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the-kittylorian-writes · 2 years ago

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"Battle Scar"

Type: One-Shot

Pairing: Din Djarin x Omera

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary:

In the aftermath of a battle on Mandalore, Din is confronted by a distraught Omera as she is further acquainted with a reality where her own authority is as revered as the Manda’lor’s, as his spouse and co-ruler. Amidst the chaos of miscommunication, Omera has been forced to issue a command out of duty which nearly cost Din’s life, and Omera was not happy at all. Arguments loom, and so do regrets. (TW: One-sided marital spat)

[Written for (extended!) Mandomera Week 2022, seventh prompt: “Forgiveness”]

Read here or on Archive of Our Own

"Battle Scar"

“Mand’alor, I was told that the Lady Omera was not at the debriefing,” Din Djarin’s aide-de-camp informed him as Din limped into the modest rooms he shared with his wife.

The Sundari Royal Palace remained grey and bleak, unpolished from debris and dust in its slow recovery from the ruin brought about by the Great Purge. The Purge was but a dreadful scar in Mandalorian history, remedied by the grueling work of reunifying clans and creeds until all arrived at the same page, and unequivocally under Din’s rule.

The Palace had only partially been rebuilt, with its construction relentlessly interrupted by reports of impending enemy attacks. Din could count past his ten fingers the instances he needed to cut quality time with his family short. Omera would be the one left to govern the Palace while Din stormed into the battlefields with his fellow seasoned warriors.

Omera had continued to coordinate with Din and his officers while she remained at her post in the Palace’s headquarters. These incidents of prolonged joint command happened more often than they thought was ideal. There seemed no trouble at first when Omera willingly learned the various forms of leadership required of Din as well as her. She was taught the necessary protocols and directives in the event that her husband could not issue them himself, for any grave reason.

For a long and arduous streak, Din was leading the charge most of the time; Omera assisted, sometimes becoming her husband’s aide as she fastened the armor on him. That ritual had transformed into stolen moments of spiritual intimacy between them. With every component of the beskar’gam she placed upon him, their gazes would lock, intense and sublime, and little words were exchanged. Tension would always follow—and suddenly Din was off with Bo-Katan Kryze or the Armorer or Paz Vizsla into war, his cape billowing behind him like a rallying banner, the Darksaber clipped to his side.

Din couldn’t remember the last time he had properly shared the marriage bed with Omera since their wedding night. He was always away, awake, busy… and sometimes Omera would be awake with him, would join him in briefings if only to feel his warmth at her side. The only other way she found to compensate for these growing times apart was when she made dinner for him. Even then, it was hurried, and conversation was sparse.

This most recent battle could have been the last straw, and yet it was a victory which concluded a crucial campaign, thanks to Omera’s impartial and quick thinking. It was as if all her training culminated to this one victory, and she was ready to keep to the shadows, out of everyone’s way.

And as the aide reported—Omera had opted not to attend the debriefing. To date, this only happened once, and only because she needed to see Grogu and Winta off as they were transported to safety through their Jedi ally, Master Skywalker. Din, at the time, was in the middle of the most decisive battle yet—the one to capture Sundari, Mandalore’s new capital and epicenter of authority before the Purge struck.

A knot of worry formed within Din as pain bloomed like searing coals all over his body. This latest maddening fray to recapture Keldabe, Mandalore’s ancient and former capital, had sapped him of his strength. He sustained some debilitating injuries that were treated on the field and after, in the secure confines of the med-centre tent.

He had spent an entire week away from Omera, and months away from Grogu and Winta, capped by the wars that poured themselves unto his lap one after another… Yet, in spite of it, Din kept his resolve sharp and his spirit from falling into shreds.

But tonight, he was more than bone-weary. He was utterly exhausted, and all he wanted to do was be in his wife’s arms, hear her soothing voice, feel her soft caresses as she inspected the medic’s work. The medics may have done their best… but Omera, she would always find ways to make it better, for the wounds to somehow close faster and his pains to fade away which bacta couldn’t mend. It was not sorcerer magic, but Omera was gifted in her on way. That was why Din had always been so drawn to her.

Tonight, he was met by an empty hallway as the aide left him to his privacy—no wife to greet him or to walk astride him from a debriefing as they entered the chambers together.

Din limped further in; he looked around—the lamps were lit, the heating was on (Mandalore had cold nights this time of year), and… to his relief, the dinner was set.

No wife, however, graced the table.

Din groaned in relief as he gingerly took a seat at one end of the table. His side burned; he kept his hand there, already shed of glove and vambrace, and waited for the brief rush of agony to subside. He grimaced, closing his eyes. He leaned upon the seat’s headrest awhile, letting the harrowing memories of Keldabe melt away. Paz had offered to clean up; Bo-Katan and Fenn Rau (whose revived Skull Squadron offered air support) remained at the debriefing. It was at Paz’s urging which led Din to return to Omera halfway through the meeting. If she hadn’t shown up from the beginning, she wouldn’t do so for the rest of it—and there was an acute reason for it.

Din’s eyes flew open when he heard footsteps approach. His half-drugged vision focused on the source, and Din sighed; a weight lifted off him when Omera appeared at the other end of the dinner table.

Din stopped short of his greeting. Omera’s eyes were bloodshot as if from a thorough cry. Her beautiful raven-dark hair and clothes were disheveled. She had already shed the armor she ceremoniously wore even as she remained in the Palace as the Mand’alor took to the battlefields.

It was Omera’s grating voice which hit Din like a shard of ice. “Please eat,” she prompted him tonelessly. “Don’t mind me—I have no appetite.”

“Omera—“ Din ventured. Omera sharply turned her head away, avoiding his pleading gaze.

“I’ll sit here,” she said at length, breathing out her statement in a shuddering sob, “I’ll sit here because you’re my husband, and I still respect you…”

“Omera…” Din called to her again. He winced at how his voice sounded so fragmented and weak. He realized how more acquainted he had become with Omera’s own suffering, even before she could completely relay her side of things.

“… and because I love you, Din, after everything—everything we’ve gone through!” Omera unleashed the words. Her voice cracked. “Especially after this… this… call I had to make.”

A call, in this context, was a tactical decision a commanding officer had to make amidst the odds, and in some cases—because of it.

Din was silent as he let Omera pour her enraged heart out. She shook as she spoke, visibly fighting for vestiges of self-control. Din knew this, because she could be recovering from shock. Din felt guilt wash over him, because he also knew how proud he was of his wife’s mandokar, but sadly, at her expense. Omera had carried out a decision too difficult even for a battle-born Mandalorian to execute. The responsibility behind it was crushing should things fall awry.

Weeks beforehand, the Keldabe campaign fell into a string of countless briefings, once they had gotten word that Imperial Remnant forces were amassing an offensive to retake the old capital. Omera was present in all those meetings when they reviewed the plans over and over again… she’d joked once, when spirits were relatively high: “I’ve heard these operatives so many times, I can recite them by rote in my sleep!” She had laughed then—uneasy laughter, but Maker, his wife still smiled, wide enough so her lovely dimples showed. The radiance still lingered in her eyes.

Now, those eyes were dull, avoidant, and awash with the shackling fear of a loss which could have been, had the call she made not ended up being the staggering success it had become, to their great unfathomable fortune.

“Danger close,” Omera spat, as if drilling into Din his own awareness of the weight Omera needed to bear, of the gamble she was doing before she even realized it. “In a fatal distance from your position! Had I caught the report earlier, I wouldn’t have made the call to set an entire fire mission meant for the Imps practically right above your heads!”

Din leaned further into the headrest, studying his distraught wife. He felt disembodied as he witnessed her grief, and yet with the bond they shared between them, they both knew that Omera was duty-bound to make the call herself. There was no way out of it save for dereliction, and with it the capacity to undermine her husband’s trust.

Omera had risked an entire company when an airstrike targeted coordinates dangerously proximate to friendly troops in order to eliminate enemy forces—hence the term, danger close. “The message got to me too late!” her tirade went on. “I’ve only been informed of your situation right after I green-lit the fire mission… all I heard before the comms went down was, ‘the enemy’s in position, we got them where we need them to be!’ Comms were completely dead for a full ten minutes, the longest ten minutes of my life, and I know—I know the engineers have worked hard to get the comms back up, but… you told me, the enemy was in position. It was now or never, or retaking Keldabe would drain more of our resources; it could be lost to us for a long time. What I’ve not known until the last minute, when I had to give the order because you can’t, and because the comms were down—was that your own position hadn’t changed! You were pinned in place, and hadn’t relocated to a safe distance where artillery wouldn’t blow you all to bits! Oh Maker—Maker, Din!”

Omera growled and stuttered; she quivered as her voice grew louder with every portion of her tale, until she was as good as hysterical.

That was enough for Din to ignore his wounded state as he got up from his end of the table to limp his way to her—but Omera flinched. Din’s heart fell. Omera had deliberately shifted her own seat away from his reach, and Din was only clutching air mere inches atop her trembling frame. He could almost feel the heat of her turmoil emanate from her body.

Din couldn’t speak. He couldn’t find the words, or express all of them at once—he was sorry, and yet pride overtook him, knowing his wife did what she had to do even as it went against the grain she had been raised in, among the peaceful krill ponds of Sorgan and only the annual harvest to preoccupy their minds until the Klatooinian raids happened. He knew that she knew that none of this was his fault, and he wasn’t faulting her either, but logic dissolved where emotions ran high and rampant.

This could be a long night.

“What would happen if the fire mission failed despite danger close? You knew your position, you knew the enemy’s position, you knew mine—and that was to command Captain Fenn Rau and his squadron to fire on coordinates so close to you! And even Captain Rau had hesitated… but an order was an order. Tons of firepower a small distance from where you were crouched behind nonexistent cover, just so you could wipe the enemy out… I was going to kill my own husband—look at me, Din! (and yet her eyes remained averted)… Am I Omera, widowed again, but this time, by her own hand…?”

There, she said it; she told him what was tearing her asunder from the inside.

Omera was a fragile leaf in a gale as she strung racing emotions into thoughts, and thoughts into words as best as she could. Fresh tears and mirthless laughter wove through Omera’s feat at coherence. Din sensed that she’d finally reach the peak of her dark despondency, and the white flames of her anger were whittling to embers. Soon, he could touch her again without resistance.

Din understood, and it hurt him deeply, yet he found Omera blameless. It was he who had kept himself and his forces in harm’s way, but the willingness to sacrifice oneself for a greater good had always been the forefront of their arsenal. From the entirely challenging first year of his marriage to Omera, Din had learned how to decipher his wife—the outbursts, the occasional moments of silent treatment, the sobs of relief when he would return to her in one piece. She would then kiss and hold him as she had when he’d first offered his heart to her.

He deciphered Omera’s grating, terrible confusion—how silly she must feel with these arguments, knowing well what she had gotten herself into when she married him, and when he made her his Queen and co-ruler over Mandalore and its neighboring worlds. She had made that pact with him, of bringing the Mando’ade together, of leading them together, and even leading them when they were physically apart. And the Mando’ade embraced the arrangement in turn, fully accepting her as their Queen, whom the Mand’alor had chosen to spend the rest of his life with whether on the throne or when that time had run its course.

Inching closer, he engulfed her in a tender, tenuous embrace. Omera was too vulnerable right now, after hitting a new level of reality. She knew as well as himself that Mandalore and its people came first, as long as Din remained their anointed leader, as long as he kept wielding the Darksaber and no one had challenged him—and his rule—for it.

If it meant losing the one she loved the most so that Mandalore continued to rise, so be it. It may sound cruel and counterproductive, as a leader usually fell with their kingdom, but not for Din Djarin. He had already planned two steps ahead for the loved ones he would leave behind, should his life end prematurely.

Omera was folded up on the chair, racked in quiet sobs.

“Omera,” Din rasped out; it was taking his remaining strength to console her. He hadn’t slept and eaten well in days… but he needed to see to his wife’s welfare, after this awful trial by fire he had inadvertently put her through. “Y-you have to forgive me…”

His wife ceased her weeping; as if something snapped within her, she turned to him. Her eyes brimmed with fleeting concern. “Din, your voice—It’s scratched… Are you ill?”

Din smiled. With all his heart, he wanted to kiss Omera then and there. All her training, and yet the innocence borne out of her worry for him stood out to him like a flare in the dark.

“I’ve been… screaming for all of ten minutes,” Din explained fondly, almost jokingly. “No comms, and I couldn’t get anything past a certain distance. I was yelling orders out manually. Thankfully, they all got passed down the ranks. We pulled through. Voice still got busted, though.” He had shed his helmet already beforehand; his gaze was full on her when Omera had tried to read his eyes, the shape of light in them, the shadows and this own unspoken words.

“You’re hurt,” Omera remarked needlessly. Her expression had softened for a moment—then, to Din’s dismay, it grew distant once more.

There was a long silence again. This time, Din felt it sink well into his gut, into his system.

“Please eat,” Omera urged him one last time before she set herself to rights—dried her tears and smoothed her tunic down before she carefully rose from her seat. “See you in the morning, Din,” she whispered, resuming her cold treatment of him, but only after her beautiful almond eyes gently gave him a once-over—her lips parted. She thought twice and said nothing more.

She left him at the table alone; she had gone to their sleeping chambers as Din heard the door swish open and close in the wake of her fading footfalls.

***

Omera was startled awake by a chill in her bones.

She opened her eyes, and out of habit, she faced the side of the bed where Din should be—had he slept beside her that night.

Automatically, and in a sudden surge of loneliness, a palm reached out to smooth the empty space where her husband should be in his usual fitful, but much needed repose.

The chill came from a half-empty bed. While there were times when Din would stay up so late in meetings or matters that needed his attention, long enough to leave his side of the bed bare before dawn, he would always return as often as he could. The bed would dent where Din’s weight pushed it down, and Omera would wake the exact moment her husband laid next to her. In a silent treaty, their foreheads met as they both returned to slumber. In a few hours, they would be up again, despite the limited hours Din had to recuperate to face another day as sole ruler.

In the past months since reclaiming Sundari, Din had been like water through a sieve—and she was the sieve. He was there yet not fully present. He was elusive even when he kissed her, but it had become dispassionate overtime.

Omera sighed. The pillow was still wet whereupon she had cried herself to sleep that night. She didn’t need to check the chrono to reckon that it only past two in the morning. Mandalore had nineteen-hour days, lesser than most worlds and planets, but still falling in accordance to standard. Maybe, Omera thought, that was why she had felt that days flew by so quickly, and the nights were over in the blink of an eye.

She eyed the empty side of Din’s bed. Her lips quivered.

She bit back the urge to loath herself.

She had been horrible to Din at the dinner table. And Din, her sweet, noble, pure-hearted husband—he was simply there for her as he took all her scathing words in. She couldn’t even remember half of what she said, the burning statements she snarled out at him; she could only remember with embarrassment the blazing anger and confusion and helplessness she had meant to reel in, but ended in taking it all out on Din.

Now, in this moment of clarity hitting her like a slap, now that she knew that she may have hurt Din irrevocably and her heart had begun to hurt in turn—she recognized the rage which grew out of frustration over the situation rather than the people behind it. She had no way of channeling all the emotions that threatened to drown her in a misery she would have trouble delivering herself from. And there was Din: his kind eyes, his beautiful face, his serene disposition despite being almost taken from her by her need to momentarily command air support and artillery while comms were still running smoothly in the Palace. He was her shock absorber. And he was there for her every step of the way. And—gods, Omera felt nauseatingly dreadful.

She was being petulant while her husband sat there, injured, patiently listening, waiting for a window to push forward and comfort her.

Where did Din get all this self-mastery? How has being Mand’alor changed him in such an immense way, that Din the bounty hunter, Din the hunted—now held authority not only over the Mando’ade, but over his own once-turbulent soul?

Did he have any idea of the repercussions should the fire mission wipe them out with the targets? Omera knew Din had already been updating his will and testament. It was customary, Din had told her, of Mandalorian kings and queens. She shouldn’t worry about him departing this life too soon, and yet—he almost had. At least, she had thought bitterly, it would be a coveted warrior’s death.

Din’s hurt, was all her mind pondered afterwards as Omera rose from the bed, dressed herself in a robe and tied her hair up. Din was hurt, and he’s not in bed. She had to go to him, wherever he was. He should still be in the Palace. There was no way Din was still testing the limits of his mandokar after a week in a war zone.

Her steps moving out of their sleeping chambers felt like lead. Perhaps it was the guilt, the shame over last night’s hysterics which kept her from walking with her shoulders back and head up.

The Palace seemed empty. Where were the other Mandalorians? After the Purge, there was so little of them left. Yet she had joined them, a new Mandalorian in their fold. She wasn’t Mandalorian-born, but wed to one, and through that custom, how quickly shall Mandalore rise again and be repopulated with new spouses and children?

Five steps, seven steps, nine…

She wove aimlessly down the empty halls where her footfalls echoed.

She didn’t know when her steps finally halted, but when she lifted her eyes to determine where her feet led her, she saw it was the door to one of the officers’ meeting rooms. She was surprised, however, when the door swished open—and out came Paz Vizsla, helmet perpetually on, but through his posture was visibly tired. She heard him sigh through the modulator, laced with heavy fatigue.

“Paz…” Omera called, and the heavy infantry warrior looked up to acknowledge her.

“Omera,” he answered back, his voice muted yet affable. He nodded his visored head. “It’s late. Should you not be in bed, my lady?”

Omera blushed. She could never get used to those titles, no matter how the likes of Bo-Katan herself, once so opposed to Din’s claim to the Darksaber, had convinced her that my lady was a noble title—and Omera was worthy of it. Bo-Katan had been very sincere, and very contrite.

Omera didn’t know what to reply. Her thoughts evaporated like steam.

Paz, to his credit, was no less understanding. He had been a stalwart friend to Din despite a history of scuffles and brief resentment over Din’s transgression of breaking the Creed. Paz had since forgiven him and took his place as a trusted comrade and brother-in-arms to Din in the battlefield. It was then no surprise to Omera when Paz offered, without her saying anything, “Din’s in there, my lady.” The large man motioned to the meeting room he’d just stepped out from. His deep baritone was gentle. “I bid you good night.”

“Good night, Paz,” Omera greeted back as Paz nodded and disappeared down the long hall to his own quarters.

The sight which met Omera had set her heart alight and broken at the same time.

Din was on a chair by the heating vent, shed of armor and only in his flight suit—he had not even changed to clothes fit for longer downtimes. He sat up but his eyes were closed, and that was when Omera realized that Paz had probably caught his brother sleeping, and had decided to drape a huge blanket over the man. It looked almost comical—an oversized blanket over her husband, but it also made Din look so small. So… mortal.

Omera bit back a sob as she made her way to the slumbering warrior.

She couldn’t help but admire his features: both soft and sharp and wonderfully handsome. Din’s self-consciousness over showing his face was long gone. He now treated the helmet as Bo-Katan or Fenn Rau did, like a piece of armor to be worn only when necessity arose, and not as part of a fundamentalist religious pact.

Din’s face in his sleep made him look so serene, but it was the serenity of one confident in their own strength, and reliant on the strength of those around them.

The Mand’alor felt secure in this room where battle plans were hatched, and yet—not secure in his marriage bed, with his wife.

Worry tore through Omera when she noted Din’s slightly labored breathing. There were bruises and minor gashes on his face, but not to an extent where he could be unrecognizable. The cut over his nose had already been bandaged. Omera smelled the faint scent of bacta underneath the huge blanket.

Unable to help herself, she willed her husband to wake with a loving kiss on his cheek, so close to his mouth. How she missed this sort of warmth she could bestow on him, when her heart was full and free of darkness.

Din slowly stirred awake. A breath escaped him, and he blinked. Immediately alerted to a familiar presence, Din turned to face her. Puzzlement filled the sea of brown in his eyes, as though he hadn’t expected Omera to be at his side in this hour.

“Omera,” Din acknowledged his wife. The fatigue was palpable in his eyes and bled through the hoarseness of his voice. “I—I need to speak to you…”

“Right now, love?” Omera marveled at how Din could switch at once to a sort of business-like air, with both of them dressed down they were almost bare. Omera felt heat course through her body when Din had drawn his gaze over her entirety before meeting the warm depths of her eyes once more.

“Paz and I talked,” Din began, and he shifted his position so he sat up more fully. Din winced and Omera empathically winced with him as he registered the dull pain shooting through his body. “I… I know you’d want to find some peace again, after a long while.”

Omera’s brows knitted, not quite sure where Din was getting at. “Love—what are you saying?”

Din’s ever-so-gentle gaze kept her in place. His eyes were sad, so sad. Omera swallowed hard.

“He’s agreed to take you back all the way to Sorgan in two days’ time. I’ll have Skywalker and the kids know. I’ll accompany you as far as the blockade before the jump. I—I need to be on Mandalore, but you… Omera, you need to rest. I’m granting you this, and you should grant yourself that, too…”

“Din,” Omera shushed him, and she kissed him again, this time full on the lips but only for an instant. “Din—no, no. I’m staying with you. I’m not going anywhere…”

Omera felt her beloved’s gloveless fingers trace her cheek, then her jaw with a reverent affection she had missed so much that it ached. “You’re in need of a home now, Omera. Mandalore isn’t home. At least, not yet. Let yourself recover… I know I’ve put you through so much.”

She meant no disrespect at all, but she had chosen to deter her husband’s entreaty from sinking into her thoughts. Din loved her—oh, Omera knew that as much. But at this moment, he was being civil.

It shattered her heart even more, knowing Din was giving her a chance to reconsider their marriage, their eternal pact to each other, and he was bearing her no ill will over it. He would not judge her for it, and he would make sure that the rest of the Mando’ade would not begrudge their Queen her right to decide for herself, out of her own free will.

Omera felt those stubborn tears again. They hadn’t left her entirely since the night before.

She felt great relief when Din accepted her embrace, and with it, a kov’nyn with foreheads pressed so close together, it could almost seem that they read each other’s thoughts. Omera wished that was so. She wanted Din to know.

“I’m staying, my love,” she whispered again, almost pleadingly. “Din—I’m so sorry about last night…”

Din was unrelenting, yet his scratched voice was compassionate. “You had every right to let me know how you felt.”

Omera nodded helplessly. She let her wet cheek grace over Din’s own, now covered in the stubble she had loved to brush her fingers over, when they still had their nights to themselves, when their marriage was raw and young. How everything leveled so quickly; how reality had set in so dizzyingly faster than a free-fall. “I could do better, my love,” she insisted. “I’m learning, still learning. You know that.”

Din had compelled her to meet his gaze without as much as a word.

“Your welfare means so much to me,” Din added, superfluously. “Omera—you can never be happy on Mandalore, not while the war is still upon us.”

Omera had her mind set. She would hold herself accountable to it, once she’s relayed these words to Din.

“I don’t want to be happy all the time,” she told him pointblank, her voice surprisingly calm and resolute. “Of course, happiness is a gift. I’d want to be happy—but not at the expense of us. I was scared out of my wits with that danger close call yesterday. Yes. I was so upset and hysterical. Yes. I wanted to escape that pain for a little while. Yes. But Din—I want to experience every growing pain with you. My love—Sorgan is an old life. I would love to return there, but only if you come with me. But that won’t be after a while but it doesn’t matter. Do what you need to do—and I will always be by your side.”

Din was looking at her incredulously, truly baffled that his queen would rebuff a chance at solace, when she could still afford to do so. With that bafflement came a genuine spark of joy when he smiled—small, but with a vibrancy Omera had not seen on her husband’s face for a long time.

“Now come to bed,” Omera concluded, suppressing a grin that a dimple cratered on her cheek.

“Smooth,” Din joked with a furrowed brow, and Omera laughed—what a freeing thing to do.

Their foreheads met once more, and before Omera knew it, Din was kissing her again with a rekindled passion that sent Omera immediately on fire. To her slight vexation, Din cut the kiss short, only for her to realize that the culprit was his pained grimace, as he pressed a hand to his side.

“Uh-oh,” Omera riposted with her own jesting air. “Looks like someone needs some TLC.”

It didn’t take much for Din’s own dimple to emerge from his stubbly cheek. “Then you forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” Omera feigned an aghast tone. “Do you forgive me?”

Din’s airy chuckle sent her heart dancing when he leaned forward to kiss her again. She ran her hands over his curls as he entangled his fingers over the lush length of her locks in familiar playfulness.

“I forgive you,” he muttered in between impassioned kisses.

“Then,” Omera replied, sighing in this tender exchange, as if they were saying their wedding vows again, “I forgive you too, my love.”

Soon, the sun was high on Mandalore, and another day of unmistakable challenges was at hand.

******

Author's Notes:

Mando'a:

*Mand’alor - the sole ruler of the Mandalorian people *beskar’gam - Mandalorian suit of armor (lit. “iron skin”) *mandokar - the *right stuff*, the epitome of Mando virtue - a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life. *Mando’ade - the people of Mandalore (lit. “children of Mandalore”) *kov’nyn - a head-butt; a Keldabe kiss

Wikipedia as a reference is usually frowned upon in the academe, but for fic purposes, here’s the military definition of danger close - “If the forward observer or any friendly troops are within 600 meters of the impact point, to keep themselves safe, the forward observer would declare "danger close" in this last element.” I was quite intrigued with how something like that could work in a scenario like the one in this fic. I’m not an expert but sometimes writing about Mandalorians, a people well-versed in war, has you doing a bunch of research you don’t normally do. I’m not even entirely sure if I got this right, but I was curious so I went for it. ^^ Thank you for reading!

#mandomeraweek2022 #din djarin x omera #mandomera #mand'alor din djarin #omera is queen #tw: marital troubles #tw: ptsd #angst with a happy ending #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #my fanfics #my writing #the mandalorian #fanfic #fanfiction #hurt/comfort #the-kittylorian mandomera week fics

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pocket-ozwynn · 3 years ago

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The Colossus’ Cricket

GT July 2022 Masterpost: Day 2 - Different Era

Author’s Note: Inspired my some various Giant knight ladies drawn by @cloudwatchingtoday, @herebegiants, and @chamomile-g-tea. This AU (tentatively named the “Knight!” or “Colossus!”) takes in elements from some of my favorite fantasy settings while giving them a fun Dungeons & Dragons flavored twist! Big props to whoever can figure out the massive Easter Egg sitting at the very center of this one-shot. I hope y’all enjoy. 🥺💜

---

[Knight Colossus!AU]

Word Count: 2298

CW: Light reference to blood

Alice never made it to bed last night. Though that was hardly surprising, he rarely ever did.

His impromptu pillow was a bestiary that he was in the process of penning–though he often fell asleep mid-sentence with his quill still in hand. Not that he found the subject boring, mind you; on the contrary, cataloging the magical creatures that roamed the hinterlands on behalf of the Oquirrh Lyceum of Arcane Arts was his dream come true!

But such an assignment was no small feat. Terrible things stalked the countryside, and some horrors were even bold enough to strike out in broad daylight. Most nights Alice spent transcribing notes collected from codexes, interviews with other arcanozoologists, and eye-witness accounts gathered from various sellswords and adventurers who frequented the highways and byways. Even after all that was done, he still needed time to include his own observations of these creatures. Because of the enormity of the task, it left Alice burning the wick at both ends.

Thankfully, he had big help collecting data.

Alice inhaled sharply as his desk was rocked. Around his study filled with trinkets and bobbles, everything shook for a moment. He jolted up in his chair–a few loose leaflets of papers still stuck to the side of his face. Alice’s eyes were wide, his hair was a mess, and his glasses’ frame was bent out of shape. He swallowed as he waited again…was it a Landshark? A Creeping Boomwalker?

Another tremble. This one was a bit stronger. He wetted his lips nervously as he waited. And then another–this one stronger still.

Alice’s heart began to race as a fourth tremor rocked him to his senses, then a fifth.

It was the familiar cadence of footsteps. Grand footsteps

The alchemist quickly swiped the papers off his face and quickly moved to rise from his chair; however, sharp pain jolted up his legs that seemed to yank him by the ankles. With a yelp of surprise, he promptly fell flat on his face. As he lay in a wiry heap, he came to realize his legs weren’t quite as awake at this moment as he thought. With a silly string of made-up words acting as “curses,” Alice rose to his wobbly, tingling feet and stumbled down the steps and out the door.

It was a surprisingly cool morning despite the heat of Highsummer. Alice could hear the chirping of doves mixed with sounds of businesses beginning to open up one by one…

…and, of course, the sound of titanic metal plating clinking against one another as a shadow fell over the sleepy hamlet.

The Knight Colossus had returned.

Ladened in heavy armor reforged from the hull from an Ogryn Dreadnought the size of a city, the Knight Colossus gleamed in the morning sun as she lumbered into Lakeshore. The tattered hem of her crimson tabard waved like lazy castle banners as she lumbered forward with her quarry.

Alice bit his lip as he admired her approach. Her titanic stature cut an impressive image on the horizon. Given her incredible strength and broad physique, she truly was a Giant amongst Giants. And though Alice was no stranger to seeing beasts great and small, and creatures from both the Heavens and the Hells, none held a candle to the sublime grandeur of the Knight Colossus.

Finding himself staring for far too long, Alice shook his head. He clicked his boots, felt the wall-walking enchantment activate, and quickly scampered up the side of his two-story, cobbled-together “research center.” He could hear the windows begin to rattle as the Knight Colossus’ heavy footfalls grew nearer and nearer.

As he finally got up onto the roof��and before he could even catch his breath–the sun was blotted out as her shadow fell over his eclectic abode.

“Good morning, my little love.”

Though the two story home sat on a hill, it barely came up to her waist. The monolithic maiden had a dragon slung over one bulky shoulder, and had pulled up behind her what could only be described as a sort of bizarre, living “library” as if it had been a child’s sled. Her massive sword, one carved from the heart of an Iron Titan, remained impaled through its chitinous belltower.

“G-Good morning, Lady Freyja.” Alice stammered at first. His cheeks flushed first by the exercise, but now also by the immediate sight of her as well. His eyes lingered on the eldritch architecture, but he moved his gaze up towards the dragon. “I-I-I can’t believe you brought me a DRAGON this time! And, um…” He was practically bouncing with excitement as he eyed the bizarre building that seemed to have muscles within the structure that twitched. “...and whatever that is…”

Lady Freyja, the Knight Colossus, threw her helmeted head back with a booming laugh. The casual way draped the dragon carcass over the roof not too far from Alice was like watching a fisher depositing their catch. She reached up and pulled off her helmet with one hand–her flaxen hair glistened under the morning rays. Alice frowned slightly as he noticed a new bruise on her cheek–one that was easily the size of a wagon. His heart slowed down as his brow knit with visible worry.

“You glow when you’re excited, my wren…how could I possibly resist bringing you a beast grander than the last?” Lady Freyja grinned. Her gargantuan smile was enough to make Alice’s heart racing back to a flustered tempo once more.

“Th-that bruise is new....” Alice stammered as he tried changing the subject to hide his twitterpation; however, that was easier said than done when it came to the Knight Colossus. “Are you alright, my Frey?”

Lady Freyja chuckled as she rested an armored palm on the pommel of her sword. “I’m well enough off, my dear Alice…a little bruise to the face is nothing new for me.”

“The bruise is bigger than I am.” Alice pointed out as he rummaged through his pockets for the correct arcane tools to begin the post mortem examination.

Lady Freyja exhaled as she took a heavy seat by the hill. With all that armor and muscle, it was little wonder why the earth buckled and shook in reply. Lady Freyja smiled and leaned against the hillside, her thick, plated arm reaching out and wrapping around the home as she scooted closer still. She wanted to get a better look at Alice.

“If you’re so worried about my bruise, my love,” Lady Freyja mused with a coy grin, “perhaps you can help me tend to my scrapes? I wouldn’t mind your gentle touch, after all.”

Her smooth words hit Alice like a shovel to the face. He squeaked as he fumbled and nearly dropped his tools over the railing. Lady Freyja had foreseen a possible fall, as she already had a hand placed at the roof’s edge. She knew how susceptible Alice was to her flirtations. Her loving laughter made Alice’s ribs rattle.

After a moment of catching his breath, Alice readjusted his glasses and swallowed hard. He sheepishly looked up towards his looming lover and quietly replied, “I…would love to help clean you up later, my love…”

Lady Freyja grinned widely. Her own cheeks now flushed with heat of their own as she bit her lip. “Good...I’d like that.”

Now in proper danger of cardiac arrest after seeing Lady Freyja bite her lip, Alice swiftly turned his attention to the slain dragon she had gifted him. The dragon in question was one of scarlet and beige scales, golden horns, and three tails that ended in curled, wine-colored hooks. It was perhaps only 50ft in length. ”Only” might seem like an ill-fitting adverb to describe a dragon of all things, but considering the fact the Knight Colossus herself was twice that the alchemist had a bit of a skewed perspective on what was “grand” anymore.

“This…is a Crimson Hooktail, if I’m not mistaken.” Alice pointed with one of his instruments towards the eponymous tails as he drew closer to the beast’s flank. As he spoke, Lady Freyja leaned in closer. Alice set to work drawing a vial’s worth of blood first; dragon’s blood was exceedingly rare, and chock full of precious, alchemical properties.

“They are more ambitious and cunning compared to other dragons–they’re far more willing to make deals and try to deceive mortals.” Alice topped off the first vial with a cork and tucked it into an elixir bandolier. He set to work on a second vial, with a third held ready between his free fingers for when the second was filled. “They seem to favor Tortles and Myconids as a staple of their diet; however, no one is quite sure why…”

Alice lit up and chirped like a songbird as an idea came to mind. “...perhaps it has something to do with coevolution? The Myconids and Tortles of the far east have shared the region for generations…perhaps there’s some innate magical qualities to that land that have infused both races with a magical nutrient that the Hooktails crave! I know the area is also frequented by Celestial visitors, so perhaps that has something to do with it as well!”

Alice furrowed his brow in deep contemplation. The Knight Colossus’ pale green eyes sparkled as she watched how Alice spoke so vibrantly at first, but now harnessed that same passion into a smoldering look of concentration.

After the third vial, Alice set to work on procuring some of the crimson, shield-sized scales. “Oh! I almost forgot, they have an adverse reaction to Orthoptera.”

Lady Freyja almost didn’t catch that last part. “Orthoptera?” Freyja tilted her head to the side with curiosity.

Alice blinked. “Oh! My apologies, my love. Those are things such as, ah…crickets, locusts, grasshoppers–things of similar likeness. Though only theories exist as to why, it’s unmistakable how much a Hooktail recoils and whimpers at the sight of them. Reports have indicated visible symptoms of distress, terror, and even nausea.”

After removing a fourth scale, Alice set the scale aside and leaned up against the bulk of the beast to catch his breath and wipe his brow.

“Isn’t it curious how such a mighty creature could be moved to fear by a little thing?” Alice mused as he licked his dry lips. “Imagine: a dragon cowing before a cricket.”

The Knight Colossus’ lips curled into a smile. Her low, rumbling chuckle caused her armor to shake. “Why, I don’t think it’s too surprising at all! In a way, I believe I can sympathize with the dragon.”

“Oh?” Alice blinked as he looked up at her. “You don’t have a fear of crickets, do you? I feel like I would’ve remembered that…”

“Well, no. Not quite,” Lady Freyja clarified with a coy smile. She reached up with her free hand towards Alice, and rested a curled finger the size of a man under his chin. His eyes widened at the touch of the cool metal plating. Wordlessly, he allowed her to tilt his gaze up to meet hers. Lady Freyja lowered her face till she nearly filled his horizon–her own eyes studied every detail of Alice’s enamored face. As she breathed in to speak, Alice’s breath was taken away–figuratively and literally. His hair and loose shirt moved with her breathing as if they were shafts of wheat in the wind.

Lady Freyja expression softened as the words rolled out like warm, Duskspring thunder, “However, I still am quite familiar with how such a little thing could rattle a mighty beast to its very core. And how, as you said, in the most inexplicable way, all of the beast’s attention is fixated on a single, unassuming thing...”

She paused, then leaned in closer still. Alice squeaked softly. Lady Freyja’s lips now brushed his face as she spoke. She smelled of teakwood and spices. “...I understand how maddening it feels to be, like the dragon, powerless of how my heart races seeing such powerful little creature…”

Her inhale ruffled his hair before she finally leaned in and simply kissed Alice across his face and chest. Lady Freyja could feel his heart racing against her–she could feel his little hands grip into the plushness of her lower lip as if it were a lifeboat. She felt the heat in his face. Alice tasted of lavender and honey; it was something she had missed for some time now. She couldn’t help but firm up her kiss

After a few, beautiful moments that felt like decades, the two finally parted lips. Parties both great and small panted as they sought to catch their breath. Their eyes never left one another. Their lips twitched into shy, flustered smiles–as if they were children who just experienced a kiss for the first time.

“W-Wow…” Alice breathed softly. “I-I’ve…I’ve missed you, my colossus. Truly, my heart yearns when you are away. I-I wait patiently to see your visage looming over the horizon, but even then I find myself-”

A gurgling growl. Something moved behind Lady Freyja.

The library.

Wasn’t it supposed to be dead? Also Lady Freyja NEVER explained what the heck that thing even was that she had brought him.

Alice gasped. “F-Frey-”

Lady Freyja pressed a finger to Alice’s lips. “Hold that thought.”

Then with a thunderous roar, Lady Freyja quickly drew a Kraken-tooth dagger from her belt and whirled about to tackle the writhing, screaming library. The ground rocked beneath them as the two leviathans wrestled at the foot of the hill.

Shaken now by both the kiss and the seeming self-resurrection of a sentient, living library, Alice walked over to the railing of the roof and rested against it. He couldn’t help but watch with loving awe and lip-swept hair as he marveled at the sight of his beloved: the Knight Colossus, Lady Freyja.

It was good to have her home.

#Knight!AU #g/t #giant/tiny #g/t writing #g/t fluff #ogtoc Freyja #ogtoc Alice #Knight Colossus #Knight!Freyja #Alchemist!Alice #I had so much fun with this one #GTJuly #GTJuly2022

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my-white-canvas · 3 years ago

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orange lilies fr zhongli? did i send it right??

A touch of Confidence

Orange lilies- confidence

You never had that, confidence that is, you've heard people that you just needed a little push to get that, to them you had good character but lack confidence unlike others with confidence with no character but still you cave in your room watching and reading things that might help your poise but it just won't work.

Succumbed to the world of of genshin that these non-existant character that give you words of encouragement with only playing through as someone your not but even with this still in real life you had none.

After a few months of playing you pulled on Zhongli's banner and leaped in joy when he showed up on screen after a golden star fell from the skies of your screen revealing the vago mundo himself, Zhongli.

You adored him, he never left your team as you went in domain after domain just to give him the best artifacts your luck could give you, so you gave everything you have to him but it seems that after some time it began to hit you that that was all it was, for him to be your favourite character, so eventually you started to get sick of it and decided to move on.

But what did he think about it

Awakened by the sounds of gasps and whispers you were met by a crowd of people surrounding you on the floor,with that many eyes you quickly got up and ran away to a far and hidden corner, but along the way you noticed the decorations and architecture looked quite old, no, more of outdated, as in a few decades or even a century back until a certain character you saw walking by made realize this was liyue.

Liyue, the nation that was supposed to be in a fictional world right before your eyes, shocking, and shocked the life out of you, you were later found by a passerby.

After recovering from the realization you were met by the passerby that helped you holding a cup of tea in his hands was none other than the former geo archon, he then took a glance at you, still felling woozy you barely had a reaction, he than set down his team and stood up from his seat and bowed down with his head and hand on the floor "Your grace, on behalf of liyue I thank you on gracing our nation with your presence" you were all confused on what he just said but payed no mind since your head was still spinning for taking all this in.

The next time you woke up was not at the bed you were before but a more extravagant and sublime mattress with silky sheets on top, you were puzzled by this and tried to sneak away but was immediately caught by a maid and alerted everyone in the building, it was overwhelming.

Work, attending balls, entertaining people, it was all... outgoing, you were shaking everytime you did this because what if people didn't really like you, are they just pretending, is it just lies?, but he never made you feel that way.

He was always there when you were about to break down and excused you so you don't have to face further embarrassment, his voice, the way he chose his words, the way he hold you while your hands were shacking, it all felt like a touch of Confidence from him, oh how you've fallen for him all over again.

#sagau #sagau brainrot #sagau x reader #genshin impact sagau #genshin sagau #sagau cult au #sagau zhongli #zhongli x reader #zhongli

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mcx7demonbros · 2 years ago

Text

Banners

Ft. Klein (MC), the Demon Brothers, Diavolo

C/W: none

Summary: Klein loves the banners of the Seven Avatars and asks for a copy of each of them to decorate his own evil lair.

Note: multiple POVs

It was a normal afternoon for the Student Council Officers, signing and stamping, in short, normal paperwork after classes.

As the Honorary member, Klein really didn’t have to do anything, except passing paperwork to responsible members and stamping some of them, lessening the works for the Prince and the Avatars.

However, today, as Lucifer noticed, Klein didn’t really do any work and just sat there looking up the banners hanging on the wall.

“Klein.” I heard Lucifer calling my name gently.

“Y…yes.” I answered the eldest.

“You are not getting any work done.”

“Ah, sorry. I’m a little bit distracted today.”

“What made you so distracted? I saw you looking at the banners?” Belphie decided to chime in.

“Well…Can I ask for the banners?”

“What!? Why would you want our banners?” Mammon’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Well, the banners are so cool and all. I want to use the banners to decorate my Invincible Fortress, behind my throne. They would remind me that you guys are always by my side and support me.”

“Ahahahaha…of course you would want to have something that belongs to THE Great Mammon.”

“Shut up, Mammon. It’s not you alone, Klein said he wanted all seven banners.”

“I didn’t expect that even my beautiful banner reminds you of me. Of course, I’ll give it to you, Klein.”

“If you want it, I’ll also give it to you.”

“Y…y…you can have mine too, Klein.”

“You can have it, I’m glad that you ask something of mine to keep.”

“Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with it. Can we have your approval to give the banners to Klein, Diavolo?”

“I’m sorry. But these banners are to decorate the Council’s room, we can’t give them to you.”

“Aw. No way.”

“How come I never heard of this before?”

If you don’t give them to me, I just have to steal it. There’s no way I’m giving up on the banners, they would look so good for my evil lair. I said to myself and began creating a thief plan.

“Don’t be disheartened. We can’t give these in the room, but we can commission to make new ones and give them to Klein.” Diavolo smiled.

“Really!? Yay!” I immediately scrapped the plan in my head. Had Diavolo or Lucifer got wind of it, I would never hear the end of the scolding.

With magic, the banners were completed in no time and was delivered straight to the House of Lamentation upon completion.

About a week later,

“Hail Führer, may you receive-.” Klein’s minions entered the throne room, but before they could finish greeting properly, they words were stuck in their throat as they could feel heavy pressure in the room.

“Rise.”

The underlings had to try very hard to stand up, as they looked up, they found the source of the pressure.

The majestic and prideful peacock

The avaricious crows

The jealous snake

The raging unicorn

The venomous scorpion

The gluttonous fly

The indolent cow

The seven banners of the Avatars of Sins were hung in the most august sublime and august way, behind the throne. They were imbued with much magic and pressure anyone who entered the room, except Klein.

I love the Brothers’ banners so much that they’ll be everywhere I go. If a lesser demon sees all 7 banners at once, it’s either the brothers are together or their terrifying master.

Banners headcanons for the dateables and Luke

Diavolo - Dragon with golden horns

Barbatos - Serpent with teal poisonous fangs

Luke - Cute Dog (it’s still in beta since Luke’s not a grown up yet)

Simeon - An open book with an omnipresent eye on top of it

Solomon - The same symbol on Ring of Wisdom

Thirteen - A skeleton with the word “Memento Mori”

Raphael - Two spears that cross each other. Similar to Simeon, an eye above the objects, below written “For the Glory of God” in Latin “Ad Gloriam Dei”.

Mephisto - probably something about pride in being demon noble XD

Obey Me Masterlist

Klein Masterlist

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grandhotelabyss · 4 years ago

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When Lacoue-Labarthe says “la communauté à l’oeuvre et au travail,” he puts side by side the two meanings of the French verb oeuvrer, “to work” and “to produce a work of art.” What is characterized there is the implicit and often explicit notion in the Nazi worldview of the community, of the nation, the people, the Volk, and the Gemeinschaft. And in case the reader does not understand this well enough, here, then, is a different, a more illustrated, way of saying the same thing. Two hundred years after Vico, this is what Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi leader in charge of the Nazi propaganda machine, was writing in a 1933 letter addressed to the composer and musician Wilhelm Furtwängler: “Politics, too, is perhaps an art, if not the highest and most all-embracing there is, and we who shape modern German policy feel ourselves in this to be artists who have been given the responsible task of forming, out of the raw material of the mass, the firm concrete structure of a people."If, then, it is true that man’s essence, according to the philosophy of humanism, lies in being self-made, if it is true that man’s humanity is essentially aesthetic, and if, finally, it is true that the latter is the supreme proposition and determination of modern times, then it should not seem surprising for the duty of once again “gathering” that essence to have been reserved for the science of art, through the works of Auerbach and Said, which do none other than retell us, time and again, the philological-aesthetic history of the West and Western man. That is what Auerbach’s 1952 article literally says. It is the duty of philology to definitively gather within itself the essence of man. In which way? By retelling the history of man’s art but also by retelling the history of the science of that very art, which is nothing else but the history of philology. The suggestion of Said’s Orientalism is that philology retells itself by retelling art. In both cases, it gathers within itself the aesthetic essence of the humanity of man. Man is the one who forms and is formed, the one who makes and is made, both in the same breath and through the same operation. Philology is the science of that operation. It is there that the two faces—the maker and the made—emerge in their unity and mutual conditioning. The reader will remember that I used the word naive above to characterize the repetition of Western humanism in the Saidian approach. Either what is explained here is something extremely powerful, which has kept philosophers, philologists, and artists busy now for two centuries, or it is a bottomless naivete. Man is the self-made being or the subject of absolute creation. In either case, his collective essence is aesthetic.

Marc Nichanian, “Philology from the Point of View of Its Victims” (trans. Narine Jallatyan) Boundary 2 48:1 (2021)

(A striking document from 2008, just translated and published in a learned journal in advance of the first major biography of Said, arriving in March, which, for a variety of reason, I won't be discussing. This lively brief for anti-humanism accuses Said of betraying Foucault and capitulating to the Vico-to-Auerbach self-flattery of the western subject as master of all he surveys. Attempts to posit such a self-creating subject inevitably invent its other, organized by its gaze into The Other to be assimilated or eliminated, hence the inherent oppressiveness of all modern statist orders in which the modern state is the objet d’art of the agential subject, whether state socialism, liberal imperialism, or fascism. Moreover, on this view, philology, the scientific record of man’s self-making, is the intellectual corollary of humanist politics, and Orientalism is only one of its branches. We might respond to this argumentum ad Hitlerum by asserting that the concepts of human agency and the aesthetic do not by themselves require us to judge their every exercise as beneficent; isn't it enough just to say that Hitler was a bad man and a bad artist, lest one’s discourse not quite rise above “Hitler was a vegetarian”-style arguments? At the same time, I understand the worldly intellectual’s disappointment upon discovering that the American intellectual is almost always a liberal in the end—not that Said hid this exactly—despite aesthetic colorations to the contrary. Finally, this article, 13 years old and translated from Western Armenian, obviously doesn’t deal with what might disturb the Anglospheric reader today: now it is the political right, not the left, that flies the banner of French Theoretical anti-humanism and borrows Foucault’s sallies against an all-encroaching techno-state. Blake Smith, already aforementioned in these electronic pages, now suggests that Foucault's anti-humanism is an esoteric liberalism; for my part, though the more astringent sort of Theory person finds Camus “cringe” and for high schoolers, I nonetheless notice that The Rebel similarly arraigns fascism, communism, and liberal imperialism as crushing constructs of the human, but more generously grants their root in the human quest for freedom even as he notices their own anti-humanist sources [Sade, etc.], and finally posits the aesthetic not as their adjunct but as their nemesis—which is, in general, closer to my own view than is the pursuit of an ever-receding negative sublime.

Further reading: essays from me on Camus, Foucault, Auerbach, and Said. Someday—I admit it to you, dear reader—I really need to get right with Vico.)

#edward said #marc nichanian #michel foucault #humanism #erich auerbach #literary theory #critical theory #philosophy #political philosophy #postcolonial theory

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way-to-the-future · 4 years ago

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The Dragon’s Reply

A large bamboo scroll case, delivered to an Ul’dahn inn room along with some small favors of the Ruby Sea - silks, shells, and a preserved camellia bloom.

To Our Most Revered Daughter, Princess and Heir of the Harasagi Clan:

O, daughter, what a potent balm your words are to the aches of a sea-scorned heart. Full often have we longed to be at your side as you sailed beneath the banner of the heron and camellia, and how profound has been our sorrow to be separated from you by such a stretch of tempestuous waves. It buoys our spirits to know that you have arrived secure with your belongings in the distant ports of Eorzea, aggrieved as we are to know the fate of your own ship, which was our most cherished bequest to you.

Think not of such passing things, for though we transmit our boundless affection and paternal contentment to you through like gifts, even fine timber and beautifully woven silk are passing as your renown and that of our clan cannot be. Most important is that you are whole and hale. The outpouring of your concern for us likewise has touched us deeply, and we see in your earnest deference all the most admirable qualities of the daughter we have raised.

The winds here have been truly refreshing as spring returns, yet truly we have observed that the surf is less fearsome than in earlier season; therefore, tranquility reigns throughout, loath as we are to enjoy it without your companionship. Many ships, too, have come to ply the calm waters, and we have seen many more victories this season already, no doubt thanks to the renewed freedom of the sea. It is much to the contentment of this court that the catch in pearls and carp has been bountiful, and the orchards sway heavy with new fruit.

As regards the latter part of your missive, set your heart at ease that we have held your words in confidence, understanding that the dignity of our daughter is the most precious of all her possession. Truly, we were moved to a fury of such passion that through the gnashing of teeth and cries of agony we called for the hands to be mustered and the ships to be made ready, and were restrained from our righteous fervor only by the sage intervention of our own revered great grandmother. Know, even so, that such grief penetrated this house with our awareness of your frustrations as has never been seen before the death of one of our blessed house.

Though our fatherly concern calls for us to gather you to our breast forthwith with the offer of our most soothing words and tender caresses, it is after considerable deliberation with our most trusted ministers and venerable elders that we encourage you to persist in your endeavor. We know, too, that such aspirations as yours are not fulfilled by the comfort of the hearth and the clan, but that your fortunes will grow as you struggle against these most insidious pains of the heart. Yours is a brilliant spirit and a destiny unparalleled, and we would not rob you of their actualization by offering our succor too soon. Trust in those companionships you have forged as your sense dictates – we are assured by our knowledge of your manifold virtues that no unworthy sycophant or bitter partnership will come to make their mark upon your fate.

Bear such unshakeable faith in yourself as we do, o most beloved daughter, and we know that you shall have the successes you crave. Let the honor of our people and the prestige of your heaven-favored birth be your guides. When you have claimed such victories as will increase your acclaim not just over the greatest warriors of the Confederacy, but beyond the greatest of heroes across the span of this star, we shall be waiting to welcome you home.

Bound by a Profound and Sublime Affection,

Your Most Royal Father, Harasagi no Mifune, called Pearl Dragon King of the Southern Seas

Post scriptum:

We have heard your wise and charitable appeal on behalf of your new bondmates, and have prepared our reply within another scroll. Your fidelity and cunning swell our breast with pride.

#certain as sunrise #she comes by it honestly #narrative #i wanted to write this to clear the way for some things coming down the pipe

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erivan-khan · 4 years ago

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ANNEX

Fandom: Countryhumans Characters: Prussia, Russian Empire, Ottoman Empire, Armenia, Matvey (Original Character - created/owned by ch_robots), Erivan (Original Character - created/owned by me) Warnings: Graphic Violence. Re-enactment of Historical Events that include colonization, war, and genocide

This story contains the following parts:

ANNEX part 1 - the Russian Empire annexes Erivan ANNEX part 2 - Congress of Berlin 1878 ANNEX part 3 - Matvey and Erivan

ANNEX pt 1

On the day of the surrender, snow fell on the mountain. All movement in and out of the fortress ceased as heavy white flakes covered up the mounds of dead men and horses all lost in the repeated sieges of his town. A tall khan stood alone on the white stone wall. He looked like a black fir tree, cloaked head to foot in black sheep skin. A huge round hat protected his head and brow, and his long coat bunched up around his face, leaving only his eyes visible: golden and piercing like a lion’s. The fortress was his to protect. The Sublime State of Persia had created him half a century ago for this sole purpose.

For years, the mighty Russian Empire to the north had funneled soldiers to their deaths in the Caucasus Mountains. There were others like him, also created by Persia, but only Erivan had lasted this long. Now it was over.

He had been prepared to outlast the siege but his commanders had recalled him for their own protection when the Empire pressed past the surrendered bodies of the other khanates. The moment Erivan went to save them, Russia pounced upon him like a pack of wolves, having finally driven him into the open. The imperial eagle had swept down with wings unfettered by mountain winds. Surprisingly, its claws did not rend him to bits. Still, Erivan fully expected revenge for the Russian soldiers he’d repelled, left to starve and freeze to death in his mountains. After all, the Empire had bayoneted the other Persian survivors. Why would he be treated differently?

He mused on this as he waited by the white wall. The sun rose over the plateaus in a cloudy gray sky. Although the falling snow muffled their arrival, Erivan could hear the echo of the marching army approaching. They came forward in a snake-like column that wound up the zigzag corridors that led to the top to the plateau. The banner of the tsar waved violently in the mountain air. The column marched seemingly unmoved by the body parts by the wayside. They did not stop, but stomped past the stock-still man and his white walls, inside the ancient Armenian fortress where his soldiers stood beside their guns placed on the ground. The Russians gave no notice of them either and marched until they had all filed in. At the end walked two more bannermen, one holding a tri-colored flag and the other holding a gold flag with the tsar’s eagle in the center. Horses paraded slowly behind the bannermen. Their riders all wore eagle helms and black uniforms with golden trim and white gloves. Their heads simultaneously shifted to stare at Erivan as they approached. With sharp claps of hooves, the horses stopped, tossing their heads at the snow icing their manes.

“Salute!” The clarion sounded. In the horseman’s free hand, he held aloft Persia’s official seal, proof that the Sublime State had surrendered their lands and cities in the Caucasus to the Russian Empire. “From this moment henceforth, the Persian Empire has been defeated. All khanates are ordered to hereby surrender.”

The horseman held the seal above his head, so that all could gaze upon it and know its veracity. Erivan did not doubt it, for he felt the seal's hold over him thrumming within his chest. The horseman lowered the seal and reverently handed it to the centermost of all riders. Four of the five horsemen dismounted at the same time, and the one holding the seal now stayed put. Erivan saw now that this rider’s gauntlets possessed jeweled rings on all fingers. The rider slipped the seal under their uniform coat.

The announcing horseman raised his voice again. “Kneel! Show obeisance to your new master, the Emperor of all Russia!” In a well-practiced motion, the horsemen all turned to face the last rider who slowly dismounted, boots crunching on snow. Inside the wall, all of the Russian column pivoted to form a great row across from Erivan’s men, who uneasily shifted in place before gradually falling to their knees beside their wet rifles.

Erivan studied the footsteps of the conqueror approaching him. Their boots ground the snow flat with each heavy step, a familiar gait, considering he’d fought this person face-to-face four times already.

“It’s you…” A voice husked through the closed helmet. “You have eluded my grasp until now. The Persians have wasted your potential keeping you here, don’t you agree?”

Erivan’s eyes moved up from the boots to the pressed pants and thick sable coat. He let the Empire’s question linger in the air between them. He took a moment to translate his reply from his native tongue to the Empire’s language. “My strengths are here, Imperial Majesty. I can still defend the Caucasus,” he answered finally.

“No, no, no, you are too much of a gem for me to leave unmined,” the Empire chuckled, rubbing a large golden ring around the gauntlet’s thumb.

“You… will not kill me?” Erivan ventured to ask.

The Russian Empire threw back their head and laughed. “After throwing so many men at you, you would have me leave empty-handed? No. Now, look at me,” they snarled in a sudden raspier voice. Abruptly, the gauntlets forced off the black helmet.

Erivan dared to look upon the imperial visage. With his seal in the Empire’s possession, he could not defy a direct order. He glanced at the other riders and they had all looked to the side to avoid meeting the conqueror’s gaze. Erivan’s golden eyes, the pupils slitted like a cat’s, stared boldly at the Empire’s face.

“Ohhh such forceful eyes, just like my willful son’s,” the Empire chuckled slowly. “Yes… you will do.” Grasping one glove with the other, they tugged it off and pointed to the ground just in front of their feet. The bare hand was nothing like a human’s. The thick forearm was white, the wide palm blue, and curled clawed fingers red as blood.

Erivan took a step forward and knelt down to the snow with his sheep-skin coat as a barrier to the cold. He slowly removed his papaha from his head and released his hair in a deluge of curls down his cheeks and neck. The Russian Empire’s cold hand palmed his forehead. Those claws carded through his scalp.

In a flash, Erivan’s eyes widened to moons, pupils eclipsing all color. His lips slackened as the Empire’s authority flooded through his mind. The gold and red of Persia bled away at the approach of this massive hand penetrating him. Erivan’s eyes squeezed shut, and suddenly the Russian’s hand hit an invisible wall within him. The hand dragged sideways without pause, trying to find an opening, but there was none. The Empire pressed harder, boring into him mentally while their mortal bodies remained transfixed in silence.

“What is this?” the Russian’s voice thrummed with a power that vibrated Erivan’s bones. When he didn’t answer immediately, he felt the seal hum as the Russian spoke again. “Tell me.”

“Armenia,” he wheezed. Within him dwelled a glass orb, and within it slept a fragment of a country, a shell of an empire long destroyed, and now separated between the current world powers. Erivan guarded her, kept her protected within his own body as if she was his own child. “Please… have mercy,” he begged for her life.

If the autocrat wished, they could absorb every conquered mind into their own and keep them silent by authority alone. Such was the power of an imperial Countryhuman. Erivan’s fortress had been captured and Persia surrendered, panicked by the loss of his finest domain. The seals of each land gained bound their loyalty to their new liege-lord.

A second hand phased out of the darkness to join the other, and together they cupped the glass case with the gentleness of holding a bird’s egg. “You would trade your life... for this? If I gave this remnant your body, you really would die for it...willingly?” the Russian scoffed in disbelief.

“Yes,” Erivan answered without hesitation.

The hands clenched, taken aback by his quick response. “Speak the truth.” The Russian’s words vibrated violently.

“I would die for her.”

They were silent for a time, seemingly to think, leaving Erivan floating in limbo until finally those hands uncurled from around the fragment. “... I understand.” Erivan couldn’t see it, but he could hear the Empire’s smirk. “Now I know I have made the right decision.”

Erivan wondered what that meant. What plans did the empire have for their newly annexed khanates?

"This entire region will be reorganized according to my vision. I will see to Armenia's investiture. You will come with me."

The Empire's claws closed around the sphere. A great stone of sleepiness dropped on Erivan's chest, and he fought the urge to succumb.

"What… what are you going to do to her?" he demanded.

"She will become part of my empire. The other khanates disappointed me; she will replace them," the Empire replied, sounding almost indulgent.

Erivan knew this was an honor, all things considered. He just had to trust that Russia wasn't lying. Unlike the Empire, he could not use a geas to enforce their truthfulness. He was at a complete disadvantage.

"If I go with you, I must have a way to keep in contact with her. She must be safe," he said.

"I will arrange it thus. This is the last time you make demands of me, Erivan. Surrender."

Erivan's eyes rolled unwillingly into his head, and he seemed to fall down an endless mineshaft, groping helplessly for the glass ball held higher above him in tricolored hands. Outside their battle of wills, Russia stood fixed before him as light beamed out from between their fingers. Blue coated the unconscious man's former flag as the empire forced his face and colors to change, to annex him wholly. Russia's golden eyes became bloodshot with the effort of transfiguring this willful man, and they squinted as the light pouring out turned unbearably bright.

It seemed like an hour passed when the Empire finally yanked their hand away and barely kept from staggering backward. They straightened their spine, primly slicking back the sides of their head. In their right palm rested an opaque milky glass. Erivan, unsupported, toppled to the side, all traces of the Persian coat of arms removed from him and replaced with a Russian cross.

"Put him on my horse," the Empire ordered.

Two of the closest riders rushed to Erivan's side and picked him up roughly. One shoved his hat back on his head without brushing the snow off him, although they were delicate with the Empire's mount. They strapped the annexed khan to the saddle and fit his feet into the stirrups.

Secreting the sphere away with Erivan's seal, Russia walked slowly to their horse. "I will reside here in this fortress until I have made Persia sign the last treaties. This one is mine to command. Keep him alive and unharmed," the Empire ordered, pointing at Erivan. Sharp teeth bared at the soldiers just before they replaced the eagle helm upon their royal head, and their voice echoed ominously within the enclosed helmet.

"Yes, Your Majesty!" came the loud answer.

ANNEX pt 2

On the day of the first congress session, sweat fell from everyone's brows. It was June, hardly deep into summer, but as it was a meeting of the era's great powers in Europe, everyone was dressed to the nines, in layers of uniforms and gowns.

Prussia led the Congress of Berlin, naturally, with Prinz Matvey at his left and the German Empire at his right. Erivan and the other royal guards marched in perfect time together, but not as well-orchestrated as father and son. Erivan stared at their feathered backs with a faint sense of longing. His eyes tore away from them to flit side to side cautiously. If anyone attempted an assassination, this would be the perfect time with so many Countryhumans in one place. He had to be careful in this place; the castle vibrated with the power of so many supernatural beings concentrated in one spot.

On either side of him, the royal guards winced. Erivan's brows pinched together. He was the first to step through the entryway but he didn't dare pause for the others to get over their uneasiness and catch up. He quickened his pace until he was three paces behind the prince. Matvey and Prussia gave no notice to him, not that he thought they would, of course. A guard was meant to be seen, not heard, meant to do his duties and return immediately.

Decades had passed since the Russian Empire had annexed his land and charged him with orders to go to Europe and be their son's "manservant". In truth, Erivan was much more than that, but he prided himself on being the prince's majordomo first and foremost. Still, he took an interest to Russian affairs as well, especially with the Empire being a great power. Their news was everyone's news. Erivan would be a fool not to take note of it.

He knew now that when the Empire had been fighting his creator, Persia, they had also come to blows with an empire on Persia's other side: the Ottomans. Battles stopped and started. Truces made and broken. The two heads of the eagle had faced enemies all around. This last war resulted in the defeat of the Ottoman Empire. Pride surged through Erivan at his liege's victory. More land and access to the sea meant more wealth, more trade, and more resources. With the Ottomans out of the way, his ward, Russian Armenia, could cross through Georgia and use the Black Sea without tariffs. Most importantly, not being forced to cross the mountains would speed up the process of an Armenian reunion. Erivan looked forward to sitting with his kin, for a Western Armenian delegation had come to the congress with the Ottoman and Balkan representatives.

Per his liegelord's command, Erivan was a retainer in the Prussian household, but politically, he and his neighboring lands belonged to the Russian Empire. Imperial gains had swelled with the Ottomans' defeat. He could feel the other fragments of Armenia calling out to him in distant echoes now that Russia had occupied all of the Black Sea. Erivan clutched his chest through his uniform. It didn't matter that Russia had taken his protected remnant out of him. He heard the others even in his sleep. Now that there were more Armenians within temporary Russian borders, the cries had become louder.

“Tch.”

Prussia’s hiss brought Erivan out of his thoughts. He brought his hand up to his dagger instinctively, but he only saw several other countries at the far end of the hallway approaching the host and his son. Prussia crossed his arms in the middle of the hall. To his left, manservants opened up the double doors to the massive ballroom that would serve as their conference hall. Prussia’s lip curled at the sight of the Russian Empire at the head of the pack. The triumphant ruler was resplendent in a black and gold military uniform. A half-cape of white and gold hung off Russia’s left shoulder, reaching the back of their thigh. At their left side strode Great Britain and the newly-formed dual monarchy Austria-Hungary. On their right, Russia listened with great interest to a small country who was clearly having trouble keeping up with the empire’s massive strides.

Russia glanced up at them, and their haughty expression briefly changed to something unrecognizable. Erivan couldn’t study it long enough to find out. He bowed his head, hearing feathers rustle and whip the air in front of him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. A wave of overwhelming malice choked the hallway, and Erivan chanced an upward glance, peering past Matvey and Prussia’s curtain of wings. He glimpsed Russia’s boots turning sharply and disappearing in a flurry with all of the other countries around them.

“I already regret inviting this lot into my house,” Prussia snarled. “Come, Matvey, let’s get this over with.”

Erivan straightened as his master moved silently after his father. As they passed through the double doors together, he pivoted on his heel, keeping his back to the doors and his hand upon his dagger hilt. Inside, the powers of Europe would discuss what to do with the post-war state of the Balkans. His duty was to stand guard at Matvey’s side. A minor governorate like him couldn’t expect to be a part of the negotiating table. If this was in St. Petersburg, perhaps. Only if Russia was feeling indulgent.

So, he waited. He pulled out some straw tucked inside his pockets and idled his hands by weaving the cords together. Occasionally he glanced down the hallway, checking every footfall, every movement out of the corner of his eye. He heard the clocks chime every half-hour. The tall one in the hallway was hard-carved. At every hour, a miniature figurine of Prussia goose-stepped out of a tiny door on a rotating disc. A musical box version of Preußens Gloria chimed until the soldier vanished behind the closing door.

Five Prussian marches later, the door groaned open, and Erivan jerked around to look face-to-face with a skinny waif of a Countryhuman. She looked up at him startled, pulling her veil over the white crescent-shaped scar around her eye. Her eyes were wet, but she looked as if she was crying in frustration not sadness. Erivan held his closed fist over his heart as he respectfully bowed backward out of her way. She sniffled and grabbed the front of her skirts, running away from him.

“W-wait!” he called, reaching out.

Stunned, Erivan glanced inside the luxurious room she’d just left. Disturbingly, the Ottoman Empire stared at him through the slowly closing gap. The Turk bared his teeth in a smile just as the door clicked shut.

The empire’s smile dunked him in cold water and left him frozen in place. Erivan pressed his lips together, shaking off his aura of utter malignance, and ran down the hall after the woman. He knew he shouldn’t leave his post--Prussia could have him shot--but he was certain that she was Armenia. A fragment, anyway, just like the little lady he wrote letters to back home. Their flags were different, obviously, but there was no denying the fragment’s pull. They all wanted to unite and form an Armenia together.

“Wait! Armenia?” he called out again, following the lure that connected him, as their protector, to all the remnants. He spoke in Russian at first, then changed to their mutual tongue. “Armenia, please. You can trust me.”

Erivan stopped at the corner of the castle where a spiral staircase wound up a tower. He hesitated at the bottom step, staring up into the dimly lit hallway. He didn’t want to scare her or chase her if she didn’t want to be chased. Slowly, he walked up the tight spiral until he finally came across her hugging her knees, face buried. She pulled her veil down so that he could not see her face as she lifted her head off her knees.

“You don’t look like one of us, dressed like that.” Her bony fingers flapped up down at his German uniform. “But you speak it so well. What are you doing here?”

“At Imperial Russia’s command, I serve the tsarevich in Berlin.”

“Him?! Doesn’t he frighten you?”

“I have a healthy respect for his capabilities,” Erivan said, his eyes flitting away from her face briefly. He knelt down to one knee and held out his hand. “Why did you leave?”

Western Armenia bit her lower lip and jerked away from his gaze, staring at the porthole window where a tiny beam of light shone on her red skin. “They… they’re not letting Russia have us!” she choked out. She burst into sobs, gripping the sides of her tricolored veil and pulling it over her eyes. “I hate it. Russia demanded us in the treaty. We could have had ri-rights and freedoms, but no, that goddamned Great Britain!” She made the sign of the evil eye and seemed ready to spit, but thought better in Erivan’s presence, seeing his eyes widen at her vehemence. “May all his colonies mine dust! He spoke up against it because Imperial Russia was gaining too much territory!”

“But that is the empire’s prerogative! They won the war,” Erivan replied incredulously. Was Great Britain allied with the Ottomans, trying to leverage their loss of land into a break-even situation?

“And then that father of your princeling agreed with him, but I could tell it had nothing to do with us,” she snarled. “He didn’t even let us speak on our own behalf. He glared at the Russian Empire the entire time they were discussing land concessions and control over the Black Sea. All they cared about was keeping Russia back. Nobody cared about what the Ottomans had done, not even when Bulgaria was sitting right next to me bandaged up.” She cupped her hands in her face. “Nothing’s going to change. I’ll never be with the others…”

Erivan touched his knuckles to hers. “This is only the first day of negotiations. The Empire will not take such hobbling terms without argument. They could be doing so right now,” he consoled her.

“You don’t understand. I live in a nightmare everyday with him. We’re censored. We’re monitored. We disappear. I thought they would take things seriously after they saw the wounds… We mean nothing to those colonizers, uncle. ” Armenia clutched Erivan’s hand with both of hers and her orange eyes met his. “We will meet the same fate as Bulgaria, locked inside a burning schoolhouse and left to die.”

Erivan’s eyes focused rigidly on the mortar lines in the wall. Every excruciating detail stood out: the gray ridges of the stone, the fine cracks, the faint claw marks. His pupils shrank to pinpoints. He stood there, shoulders shaking, but he stayed quiet. The weight of his grief sewed his lips together. When he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to register the atrocities he’d just heard, he saw Russian Armenia in flames, churning in an abyss of red.

“I will plead on your behalf. I’m sorry I don’t have the power to annex you myself,” he murmured.

Western Armenia pressed her forehead against his hand. “Bless you. Bless you,” she whispered.

“Did I not say that language is not permitted to be spoken?” an icy voice of malice echoed up the staircase. A shadow stretched ominously up the steps. Looking down over his shoulder, Erivan saw a blood-red hand splay on the stone. Whipping around, he spread his arms the width of the staircase. The Ottoman Empire mounted the steps with deliberate slowness, his smile cutting a second crescent into his face.

“T'urk'ahayastan,” he said in a sing-song voice, and Armenia shuddered against Erivan’s back. “I asked you a question. Answer it.” Erivan could not feel the compulsion, but he knew the geas over the small territory was being called upon.

Armenia stiffened as if dead, and her lips barely moved as she choked out, “You-You said it.”

“Your fate is being decided upon in the congress and you’re here? Go back!” Erivan growled.

“A little khanate like you thinks to roar at me? I defeated the Sassanid Persia before, and I won’t hesitate to do it again,” Ottoman Empire hissed through thin lips. He ran a forked tongue across his teeth, sneering even as he craned his head up at Erivan. The tension between them vibrated the air; they stared at each other for several seconds and suddenly daggers echoed loudly in the stairwell as metal clashed in between the two.

Armenia screamed, “Go to hell!” Crouching, she tried to duck low and crawl between their legs to escape. She kicked off the stairs, and the Ottoman Empire’s eyes flashed like an eagle’s. Erivan saw the empire’s shadow leap the full length of the staircase. Without warning, a second figure ascended from the floor and loomed over her, curling his green fingers. The Ottoman Empire he fought seemed to shrink a little but not his focus. Fiercely, he stomped on the hem of Armenia’s dress while his eyes bored into Erivan’s.

Erivan pressed the attack, smashing Ottoman’s dagger to the left against the wall. His foe dragged the edge of his weapon down the stone and then stabbed forward. Erivan narrowly parried. The two traded blows with their daggers, the sound of steel rattling through the whole stairwell.

Armenia reached back and forcefully tore her gown away from under the Ottoman’s heel. The doppleganger with the green crescent and star grabbed her shoulders. “I won’t go quietly, you goat!” she yelled, swinging her head forward into his forehead. She reeled at the collision against his skull, but retained enough breadth of mind to kick him away.

“Get the tsarevich! Now!” Erivan yelled in Armenian.

The red Ottoman twisted to yank her back, but his fingers swished through air. He snarled, “What blasphemous power did you give to that witch?” Despite his anger at Armenia, the Ottoman Empire maintained a cool high-speed pace, blows flying against Erivan’s assault. The green Ottoman leapt after the scrambling Armenia. “Useless fool! Get back here!” the red spat at his double. The instant the shadow joined the original, Ottoman’s hand swung out to clutch Erivan by the throat.

Erivan’s eyes widened. Quickly, he stabbed sideways, trying to pierce the offending wrist, but the Ottoman, no longer split, knocked his weapon away. The dagger clanged loudly on the stone step. In that moment of sudden fury, the empire abandoned his knife too and took Erivan by the throat with both hands. Erivan clutched Ottoman’s forearms, but before he could kick the empire in the stomach, Ottoman bashed the back of his head against the stone. All the lights went out. Erivan’s head lolled with a groan. Ottoman hit him again for good measure, holding him tightly to the wall.

“You filthy infidel. You thought you could beat me, an empire? How dare you approach my property and speak illicitly. You incite a rebellion and think I wouldn’t notice?” the Ottoman spoke unctuously against Erivan’s ear, keeping him upright despite his body slumping and slipping against blood trickling down the wall. The Ottoman’s rough thumbs pressed hard against his carotid artery and sensuously dragged the nails up to Erivan’s chin. “One man will not be missed,” the brute whispered. “One less of your kind in the world. You’ll lead me right to Russia’s pet if I annex you here and now.”

The Ottoman’s palm pressed flat against Erivan’s brow. Pain lanced through his forehead, knocking him out of his semi-conscious state with a sharp gasp. No! Nooo! Erivan’s limbs convulsed under the mental assault. Instead of the calm, self-assured manner in which the Russian Empire had annexed him, the Ottoman’s attempts were pure brute force.

“You… will… never… find… them…,” Erivan croaked.

“I will, eventually. I root out every rat from the shingles and floorboards. Beg, little rat, beg for your life,” Ottoman purred.

Erivan’s eyes rolled back into his head. Red bled from the Ottoman’s hand down Erivan’s face and chin, spilling over the cross and stones of his flag like spilled paint. It gathered along his long eyelashes and streamed down his cheeks like tears. It burned like acid, eating away not only at his face but his identity. He steeled himself with makeshift mental walls, trying to hide his memories and his language before the Turk drilled too deeply. Within the black void, he threw up his arms and built a glass sphere brick by brick, outpacing the long-armed red hand extending to his inner self. Without the seal in Russia’s possession, Ottoman could not compel him to yield, but the pain was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Erivan grasped his heritage tightly and wildly pulled every memory deeper, behind doors and curtains and orbs. He pushed all knowledge of his Armenia into the recesses of his mind. With trembling fingers, he pressed his attachments to Prince Matvey hard against his chest, lest the Ottoman use the memory against him somehow.

Before I fail in my duty, know that… know that I have loved… and my love is my revenge...

Erivan pulled the emotions welling from within and forced them against the walls of his glass sphere. Golden light shot up and down from his fingertips, and blue spilled and arced in every direction. Upon his face, the two colors formed stitches over the intrusive red, covering up where the Ottoman had besmirched.

“No!” the empire snarled. “Give it to me!”

Enraged, Ottoman threw Erivan to the ground where he crumpled down the staircase, his eyes lifeless and dull like cloudy amber. Ottoman stalked after him and straddled him at the foot of the stairs, fingers digging into his coat. He hauled Erivan’s dead weight with greedy hands.

“If I can’t have you, no one c--” A violent choking sound cut off the threat.

A set of black claws clapped firmly onto the top of Ottoman’s head. Blearily, Erivan stared past his attacker to the pitch-black creature looming tall as a tree. Its eye was a white boiling sun burning in an abyss of shadow. Erivan’s head spun, and his gaze refused to focus. Wings, maybe a pair or perhaps six, stretched ominously in all directions. The golden speckles and tinge on them seemed like eyes, all of them pointed down at the sinner bent over him.

“Deliver me from evil, O Lord,” Erivan whispered. His hand tremblingly lifted toward the divine creature, and suddenly he felt hot liquid spurt onto his fingers.

The angel with its thousand-and-one eyes and multitude of wings dug into the devil’s skull and tore backward as one would open a tin can of sardines. The red Ottoman spilled forward while the green double was peeled from his back and thrown aside. Ferocity incarnate stepped over the doppelganger sacrificed to save the original. Ottoman scrambled over Erivan’s body, kicking wildly in an attempt to run. With a hand as quick as a snake bite, those claws wrapped around Ottoman’s ankle and slammed him to the beautiful floor.

"In my own house… you dare steal from me…" A deadly deep voice resonated from behind the creature's bared fangs.

Military boots squeaked on the bloodied tile beside Erivan. His half-lidded eyes glimpsed sheepskin and bootlaces dripping blood, but the boots did not hesitate long beside him. They marched in slow excruciating precision into another room, the Ottoman being dragged behind him, breaking fingernails in his attempt to claw the doorframe and floor to kick away.

“Oh… Osmanen…,” the voice uttered, cold as the Baltic.

“I’ll tell them all you attacked me in cold blood!” the Ottoman hissed. “Unhand me!”

A guttural laugh. "No."

Ottoman's bloodshot eyes widened; he seemed to realize he was waist-deep in a riptide and being swept out to sea. "You! You would sacrifice your father’s advantages at the negotiating table for one piece of filth?!" he protested.

"FILTH?" With an eagle's scream of fury, a table with an expensive Peking vase was upended. Shards of porcelain scattered across the floor, and Ottoman was dragged through it, further into the room, which had become more of a monster's lair in that instant than a parlor. "Filth like you dares to lecture me? You should be groveling at my feet!" He briefly let the Ottoman go just to leap the distance between them and land hard on his back. His boots and all his weight crashed on Ottoman's spine. The empire choked on blood which forced itself from his throat.

“You have no power inside this house,” whispered the angel of death. "When I have scraped the last piece of red off your face…."

The door slammed shut mid-scream, and there was a loud thump within, followed by the mad pounding of hands and muffled pleas.

Wincing, Erivan reached out around him, grabbing for the wall or anything to stabilize himself. His hand planted firmly in the twitching green-skinned shade on the ground. He recoiled in horror. Squeezing his eyes shut, trying to focus, Erivan managed to wipe his hand on the gurgling Ottoman double's clothes. It was probably wishing it were dead. He crawled slowly away from it, back toward that awful staircase, and there he recovered his dagger. The Ottoman's weapon was also there but he left it where it was.

Erivan climbed to his feet, stumbling, dizzy from the blows he'd taken. Blood dribbled over his lips. His attempts at feeling rage just made his head spin. He slumped backward, palms flat against the wall as he tried to keep himself from falling.

Ahead, the long fanciful hallway swarmed with noise and multi-colored figures running toward him and the bloodied green Ottoman on the floor. It was all a blur. Then, he heard Prussia's thunderous voice quaking him. "What the hell is this?"

Erivan wet his lips as he tried to find the words to speak. "Annexed… us…," he managed, gesturing to the twitching doppelganger on the floor.

"Move!" the Russian Empire commanded everyone out of their way, and stomped past Prussia to approach their beaten khanate. "He lost our war and tries this?" The empire tried to keep their voice from trembling in rage but failed.

Erivan felt that strong palm cup his head and warmth poured through him. He let out a long ragged breath as the pain ebbed away.

"Annexing? In my own fucking house?!" Prussia erupted. A faint smile tilted Erivan's lips at how alike father and son were. "Where is he?" Prussia made a ripping gesture with his clenched claws.

The yells and crashing answered the king. Erivan, Russia, and Prussia all moved simultaneously toward the door. Despite being sluggish, Erivan got to the door before the two emperors, who had paused to glare at each other, neither one willing to yield a step before the other.

"Your Highness! Your parents have arrived," Erivan croaked behind the door.

Silence suddenly prevailed. The door cracked open slowly, and a shadow blockaded the gap. Erivan's eyes softened. "Your hair's come undone, my lord, and your hands are a mess," he gently chastised the prince. He reached up to smooth Matvey's hair back into place, which felt very much like petting a griffin that could turn aside and rip him asunder at any second.

"You're still alive…," the prince rasped.

"Thanks to you."

Lines slowly left the prince's face. Carefully, Erivan adjusted his large eyepatch, wiping away sweat and hair from under the black fabric. The door opened the rest of the way with a bloody handprint on the knob. Matvey loomed out of the frame as Erivan backed away in a bow to make way for his master. Prussia's eyes widened briefly before narrowing in a smirk. Russia looked livid as a bear, both at their cub's safety as well as the once-defeated threat that now laid on the floor in a pool of blood and ruined furniture.

"Someone remove him," Russia ordered, pointing imperiously at the two Ottomans.

"This. Is. My. House," Prussia bit through each word, incensed that the Russian Empire was giving the orders that had been on his very tongue.

Matvey grimaced at the two of them and pivoted away from this corner of the castle. Erivan glanced back at the crowd gathering around the corridor and stairs. He saw Armenia standing there looking at him, and the two placed their hands over their hearts. If she hadn't fought off the Ottoman's double and gone for Matvey, Erivan was sure he'd be worse off right now, perhaps even a Turkish puppet. He bowed his head gratefully.

"Come, Erivan," Matvey ordered, waiting three paces ahead.

Erivan hurried after him quickly. As he reached Matvey's right side, one of the prince's wings spread behind him, mostly shielding him from view. Matvey said nothing, but then again, nothing needed to be said. He sighed at the mess on his prince's face, claws, and boots. All of that… for him. The prince had risked it all for him. Erivan had no idea what political consequences this event would hold, but he could only hope the truth would reign.

ANNEX pt 3.

The prince shepherded him through the castle, up winding steps and through halls and doors Erivan had never seen before. He had never been to this wing, although he knew they were in the eastern tower. Matvey had him carry an enamel washbowl and jug all the way to the top. The prince fished an old brass key from around his neck and turned it with a groaning clank from the mechanism. The door was heavy oak and bore no decorations.

To his surprise, the prince silently motioned him in first, indicating the table for the washbowl. The heavy door creaked shut with a force that blew dust along the ground.

"Where are we?" Erivan asked, gazing around the large circular room. Sheets covered the furniture and portrait frames stacked carefully on one half of the room, tucked away in storage. By the tall window, however, stood a bookshelf, desk, and chair. A couch was at the window's left side. None of these were as dusty as the floor.

"It's a second study. Father taught me how to fly from that window," Matvey remarked.

"That sounds… paternal," Erivan replied with uncertainty.

"He walked on me gazing at Russia's full-length portrait." The prince tilted his head at the largest of the covered frames.

"Sounds like your father…"

Matvey loomed over Erivan's shoulder and studied his blue skin where it purpled from the bruises and aftermath of it all. He reached over and grabbed Erivan's chin, forcing him to face the prince.

"Tell me how he did this to you," Matvey growled with barely restrained rage.

Erivan caught a glimpse of raw concern behind the cracked mask of composure. "Western Armenia told me what Ottoman did to Bulgaria in the war. He overheard us using our language in the stairwell. Then… he attacked me, because I put myself between them."

"What were you thinking?" Matvey snapped.

The cinders in Erivan's eyes hit flashpoint. Bright gold engulfed his slit pupils, and he wheeled on Matvey. "Armenia means everything to me," Erivan bit back. "Before the war, a fragment was all I had, sleeping inside me." He pounded his chest. He stood his ground even as Matvey's wings began to swell on either side of him. "We will never be whole until all of the ancestral lands are returned. You, of all people, should know the depths of what I'll do to protect someone I love!" Erivan blurted out. Against his better judgment, he pointed in the prince's face. The finger curled back as he realized what he'd said and saw the furious lines on Matvey's face where blood was already drying. God, the Ottoman's attack had really rid him of his usual restraint, hadn't it?

Matvey snatched his wrist vehemently. The force staggered Erivan against the bookshelf. With his teeth two inches from Erivan's face, the prince snarled, "So you went derelict in your duties to chase after a remnant out of our jurisdiction?"

"I did." Erivan met his eye without flinching. "Execute me here and now for disobedience, sir." He tilted his head, baring his throat to those fangs.

Matvey's pupil shrank at the purplish-black handprints around Erivan's throat. "Save your reckless shit!" The prince lunged at the junction of Erivan's jaw and ear. He sank his teeth into skin, and his retainer jolted, gasping sharply and exhaling his name. The smell of blood made his thoughts swim. Erivan trembled in Matvey's clutches. "There. I've punished you," the prince snapped.

The pressure left Erivan's neck, and he cracked open his eyes to peer up at his master. He licked his tongue and watched Matvey's lips wistfully as the prince pulled away from the bite. Matvey caught his glance, and the two hesitated only for a second before crashing their lips together. Immediately, their pace became frantic, warm and metallic tongues seeking each other as their mouths opened. They groaned and growled into their mouths. Erivan nearly dared to cup Matvey's cheeks in his hands but thought better of it, digging his fingers into the prince's uniform instead.

Like a wild man, Matvey flung aside everything upon his desk and pushed Erivan down onto it, nipping his lips, pressing him down under the force of his kisses. He did not waste time with words. He crowded over Erivan possessively, claiming him tooth and nail. Erivan reached up, but before he could hold onto anything, Matvey pinned his wrists hard to the wood, growling against his mouth.

"You're mine! Don't you ever stray from me again."

Erivan's stomach leapt up to his chest at the barely-contained fury, hurt, and fear in Matvey's voice. "You have me, every piece. I was always yours. I was annexed to be yours. I follow your commands, my lord but I was created to protect those lands. Please…" He tried not to cry out or whimper in longing, but he felt the wave coming to shore, how Matvey would soon break over him and drag every grain of him back out to sea. The weight of him pulled a soft groan from Erivan's lips. "Please… forgive me for this conflict in my heart, Your Highness."

This encounter with Ottoman would not be the only one. There may very well come a time when Erivan would fail in his duties again. But they thought nothing of that now, not when Matvey bit his neck again and made his hips grind against the prince's thigh in lust. He struggled against his pinned wrists to meet him, drinking him in despite his bitten lips. Finally the prince let him go. Erivan surged against his chest the same way he met him in combat. He kissed his chin, his jaw, his heated black and white skin and every constellation of gold. The bloodrush made his head throb, yet he couldn't let Matvey go. Each kiss dragged him underwater, numbing his pain, making it hard for him to come up for air. Each fevered kiss was a claim on him in revenge for what Ottoman had done.

Heaving a breathy snarl, Matvey pulled off him, both of them panting heavily and gazing heatedly at each other. Erivan jerked his chin in the direction of the washbowl Matvey had made him carry up there in the first place.

"May I wash the taint off you?" Erivan asked reverently.

Matvey took a deep breath and pushed strands of hair back into place. "Yes," he said, finally calm again, and he allowed Erivan off the desk. With a sigh, he threw himself into the chair and held out his hands, waiting.

Erivan took the jug out of the ceramic washbasin first, setting everything on the desk prim and proper as befitting a prince's valet. With an unfurling snap of the handtowel, he folded it to use it better and dipped it into the jug of water. He turned toward Matvey and wiped his face slowly, meeting his gaze the entire time and finally, that trademark smirk began to split the prince's lips.

"You know, I was busy trying to keep conscious when you appeared. I thought I was hallucinating." Erivan leaned into Matvey's right ear, whispering rough gravel on his blind side, "A god descended and smote the devil. Let me worship you." He stroked the towel across the dried blood splatter. Kneeling before that hungry eye, Erivan placed both of Matvey's hands into the basin. He poured water over them, watching it turn rusty as he scrubbed the skin and under the sharp claws. While he knelt, he saw the absolute state of Matvey's boots, bloodstained and now dusty.

"I don't know if these can be salvaged. I still have your measurements from last time so I will make you a new pair," he reassured.

"No. Remeasure me. I will not tolerate an improper fit."

"Of course, sir." Erivan switched the hand towel around so that the dry side faced forward, and he wiped off his master's hands. "Perfect."

"Dump that mess out of the window before it stinks."

Pulling up the pane required more strength than Erivan expected. He yanked it until it screeched and sputtered through layers of dust, sending motes everywhere. Quickly he tossed the contents outside and forced the window back down again.

"If I may ask, my lord, why did we come up here?"

"We needed to be in the room furthest from the epicenter. You saw how my parents were acting," Matvey tsked. "Father has the only other key to this room but he won't go in here. Too many memories covered up." He waved dismissively at the sheets. "Besides, if I so much as smell that Ottoman's breath, I am liable to actually kill him this time." An icy eye fixed on Erivan. "Especially after he put his hands on what's mine."

Erivan sucked in a deep breath through his nose, closing golden eyes to keep from showing Matvey how much restraint it took not to get into the chair with him. He bowed his head, golden curls tumbling past his cheeks.

Matvey inhaled sharply and stood up, the chair scraping backward on the floor. "You need to be seen by a physician now."

Erivan tapped at his face and patted his sides for any stab wounds. "Am I bleeding somewhere?"

"The back of your head. Come on."

Matvey grabbed the front of Erivan's uniform remorselessly. Without any effort, the prince hauled him at the knees and lower back, flying off with him through the palace corridors and halls. The main routes were, of course, wide enough to accommodate their winged masters. Erivan stared wide-eyed, clinging helplessly to his shirt collar.

"At least you have the good sense not to scream," Matvey smirked. "Father told me Russia wailed the first time they were on the wing together."

"It takes a lot more than this to get me to scream," Erivan told him.

"Oh, I know." Matvey's lip curled knowingly, letting out a mischievous chuckle as he whisked his retainer away to be properly cared for.

#meta #countryhumans #countryhumans oc #erivan #matvey #matveri #writings #countryhumans russian empire #countryhumans prussia #countryhumans armenia #countryhumans ottoman empire

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ottomanladies · 5 years ago

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What do we know about Fatma sultan daughter of Murad III magnfiicent wedding?

This is what the chronicler Selaniki had to say about it: (I translated it from French so forgive me for any mistakes I may have made)

“In the month of Rebiülevvel of the year 1002 [November 1593], His Excellency the vizier of illustrious rank, holder of the glory and custodian of dignity, Halil Paşa - may God, may he be glorified, make him eternal - a former servant educated among the venerable and very honorable eunuchs of His Highness the fortunate sovereign, the star of the armies like Alexander the Great - may God make his Caliphat eternal! - in the service of the customs of the state and of the dynasty, he received the order to be worthy of the happiness of the prosperous service of Her Highness the Sultana, who is one of the noble virtuous women of the dynasty - may her virtue endure! Following this, His Excellency the vizier of glory to the propitious religious practice, Mehmed Paşa - may God, may he be glorified, make him eternal! - was appointed to his service as a witness.

In the first ten days of the month mentioned above [November 25-December 4, 1593], the members of the Council were relieved of their service in the Council for a week, and took charge of the affairs necessary for the happy ceremony. The venerable eunuchs of the imperial palace harem set out with their luggage and belongings at the Old Palace. For a whole week, the illustrious princesses and the generous ulemas made their visits to the harem [of the Old Palace], where they were entertained and honored with dignity.

On Saturday, the Pillars of the State, the wealthy notables and the illustrious viziers made a sumptuous visit to the Old Palace. On that day, the community of Janissaries and their apprentices went to find, where they were, three hundred adorable wedding palms decorated with many embellishments and ornaments, and brought them to the Old Palace; it was an extraordinary sight. That same day, after the visits of the illustrious Viziers and the pillars of the State, his Highness the worthy and prosperous sovereign, endowed with fortune, went to the Old Palace with great pomp and majesty; he amused himself then returned to the Imperial Palace with dignity and glory.

The following Sunday, the wealthy dignitaries presented themselves at the palace of His Excellency Halil Paşa. They brought to the Old Palace an innumerable and incalculable succession of tiaras of the most beautiful craftsmanship, embellished and decorated with precious stones of great value, superb levh, bracelets and rings [offered] by the illustrious Vizier bearer of the mark of happiness [Halil Pasha], [during a procession] of a perfection full of glory and eminence, according to the customs and dynastic manners. [On this occasion], a large number of Aspres were distributed. The sugar works and other things needed for the wedding came next. When His Excellency the sağdıç Mehmed Paşa went to the Old Palace, he was honored with two sumptuous robes of honor, as is the custom of the state. The kethüda was also clothed with His Excellency Halil Paşa, as well as each of his agas. The other eunuchs, who were very honored, were offered pieces of cloth. In all, it is not possible to evaluate the quantity of fabrics and gowns of honor that were given and offered that day, because the gifts were innumerable.

On Monday, the twelfth day of the month [December 6, 1593], which corresponded to the venerable anniversary of the coming into the world of the body of glory of the prince of the universe, intercessor on the day of the Last Judgment and beloved of God - health be with him! - His Excellency the tutor of the Sovereign of the World, the most learned scholar among the most erudite, the fountain of knowledge, Mevlana Sadi Efendi - may God, may he be exalted, perpetuate his virtues! - presented himself at the Old Palace; concluding the contract marriage [in the presence of] His Excellency the chief of the black eunuchs Hacı Mustafa Aga, representative of the Sultana, and His Excellency Mehmed Paşa, representant of the son-in-law, with a dowry of 300,000 gold coins, as for the marriage of His Excellency Ibrahim Paşa.

That day, immediately [after], they began to carry the trousseau [of the bride] to the palace of Halil Paşa: the transport, in a row, lasted three days. In all, the trousseau had been divided into 100 portions [transported separately by animals]; the cariye numbered 100, as did the eunuchs; all these beauties constituted a line of 300 mules. A correct estimate has estimated this expense at 50.000.000 kuruş. Only God, may he be exalted, knows it.

The day of the trousseau’s transport, as well as the sum of 180,000 aspres traditionally paid as a reward for bacı and bola of the venerable harem and the young boys of the Porte, was not entirely handed over, as was the custom, the trousseau was not carried up [in the apartments of the future wife]. It is for this reason that countless fabrics and robes of honor were left outside

Visits of the glorious ulemas.On the Tuesday of the month mentioned above [December 7, 1593], Their Excellency the glorious Ulemas - may they benefit from the good deeds of God - may him be exalted! - on the day of the last judgment - were invited [to come to present their congratulations to the groom]. They were offered gifts [accustomed]. In particular, there was the visit of the sage among the sages, the former Mufti of humanity and retired Sheikh-ul-Islam, Mevlana Şeyhî Efendi, and Mevlana Abdülbaki Efendi and Mevlana Molla Ahmed Efendi, among the retired cadi, and other judges [of higher rank].

Visits of the community of dignitaries.On Thursday 15 Rebiülevvel [December 9, 1593], the exalted gathering of the notables of the State and the Empire, the glorious viziers and the great ulemas took place at the palace of His Excellency of great worth and illustrious glory, Halil Pasha - may God, may he be exalted, perpetuate his glory! - in view of the ceremony full of joy [planned] on this prosperous day. The representative of His Excellency Grand Vizier Ferhad Paşa- may God, may he be exalted, perpetuate his glory! -, [who was] His Excellency Ibrahim Paşa, His Excellency the Saigdıç Mehmed Paşa, His Excellency Hadım Hasan Paşaand the other Pillars of the State were advancing on the left; the most learned of the most learned scholars, Sadi Efendi - may God, exalted, perpetuate his virtues! -, the Chief Judge of Rumelia Mevlana Sunullah Efendi, the Chief Judge of Anatolia Ali Çelebi Efendi, the son of the deceased Ebussuud Mevlana Mustafa Çelebi Efendi, former Judge of Istanbul, as well as Hoca Efendizadeler Mevlana Mehmed Efendi and their other colleagues came [by the right flank]. These Defterdar gentlemen were given precedence: the defterdar of Anatolia Mahmud Efendi, the defterdar-ışkk-ı sânî Yahya Efendi, the defterdar of the Danube Mustafa Çelebi Efendi and the others settled in order. The Janissaries demonstrated an example of strength and combat: with 40 comrades among the matrakçıbaşı, they played with great skill in stick battles with hostility and agility. The archers made demonstrations of strength and dexterity, they fought in combat and demonstrated their great stamina and abilities. There was still a section with excellent and eminent musicians and singers accomplished in the soft voice. From beginning to end, they played the Maqam al-iraqi and Hejaz. They put the members of the assembly in a pleasant atmosphere with their songs and their music and played in a very harmonious way. Markings of goodness were witnessed by all sorts of infinite blessings. Then sorbets were drank. Thanks and gratifications were expressed, then the most illustrious words of God [= Quran] were recited and [the reception] concluded with conversations, prayers and recitations to God. Then, under the control of the Pillars of the State, an orderly and infinite procession of fruits, cranes, hawks, giraffes, mules, camels, horses, lions and elephants in sugar stretched, transported in portions and sections on trays and dishes, in accordance with the ancient laws relating to the practices of the ceremonies of the glorious princesses. Then the Pillars of the State stood up with splendor and grandeur, mounted their horses and went to the Old Palace. The clamor of the drums and other instruments of the mehter musicians, in keeping with the dynastic splendor, announced to the world [the arrival of the procession]. His Highness the sovereign refuge of the world had had a noble and sublime balcony protected by a glass window in a corner tower of one of the towers of the Imperial Palace, near the fountain of the late Kasım Paşa. When the commander of the always-victorious armies raised the banner of the universal kingdom of Islam, it was here that he watched the departure [of the armies] of the Threshold of Bliss. In the same way, on the prosperous day of the [wedding] ceremony, he looked at the Pillars of the State [from this place] and admired the show. When the Pillars of the State reached the Old Palace with glory and honor, they did not stop, but brought [immediately, in procession] Her Highness the most illustrious Sultana, [hidden from view] behind a veil of finely crafted red satin, seated on a horse of great value all harnessed with precious stones, as is the custom and practice when sending the princesses. The eunuchs and senior agas of the palace walked in the manner of the imperial squires and carried before them wedding palms all embellished with jewels and precious stones, including two sublime wedding palms, similar to minarets of 15 cubits [tall] each, which had absorbed the art and talent of the world’s artists. We stayed admiring in front of the spectacle of the population of the world. While on their way to the residence of glory and happiness [of the pasha], in a journey marked by tradition and full of glory and coquetry, in [an arrangement] of sublime and magnificent perfection, they distributed and offered a very large quantity of new aspers. Some were deprived of it... so those who did not receive any sighed with longing and went away.“

#anon #ask post #ask: ottoman history #fatma sultan daughter of murad iii

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standfordslostlawstudent · 6 years ago

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you know, my thoughts are running loose it's just a thing you make me do and i could fight, but what's the use? i know i'd go back to you

It had been a decade, but she was still sunlight.

Ethereal, her fair skin and blue eyes were mesmerizing, and reminiscent of another world. He thought it had perhaps been his teenage lovesick mind, but the onslaught of feelings that returned when he saw her again proved otherwise.

Their brief whirlwind of a high school sweetheart love was always lingering at the back of his mind. Often, he wondered if she thought of him, too, but he never let himself dwell on that.

Because she probably didn’t. How could a thing of such beauty, such elegance, even remember someone like him?

He knew she had entered the room before he even laid eyes on her. He stood in the high school gym, amongst the classmates he’d graduated with, marveling at how everything and nothing had changed, when suddenly he knew. The air shifted, and the dimly-lit room seemed brighter. He turned, and there she was. She seemed even more out of place than usual, standing under the fifteen-year-reunion banner, her blonde waves even longer and more beautiful than before. She was alone, and she scanned the room slowly, searching for a familiar face. No one seemed to notice her, and he was baffled. She had always been the outsider in high school, and he had never understood it. She was stardust and enchantment, and yet somehow invisible to the common eye.

He realized he was staring and forced himself to look away. The music had faded in his ears at the sight of her, and it slowly returned as he came back to reality. He tried to focus on the song, but it was, of course, from their senior year and it did nothing to keep him grounded.

“Hi.”

The voice that narrated his dreams drowned out the music, and he suddenly couldn’t hear anything else. He looked at her, nearly squinting at her sublimity. She was close enough to touch, and he felt that a piece of himself he hadn’t known he’d been missing had returned. “Uh, hi.”

She smiled, and he felt weak. “I hoped I’d see you here.”

He stared at her and was unable to look away. He wondered if he was relapsing. Maybe he’d conjured up the reunion, the music, her. His abused mind had played stranger tricks on him; however, they were rarely this cruel. A mirage of her had so far evaded him, and he knew that if she wasn’t actually standing before him, this would be his downfall. “You did?” He felt that familiar pull she had on him. The one that lifted the corner of his mouth and brought his spirits to life from the dark corners they resided in.

Something flickered deep in her eyes, and the effect that something so subtle had on him set off alarm bells in the back of his mind. If the slightest touch of disappointment on her face made him want to spend a lifetime learning how to never cause it again, what could a real emotion do? “Of course, Frank. It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah, it has.” His throat tightened. It was a defense mechanism against himself. His own body knew exactly what was about to come spilling out of his mouth. How he had missed her every day since he’d seen her last. How her gaze haunted his dreams. How sometimes thoughts of her drove him to the brink. How sometimes thoughts of her were the only thing that brought him back.

But he knew he couldn’t say any of it. Somehow the insecurity, the impropriety of all the feelings he’d harbored for fifteen years, the darkness of his mistakes and bad decisions was closing in and taking over. Despite all the sunlight and wholeness her presence brought, he didn’t think it was strong enough to drown out his shadows.

“I’ve missed you.” She reached out and squeezed his arm, and his heart seemed to stop in his chest. Her eyes saw straight through him, and he wondered if that was it – if with one glance she could know everything he’d been through in fifteen years. “We should catch up.”

He swallowed, and his airway loosened enough to allow his words to betray him. “I’d hate to bring you down, Karen. I’m sure there are other people you’d rather talk to.”

The disappointment in her eyes was chased away almost immediately by a stronger emotion, the one that had made him love her. The ferocity, the determination, the intelligence that she utilized constantly, but always quietly, blazed to the surface and flashed across her face for the breath of a moment, and then was gone. She shook her head and offered him a small smile. “No, I came to see you.”

He felt dazed, but even after all this time, he knew that she didn’t – wouldn’t – lie. Not to him.

“We should go for coffee.” She brushed her hair back and glanced up with a question in her eyes. As though she wondered if he would turn her down. As if he could.

He felt the darkness begin to fade. As it always had been, as soon as she neared him, her brightness shined into the darkest corners of his mind, and instead of exposing all the bad, she just scared it away. “Coffee?”

“Yeah,” she laughed a soft, unsure laugh. “Coffee.”

It wasn’t enough. A few words over a cup of diner coffee wouldn’t cover the first six months after they’d parted ways. It would barely break the surface on the ocean of things that he wanted to tell her. It was so insignificant that it hardly seemed worth the effort.

“Sure. Let’s get some coffee.”

#howdy folks #still kastle trash #i'm sorry #i'm tagging this because i hate myself #like i want you to read it but also don't?#kastle #karen page #the punisher #frank castle #kastle fanfic #kastle ficlet #kastle au #kastle au where they're the same age and also high school sweethearts because why the eff not

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syrahnbloodfeather · 6 years ago

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Thicker Than Water

Telling Jaeras that she would be living with Whitstan from now on was the hardest thing Tyrasam has ever done. At first the little girl thought she was being punished for sneaking out in the middle of the night to investigate the carnage created by the High Justicar; then she thought Tyrasam had possibly grown tired of her. It took everything Tyrasam had to stop herself from breaking down and crying, or worse, going back on her word and keeping her precious little gift to herself. To help keep her mind off the inevitable departure, she decided to make the last day they would spend together also their greatest, and so they spent the entire day walking up and down the countless shops in the Market Square. By the end of their binge they spent nearly a hundred thousand gold coins, draining Tyrasam’s savings; but for Jaeras, it was all worth it.

When the sun began to inch closer and closer to the deep ocean horizon, and the laughter and smiles stopped, their time was up. Jaeras got anything her heart desired, and outfitted her with a brand new dress and hat so extravagant and sublime she looked wealthier than Syrahn herself. As a token of goodwill, the Glade Queen even offered Jaeras her personal traveling carriage for safekeeping, allowing the girl to ride out of the gates of the Amber Glade with all of her new belongings in the highest caste of style. They only waited for Whitstan beside the main gates for an hour, but for Tyrasam, it only lasted a single moment.

Like a ghost coming to take her girl away, Whitstan appeared at the edge of the woods along the partially hidden road. With so many unaware civilians going about their business nearby, the guards refused to let the Death Knight come any closer. Tyrasam’s heart sank into her stomach once she noticed him standing there, ready to accept his daughter; a part of her wanted to scoop Jaeras up into her arms and flee back to the house where no one could take her, but she was a woman of her word. When Zerethel and Whitstan practically begged her to watch his newborn infant so they could go save the world, she wanted nothing to do with the child; yet she made a promise to them both that she would take care of her until they returned from Northrend.

Thinking about all was and all that will never be forced the Paladin to grimace. She would never teach Jaeras how to ride a horse. She wouldn't be there when Jaeras started dating, spending long hours giggling about boys she's smitten with well into the night. Gods willing she would still be around for the marriage; what she wouldn't give to hold Jaeras’ newborn child in the unforeseeable future.

“This is it.” Tyrasam slowly sighed, helping her up into the front seat; she gave her little princess a comforting smile, but the tears building up in her eyes didn’t go unnoticed. “B-be on your best behavior… o-okay…?” Jaeras turned to embrace Tyrasam as tightly as she could, nearly causing her feathered hat to fall off her head. “Learn to be a proper lady, okay? Kaevia and your father will take good care of you… just…” Tyrasam paused to gather her composure with a heavy breath and heavier heart. “Don't forget…-”

“You will always be my mom.” Jaeras assured her, before gently kissing her on the cheek. It was just enough to push Tyrasam over the edge, causing her to shudder and tremble while she broke down in tears. Jaeras hugged her back and nuzzled her face into her collar, and they held each other until Tyrasam was able to calm down. “I'll visit when I can.” She smiled, finally freeing herself from her mother's grip.

Tyrasam opened her mouth to speak, but the words remained still in the back of her throat. Jaeras managed to climb up onto the carriage all by herself despite her short stature, grabbed hold of the reins, and glanced down to look upon her mother’s face one last time before heading off. The two pearly white hawkstriders were picking at the earth in search of insects before the gentle tug of their reins caused them to perk up and stand at attention. The little girl flicked the leathers once to stir the beasts into pulling her ride out of the Amber Glade, but she kept looking back at her mother with nervous fear twinkling in her eyes; the last time she was sent away from Tyrasam, she thought she would never see her or her poppa ever again. Yet the call to adventure filled Jaeras with giddy excitement, compelling her to wave at Tyrasam once more before sitting back in her seat. She struggled to keep the hawkstriders from veering off the path, but after much effort she was able to reach the edge of the forest where Whitstan patiently waited.

Jaeras could feel the temperature drop drastically around her, but she pretended not to notice; it was suddenly so cold she could see her own breath, but her fancy dress and hat proved invaluable in trapping any heat against her body, save for her reddened face and ankles. She pulled the carriage over to the side of the road where he stood, and with a straightened back and trembling hands, she looked down upon her father with feigned disinterest. “H-hullo…” she mumbled, almost choking on her nervous gulps.

A dry tone echoed out as his voice attempted to mask the hint of annoyance, “Hello, little miss.” He shot a glance to the guards in the distance, but decided to stay his tongue on the ‘welcoming party’; he saved all of their lives, they knew he protected them, yet their bigotry against undeath clouded their common sense. With a shake of his head Whitstan pushed his violent tendencies out of his mind, knowing no good would come from it. His faint scowl flashed into a smile once he returned his attention to his daughter. “Are you ready to come home now?”

“Yes…” Jaeras politely answered, tapping the empty seat beside her; Whitstan slowly climbed onto the carriage with an urgent care not to spook the hawkstriders. He watched her flick the reins with her bandaged fingers, causing the beasts to continue the journey all the way to the Sun’rael Estate.

Sitting beside his daughter was a surreal experience he was not prepared for. The last time he even held her in his arms she was so small, so defiant, so angry… so loud. She was only a few hours old when he had to give her away so he could fight in Northrend; if he had the foresight he would have never left for that frozen hellscape, and he certainly would have never abandoned her to Tyrasam, who at the time, he barely knew. He was still in Icecrown with the cold grip of undeath clutching his soul when she likely took her first steps. He was amassing displaced worgen to fight for his cause when she likely spoke her first words. He was sowing the seeds of chaos to finish what the Lich King started when she likely read her first sentence. So many memories and experiences he missed during his quest to unite Azeroth under his banner. Yet now she was almost a woman, sitting tall just a few inches away. The last moments of his battle with Kaevia’s father convinced Whitstan of Jaeras’ love, and if nothing else, he would be eternally grateful for her bravery.

Whitstan waited quite some time for her to speak; surely she had a storm of questions circling under that outlandishly silly hat of hers. After what felt like an hour, his patience had reached its end. “Jaeras,” He started, watching her reaction closely; she seemingly refused to make eye contact, and the startled little girl almost jumped an inch off her seat the instant he spoke her name. “We still have a long ways to go before we’re home. Is there… anything you’d like to ask me?”

“How did father die?” Jaeras quickly asked, almost as if she was holding her breath with that question; whatever smile Whitstan had on the corners of his lips had immediately vanished from being blindsided. Apparently too much time had passed without his answer, compelling Jaeras to glance over at his face, if only for a moment. “... did… did you kill him…?”

His hand rubbed at the stubble along his jaw if only to conceal his expression a moment. “I made a decision to save others over him… he was once my friend after all. At least, I trusted him. I trusted him enough to let his…” he searched for the right words and quickly gave up, “...lover take care of my newborn daughter before we went off to study the leylines of Northrend after the Second War. Well, he was studying. I was there as a newly appointed spell-breaker to protect the noble scholar.” Whitstan rubbed at the back of his head, “I guess that wasn’t really your question… yes. If it weren’t for me the man you once knew as a father might still be alive. Might.”

“I studied fel corruption after Mr. Alucieus died.” Her voice seemed unreasonably fragile, like she was on the verge of tears. “I think father suffered from the same thing… but he wasn’t as far gone as him. I just…” she slowly exhaled after blinking a few times. “I hope he’s resting.”

“They were friends, too. But your fath- Zerethel turned on him. Both of them were men with countless burdens on their shoulders. Both very powerful in their own right. They were both leaders in a war willing to do what others wouldn’t and in the end, they succumbed to illness in their mind. Maybe there was some… correlation to that.” For a moment he grew self-conscious about his articulation, for a commoner he was well-spoken and wondered if he was speaking a broader vernacular than she was used to at her age. Then he remembered she literally just said she studied fel corruption implying superior intellect for her age. He was proud for a fraction of a second, “Do you enjoy studying? Or was it morbid curiosity?”

“A bit of both I guess…” She straightened up again in her seat before saying, “Lord Tidebloom told me studying is very important, and Mother agrees. So I read and read and read until my eyes hurt. I’ve learned a lot about pyre… p-pyrome… -fire magic.” Her face suddenly reddened from struggling to pronounce such a weird word. “I want to learn about all sorts of things.”

“Pyromancy… did the mages in the Glade test you to see what your true magical affinity is? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was flame manipulation. I was p-” he choked on his words a moment, “Proud of you to see you stay courageous in the face of overwhelming adversity like that. I was impressed to see the extent of your magical power. Of course, I was a little preoccupied at the time. As for self-study, I did a lot of that too. A lot of reading, a lot of practice learning how magic, mana and mana-flow within the body works.”

Jaeras seemed to slouch a little in her seat, clearly more relaxed and comfortable talking about her heroic deeds. “Lord Tidebloom was teaching me better spells before he left for Argus. I think some of the other lords were interested in teaching me other schools, but I’m not interested… I saved Mother in Silvermoon City a long time ago with fire, and I saved you too!” She shot him another quick glance. “... I thought he was going to kill you…”

“He was… he would have hurt a lot more people if you didn’t act. Kind of like… how I did with Zerethel.” he threw it out there just to feel for a reaction. He knew it could backfire heavily yet this would be a good starting point to gauge what subjects felt taboo for now with their relationship. Perhaps one day, they would be comfortable discussing things in more depth but at the same time he didn’t want to start the new relationship with his daughter with deceit.

Jaeras slowly inhaled before saying, “When I was still on Zaldrannar and Fath- uhm… Lord Kash’k-kaar was sick, I was so afraid. I snuck into my quiet place and cried for hours until Mr. Rethandus found me.” She narrowed her eyes but kept her gaze fixed on the path ahead. “I think he knew what was going to happen. He took me away so I wouldn’t get involved… so I wouldn’t see.” After a moment of silence she turned to into her true father’s eyes. “I wish he hadn’t.”

The Death Knight wondered for a moment if Rethandus had brought his daughter away to safety before or after their deathmatch. Either way, it was probably in service to her stepfather. His eyes reciprocated her gaze, “I don’t. Whatever Rethandus is to me, we’ve fought on both sides of the same coin. One moment an enemy, another a friend. I’ve done horrible things to him and the people he cares about. I don’t blame him one bit for wanting to get revenge. But, at the end of the day I am thankful that he took you away from all that. I wouldn’t want you to be involved or see what happened either. It’s a burden for the previous generation to bear, not you. We dug our graves a long time ago, Zerethel, Rethandus and I. Letting you see the horrors that followed the results of our actions might have scarred you for the worst.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Jaeras kept glancing around their surroundings, clearly staying vigilant for something, or someone, to come jump out at them; Tyrasam must have told her stories about the wild lynxes and the lowlife bandits that often plagued these woods. “I heard Mr. Rethandus fought you in the Western Plaguelands… that you were a very bad person up until recently. Before Z...Lord Zerethel died,” She was still clearly struggling to not call him Poppa like she did many times before, especially in Whitstan’s presence. “He would tell me scary stories at night… a-about you.” An uncomfortable silence befell the girl for some time, but before Whitstan could inquire further, she said, “Are any of the stories true...?”

“Probably…” he answered abruptly. “I mean, we’d have to go down the list for me to be certain. None of us involved in this entangled web of our past were blameless or without blemish.” Whitstan rubbed at the back of his head lightly, contemplating how to articulate everything but grew short of an answer every time. “I don’t claim to be a good man, because I’m not. But I try to be better, every day if I can. Sometimes I trip and fall back a few steps. Only thing you can do is get back on your feet and move forward again no matter how much ground you’ve lost.”

“What about my real mother?” Jaeras couldn’t keep the question to herself any longer. “I would like to know more about her. Um… please.”

Whitstan shook his head a moment, contemplating how to answer the girl. “She was bright. Full of energy and kindness. She seemed to draw positivity from everything around her and even then, it wasn’t enough. We met each other during a vulnerable time in our lives and we fulfilled a role for each other that we needed. I don’t know what else to say aside from that. I’d like to think she loved you very much.”

“Was she a queen like the Bloodfeathers?!” Jaeras asked excitedly the moment the thought popped into her head. The thought of being a long-lost princess caused her heart to flutter with glee, and she could barely contain her giggling with the bright grin spread from ear to ear.

“No, little one. She was a commoner, like me. Not so exciting, is it?”

“Oh.” Just like that the tickling in her stomach was gone. Her voice was heavy with disappointment, but she forced a weak smile all the same. “How did you two meet?”

“Well…”

Lordaeron was once a bustling kingdom filled with life and free trade. The engorged markets within the safety of the tall stone walls were loud and rowdy everyday before the sunrise and long after the sunset. Humans from all walks of life shouted at the crowd that jingled with the enticing promise of gold and silver. “Fresh bread! Fresh bread here!” and “I've got wine so sweet you'll sell your mother for a cask!” and “Hot pies! Strawberry, pecan, chicken and pork pies! The freshest you'll ever eat!” rang above the chorus of voices, but one voice stood out to Whitstan from the rest.

“Juiciest fish in all of the Eastern Kingdoms! Flayed, filleted and fried!” She spoke the common tongue but her Thalassian accent was unmistakable. Whitstan decided to risk eye contact with the merchant to get a better look; she had dried fish blood up to her forearms and spread all over her dusty apron. Her golden crown of hair was cut short just before her shoulders, and even with the dirt stuck to her face from a long day of hard labor, her smile beamed the moment he glanced over in her direction. “Ah! Hello there, fellow High Elf!” She proclaimed, leaning over the grimey table to wave him closer. Three humans were working around her in the fish shop, but the youngest looked up from his tasks and scowled at him with suspicious contempt. “You look famished stranger! We've got fresh catfish, salmon, carp and trout if you'd like to try some!”

A quick pause came in his steps as he looked around to verify she was addressing him. A fast thump quickened his heart when his gaze settled back on the girl. Centuries of rich history and ample heritage was nothing when compared to this simplest of moments: a simple merchant meeting the eyes of a simple farmer. A hesitant wave came from his as he tried his best to offer a smile in return. “H-hey.” barely a response as he approached the stall. “What… would you recommend?” an earnest question. He knew nothing of the intricacies of seafood.

“I recommend the catfish. I caught this beast just an hour ago!” She reached down underneath the table and wrestled up a massive fish nearly half her size; it was weak yet very much alive, occasionally kicking and thrashing against her iron grip.

“Syl that's the best fish you caught!” The young human protested. “Surely one of the little ones will d-!”

“The best fish for our best customer!” She interrupted, withdrawing a curved gutting blade from her hip. In the blink of an eye she brought the tip of the blade down into the skull of the fish, causing its tail to twitch one last time. Fresh blood spilled out into the table while she went to work, humming a catchy tune while the others fired up the fryer. “Are you from Quel’Thalas, Mr…?”

The teen was silent for a moment as a bead of sweat raced down his brow. “Uh…” the young man was able to barely sound out. The nervous response barely escaped his lips after having seen her efficiency with murdering and gutting a gigantic fish. “Um. N-no. I mean, yes. I am. I’m from Quel’Thalas but not -from- there. I mean, my parents raised me here.” a stumbling of the words came rolling out of his mouth. “Whitstan.” he offered with a gulp. “Whitstan Wilhelm. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Syllesia Autumnsong.” She beamed at him, seemingly not at all paying attention to the fish she was gutting. “I was born in Quel’Thalas but my family moved away for um… personal reasons.” Syllesia gave him a light shrug with one shoulder as she pulled out the entrails of the catfish. “I’ve been trying to save up enough gold to live in the capital. It’s my dream!”

The youngest human stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Syl you shouldn’t be telling him all of this personal stuff. You don’t know him. We don’t know him.” The elven woman finally pried her gaze away from Whitstan long enough to glare angrily at the human.

“Please ignore my friend Petar here. He’s just a worrywort.” Syllesia plucked a shaved wooden stick and skewered a large flank of the bloody fish meat before lowering it into the boiling oil they were heating. “And… you’ll have to forgive me as well. I’m a bit of a chatterbox as you can tell.”

A shake of the head came in response, “No… worries. I’m sure your friends are protective of you for a reason… or another. I don’t mind people who speak their mind. It’s a nice quality to have… Syl.” Syllesia’s smile only grew while she coyly looked him over, but Petar’s smoldering scowl only worsened; he seemed to tremble with anger in his fraying leathers and cheap iron cufflinks.

A few moments of calm analysis was all he needed to regain his composure as his eyes shifted from the human merchants to the woman speaking at him. “Why are they so concerned with friendly banter, I wonder?”

The hustle and bustle of the city didn’t relent during their conversation; it seemed the market grew louder and louder around them but the focus he held on the tradeswoman appeared resolute and rendered the cacophony of noise to a quiet murmur about them.

“We were robbed a week ago.” She answered, slowly turning the frying fish flank in the boiling oil. “Bandits come down from the mountain to prey on defenseless travelers. If I wasn't concealing myself with thick baggy britches and a heavy good they would have likely taken off with me as well. We almost lost Pops to them, but they ran off the moment the Lordaeron Peacekeepers managed to show up and do their jobs.”

“I could have stopped them…” Petar mumbled under his breath, but it was still loud enough for Whitstan to hear. An older human with ashen grey whiskers wheeled himself closer to the front of the shop, cradling his bloodied and bandaged arm; the wind picked up enough to move his vest, revealing more of the same bandages wrapped around his chest.

“Chopping wood and pulling wagons are a bit different than killing thugs, boy.” He coughed with a hoarse voice. “They would have opened you like a sack of thawed fish if you stood up to them. You’re no fighter, no more than I am.”

“Whitstan, this is Bren. Bren, Whitstan.” Syllesia said, stepping aside to let them get a better look at each other. “I call him Pops, but..-”

“Do you know how to use that blade, Whitstan?” He coughed, pointing weakly at the sword on Whitstan’s hip. “Or is that nothing more than an ornament to ward off would-be criminals?”

The young man recognized the scent of blood as he eyed the older one in the wheelchair. A familiar smell would fill the room whenever his sister coughed up enough of it. His hand shifted to the hilt of the blade as he felt the leather handle. “I can handle it well enough…” he responded, unsure of the man’s motives yet trying to maintain a confident facade.

“Bandits find us easy pickings when we fish down by the lake surrounding Caer Darrow.” He winced at his wounds, but there was little he could do about it. “The last time they came down the mountainside they almost made off with Syllesia. I’m too old and wounded to defend her again, and my boys are too inexperienced. I would like to hire your blade, if you’re willing. Fair wages for fair work.”

A nod came as a response, “Fair wages for fair work…” he echoed before looking back to Syllesia, “Glad they couldn’t make off with you.”

Petar flared up again. “We can't afford it.” Syllesia said nothing while she beamed, seemingly ignoring him. “We can barely afford the upkeep on this fryer! It would be unfair to hire him under these condit-”

“Take it out of my pay.” She suggested, feeling their gazes on the back of her head. Syllesia pulled the fish out of the vegetable oil, sprinkled a handful of salt and a variety of other spices, and offered it to him. “Plus all the fish you can eat! Are you in?”

Something was off in this situation aside from the obvious. The hairs on his arms stood up while he considered the offer. Whitstan gave a silent nod in agreeance. “Fair wages for fair work.” the boy parroted.

“Then what happened?” Jaeras interrupted, growing impatient. Whitstan glanced down at her and smiled, but before he could continue he noticed the familiar trees they were now surrounded by. He looked to his left to see them moving down a quiet river; to his right was the thickest part of the Eversong Woods.

“I’ll finish the story soon.” The Death Knight reached over and placed a gentle hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “But it will have to wait for now.”

Jaeras didn’t look pleased. “But… why?”

“Because we’re finally home.”

Collaborators: @syrahnbloodfeather @whitstanwilhelm

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