers to plant some for me, but he said, first of all it's not your garden to change. Second of all, if you want lilies that much, how about you make your own garden and grow them yourself. Apparently, I was 'obsessed' with them enough to warrant such advice. I didn't have the first idea about caring for flowers, though. It was a bit more challenging than I anticipated, learning how to take care of plants—not too much, not too little sunlight, not too little water, not too many pests... I realized how fortunate I was to have florists or the servants take care of things while I was the saintess. So much to learn!"

Leon makes a noncommittal hum at the back of his throat, looking off to the side pensively, brows coming together as he runs the tip of his tongue against the edge of his lower teeth, deep in thought. You look away when you catch yourself following the motion, staring openly at the soft angle of his jawline. Instead, your gaze flicks to the rows of vibrant roses nearby.

"My gardening efforts... were mediocre at best," you laugh sheepishly.

You recall the sad, shriveling collection of greens you had managed to get from the earth. Dried out and blackened with spots when you should have known better after reading so many books on the topic of cultivating the land and keeping the flora alive and thriving, how the soil felt on your fingertips and hands as you tended to the various kinds of crops. But then you had finally grown some tender stalks and baby blooms, the barest beginnings of buds bursting forth, growing lush and strong—only to promptly die under your care. It wasn't intentional—in fact, you had done everything right, followed all the instructions to the letter—but it was still disappointing nonetheless, to watch as all your hard work withered and faded away before your very eyes.

"Years have passed, and I'm still not particularly great at it. For all the miracles I performed in Ethelion's name, I never did figure out what I did wrong to make my own garden turn out that way." You trail your fingertips lightly over the delicate petals of a rosebush, remembering how the dewdrops had clung to them like gems, sparkling in the sunlight. "Even today, I still haven't quite gotten the hang of it and just help Piers around. Growing my own lilies is out of the question like this. I still want it, that's the whole point of why I started this journey in the first place. But I guess fear of being confronted with the fact that these hands that once brought back many from death's doorstep can't even grow a weed correctly stops me from ever attempting. It's like a lesson in humility."

The wind ruffles Leon's golden hair as he stares off into the distance, thinking intently. He rests his weight on one leg, cocking it out to the side as he props an elbow on his thigh, settling his chin against an upturned palm. Those sharp eyes sweep across the manicured lawns of the estate, and you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he mulls over your words.

"You're not just talking about lilies, are you?" Leon says quietly, his tone cautious, but thoughtful. You shake your head, chewing on your lip to prevent any further emotional outbursts from betraying your composure.

You let your eyes slide shut and allow yourself a small moment of respite, inhaling deeply through your nose, tasting the fresh fall air as it fills your lungs. "I thought... A new pair of hands helping me out with the lilies would add insult to injury. Humiliating." Your fingers clench involuntarily around a rose stem, and you jerk your hand away sharply before it can snap the fragile thing in half. "After years of relying on Ethelion to supply me with lilies whenever I wanted, I thought this was the only way for me to pride myself on something for a change. Failure upon failure eventually made me realize that perhaps I'm too proud to admit that I don't have things figured out just yet—and am also ashamed to ask for assistance from others, even those that are willing to help me out when I need it. Perhaps that was another reason why I didn't even want to entertain your offer, Leon. Because it felt like giving up."

Opening your eyes again, you see him watching you intently, blue irises focused entirely on yours, attentive to every word that leaves your lips. The sight of it causes warmth to spread throughout your body, causing you to falter for a second, unsure of where to proceed next. You bite down hard on your lip, then, "And... And if... If I couldn't accomplish even something small like this, then what kind of saintess was I? What good would a failed servant of God be as a wife?"

"Goodness knows, you can be a fool, you know that?" Leon snaps without hesitation, brusque and direct. Startled by his reaction, you whip around to face him in surprise—to see his features drawn tight in displeasure. He's frowning down at you, brow creasing, nostrils flared slightly, a muscle twitching in his jawline. "Of course you wouldn't succeed immediately. You were practically a bumbling toddler released into the wild! Trying to expect such growth in a handful of years is plain lunacy. Especially with the insistence to do it without any assistance."

"I—"

"And the worst part? You don't even acknowledge how you've made strides with your limitations!"

You quiet down with the shock of blatantly being scolded by someone as kind and softspoken as Leon—or for the first time in your life, for the matter.

"Let me put it like this," he says, having simmered down. "If you want to grow lilies, you need to let go of this obsession to be some almighty perfect being that must know everything there is to know in the world about lilies before setting out to grow your garden."

You wring your hands together in front of you anxiously, still taken aback by his sudden tirade, and unsure of how else to respond to it. Part of you is annoyed that he took to calling you a fool, albeit accurately so, but the greater portion of yourself is beginning to feel guilty about dismissing Leon's assistance due to your pride. You stay silent and let him finish.

"Marrying me wouldn't make you a failure. As a matter of fact, accepting my aid for the sake of getting to try your hand at creating your own garden doesn't have anything to do with that either." His gaze grows gentler as he fixes you with a firm, meaningful stare. "Even if no lilies grow today or in the next month, all the seeds you're scattering around shall come to fruition soon enough if you keep at it. If there are an extra couple of hands helping out with the watering and weeding, then surely your efforts will be twice as efficient. The goal is ultimately what matters—making your dream become a reality and not be stifled by arbitrary rules that have never existed until now."

Leon's words hit home for you in ways that you didn't expect them to; how did he manage to come to terms with the issues you struggled with so easily?

"Did I do good?" he asks all of a sudden, shattering the moment, a shy grin appearing on his face that transforms his appearance almost instantly. He suddenly seems younger, less experienced, more like the paladin you knew him as years ago. A sweet, sincere boy, struggling between uncertainty and eagerness to do right by you. "Allegories are not my strong suit... Or is it called a metaphor?"

You chuckle weakly, "Yes, you certainly succeeded. More than you know, actually."

Those blue eyes light up in response, his mouth breaking into a broad grin that brightens his entire face and takes your breath away. Your heart does an odd skip in your chest, but before you have a chance to analyze the strange sensation, Leon leans forward eagerly. "Does this mean you'll accept?"

Taking in his expression—eyes wide and hopeful, a slight flush coloring his cheeks—you can't help but smile back with a brief nod.

"Yes?" he insists excitedly, his voice rising in pitch slightly. It's clear he isn't convinced of your answer just yet and wants some sort of verbal affirmation.

"I'd be happy to," you reply before the nervous stutter can give rise to doubts again in his mind about you. At that very instant, a flock of doves rises from the trees above and soars off into the sky, disappearing into the clouds, leaving behind only a trail of white feathers. "If you'll still have--"

"Yes!" He steps towards you quickly and envelops you in a tight embrace without warning. His arms encircle you completely, his warmth radiating through the fabric of your dress. You yelp, startled, but he only pulls you tighter against him and spins you around in the air. You cling to him helplessly, your body pressed firmly against his, and try not to think about how solid he feels underneath your fingertips.

The sudden intimacy sends a thrill through your veins, heat pooling low in your belly and spreading throughout your limbs. Then you hear him exhale loudly in your ear in relief. His hot breath tickles the sensitive skin beneath your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine, goosebumps raising along the bare nape of your neck and along your arms underneath the sleeves. All the pent-up anxiety leaves his body at once and you find yourself relaxing in response. For a split-second you forget where you are or who you're with—only that you want to feel more of him against you...

The lightness in Leon's eyes is a rare sight, one you haven't seen since you first crossed paths again. His entire face is illuminated by his beaming grin, so bright it almost makes you forget the chill in the air. You’d said yes, and in that moment, it was as though the world outside the garden ceased to exist. It’s just the two of you, suspended in time—Leon’s arms still wrapped around you, his breath warm on your cheek.

“You won't regret this,” Leon says as he pulls away slightly, his smile never fading.

You nod, too overwhelmed to say anything more. There’s something about the way he says those words, with such sincerity and confidence, that makes your heart swell. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you allow yourself to feel hopeful—hopeful that perhaps this arrangement could bring you both the happiness you’ve been missing.

He holds out his arm to you, a gesture you’ve come to associate with his chivalrous nature, and you take it without hesitation. The warmth of his touch still lingers as he leads you out of the garden, your heart racing, thoughts pleasantly buzzing.

A few days later, you find yourself in a carriage, trundling down the road towards Leon’s estate. The entire journey has been spent in comfortable silence, save for the occasional exchange of smiles or soft remarks about the passing scenery. You lean your head against the window, gazing out at the world beyond as it goes by in a blur of color and motion. In the distance, you spy the familiar sight of the grand cathedral, towering high above all else, its spires reaching upwards into the azure sky. Memories flash before your eyelids: of visiting the structure during the early hours of dawn, as the first rays of light filtered through its stained glass windows—of wandering within its labyrinthine passages and praying quietly in secluded corners—of the comforting scent of incense as it drifted through your robes like smoke through the rafters.

But the pull isn't as strong, or tempting as it once was, a whisper of something ancient that lives inside your ribcage.

You haven’t spoken much about the wedding yet—it hasn't even been half a week since you accepted Leon's offer—but you've already settled on doing a smaller ceremony, consisting only of the Redfields and close associates. Your side of the guest list is virtually non-existent, so you suppose the wedding preparations are going to move pretty fast considering there are not a lot of moving pieces to juggle.

When the manor finally comes into view, you’re momentarily breathless. It’s grander than you imagined, despite being in the borders of the capital and within the vicinity of other lavish estates—a grand sandstone building topped with elaborate gables, a slate tile roof, and ornate wooden trellises encasing balconies decorated with intricately carved fretwork. The lush grounds surrounding the manor appear immaculately groomed, topiary hedges and carefully pruned boxwoods lining the entrance drive, leading up to an imposing iron gate with ornate scrollwork patterns.

You have no idea how his estate in the margravate will compare to this summer home for the social season...

The carriage turns into an ornate stone drive, traveling the length of the courtyard, halting at last beside the entrance. Everything is eerily quiet for a moment, save for the crunching sound of gravel beneath wheels and hooves echoing through the open space. A young footman immediately opens the door and steps aside, and Leon descends gracefully before turning to help you climb down yourself.

You smooth out your skirts once you're on terra firma again, grateful for the moment to compose yourself after such an imposing sight. He offers his arm to you once more, and you wrap your fingers delicately around the crook of his elbow. With his free hand, he gently guides you forward, each step seeming to take longer than the last, until you're crossing through an arched entryway and stepping into an airy atrium.

Your gaze sweeps across the room, drinking in every detail, your nerves returning. The entrance hall is beautifully furnished, but distinctly masculine, with heavy mahogany furniture and a plush Aubusson rug sprawled out across the marble floor. An impressive chandelier hangs overhead, glittering with dozens of flickering candles. Everywhere you look, you're greeted by rich materials and exquisite craftsmanship—carved woodwork framing elegant oil paintings depicting scenes from history, damask wallpaper adorning the walls, polished silver sconces mounted on pillars flanking the staircase bannister...

All the finery makes your heart beat a little faster, and you're struck by the realization of just how different your current situation is compared to yesterday.

You let out a shaky breath, your grip on Leon's arm tightening as he leads you past a row of elaborately dressed footmen, their hands folded neatly behind their backs and heads bowed politely in greeting. Each of them regards you curiously, observing you with expressions devoid of emotion, as though studying some sort of exotic animal in a zoo. Up ahead, an elderly butler awaits you by the bottommost step, his stoic features arranged into a thin mask of courtesy. When Leon comes closer, however, the man's impassive facade melts into one of genuine respect, his graying eyebrows lifting slightly in recognition.

"Welcome, Your Excellency," he greets with a slight bow. "We've been expecting your return. We've also prepared lodgings for the honored bride-to-be."

Your cheeks grow warm at the use of the title, and you shift nervously from side to side as Leon thanks the old man.

"Can you send Dame Hunnigan for us, please?"

"I believe she is waiting for your arrival," the butler says, dry and monotone. "Will you require any refreshments in the parlor, sir?"

"No, leave us," Leon nods, dismissing the retainer. He then glances down at you and chuckles lightly, leaning over to mutter, "You look like a frightened mouse about to hop out of her clothes."

You press your lips tightly together, avoiding meeting his amused gaze and fixating on the floor instead, mentally berating yourself for acting so ridiculous, but then Leon continues speaking as you ascend the stairs. "Forgive me if I seem smug. That was simply endearing."

His words draw a surprised laugh out of you, the unexpected tease easing some of the tension in your shoulders. "I appreciate you taking the opportunity to poke fun at my expense."

"Always happy to serve," he teases right back without missing a beat, his grin flashing wickedly at you. There's no bite to his teasing, however, merely playfulness.

As you reach the top landing, a young woman approaches you from down the hallway with a calm and composed demeanor, lacking the urgency of the servants below. Her dark hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and she’s dressed in a simple but elegant gown, showing her higher position. She stops before you with a nod of greeting, her gaze respectful but sharp as it flickers between you and Leon.

“Welcome back, my lord,” she says smoothly, steady and professional. “And welcome to you, my lady.”

Leon’s smile remains as he gestures toward her. “This is Dame Ingrid Hunnigan, my house steward. If you require anything at all, do let her know and she will assist you as best she can. Isn’t that so, Hunnigan?"

Her posture is as perfect as a soldier's, and her demeanor is polite and collected, and yet you detect the subtle traces of power beneath. "If it is in my power, then most definitely," she answers dutifully, bowing to you with a flourish. "Please don't hesitate to contact me if you need anything at all, milady. The servants have been instructed to tend to all your needs accordingly."

Something about the way she holds herself—the confident set of her shoulders, the steely determination in her brown gaze—reminds you of Piers. You get the sense that she is fiercely intelligent, but also skilled in diplomacy and management, the kind of person that knows just what to do in every situation.

You return the greeting with a polite nod, feeling a little self-conscious under her watchful gaze. There’s something about the way she carries herself that suggests she knows everything happening within these walls, down to the smallest detail. She’s not just an aide—she’s someone who ensures the manor runs like clockwork.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say, feeling an odd sense of relief knowing that there will be someone to help you navigate this unfamiliar place.

“The pleasure is mine,” Hunnigan replies, her lips curving into a small smile. “I must say, we’ve all been looking forward to your arrival. It’s clear how much Lord Leon cares for you."

Her words, though spoken with the utmost professionalism, catch you off guard. You glance at Leon, who shifts slightly, his smile fading into something more reserved, almost embarrassed. There’s a tension in his posture that wasn’t there before.

“Oh, uh... yes,” he stammers, holding his right shoulder and rolling it around like it's sore and he's trying to stretch it. “I—well, of course, I—”

Hunnigan doesn’t miss a beat. “The staff is already preparing for the wedding, and I’ve made arrangements for you to meet with the dressmaker later this week. If there’s anything else you need, my lady, don’t hesitate to ask.”

For a split second you remember all your previous hesitations, but you push the thought aside almost as quickly.

Leon clears his throat, straightening himself and gesturing down the corridor. "Come, it would be rude not to show you to your rooms."

You allow him to lead the way, following a short distance behind him and Hunnigan as they weave through the corridors. It occurs to you that you've never seen the inside of another nobleman's home, aside from a tour of the palace in the royal capital—even though it shouldn't come as a surprise, given that it's been a while since you stepped foot in the temple. But even in those moments, you were sheltered from much of the actual activity that occurred daily, having private quarters away from the others, except for when you traveled with the Bishop. And even then... it wasn't like you ever came across homes or mansions this beautiful. This was something truly grand—so much space and fine furniture to fill it, the kind that probably had names for. The kind that held history within its walls and decor. The kind of residence that spoke of generations of wealth, privilege, and status.

Though, you can't seem to focus on much, Dame Hunnigan's words about how much Leon cares for you and his weird reaction to it replaying in your head over and over again, like the echo of a bell ringing somewhere in the distance. Did he really talk about you like that to his staff? And why would he...? You mean, of course he should care for you; he asked you to marry him! Still, it stirs up some conflicted feelings within you.

This marriage isn't about love, but there is love in it. Even though that might never go anywhere romantic or sexual. A connection between two people... is still love, regardless of the specifics. You know that's what you've been taught throughout your entire life—that such an agreement is built upon respect, admiration, compassion.

Maybe...

Just maybe...

"Right here," Leon says, coming to a stop in front of a set of double doors as he pushes them open, revealing a vast room decorated in shades of blue and cream. The sun pours in from large windows framed by thick velvet curtains, flooding the space with light and illuminating the plush carpets covering the hardwood floors, creating a soothing ambience.

The centerpiece is undoubtedly the four-poster bed against the wall, complete with drapery falling around the sides and pillows piled atop a silk duvet. Against the adjacent wall stands a small table next to an armchair by a fireplace, a vase filled with freshly picked lilies placed atop the mantel. Off in the corner is another door which presumably leads into the baths. There are several tall bookshelves stuffed with tomes in various languages, spanning from historical texts to philosophy to poetry, and a large oak desk sits adjacent to them. A vanity full of cosmetics is situated nearby, along with a large wardrobe standing in front of a screen decorated with intricate embroidery.

You almost blurt out something about this room being made for half a dozen people rather than one before catching yourself.

"It's connected to my room through that door, so feel free to knock," Leon adds casually, seemingly unaware of how such a statement causes your brain to short circuit for a brief moment.

"Oh," you manage to say as you peer at the imposing piece of furniture near the vanity and swallow thickly. Married couples are often required to share a sleeping chamber, and this arrangement was done for your comfort, no doubt. But it's still intimate to think about how he'll be right next door, accessible to you at all times.

"Is that acceptable?" Leon asks, dipping his chin and raising an eyebrow.

You flush, realizing you hadn't responded, and hastily nod your head, causing him to chuckle lightly as he heads back towards the exit, but doesn't leave, talking to Dame Hunnigan about something in a low tone before he shuts the doors and leaves both of you alone in this new space together.

He lingers there for a moment. You can't see his face as he says, "I wanted to... I wanted to apologize for what Hunnigan said back there. About how much I apparently talk about you whenever I'm back home. I assure you, she's prone to exaggerations sometimes, and there's always gossip running around between the maids in these sorts of places."

"Oh, that." You didn't think Leon would make such a big deal out of it—there are certainly far worse things in the world to worry about—but he seems quite bothered by it. Maybe it's a breach of his privacy? He's clearly not very comfortable with Hunnigan telling you about such matters. "I guess everyone can be chatty," you try to soothe his embarrassment. "She was probably just trying to be hospitable, in her own way."

"Yes... Well... I do care about you, of course. Just, er, well..." Leon trails off awkwardly, suddenly fumbling over his words as he tries to get them out, a light dusting of pink coloring the tips of his ears. "Not that way. Obviously. Which she's insinuating. That would be inappropriate. For us. To... To act in such ways outside of our marital responsibilities. Or inside. Which we don't have to. So, I... I want to make sure that... You know. I have invited you here under honorable intentions only. I hope that this does not put you in any uncomfortable situation. Because I wouldn’t dare feel about you in such a manner."

Despite your better judgment, his sudden rambling and odd choice of phrasing tugs at your heart strings a bit, somewhat in disappointment. Not that you would ever expect such things—you aren't expecting romance or love in this union, and that's not the purpose of this arrangement in the slightest—but there is some sense of rejection upon hearing that the man before you has no desire to pursue anything romantic. In all fairness, you may never have thought about it either if you had remained within the temple, as you dedicated your entire existence to worshiping Ethelion. Until now, at least.

"I know," you reassure him gently with a tentative smile, an inexplicable pit deep in your stomach. "There's no need to be flustered. I'm well aware of what this is, and I appreciate your honesty."

"Good," he sighs in relief, visibly relaxing as the tension leaves his frame. Finally turning around, he flashes a charming smile in response, bright blue irises glinting beneath his lashes in the warm sunlight streaming through the windows. "Would you like to sit with me for tea?"

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