#carved from light and shadow alike

[shisasan]

MARINA EEЯRIE | Sacred dress

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 1

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

notes; Yo everyone, I'm back with another fanfiction featuring our lovely Shadow Singer. Hope you all like it <3 Just a small reminder: English isn’t my first language, so I’ve tried my best. Enjoy the first chapter!

Part 2

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The dusk sky draped the House of Wind in soft shades of lavender and rose, its tall windows open to the gentle, jasmine-scented breeze of Velaris below. Rhysand’s office, spacious but not ostentatious, offered a panoramic view of the starlit city, where lanterns were beginning to glow and laughter drifted upward like a distant, cheerful hum. The high shelves, carved of dark wood, were lined with neat rows of books and rolled charts, their parchment edges softened by centuries of use. A low-burning lamp cast warm light over a desk scattered with papers, quills, and a half-filled inkpot.

Madja stood near the window with Rhys, both of them watching as wings and shadows moved quietly through the city’s streets below. The old healer’s posture was poised despite her age; her long, silver-streaked hair was bound in a simple braid. Time had etched fine lines around her eyes and mouth—soft marks of the centuries she’d spent mending flesh and bone, soothing pain, and whispering encouragement into the darkest hours of countless lives.

Rhysand kept his gaze on the vista beyond the glass, arms folded casually, the glow of faelight catching in his violet eyes. He knew Madja had come here for something particular. She wasn’t one to linger unnecessarily, nor did she shy from speaking her mind. The hush in the room was comfortable, respectful of the weight of the moment.

Madja cleared her throat softly, her voice as calm and steady as it had been through all the emergencies and late-night visits to the healing rooms. “Rhysand,” she began, her tone gentle yet determined, “I need to speak with you about a matter of some importance to me.”

Rhys turned his head slightly, giving her his full attention. “Of course,” he said, voice low and reassuring. “What’s on your mind?”

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, as though considering each word carefully. “I’ve served this court for a very long time. Longer than many remember—tending to soldiers, midwives, children, courtiers, High Lords and Ladies alike.” Her gaze drifted toward the city lights, as if recalling memories that danced among those glowing streets. “It’s been my honor and my purpose.”

Rhysand inclined his head, respect and gratitude shining in his eyes. “We owe you more than can ever be repaid, Madja. Your skill, your kindness... You’ve saved so many of us in ways we cannot count.”

She offered a small, affectionate smile. “I know my role has mattered. But Rhys,” she paused, and the name alone carried a lifetime of familiarity that few could claim with him, “I find that my hands are not as steady as they once were. My eyes grow weary by candlelight. My back aches after hours bent over the injured.”

A slight breeze stirred the curtains, and the scent of night-blooming flowers drifted in, a gentle reminder of how time moved ever forward. Rhysand said nothing yet, allowing her the space to say what she must.

Madja continued softly, “I believe it’s time for me to step back. To retire from my duties as the court’s primary healer.” She turned to face him fully, shoulders squared, but her gaze kind and open. “I’ve trained many capable healers over the years. The work will continue. The Night Court does not lack for talent or compassion.”

Rhysand exhaled quietly, pressing his lips into a thoughtful line. The notion of Madja not being there—her swift and sure presence absent from their healing wards—seemed strange. She had always been a constant, a quiet pillar in the court’s foundation. But he would not deny her what she deserved.

“Are you certain?” he asked gently, voice low enough that it felt like they were confiding secrets rather than discussing court affairs. “If you wish fewer hours, or only to train the younger healers, we can arrange that.”

Madja shook her head, a decisive yet kind gesture. “No, Rhys. I’ve thought this through. I’m old, my friend. Old, even by our standards.” A hint of dry humor touched her tone. “My future lies in rest, in tending a garden rather than wounded flesh. I wish to spend whatever years remain in quiet peace, perhaps in a small cottage overlooking a meadow or stream.”

In the quiet that followed, Rhysand reached out to gently clasp her hand, the gesture sincere. “We’ll ensure you have all you need. A place of comfort, security—whatever you desire. And know that you will always be welcome in these halls, never forgotten.”

Madja squeezed his hand, gratitude and affection shining in her eyes. “I expected nothing less. You have all grown into fine leaders, fine friends. It eases my heart to know I leave the court in good hands.”

Rhysand released Madja’s hand gently, taking in her decision with thoughtful acceptance. The room felt quieter, a hush that allowed them both to measure the weight of this change. He crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the desk, considering how best to carry out her retirement. There would need to be someone to fill her role—someone skilled, empathetic, and unshakably capable of handling whatever the Night Court might face.

“Have you thought about who might take your place?” Rhys asked softly, meeting her steady gaze. “I can’t imagine you leaving us without a successor in mind.”

A hint of pride lit Madja’s eyes, a spark of confidence in the future she was preparing to leave behind. “Of course I have. You know me better than that, Rhys. I would never abandon my post without ensuring someone could step into it seamlessly.”

Rhys inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if he had expected nothing less. “And who have you chosen?”

Madja’s grip on the windowsill tightened slightly, not in apprehension, but in anticipation of sharing something long-cherished. “I have someone perfect in mind. A child of the Night Court—an orphan of the first war against Hybern, in fact. I took her under my wing when she was very young, taught her the basics of healing and care.”

Rhysand’s brows rose, curiosity piqued. He could not recall all the children Madja had trained personally, centuries and centuries blending faces and names into a kind tapestry of service. “Who might this be?”

“Y/N,” Madja said, voice warm with fondness. “You may remember her. She was quiet but determined, always studying late into the night, always asking how to ease pain more efficiently or mend a broken bone with fewer scars. A true healer’s heart.” She paused, letting the memory breathe life into the silence. “A few centuries ago, she left the Night Court to travel among the other courts and even beyond Prythian’s borders—visiting unknown continents, I believe. All to deepen her knowledge and hone her healing skills.”

Rhysand searched his memories, vague images surfacing: a young, focused individual hovering near Madja’s side, attentive as a student could be. He had been too busy with rebuilding and healing wounds on a much larger scale then, but he remembered the name faintly, the glimpses of a dedicated figure slipping through the halls.

Madja continued, “I reached out to her a few months ago, requested her return. I told her of my plans, that I would soon step down and that I wanted her to take my place. She agreed. She should be arriving any day now, if my calculations are correct.”

Rhysand nodded thoughtfully, pressing his fingertips together. “So Y/N will take on your mantle,” he said quietly, more to himself than Madja. “If you trust her, then I will welcome her home with open arms. I know the court will benefit from such devotion and training.”

Madja’s smile deepened, an affectionate and proud curve of her lips. “She will do well, Rhys. She’s grown into a capable healer—perhaps even more skilled than I. She brings with her new techniques and knowledge from lands we can barely imagine. It is only fitting that someone so dedicated should stand where I once stood.”

Outside, the city’s laughter and murmurs drifted into the room. Rhysand and Madja stood in quiet agreement. As one chapter closed gently, another prepared to open. The Night Court, always at the crossroads of past and future, would soon meet the one who would continue its legacy of healing and mercy.

————

The winter air carried a quiet hush as you approached the gates of Velaris. The land slumbered under a light blanket of snow, crystals glittering like tiny fallen stars beneath the moonlight. It had been centuries since you’d last seen this city, and now each lantern-lit arch, each faint silhouette of distant rooftops, stirred memories long tucked away. The cold breeze nipped at your cheeks, but you were well-prepared: a heavy, fur-lined cape draped over your shoulders, its generous folds keeping out the chill. Beneath it, your traveling garb—leather boots crusted with frost, worn gloves, and trousers meant for long rides—hinted at the countless roads you had trodden in your self-imposed exile.

Your horse’s breath plumed in the crisp air, its dark coat standing out starkly against the snowy ground. Every hoof-fall was muffled by that thin layer of powder, giving the night an even gentler hush. Above you, the eagle circled again, a lone sentinel under a sky brushed with starlight and the faint glow of a crescent moon. It cried softly, its voice echoing in the stillness, as if announcing your return.

Velaris—once the place of your youth, where you learned the first steps of healing under Madja’s patient eye—felt both familiar and strange. You had wandered distant courts, continents with different climates and creatures, honing your craft and expanding your knowledge. Yet here, now, the curve of a familiar street corner, the warm glow of lamplight on old stone, tugged at your heart. It was nostalgia mingled with quiet apprehension, the weight of centuries settling gently on your shoulders. Back then, you had left as a young apprentice, uncertain and hungry for wisdom. Tonight, you returned as a seasoned healer, with secrets and skills gleaned from every corner of Prythian and beyond.

At the gate, a couple of sentries wrapped in thick cloaks watched your approach. The lanterns beside them radiated a comforting warmth against the frosty night. They noted your horse’s slow pace, your cape embroidered subtly with practical patterns, the saddlebags heavy with bandages, tonics, and texts. They glanced upward at the eagle, curious, but found no threat in this silent dance of traveler and guardian.

One guard stepped forward, voice muted yet carried easily through the still air. “Late traveler,” he said, respectful but cautious, “state your name and purpose.”

You drew the reins gently, bringing the horse to a stop, your dark mount stamping once on the snowy ground. A faint smile touched your lips as you pushed back your hood, exposing features sharpened by experience, softened by understanding. Even now, the cold flushed your cheeks slightly, and a strand of white hair slipped free, catching the moonlight.

“I am Y/N,” you said, your voice steady and warm, echoing with an old familiarity. “A healer returning to the Night Court. I believe I am expected.”

The guards exchanged a glance—this name carried weight, a quiet rumor of a healer summoned home by Madja herself. They stepped aside, allowing you entry, no further questions needed. Beyond them lay Velaris, blanketed softly in winter’s hush. You remembered it bustling with life in greener times, but even now, beneath the snow and distant laughter, you felt the city’s heart welcoming you home.

With a gentle press of your heel, you urged your horse onward. The eagle’s shadow passed over the gate, and then it soared above the rooftops, perhaps to find its own perch. A familiar scent drifted through the crisp night air—something like cinnamon and distant hearth fires. You took it in, remembering quiet evenings of study and healing in warm, lamplit rooms.

You had left as a student, eager and uncertain. You returned a master of your craft, ready to shoulder the responsibilities your old mentor had chosen for you. The quiet crunch of hooves in snow was the only sound as you entered Velaris, a place you had not seen in a hundred lifetimes, yet still knew in your bones.

As soon as you passed through the gates, you swung your leg over the horse’s side and dismounted with a practiced ease. The animal, sensing your familiarity, snorted softly, its breath making small clouds in the winter air. The snow crunched beneath your boots as you took the saddle in hand, leading your horse forward at a leisurely pace. A few onlookers spared curious glances—travelers weren’t uncommon in Velaris, but your arrival at this late hour and in these quiet conditions drew subdued interest.

You let your gaze drift, taking in the sights around you. Velaris had always been a jewel among cities, but under the moon and dusting of snow, it gleamed with a serene kind of splendor. Buildings of carved stone and elegant wood bore soft, golden lights that spilled onto cobblestone streets. The scent of fresh bread and distant hearth fires mingled with the crispness of winter. You noted subtle changes—new sculptures in gardens, fresh murals adorning certain walls, the hum of gentle magic woven into everyday corners. It had grown even lovelier with time.

You had heard the tales, even far away on foreign shores: the once-hidden city revealed to the world, the ferocious attack it had endured, and the grand victory that followed. Rumors traveled quickly among healers and traders, and from what you gathered, Velaris had suffered but risen stronger, its spirit unbroken. The idea that your old home, once so secretive, had been thrust onto the world stage still left an odd taste in your mouth. You’d never imagined such an outcome all those centuries ago.

And Rhysand—when you’d left, he’d only just ascended as High Lord after his father’s passing. You remembered him as calm, shrewd, haunted by new responsibilities thrust upon him too young. Now, you’d learned that he had reigned through wars and alliances, reshaping the Night Court into something more open, more formidable. Most astonishing of all was the whisper that a High Lady stood beside him, equal in power and rank. Such a thing had been unthinkable in the old days, when tradition and suspicion ruled the courts.

You ran a hand along the horse’s neck, both reassuring it and steadying yourself. Time had flowed like a great river, carving new courses in this land you once knew. The Night Court wasn’t just shadows and silence anymore—if anything, it hummed with a brighter, more inclusive magic.

A small smile tugged at your lips, though touched by nostalgia. You wondered if you would still recognize old acquaintances, if any remained. Madja, of course, you would know. She was the reason you had returned. But what about the healers who trained alongside you, or the courtiers who once sought your help for quiet fevers and twisted ankles?

Your breath fogged in the cold as you carried your saddle and led the horse onward into the velvety night of Velaris. In that soft hush, surrounded by lamplight and murmuring streets, you acknowledged what had been and what now was. A thousand changes had come to pass while you walked distant roads, yet here you were again—a piece of the past stepping into the present, ready to adapt and serve once more.

With a gentle tug on the reins, you guided your horse through Velaris’ winding streets until you reached a small inn known for accommodating travelers with mounts. The sign outside bore simple script and a painted image of a horse’s head, letting you know this was a place that catered to riders who needed both rest and a safe spot for their companions. A narrow stable area hugged one side of the building, the wooden stalls visible through an open arch, and the soft whicker of other horses drifted out into the cold night.

You tied your horse securely at a hitching post near the stable entrance, giving it a few soft strokes along its neck and murmuring quiet words of reassurance. The inn’s lights glowed warmly through its windows, promising respite from the chill outside. Carrying only what you needed for the night—your saddle and a small bag slung over your shoulder—you stepped up onto the worn threshold.

Inside, the inn’s atmosphere enveloped you like a comforting blanket. The interior was modest yet inviting, with low ceilings supported by dark wooden beams that lent the space a cozy, intimate feel. A large hearth crackled at one end, its firelight dancing across the polished floorboards and simple, sturdy tables. The scent of mulled wine and hearty stew drifted through the air, mingling with the faint tang of old wood and woolen fabrics. A few patrons sat scattered around, some nursing tankards, others finishing quiet meals, their murmured conversations melding into a pleasant hum.

Lamps hung at intervals along the walls, their warm glow illuminating the simple artwork—landscapes of rolling hills and starry skies, scenes that might be familiar to travelers who came and went. A rack near the door held thick cloaks and traveling staffs, and straw mats by the hearth encouraged weary wanderers to warm their feet by the flames.

Approaching the small counter near the fire, you found a stout figure in an apron waiting, brows lifting slightly at your approach. The innkeeper—a middle-aged fae with kind eyes and a no-nonsense posture—took in your travel-worn attire and the faint smell of stable hay clinging to your clothes without judgment.

“I need a room for the night,” you said, voice low but clear. You placed a few coins on the counter, enough to cover lodging and a decent meal. “And a safe place for my horse,” you added, gesturing out the door with a tilt of your head.

The innkeeper nodded, pocketing the coins and scribbling a note in a ledger. “You’ve chosen the right place, traveler. We’ve a stable hand on duty tonight, and plenty of hay and water for your mount. I’ll have your belongings sent up to your room—top of the stairs, second door on the right. Will you be needing dinner?”

The gentle crackle of the hearth made you realize how hungry you were. “Yes, please. Something hot.” The tension of your long journey began to ease as you spoke. Soon, you would have a warm meal and a quiet room, a moment to gather your thoughts before facing the days to come in Velaris.

The innkeeper nodded again. “We’ll have stew and bread ready for you in a moment. Make yourself comfortable.”

You thanked them quietly and made your way toward a table near the fire. Settling down, you let the warmth seep into your bones. Outside, the snow continued to fall lightly, dusting the night-silenced streets. Inside, the inn’s modest comfort wrapped around you, a gentle reminder that, for all the changes beyond these walls, solace could still be found in simple things: a crackling fire, a hot meal, and a secure place to rest.

You thanked the inn’s attendant who brought your things upstairs—your saddle and bag neatly placed in one corner, your personal items laid out on a small bench. As soon as the door closed, you set about making yourself comfortable. The tiny room was modest but cozy: a single bed with a thick quilt, a wooden chest for your belongings, and a narrow door that led to a private washroom. The lamp on the bedside table glowed softly, illuminating rough-hewn beams overhead and the simple woven rug underfoot.

The bath you drew was warm and fragrant, a rare luxury after so many months on the road. You sighed as the hot water embraced your tired muscles, steam rising to blur the edges of the lamplight. Every ache and tension slipped away, replaced by a gentle calm. You lingered there longer than you intended, letting the warmth and quiet stillness soothe the raw edges of your journey.

Eventually, you stepped out, drying off with a towel that smelled faintly of lavender. Pulling on more comfortable clothes—soft trousers, a loose tunic, and thick socks—you immediately felt lighter, more at ease. Settling into the single chair at the small desk, you opened your sketchbook. The pages bore neat sketches of rare herbs, diagrams of organs and nerve clusters, annotations in your own careful handwriting describing remedies learned in distant courts. You added a few more notes now, clarifying a technique you’d picked up in the Winter Court for combating frostbite injuries—how their healers used crushed frost lily petals to reduce swelling.

You’d barely finished jotting down a final sentence when a gentle knock sounded at the door. Crossing the tiny space in a few strides, you opened it to find the innkeeper’s assistant holding a tray. The rich aroma of stew—savory and warm—wafted into your room. You offered a quiet thanks, voice hushed as if not to disturb the hush of the night. The assistant nodded politely and retreated, footsteps receding down the hallway.

Placing the tray on a small round table by the window, you pulled up the chair. The stew steamed before you—thick and hearty, with chunks of root vegetables, tender meat, and herbs that reminded you of home. Next to it was a small loaf of crusty bread and a pat of butter, already soft enough to spread easily.

As you dipped your spoon and brought the first mouthful to your lips, the flavors bloomed across your tongue—rich, comforting, and exactly what you needed. Your gaze drifted past the rim of the bowl to the window. Beyond the glass, the Sidra River shimmered softly under starlight. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the night, catching in the glow of distant lanterns. Across the water, the Rainbow—Velaris’s famed artistic district—was lit with gentle hues, colors blending seamlessly into the darkness.

The scene was a masterpiece of tranquility: the star-flecked sky, the quiet city, the snow falling softly as if trying not to wake the world. You savored another spoonful of stew and leaned back, allowing the moment to settle around you. Here you were, in a city you’d left centuries ago, come home to take up a mantle left by your old mentor. So much had changed and yet this moment—warm meal, quiet window, gentle snow—reminded you why you returned. Comfort, safety, purpose, and memory woven together in a tapestry of starlit peace.

You finished the last of your meal, wiped the bowl clean with a piece of bread, and gently pushed the tray aside. The steady warmth of the stew had settled in your stomach, making your limbs feel pleasantly heavy. Outside, the snow continued its quiet descent, dusting the rooftops and the narrow streets with sparkling powder. The lamplight in your room seemed softer now, the hush of the winter night wrapping around you like a familiar old cloak.

Rising from the small chair, you crossed the room and extinguished the lamp on the bedside table. Only moonlight and the reflection from the snow-blanketed city remained, sending faint silver shapes dancing along the floorboards. You slipped beneath the quilt, the scent of wool and lavender drifting from the linens. The mattress gave slightly under your weight, a gentle cradle after so many hard beds and forest floors.

Your thoughts drifted naturally to the meeting you’d have the next day. Madja’s voice echoed faintly in your memory—her gentle, steady guidance so many years ago. Tomorrow, you would see her again, no longer as a wide-eyed apprentice, but as a seasoned healer returning to take up her mantle. The idea hummed softly through your mind, a mixture of anticipation and a quiet, nervous pride.

The distant murmur of Velaris lulled you: the soft creak of settling beams, the whisper of the Sidra’s current, the faint call of a night bird. Within moments, the fatigue of long travel and the comfort of a true bed smoothed away the edges of wakefulness. Your eyelids grew heavy and closed, shutting out the gentle glow of stars and snow.

Wrapped in warmth and memory, you drifted into sleep, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would begin a new chapter—one you were finally ready to embrace.

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[itacats]

Rain of Shadows

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: Emotional detachment and isolation, Conditioning and dehumanization, Mentions of violence and combat situations, Subtle introspection on trauma and identity, use of code name for reader, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: You are thrust into an unfamiliar world filled with new faces and unspoken challenges. As you navigate the tension between duty and something deeper, questions begin to surface—about loyalty, purpose, and the bonds that tie people together. Change is in the air, but whether it’s for better or worse remains uncertain.

A/N: This story is my attempt to blend introspection with action, exploring the psyche of someone forged into a tool but yearning for something more. Rain’s journey is both literal and metaphorical, as they navigate the challenges of missions and emotions alike. Also, writing Soap's quips was dangerously fun, and if you can imagine his voice while reading, you deserve a biscuit. 🌧️🪖

Rain of Shadows Masterlist

Part 1 - A New Assignment

A familiar coldness curls around your heart, a constant presence you’ve carried for as long as you can remember. It doesn’t stab or ache—it suffocates, a frost that numbs the shards of longing you don’t fully understand. What is there to long for when you’ve been raised to forget?

Your earliest memories are a patchwork of harsh fluorescent lights, echoing orders, and the sterile tang of disinfectant. The concept of a childhood is as foreign to you as warmth or family. Those luxuries were stripped away before you could form an attachment, replaced with a relentless regimen of drills and exercises designed to carve you into something beyond human. A weapon. Efficient, unyielding, and devoid of unnecessary emotion.

And yet, in the quiet spaces between missions, that hollow ache lingers. It’s not enough to distract you—distraction is a failure in your line of work—but it gnaws at the edges of your purpose, whispering of something missing.

Your code name is Rain—chosen with precision by those who forged you. Fluid, relentless, unobtrusive. Like the rain, you move quietly, leaving destruction in your wake. But unlike the rain, you bring no renewal.

The sky above the training grounds burns with the last remnants of sunlight, the horizon painted in bruised hues of purple and gold. Shadows creep over the facility, deep and sprawling, mirroring the ones within you. The whispers of your handlers cut through the stillness, sharp and deliberate, carrying the weight of yet another mission.

This one feels different.

Task Force 141.

The name carries an air of infamy, even among the circles you operated in. Their reputation is sterling, their methods unorthodox, their success rate unparalleled. They are a unit forged in battle, bonded not just by skill but by a camaraderie you can’t begin to comprehend. And now, your handlers have decided to throw you into their ranks.

It’s not the first time they’ve embedded you with other operatives, but there’s an unfamiliar edge to their instructions this time—a hesitation, perhaps, or an unspoken expectation. You don’t bother speculating. It isn’t your place to ask questions, only to obey.

Captain John Price stands at the forefront as you approach, his silhouette backlit by the fading sun. He doesn’t move like a man weighed down by rank or responsibility. Instead, he carries himself with an ease that speaks of experience, of surviving where others didn’t.

His face is lined, weathered by years of battle, but his eyes remain sharp, assessing you with the precision of a tactician. You’re used to being appraised, but Price’s gaze feels different—not cold or clinical, but weighted, as if he’s not just measuring your skill but your soul.

“This is Rain,” Price announces, his voice steady and commanding. “They’ll be working with us from now on. I expect you to show them the ropes—and learn a thing or two in return.”

There’s no fanfare, no embellishment in his tone. It’s clear that, to him, you’re a soldier, not an experiment. The thought is… unusual. Unsettling.

Before you can dwell on it, another figure steps forward, breaking the tension with a grin as wide as the horizon.

“Show ‘em the ropes?” says Soap—John MacTavish, his Scottish accent curling around the words. “I was thinkin’ more like throwing ‘em in the deep end. Sink or swim, eh?”

Soap radiates energy, his mischievous expression framed by a mess of auburn hair. He doesn’t seem to view you as a threat—or if he does, it’s in the way one warrior sizes up another before a friendly spar.

Beside him stands Gaz—Kyle Garrick, his posture more subdued but no less confident. His dark eyes sweep over you, assessing with quiet intensity. “Don’t underestimate them just because they’re new,” he says, his tone measured but edged with a subtle challenge. “You might be the one sinking.”

The banter feels alien to you. Familiarity between teammates is not something you’ve been taught to expect—or value. Among the operatives you’ve worked with before, loyalty was transactional, fleeting. Here, it feels… genuine.

And then there’s Ghost–Simon Riley.

He stands apart, a silent monolith in the gathering shadows. The skull-patterned balaclava he wears is stark against his dark uniform, lending him an air of menace that seems almost deliberate. His posture is relaxed, but his presence is anything but.

Simon doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but you feel his eyes on you, cold and unyielding. Unlike Soap’s teasing or Gaz’s quiet scrutiny, Simon’s gaze feels like a scalpel, peeling back layers to expose what lies beneath. It’s unsettling, but not unfamiliar.

You’ve been watched your entire life—studied, measured, judged. And yet, Simon’s scrutiny feels different. It’s not clinical or calculating. It’s… human, somehow.

As Price continues to speak, laying out expectations and protocols, you find yourself glancing between the men who will now be your teammates. They laugh and rib each other with a warmth that feels out of place in the world you know. You wonder, briefly, what binds them together. Shared experience? Mutual respect?

When Price mentions camaraderie, the word catches in your mind like a thorn. You’ve read about it, observed it in others, but never felt it yourself. It’s a bond that doesn’t fit into the cold, efficient world you inhabit.

Soap nudges Gaz with his elbow, whispering something you can’t quite make out, and the two share a quiet chuckle. Simon doesn’t join in, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture, a tilt of his head that suggests he’s listening. Even in their silence, there’s an understanding between them that you can’t begin to fathom.

For the first time in years, a flicker of doubt worms its way into your mind. These men are not like your handlers, nor like the operatives you’ve been paired with before. They don’t see you as a tool to be wielded, a weapon to be pointed at a target.

You don’t know what they see.

The thought lingers as the sun disappears completely, leaving you standing in the growing darkness with strangers who might one day call you their own.

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[chernabogs]

Monody

Inc: Malleus x Reader, with special inclusion of Malleus' grandmother, Lilia, and Sebek's mother. Warnings: Existential crisis, brief allusion to death WC: 2k+ Summary: Fae loved rarely, but when they did, it was an all or nothing event—there was no hesitation when it came to that plunge.  And this scared him.

She never remarried. When he was younger, his mind didn’t quite wrap around it as he would look up at her portrait in the palace halls. Her, and his mother—a mere child at the time—with her sombre gaze and blank expression, ungiving of any thoughts she had as the portrait was made. She was youthful herself, enough so that surely any Fae in the Valley would have sought her hand, and yet she never replaced the ring his grandfather gave her, nor did she take it off. 

What a silly move, he may have once thought. Are you not lonely? Are the ghosts not driving you away? 

Ghosts can do little to provide warmth at night, and ghosts are all that Black Scale Palace had. A skeleton court with spectres in the rafters. Once there may have been merriment and joy, but that was well before his hatching. His childhood consisted of hushed conversations in dark palace halls, faces that aged well before their time, and a heavy silence that lingered in the air. 

There’s a mausoleum for his family near the palace grounds, and it’s in this place of death that he first discovered the horrors of love. In the stagnant interior, where stone tombs with his family members' faces carved on them rest, he would hide as a child from tutors and guardians alike. The flickering of eternal flames on the wall provided enough light to see the features of those he would never meet. On newfound legs with newfound hands he would touch the face of his mother, of his grandfather, and of all those who came before, mapping them onto his own like he was trying to find a part of them in him somewhere. 

His grandmother found him there once. He expected a scolding, but instead she stood in silence, letting him explore until she finally cleared her throat to alert him of her presence. 

"This is grandfather?", he would ask her, in the innocent manner that children often do when topics of death arise. And she would nod, as he moved to the next tomb. "And this is mother?", he asked, and she would nod again, her gaze once more ungiving to the thoughts in her mind. 

"Do you miss them?"

He didn’t know loss the way she did at the time. He didn’t know the pain from losing your love, from losing your daughter, from not knowing if the last member of your family will live or not. 

"I do." He remembers her answering. She stood by the door as she spoke, as though afraid to enter further, afraid to approach the faces that she once saw with life and now only knew in dreams. "I miss them greatly."

"Why?" He had turned to look at her. Her face was washed in shadows, but her eyes—he would always remember her eyes. They were blank as she looked at him. 

"Everyone misses the ones they love when they leave us. You cannot speak with them, or hold them, or tell them how much they mean to you. All you can do is stand here—and stare."

He had turned back to the tomb of his mother, with her sombre gaze and blank expression. With features of stone she felt cold to touch, and Malleus suspected the shiver that ran up his spine was not simply because of the mausoleum's temperature. He looked back at his grandmother again, at the way she stared at the tombs that surrounded them, before he hurried to her side. 

He did not want to love, he decided then, in a rash thought fuelled by a child's fear. He did not want to be like her one day, at the entrance of a tomb alone, with only the option to stand—and stare. 

Love is for the lonely. 

_______________________________________________

He knew the Zigvolt girl from the scarce Court events that he was allowed to attend. She was much like her father—loud, with electric green hair and scales adorning her cheeks. She towered over the others with a presence that commanded attention and a laugh that drew all eyes to her when she let it free. As a child, he had found her noisy and irritating, a feeling he had commented to Lilia on more than one occasion. 

Then one day she was not there. The absence of sound, of that loud laugh and commanding tone, jarred him briefly and he had ventured to Lilia to question where the young socialite had gone. 

"Do you miss her already?" Lilia had chuckled, causing Malleus’ brow to furrow in response. 

"Is she ill?" 

Illness was the only explanation he could fathom, despite never experiencing it himself. Then he saw Lilia’s expression—a brief flash of sympathy—before it fell back to benign amusement. 

"No, not ill. But I dare say we will be seeing less of her at events of the nobility from here on out." Was all he had offered back, as frustratingly cryptic as always. 

It was through Malleus’ unspoken-of (yet highly developed) talent for eavesdropping that he gradually began to piece together the scandalous tale of the young socialite and the dental assistant she had found herself enamoured with. 

When Malleus learned the man was a human, he had decided that the Zigvolt girl was as foolish as he had suspected. Tensions still lingered with human-kind, and every Fae knew that the shortness of a human's lifespan compared to their own made relationships a ridiculous idea to pursue. Why would one wish to intentionally hurt themself by loving something that would leave them so soon? Surely the brief halcyon days that such a romance would bring would not be worth the bleakness that follows when the coffin is set in the earth? 

"She’s happy," Lilia had mused as Malleus pried into the relationship even further. "Baul, less so, but I think even he is gradually warming up to the idea."

"But why?" Malleus had asked, scowling as he did. "Why choose him when she knows he’ll die soon?"

Lilia had fixed Malleus with an unusually stern look at that. The two stood in Lilia’s cottage, facing off against each other with Malleus—in the typical teenage temperament—looking frustrated in turn. "She’s foolish."

"Love makes fools of us all." Lilia had countered then. "When you know you have found the right person, you care little for the obstacles that stand in your way. You would tear the world asunder for them. Death may end it physically, but the feeling will always remain."

"Foolish." He repeated, shaking his head and turning away. "What is the point of being so vulnerable when you know it will only last a moment?"  

He had been invited to the wedding. Although he did not go, he had been told the Zigvolt girl had radiated a joy so great that it put even the brightest of the sun's rays to shame. 

Love is for the fools. 

_______________________________________________

Ramshackle was a dorm of ruins. Even from beyond the gates, he could hear the sound of the floorboards rotting and the cement cracking under the weight of time. It was a soothing melody of decay that seemed to lighten his heart significantly whenever he passed by at night. There was something so lovely about seeing places of life now stand as monoliths in the night. 

Which is why, when he saw a light on in the window, it had irritated him deeply. At first he believed that students had crept in for a fright—something he would be more than happy to give them—until a figure had stepped out and stood on the porch, watching him. 

He stood by the iron gate, and stared right back. 

They faced off against each other for a long moment before the figure trekked down the pathway—he could hear that gaudy shuffling—and came to a stop before him. 

A human. 

A plain, rather forgetful human, who looked up at him like a child with an expression of both confusion and concern. 

The encounter had been brief, enough so that he figured he would forget about it as soon as he returned back to Diasomnia. And yet, it still lingered in his mind in the coming nights, accompanied by an odd spark of eagerness for what would happen next. 

What name shall you give me? What role shall I play? 

The gifting of a name was an intimate act often reserved for those closest to one another. He had never been close to anyone beyond family and those affiliated with them. This stranger in the night, one of curiosity and caution, would be the first he would forge this connection with. 

The name you had granted had been laughable, and it took all of his self-control not to crack a grin when you announced it with such pride at the next encounter. Your naivety was charming in a quaint, adoring manner. That was not the only aspect that drew his interest. Your resilience, your ambition, your compassion to the students around you that so greatly contrasted what he had grown up witnessing in his years at Black Scale Palace. You were refreshing. 

There was a feeling there. It unsettled him. He didn’t tell Lilia about it; rather, he secured it in a locked box in his chest, pushing it away and dismissing it as a mere interest over your willingness to be so at ease with him. Sometimes that feeling rattled around and made him feel nauseous, both with himself and with you. Other times, it was though it never existed at all. 

Things changed when he over-blotted. 

Perhaps it was a cruelty on his part to let you be exposed to the horrors and the tragedies that had plagued his homeland for so long. Perhaps a part of him craved you to know it, to know him, so you would realize that he was not the kind of person you had built up in your mind. He gave you death, and loss, and sorrow—

And in the end, you gave him forgiveness. 

He tore the world asunder like Lilia had once alluded to and you had stood through it all, your gaze never wavering, your heart never shaken. He hated it. He hated you (what a lie). He wanted to force you out of existence so that the locked box in his chest could finally be put in the ground like it deserved. He wanted to force Silver, to force Sebek, to force Lilia. The loss of control sent him spiralling because he had always, always, had that at least. 

The aftermath of it all was humbling. 

Broken words and broken apologies had poured from his lips to those who he held dear. He had met the eyes of the boys he helped raise and the man who had raised him. He had looked to you, his friend, his confidant, and perhaps something more—though the thought of that terrified him more than anything else. Black blot was soon washed away and the world began to push forward despite the rotting briar thorns that covered the land, a mausoleum of its own to the actions that occurred that night. 

He had never been to a medical ward, but he was there now, and so were you—sitting by his side, yammering on about some mundane thing that was glossing over his mind. It was on that cot that he had finally forced himself to turn and really look at you. 

A human. 

A plain, rather forgetful human. Nothing about you should have stood out for him, and yet when he looked your way, it was as though the entire world faded out except for your voice. The locked box in his chest felt heavy. He wanted to rip it out and toss it aside. 

You cannot speak with them, or hold them, or tell them how much they mean to you. All you can do is stand here—and stare. 

His grandmother’s words replayed in his mind like a broken record. Fae loved rarely, but when they did, it was an all or nothing event—there was no hesitation when it came to that plunge. 

And this scared him. 

A human. You were a human. 

How long did that give you? 60 years, maybe. 70 if you were fortunate enough. 178 years already felt like a blink of an eye for him, so surely 70 would be just as quick?

He thought about the Zigvolt girl again as he continued to listen to you talk. He had considered her foolish once, but now he realized perhaps it had been envy that he felt, rather than disdain. She had the courage to grasp on to an opportunity despite knowing that it would last only moments in her lifetime. Meanwhile here he was, silently watching you with valuable words unable to leave his throat. 

He looked away to the white ceiling above. A plain, empty space that one could lose themselves in quite easily. 

He wanted to be like the Zigvolt girl. He wanted to be like his grandmother. He wanted to be like Lilia. He wanted to tear the world asunder once more, to shield you away from death as it crept closer and closer with each night that passed. He wanted you. He wanted you, so much so that it ached in his body. 

But he couldn’t do it. Not to you, not to himself. He loved slowly, and someone like you deserved a more fulfilling experience than what he could provide in your lifetime. 

So he simply lay there, and continued to listen to you speak. 

Love is for the lonely.

Love is for the fools. 

Loving you is for someone much bolder than he.

[anticipatedexhale]

The Fires Of Noxus

Mel medarda x fem reader

Chapter 2: A Familiar Face.

Summary: In Piltover, [Y/N] reunites with Mel, now a powerful political figure, after years of separation. Though their meeting stirs old feelings and shared pain, their vastly different lives and unresolved past leave their bond fragile and uncertain.

Warnings: blood, gore, I don't think this is canon to the story but wtv sorry chat, curse words.., ambsessa needs her own warning, not proofread please tell me if there is anything that I forgot!.

Chapter 1

The Piltover skyline gleamed under the midday sun, its towers of glass and steel casting long shadows over the city below. The streets bustled with life—carriages rattling over cobblestones, vendors hawking their wares, and inventors displaying their latest creations in lively markets.

Amid the symphony of progress and innovation, [Y/N] kept her head down as she made her way toward her modest workshop nestled in the heart of the industrial district.

The air here carried the metallic tang of steam and oil, a far cry from the ash and blood that had stained her memories of Noxus. Years had passed since she fled that brutal land, carving out a life for herself in Piltover. She had become a respected inventor, her designs sought after by scholars and merchants alike.

But despite her success, a part of her always felt like an outsider, as though the shadows of her past would forever loom over her.

She paused outside her workshop, adjusting the thick gloves she wore to protect her hands. Her reflection in the polished metal of the door stared back at her—a face marked by faint scars and weary eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.

“Another day,” she muttered to herself before stepping inside.

---

The sound of her tools echoed through the workshop as [Y/N] meticulously adjusted the gears on a prototype device. It was a small, intricate invention—a portable power source meant to provide energy to those who couldn’t afford the city’s expensive Hextech utilities. The concept had earned her attention from prominent minds in Piltover, though she remained skeptical of their intentions.

As she worked, a knock at the door startled her.

“Come in,” she called, wiping her hands on a cloth.

The door opened, revealing a man dressed in the fine but subtle attire of a courier. He stepped inside and handed her a sealed envelope embossed with a golden crest.

“This is for you, Miss [Y/N],” he said before bowing and leaving without another word.

She frowned, turning the envelope over in her hands. The crest was unfamiliar, but the weight of the parchment suggested importance. Carefully, she opened it and unfolded the letter within.

The elegant script was unmistakable:

"Miss [Y/N],

I have heard much about your brilliance and would like to discuss a potential partnership. Your work aligns with the interests of the Medarda family, and I believe we could accomplish great things together.

Please join me for a private meeting at my estate tomorrow evening. Enclosed are directions and access to my private lift.

Warm regards,

Mel Medarda.

Her heart stopped.

The name hit her like a punch to the gut, memories rushing back in a flood of fire and pain. Mel. Her Mel.

No—she wasn’t hers anymore.

---

The following evening, [Y/N] found herself climbing the grand staircase of Mel Medarda’s estate, her chest tight with both anticipation and dread. The opulence of the home was overwhelming—marble floors, towering columns, and gilded accents that screamed wealth and power.

A servant escorted her to a private sitting room, where the soft glow of a chandelier bathed the space in golden light.

And there, standing by a window, was Mel.

She was different now. Her hair, once wild and untamed, was styled in an elegant updo. Her posture radiated confidence, and the tailored silk gown she wore fit her like a second skin. But what struck [Y/N] most were her eyes—still golden, but colder, as if the fire that once burned within them had been extinguished.

“[Y/N],” Mel said, her voice smooth and composed. “It’s been a long time.”

[Y/N] swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet Mel’s gaze. “It has.”

The two women stood in silence for a moment, the air between them thick with unspoken words.

“I heard about your work,” Mel began, gesturing for [Y/N] to sit. “Your inventions have made quite an impression in Piltover.”

“It pays the bills,” [Y/N] replied, her tone guarded.Mel smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Always humble.”

There was a long pause before [Y/N] spoke again. “Why did you call me here, Mel?”

Mel’s smile faltered. She moved to sit across from [Y/N], folding her hands neatly in her lap. “I wanted to see you,” she admitted. “To… reconnect.”

[Y/N] felt her chest tighten. “Reconnect?” she repeated, her voice tinged with bitterness. “After all these years?”

Mel’s expression hardened, though a flicker of vulnerability crossed her face. “We’ve both changed, [Y/N]. I thought we could set aside the past and find a way forward.”

[Y/N] laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Set aside the past? Mel, I searched for you. I went back to that burning city, only to find nothing. You left without a word.”

Mel flinched, but her composure quickly returned. “You think it was easy for me? I didn’t have a choice. My mother—” She stopped herself, her jaw tightening. “I did what I had to do to survive.”

[Y/N] shook her head, her emotions swirling between anger and sorrow. “And now you’re here, in this palace, living like royalty while I’ve spent every day trying to forget what happened to us.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and suffocating.

---

Mel finally spoke, her voice softer this time. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

[Y/N] looked up, startled by the admission.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see that night,” Mel continued, her golden eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I see you fighting for me, shouting my name as they dragged me away. I see everything we lost.”

[Y/N] swallowed hard, her anger melting into something softer, though no less painful. “Then why didn’t you come back?”

Mel’s gaze dropped to her hands. “Because I was too ashamed. Ashamed of what I’d become.”

[Y/N] leaned forward, her voice firm. “You didn’t have to face it alone, Mel. We were supposed to get through it together.”

Mel met her gaze, and for the first time that evening, [Y/N] saw the girl she had once known—the one who had dreamed of escaping Noxus and building a better life.

“I’m sorry,” Mel whispered The words hung in the air, fragile yet powerful.

---

As the night wore on, Mel walked [Y/N] to the door of her estate. The air between them was heavy with unspoken words, but neither could bring themselves to shatter the fragile peace they had found.

“I don’t know what I expected,” [Y/N] admitted, her voice soft, almost carried away by the cool night breeze.

Mel paused, her golden eyes searching [Y/N]’s face for something—understanding, forgiveness, perhaps even hope. “Neither do I,” she said quietly. “I wanted to see you again, but… I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“Like what?” [Y/N] asked, her brows furrowing.

“Like standing on the edge of something I don’t know how to cross.”

[Y/N] looked down, her fingers fidgeting with the cuff of her jacket. “You’ve built your life here, Mel. You’ve changed. And maybe… maybe I have too much.”

Mel stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re right. I have changed. But I still see her, you know. The girl who used to argue with me about which star was brightest. The one who dragged me through the streets of Noxus when I thought I couldn’t take another step. She’s still there, even if the world forced her to grow colder.”

[Y/N] swallowed hard, her chest tightening at Mel’s words. “And what about you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Are you still her—the girl who wanted to escape, to fight for something better?”

Mel hesitated, her expression hardening for just a moment before softening again. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “All I know is that everything I’ve done was to survive. To take control of my life in a world that wanted to take it from me.”

“Control,” [Y/N] echoed, her tone laced with a quiet bitterness. “And what about connection? What about the people you left behind?”

Mel flinched as if struck, but she didn’t look away. “I thought I was doing what was best. I thought if I could build something strong enough, powerful enough, I could protect the people I cared about. Even if it meant losing them along the way.”

[Y/N] shook her head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You didn’t have to lose me, Mel. I never stopped looking for you. I never stopped hoping.”

Mel reached out then, her fingers brushing against [Y/N]’s. The touch was tentative, almost fragile. “I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

For a moment, the world seemed to still. They stood there, bound by a shared past that refused to let them go, and a future that felt impossibly far away.

“I don’t know if we can fix this,” [Y/N] said, her voice cracking. “I don’t even know if I want to try.”

Mel’s gaze dropped, but she nodded. “I understand. But… if there’s even a chance, [Y/N], I need to try. You’re the one thing from my past that still feels real.”

[Y/N] took a shaky breath, her heart warring with itself. She wanted to believe Mel’s words, to let herself feel the hope she had buried for so long. But the scars ran too deep, and the distance between them felt insurmountable.

“I don’t know if we can ever be those girls again,” [Y/N] said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“We don’t have to be,” Mel replied, her golden eyes shimmering with an emotion she couldn’t name. “But maybe we can figure out who we are now. Together.”

[Y/N] looked up at her, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. “One step at a time,” she murmured, echoing Mel’s earlier words.

Mel smiled back, and for the first time that night, it felt genuine. But as [Y/N] turned and walked away, clutching the earring she still carried, the ache in her chest remained.

Because no matter how much they wanted to bridge the gap between them, some wounds couldn’t be healed overnight.

And as Mel stood alone in the doorway, watching [Y/N] disappear into the streets of Piltover, she couldn’t help but wonder if the pieces of their past were too broken to ever fit together again.

Authors note: I felt like the ending was kinda rushed but OH WELL I'm just too lazy, this was long as HELLLLLL

Taglist: @powderbomb-jinxed

Hope u enjoyed<33

[ahqkas]

♯ HIRAETH ; james patrick march

PAIRING! james patrick march x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! hiraeth (n.) — a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was, the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past

WORD COUNT! 6.8k

WARNINGS / TAGS! angsttt, reader is described to have hair, mention of love making + lmk of more if found !

NOTES! found a collection of podcasts that reminded me a bit too much of james , this work is inspired by dangerously yours’ masquerade !! all the credits to the devider below belong to @/menschenopfer

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THE YEAR WAS 1927, AND LOS ANGELES WAS A CITY OF DREAMS, BEAMING WITH AMBITION, GLAMOUR, AND DARKNESS OF ITS OWN. The Hotel Cortez, with its imposing façade of carved stone and gleaming brass, towered over the busy streets below. It was a sanctuary for the elite, a place where luxury met mystery, and where secrets were buried deep within its intimidating walls.

The heavy doors of the hotel creaked open, and in stepped a woman whose presence commanded attention. She was the very meaning of old-world elegance, a figure that seemed to have stepped out of the newest magazine. Her [color] hair was styled in gentle waves that framed her face, and her eyes, sharp and enigmatic, glimmered with a secret knowledge. She wore a tailored traveling dress of navy blue, the fabric clinging to her form in a manner that was both modest and alluring. A black cloche hat sat atop her head, its wide brim casting a shadow over her striking features.

As you crossed the marble threshold, the polished floors beneath your heels echoed with each deliberate step. The hotel lobby was a grand room of the hotel, adorned with chandeliers that bathed the space in warm, golden light. The walls were lined with dark, rich wood paneling, and the air was filled with the faint scent of jasmine and the lingering aroma of fine cigars. Guests shuffled around in the lobby, their conversations a murmur of excitement, but their eyes discreetly turned to the striking woman who had just entered.

A hotel worker, dressed smartly in a bellboy uniform of crisp white and black, approached you with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to catering to the wealthy and powerful. He couldn't help but be taken aback by your appearance, the way you moved with an effortless grace that seemed to belong to someone your status.

"Good evening, madam," he said, his voice respectful but tinged with curiosity. His eyes darted briefly to your luggage — a single, exquisitely crafted leather bag, monogrammed with the initials that possibly belonged to you.

Without pausing, you handed him your smooth gloves, your tone cool and commanding. "Have my bag sent to Suite 81," you instructed, words clipped and precise.

The bellboy hesitated for only a moment before snapping to attention. "Yes, ma'am!" he replied, taking the bag with both hands as if it contained something made out of glass, something precious. He hurried off toward the elevator, casting a final, awed glance back at you.

You continued your way through the lobby and a low hum of conversation followed after you. Guests and staff alike seemed to recognize you, though none dared to approach you directly. Your reputation, it seemed, followed you as well.

"Good evening, Countess [Last name]!" came a cheerful greeting from one of the hotel's attendants, a middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache who had seen many notable figures pass through the Cortez's doors, but none quite like you.

You turned your head slightly in his direction, your lips curling into a polite smile that did not quite reach your eyes. "Good evening," you replied, voice smooth and cultured, with a hint of an accent that spoke of faraway lands.

The attendant bowed slightly as you passed, and within moments, another voice, this time a younger woman in the concierge uniform, echoed through the lobby. "Welcome back, Countess [Last name]!" her voice was filled with genuine warmth and you didn't understand where did this come from.

The evening had settled over Los Angeles. The grand dining room of the hotel was appearing in art deco luxury, with its dark wood accents, gold-leafed walls, and crystal chandeliers casting a warm, inviting light over the tables set with fine china and silverware. The clinking of glasses and soft murmur of conversation filled the air and created something nostalgic to your heart.

You entered the dining room with the same air of composed grace that had marked your entrance into the hotel. Your eyes swept the room, taking in the diners who were engaged in their meals and conversations and you felt a pang of jealousy upon the sight. Their lives were so normal in comparison with yours.

As you approached the maître d's podium, the head waiter, a distinguished man with a neatly trimmed mustache and a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, stepped forward. He recognized you immediately, the elegant Countess, and inclined his head in a deep bow.

"A table for one, ma'am?" his voice was practiced with the ease of someone who had served wealthy guests for years, though there was a slight quiver in his voice — perhaps a trace of the unease that always seemed to accompany you.

You, with your face expression as unreadable as ever, allowed yourself a brief pause before responding. Your eyes flicked past him, scanning the room once more, searching for something — or rather, someone.

"Is . . . James Patrick March dining?" you asked, voice soft but with an undercurrent of something that hinted at more than just casual interest.

The maître d' hesitated only for a heartbeat before answering, his gaze following yours toward the far end of the room. "Oh, he's at the table by the window, ma'am," he replied and a hint of curiosity crossed his tone as he gestured subtly toward the large, arched windows that overlooked the city's nightscape.

There, seated at a table clothed in the soft glow of candlelight, was James Patrick March. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt and a tie that was just slightly loosened, giving him an air of a casual someone. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an intensity in the way he glanced through the room, as if every detail, every movement was a piece in a grand, invisible game. A game that belonged to him. His dark hair was slicked back, and his piercing eyes, though cast downward at the moment, seemed to take in everything around him.

Your gaze lingered on him, breath catching slightly as the history the two of you shared played out in your mind — something you've never been able to erase from your memories. Your hand tightened around the strap of your formal handbag, the storm of rage already forming inside you.

"Thank you," you murmured to the maître d', who, sensing that his services were no longer required, bowed once more and stepped aside.

With a final, steadying breath, you made your way across the dining room, your steps measured and elegant, drawing the eyes of more than a few guests who wondered at the purpose of your approach. You moved with the grace of a woman who knew how to command a room's attention without asking for it, but there was also a tension to your movements, a barely concealed edge that hinted at the true intentions of your visit.

As you neared the table, March's dark eyes lifted from his glass of alcohol, catching yours in a gaze that was both intimate and unreadable. He leaned back slightly in his chair and a slow, amused smile played at the corners of his lips as he watched you approach, as if he had been expecting you all along.

"Countess [Last name]," he greeted you, his voice smooth and rich with a hint of that accent you both despised and adored. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

You met his gaze evenly, your own smile small and controlled, but there was a fire in your eyes that belied your calm exterior.

"Mr. March," the way his name rolled out of your mouth shouldn't sound so lovingly. Your voice was steady, though your heart raced beneath your play. "I believe we have unfinished business."

March remained seated, watching your every move with the sharp, predatory gaze of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. The slight smirk on his lips hinted at his appearing satisfaction. He knew you’d show up, let it be few weeks or decades.

"If some kind fate wishes to send a beautiful lady to dine with me, I can only be grateful," the man said, his voice smooth and low, rich with the charm of someone who was well aware of his power. "You will do me the honor, won't you, ma'am?"

For a brief moment, the tension between the two of you hung in the air, taut and electric, as you studied him. You were fully aware of the game you were playing, the dangerous dance of wit and will, and you had no intention of backing down. This game would be his loss.

Finally, your lips curved into a small, controlled smile, one that spoke of your own understanding of the power dynamics at play. "I should be delighted," you replied, voice carrying the slightest edge of irony as you accepted his invitation.

March's smile deepened, pleased with your response. He gestured to the empty chair opposite him, a silent invitation for you to join him. The man poured a glass for you, the wine a deep, blood-red, before filling his own. He lifted his glass to you in a toast and his eyes never left yours.

"To fate," he said, his voice carrying a note of amusement. "For bringing such a captivating companion to my table."

You lifted your glass, clinking it lightly against his. "To fate," you echoed, gaze steady as you sipped the wine, the taste of it rich and complex on your tongue. It's been a long time since the last moment you tasted the sweet blood.

For now, the dance would continue.

And as you looked into James Patrick March's eyes, you couldn't help but wonder who would lead, and who would follow.

"What would you like for dinner?" his voice always seemed smooth, and you never knew if it was because of the accent or for the fact that he knew exactly what he wanted. A hint of amusement danced in his dark irises.

Your lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "What does the owner of this hotel eat? Pheasant wings and peacock breasts?" you inquired, tone playful yet edged with a subtle challenge. "And — what do you usually eat?"

His grin widened. "Ah, the usual fare for me tends to be quite varied, though I do have a penchant for the extravagant," he admitted, leaning forward slightly as he spoke and you knew his words hinted at something else as well. "But I find myself quite curious about what a countess might prefer."

Your gaze never wavered as you answered, your voice carrying a hint of wry humor. "Almost anything," the simplicity of your answer was belied by the layers of meaning beneath it.

The man's eyes sparkled with interest as he absorbed your response. He seemed to consider those words carefully before responding, his voice warm and teasing. "Well then, how about roast beef?" he suggested, his tone both casual and deliberate, as though he were making an offer that was both grand and intimate.

Your smile deepened and a glimmer of approval appeared in your eyes. James Patrick March had always had a rich taste. Especially in alcohol and women. "Roast beef sounds delightful," you agreed. "I appreciate your choice, Mr. March. It seems fitting for the occasion."

March signaled to the waiter, who had been hovering discreetly nearby, and relayed the order with a casual wave of his hand, all while his eyes never left yours. The waiter nodded and swiftly disappeared, leaving the two of you alone once more, the soft murmur of the dining room the only sound accompanying you.

With a slow, elegant movement of his hand, March poured himself another glass of wine. "I must say, Countess [Last name], it's a rare pleasure to share a meal with someone who possesses such . . . discerning taste," he said, his voice laced with both sincerity and a hint of irony.

"And it's a rare pleasure to find myself in such intriguing company," you replied to him, tone both warm and enigmatic. "I trust the evening will prove to be as engaging as the company."

March chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on you with an almost predatory satisfaction. "I have no doubt it will be," he said, raising his glass in a toast once more.

The night sky was a deep shade of deep indigo, flickering with countless stars that twinkled like diamonds scattered across velvet. The air was warm, with just the faintest whisper of a breeze, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine through the open balcony doors. The Hotel Cortez stood silent and still, its grand exterior bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, casting long, gentle shadows across the marble floors.

You stood on the balcony, the city of Los Angeles sprawling out beneath you like a sea of lights. Your gown, a delicate shade of silver that shimmered in the moonlight, flowed around you like liquid silk. Your hair was loose, cascading over your shoulders in waves, and your young face, bathed in the soft light, was a picture of pure satisfaction.

Beside you stood James Patrick March, his tall figure intimidating yet relaxed as he leaned against the ornate railing. His gaze, however, was not on the city below, but on the woman at his side. There was a softness in his eyes, a rare gentleness that few had ever seen, let alone inspired. In this moment, all the world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you.

As you stood in comfortable silence, a sudden streak of light blazed across the night sky — a shooting star, burning its brief path before vanishing into the darkness. March, ever so observant, turned his gaze upward, his lips curving into a smile.

"Look, [Name], a shooting star," he said, his voice filled with a boyish wonder that was rare for him. He turned his head slightly to meet your gaze, his eyes reflecting the faint starlight. "Did you wish?"

Caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the star, you blinked and looked up just as it disappeared. Your expression softened, a faint smile touching your lips, but there was a wistfulness in your eyes as you shook your head slightly.

"Oh . . . I didn't have time," you admitted, voice tinged with a hint of regret, as though you had missed an opportunity that would not come again.

James' smile didn't falter, though there was a subtle shift in his expression — something deeper, more thoughtful. He stepped closer to you, his presence warm and reassuring. "And there is something you wish for," he said, more a statement than a question, as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it falling from your own lips.

Your smile faded into something more serious, your eyes searching his as though you were trying to decide whether to speak the truth or guard your heart. But in the end, you could not lie to him — not in this moment, not when you felt so safe, so completely at peace by his side.

"Yes," you whispered to him, barely more than a breath.

March's gaze softened further. He reached out with his hand and gently enveloped your own in his, the skin of his palm warm and grounding. "What did you wish?" he asked, his voice low and intimate, as though the words were meant for your ears alone.

You hesitated, the answer so close to escaping, yet so difficult to say. Your heart ached with the weight of it, with the knowledge of the life you wished for but could never truly have. Looking down at your joined hands, your fingers lightly curled around his in response to his question, and then back up into his dark eyes, which were watching you with such intensity, such sincerity. They seemed a lot darker now, under the night sky.

"I was wishing that we were two other people," you finally confessed, your voice filled with a quiet longing that spoke of dreams unfulfilled. "Two people who need not say goodbye."

The words hung between you, heavy with meaning. You could not bear the thought of losing him, of this moment being just a fleeting memory in the string of your lives. The depth of your love for him was overwhelming, a love so pure and untainted by the shadows that would later consume you.

James stepped even closer, his hand gently moving to cup your cheek and his thumb brushed tenderly across your skin. "Perhaps it can be that way," he murmured. March bent his head, his lips hovering just above yours, as if the very act of kissing you might seal the promise he was making. "Perhaps we can be those people, if only for tonight."

Your breath caught in the back of your throat, heart pounding in your chest as you searched his eyes for the truth in his words. And this time, you allowed yourself to believe it — to believe that the two of you could escape the world that would inevitably tear you apart, that you could be just a man and a woman, free from the burdens of your lives.

You were the one to close the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was soft, tender, and filled with all the love and hope you held in your heart for him.

And for that night, under the watchful eyes of the stars, you were just two people who did not need to say goodbye.

The present moment was completely different to the warmth and tenderness of the past. The air in the room was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the walls and settled in every crack of the Hotel Cortez. The grand suite you occupied was dimly lit, the once-gilded decor now seemed dull. Outside, the night became alive, the city's lights a distant blur beyond the heavy curtains, but inside, the atmosphere crackled with the remnants of an argument that had yet to reach its peak.

You stood near the window, your back to the room, while you stared out into the darkness with attention that wasn't really there. Your once vibrant spirit now seemed dulled by the weight of time spent in this cursed place, your elegance marred by the sorrow etched into your features. The memories of what had once been — of the love you had felt for him — were a distant echo. His betrayal hardened your heart.

Behind you, James Patrick March paced around the room restlessly, his usually composed demeanor frayed at the edges. The man who had once been a picture of controlled arrogance now seemed almost desperate, his eyes locked onto your figure as though you were the only thing grounding him to this world. His tailored suit was as impeccable as ever, but there was a tension in the set of his shoulders, a strain in his voice that betrayed the depth of his emotions.

"[Name]," he began, and his voice was urgent, almost pleading as he tried to bridge the growing wall between the two of you. "I offer you the three things most dear to me: my heart . . . my hotel . . . and my dream."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of promises that no longer held the meaning they once did. He took a step toward you, his hand outstretched as if to pull you back to him, to recapture the love you had shared before everything had gone so terribly wrong. Before his mistakes happened.

But you remained unmoved, back still turned to him, posture stiff with resolve. The pain in your chest was such a familiar ache, one that had become a part of your very being, but you had long since learned to live with it. Now, it was a shield, protecting you from the man who had once held your heart so completely.

"You are too generous —" you began with your voice full of coldness, as if you were speaking to a stranger and not the man you had once loved with every fiber of your being.

"[Name], you must listen to me!" March's voice cracked with desperation as he allowed himself to interrupt you, his frustration spilling over. He stepped closer, his presence almost suffocating in its intensity. "Since that first hour we met, I've been completely yours. There's never been anyone else for me . . . There never will."

His confession, raw and unfiltered, was the truth — at least, the truth as he saw it. To him, you were everything, the only light in the endless darkness that had become his existence. He had built this world all for you, and now it was slipping away, crumbling before his eyes because he could not reach you, could not find a way to make you understand.

You finally turned to face him, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. The words he spoke were like daggers to your heart, reopening wounds that had never truly healed. You had once believed in his love, had once shared his dreams, but that time had passed. What had once been your shared world was now a shattered illusion, a dream that had turned into a nightmare.

"Please," you whispered, voice trembling with the effort to maintain your composure, but you felt the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. "Please don't say any more. There are worlds between us, worlds that can't be bridged with words."

Your gaze bore into his, pleading for him to understand what you could not bring yourself to say out loud.

"You are dead. And I am me."

He was trapped in this hotel, in this half-life of his own making, while you remained bound to the world of the living, a world that he could never truly be a part of. The love you had once shared, as powerful and all-consuming as it had been, was now nothing more than a painful memory.

March stood frozen, the weight of your words crushing the last remnants of his hope. He had always been a man who believed that he could bend the world to his will, that nothing was beyond his reach if he desired it enough. But in this moment, he was confronted with the one thing he could not control, could not change — the inexorable march of time and the finality of death. Was he really though?

His expression was a mix of anguish and determination, the usual smoothness of his demeanor shattered by the knowledge he had carried for so long. This was a truth he had avoided speaking aloud, perhaps out of a twisted sense of mercy, or perhaps because he could not bear the thought of breaking you more than it was needed. But now, the time for silence had passed.

"You said one night that you wished we were two different people," March began to remember, his voice low and measured. His eyes never left your form. "I think you may have that wish, [Name]."

His words seemed to hang in the air. For a moment, you did not move, your mind struggling to grasp the meaning behind them. You felt your brows furrowing in confusion, the flicker of doubt that had long been buried now rising to the surface.

"But what do you mean?" you asked in a quiet voice, almost trembling. There was something in his tone, something in the way he looked at you, that sent a chill running down your spine. It was as if the ground beneath you was beginning to crumble, threatening to pull you into an abyss you had refused to acknowledge.

James stepped closer, his gaze softening as he saw the uncertainty and fear in your eyes upon hearing those words. The man who had always prided himself on his control, on his ability to manipulate and bend others to his will, now stood before you, stripped of all secrets. He could not protect you from this truth now, could not shield you from the reality that had been so carefully hidden away by him.

"[Name]," he started gently, as if to not scare you any more, "you are not who you think you are. You've been living in denial, clinging to the idea that you are still part of the world of the living."

You recoiled slightly, with your heart beginning to race as a cold dread settled against your rib cage. Your mind fought against his words, refusing to accept what they implied. You had always felt different, out of place, but you had attributed it to the strange nature of the hotel, to the dark energy that seemed to carve every corner of it. Not this. Never this.

"No . . ." you whispered, shaking your head as if that could wake you up from the nightmare that was taking shape before you. "No, that can't be true. I'm . . . I'm alive, James. I'm here."

The man's brows furrowed in sorrow and what seemed like guilt, his heart breaking for you when you struggled to hold onto the last shreds of your denial. He reached out, gently taking your hands in his, his touch warm but offering no comfort from the truth he was about to reveal.

"You are here, [Name]," he said softly, "but not in the way you believe. You died, my love . . . years ago. You've been here, in this hotel, ever since. Your spirit, your essence — trapped, just like mine. But unlike the others, you've refused to see it. You've built a world around yourself, a world where you still believe you can leave, still believe you can live."

The room seemed to spin around you, the walls closing in as the truth clawed its way into your consciousness. You tried to pull away from him, tried to reject the reality he was presenting, but his grip on your hands was firm, grounding you even as everything else fell apart.

"No . . . no, that's not possible," you insisted still, your voice rising in pitch as panic began to take hold. "I'm not dead, I can't be. I'm . . . I'm real, James. I'm standing here, talking to you."

"Yes, you are," March replied, his voice steady and calm, though his own pain was evident in his eyes. "But you're not alive. Not in the way you think. This hotel . . . it's a place where the dead linger, where they cannot move on. You've been here with me all this time, believing you were still part of the world outside, but the truth is . . . you're not."

Tears welled up in your eyes as the reality of his words began to sink in, your carefully constructed world shattering around you. You could feel the coldness creeping into your bones, the weight of your existence pressing down on you like a leaden shroud. It was as if you were seeing yourself for the first time — truly seeing — and what you saw terrified you.

"But . . . but how?" asking, your voice broke as you looked up at him, searching his face for answers, for anything that might make sense of this horror. "How could I not know? How could I . . . how could I forget?"

Your past lover's expression was filled with sorrow as he gently cupped your face, wiping away the salty tears that spilled down your cheeks. He had never wanted this for you, never wanted you to suffer as he had, to be trapped in this purgatory with nothing but memories and regrets to keep you company.

"You loved me," he stated simply. "You loved me so much that you couldn't bear to let go, even in death. Your love for me, your denial . . . it kept you here, in this place, unable to see the truth. But now . . . now you know."

You were his. Perhaps you had always been. And now, as the truth of your existence settled into your bones, he knew he could not let you go, even if it meant holding onto a ghost, a shadow of what the two of you once were.

Gently, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still cradling one of your cheeks. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your face paler than usual, but in that moment, you were still the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. The love he had felt for you had not waned, even in death; if anything, it had only grown stronger, more desperate.

"You may as well take my heart, [Name]," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "It's already full of you. You walked into it the day we met."

A blink was all you managed to give. You had felt his love from the beginning, had known how deeply he cared for you.

"You're a fool, James Patrick March." There was no anger in your words, only a sorrowful resignation. You knew what he was trying to do, knew he was trying to hold onto something that had already slipped away. But there was no future for the two of you — not in this twisted world, not in this half-existence.

He smiled sadly, a flicker of the old charm that had once captivated you. "Oh, but isn't any man who falls in love?" He ran his thumb gently across the apple of your cheek, wiping away the last traces of your tears. "Do you know what you are to me? You're something to believe in again. You're the type of person that had ceased to exist for me — a fine and honest woman."

His words were like a knife twisting in your heart. The depth of his feelings, the sincerity in his voice, all served to remind you of what you had lost, of what could never be. You wanted to believe in his love, to find comfort in the fact that he still saw you as something pure and good. But the truth was that you weren't that woman anymore, and perhaps you never had been.

"Oh, my darling. You're such a child.”

James' face fell, the hope in his eyes dimming as he saw the resolve in your posture, heard the finality in your voice. He had feared this moment, the moment when you would push him away, when you would reject the only thing he had left to offer.

"Take your foolish little dream in your heart and go," you continued with your final decision and your voice broke on the last word as you fought against the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm your every sense. You wanted him to leave, to take his love and his dreams and disappear, because you knew that if he stayed, you would both be dragged down into the darkness that surrounded you.

You didn't need to turn around to know he was still there. You could feel him, like a shadow that never left your side.

"What is it? What's wrong, my dear?" his voice was gentle, almost tender, but you could hear the underlying concern.

You wanted to lash out, to tell him to leave you for good, to demand that he let you be. But the words caught in the back of your throat, tangled with the truth of what you felt — what you had always felt for him, despite everything.

"You know nothing about me," you said, voice shaking with frustration, but also with a hint of despair. "You've known me only three weeks!"

March blinked, caught off guard by your statement. Three weeks. Had it really been so little time? To him, it felt like an eternity, and at the same time, like no time at all. Every moment with you had been etched into his mind, as if you had always been there, a part of him that never left.

"Three weeks?" he repeated after you. "[Name], I've known you all my life."

"All your life?!" the words were nothing but a distant echo, incredulous. How could he say that? How could he claim to have known you, when you yourself barely understood who you were anymore?

James took a step closer, his eyes locked onto yours. He could see the turmoil in your gaze, the confusion and doubt that swirled around you like a storm. But he had to make you understand — had to make you see what you meant to him, what you had always meant.

"It's true," he insisted, his voice filled with quiet conviction. "I've seen you in a thousand plays, read you in as many books. While I've heard beautiful music, I've thought, 'She'd like that.' I've looked at flowers and known that one day I'd give them to you."

To him, you had always been there, in his thoughts, in his dreams. Even before the two of you met, you had been a part of him, an ideal, a vision of something pure and beautiful in a world that had long since lost its luster.

Your breath caught in your throat as you listened, heart pounding in your chest. You had heard words like these before — sweet nothings whispered in the dark after you've made love, promises made and broken — but this was different. There was no lies in his voice, no empty flattery. He truly believed what he was saying, and that sincerity shook you to your core.

But it also terrified you. Because you knew that if you allowed yourself to believe him, to accept the love he offered, there would be no turning back. You would be lost to him, bound by the same chains that held you both to this place.

"James. . ." you began with your trembling voice as you struggled to find the right words. You wanted to tell him that it wasn't real, that what he felt was just another illusion, another trick of his twisted mind. But even as you thought it, you knew it wasn't true. His love for you was truly real — so real that it had brought you back, kept you from moving on.

But was it enough? Could it ever be enough?

You felt a cold sweat on your skin as you grappled with the turmoil building inside you. The love you felt for James was undeniable, a force that had bound you together in life and in death. But with that love came a profound sense of duty, a discipline that you had clung to as a way to maintain some semblance of control over your fractured existence. Now, that discipline was being tested in a way you had never imagined.

The man himself could see the conflict in your eyes, the way your emotions warred with your duty. He had always admired your strength, the fierce determination with which you had approached everything in your life. But now, he wondered if that strength would ultimately be the thing that tore the two of you apart.

"If I betray you, I betray myself," whispering, your voice trembled with the weight of your confession. You had always prided yourself on your unwavering commitment to your principles, to the discipline that had guided you through even the darkest of times. But now, standing before the man you loved, you realized just how fragile that commitment had become, all because of him.

"If I betray myself," you continued, "I betray my discipline. My discipline is very dear to me."

The words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. You had built your life around that discipline, around the principles that had defined you. It had been your anchor, your guiding light in a world that had often seemed dark and chaotic.

"Dearer than I?" James' voice was soft, almost pleading. He could see the struggle in your eyes, the way you fought against your love for him with the discipline that had been the foundation of your existence. He knew that he was asking you to choose between two parts of yourself, and the thought of losing you because of it was almost too much to bear.

You looked up at him, heart breaking in million pieces at the vulnerability in his voice. You had never wanted to hurt him, never wanted to put him in a position where he had to question your love. But the truth was, you were questioning it yourself. Not the love itself — no, that was as real as anything you had ever known — but whether you could truly allow yourself to give in to it, to let go of the discipline that had defined you for so long.

"No," you whispered into the dark while the soft breeze blew past you. "No, not dearer than you. But I must leave."

James Patrick March stood there, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you like a death sentence. You were leaving him — this time, forever. The love you had shared, the bond that had once seemed unbreakable, was now shattered, and there was nothing he could do to stop you from disappearing into the void where he could never follow.

For a moment, he said nothing, his heart a cage of grief, anger, and desperation. He had always prided himself on his composure, his ability to remain calm and in control, even in the face of the most dire situations. But now, with the woman he loved standing before him, ready to walk out of his life forever, all that control began to crumble.

"You gave me your heart, you know?" James finally spoke, his voice low and strained, as if each word was being torn from the depths of his soul. "And now you'd like me to hand it back to you, whole again. But I won't."

You flinched at the bitterness in his tone, but you held your ground, soft eyes betraying the sadness that mirrored his own. You had made your decision, but it was clear that it was one that pained you just as much as it pained him.

"You will live a long time yet, [Name]," the man continued, his voice growing stronger, more resolute, as if he were steeling himself against the inevitable. "An eternity without me."

He paused for a moment, hoping to find any sign that you might change your mind, that you might see the madness in what you were about to do. But there was nothing — just the same quiet determination that had always been a part of you, the same unyielding strength that he had fallen in love with.

"You will look into the faces of passersby, hoping for something that will, for an instant, bring me back to you. But it won't. You will find moonlit nights strangely empty," he went on, his voice now a haunting whisper. "Because when you call my name through them, there will be no answer."

Your breath hitched, and you looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. James felt a sharp pang in his chest, a sense of helplessness that he had never known before. He was losing you for real, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"Always your heart will be aching for me," he said, his voice trembling with the intensity of his emotions. "And your mind will give you the doubtful consolation that you did a brave thing."

He took a step closer, reaching out to gently lift your chin so that your eyes met once more. The pain in your gaze was almost too much for him to bear, but he held it, wanting you to see the truth in his own eyes. He wanted you to feel his own pain.

"But know this, my dear," the whispered affection left his lips so naturally when it came to you and that was why it all hurt too much. He'd never change. "You may think you're doing the right thing, the brave thing, by leaving. But there will come a time when you will question it — when the loneliness becomes too much, when the nights grow too long, and the silence becomes unbearable. And in those moments, you will remember me. You will remember what we had, and you will wish, with all your heart, that you had chosen differently."

He let his hand fall away, stepping back as the finality of your decision settled over him like a blanket. There was nothing more to say — nothing that could change what was about to happen.

"You will never be free of me. No matter how far you run, or how long you hide. I will always be a part of you, just as you are a part of me."

You swallowed hard, tears now spilling freely down your cheeks again as you took one last look at the man you had loved with all your heart. The man you were about to leave behind.

"Goodbye, James," you whispered, voice breaking. "Goodbye."

And with that, you turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows, leaving James alone in the suffocating silence of the room you had once shared.

As the door closed behind you, the reality of your absence crashed over him like a brutal wave, and for the first time in his life, James Patrick March felt truly, utterly lost.

[thatlotuscookie]

hello how are u doing😊 could you please write for dabi x fem!reader who is a solo villain. and before you meet your soulmate u meet a chibi version of them, and you usually meet them when you turn 18, but reader didn't so she thought that she doesn't have a soulmate and then one day chibi version of dabi appears out of nowhere, and the chibi has dabi's personality and that's super cute because of its size. and i would like this to be about how reader deals with tiny chibi and how it warms up to her

✧･ﾟ: a/n : hiii anon!! im doing great and i hope you're doing good yourself. thank you for requesting! this is so adorable :33 i hope you enjoy, and that i captured everything in the right way<33

✧ Title: ✧ Tiny Flames ✧ ✧ Characters: Chibi!Dabi x Reader (Fem!Reader) ✧ Genre: Romance, Action, Comedy ✧ Rating: T ✧ Summary: You’ve made a name for yourself as a feared solo villain. As your eighteenth birthday arrives, you eagerly await the appearance of your soulmate's chibi form. But when midnight strikes without any sign, you resign yourself to the belief that perhaps soulmates are just a myth. However, after a particularly exhausting mission, a sudden flash of light brings Chibi Dabi into your life. ✧ Content Warnings: Minor language?, themes of villainy ✧ WC: 1612 words // 9.4k chars

In the shadowy underbelly of society, where chaos thrived and villains ruled, you carved your own path as a solo villain. You had built a reputation—feared and respected by heroes and fellow villains alike. Thriving in the thrill of the chase, you relished the freedom that came with being an independent agent of chaos. No one dictated your actions; no alliances held you back. You worked alone, and you liked it that way.

Your name was whispered in hushed tones, often accompanied by tales of your cunning plans and daring heists. You had mastered the art of deception, slipping through the cracks unnoticed, leaving a trail of confusion and destruction in your wake. Yet, despite the adrenaline rush of your dangerous lifestyle, a nagging void lingered within you—a yearning for something more profound, a connection that eluded you in the chaotic world you navigated.

Every year, on your birthday, you awaited the moment that would signal the arrival of your soulmate’s chibi form—the tiny, whimsical representation of the person destined to be by your side. It was said that the chibi would appear to you when you turned eighteen, guiding you toward your true love. However, as the clock struck midnight on your eighteenth birthday and no chibi appeared, your heart sank.

Was it possible that you were destined to be alone? The thought gnawed at you, but you quickly pushed it aside, convincing yourself that you didn’t need anyone. You were a villain; you thrived in solitude. But deep down, the ache of loneliness lingered like a shadow, reminding you that something vital was missing from your life.

Months passed, and you resigned yourself to the belief that perhaps soulmates were just a myth. You threw yourself deeper into your villainous pursuits, planning heists and wreaking havoc on unsuspecting heroes. Yet, even in your most triumphant moments, a part of you longed for connection—a partner to share in the exhilaration of your exploits.

One fateful evening, after a particularly grueling mission, you returned to your dimly lit lair, exhausted yet exhilarated. You had successfully executed a plan that would send shockwaves through the hero community, but instead of feeling accomplished, you felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness. As you slumped against the wall, letting the adrenaline fade, a sudden flash of blue light illuminated the room, causing you to blink in surprise.

When the light faded, your heart raced as you stared at the tiny figure standing before you. He was a chibi version of Dabi—small, spiky-haired, and exuding an intense aura that was oddly familiar. He stood no taller than your hand, his fierce glare somehow managing to hold the same intensity as the original Dabi.

“Who the hell are you?” Chibi Dabi demanded, his voice laced with a cold edge that sent shivers down your spine.

You blinked, half-expecting to wake up from a strange dream. “I—I’m Y/N. Your soulmate, apparently?” Your voice came out more incredulous than you intended.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” he retorted, his icy demeanor unfazed. “I don’t need anyone.”

His response stung more than you expected, but you were determined not to show it. “Well, you’re here now, so what do we do?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions in your chest.

He shrugged, crossing his tiny arms over his chest defiantly. “Do whatever you want. I’m just here because I have to be.”

As the days turned into weeks, the bond between you and Chibi Dabi grew stronger, but not in the way you had hoped. He remained aloof, often retreating into his own world, indifferent to your presence. Despite your attempts to engage him, he would simply roll his eyes or give you snarky remarks that cut through the air like a cold wind.

One evening, after a particularly hard day, you returned home feeling defeated. The weight of your actions pressed heavily on your conscience, and you found it hard to shake off the guilt.

“Why do you look so miserable?” Chibi Dabi asked, his tone lacking any real concern.

“Just thinking about things,” you replied, trying to dismiss it.

“Thinking? That’s lame. Just burn something and move on.” He leaned back, his tiny form perched on the edge of your desk, looking like a fierce little king on a throne.

You laughed softly, but your heart felt heavy. “It’s not that easy. Sometimes it feels like we’re just doing bad things without any real purpose.”

Chibi Dabi’s gaze hardened, and for a moment, the intensity of his demeanor threatened to swallow you whole. “Then why do it? You’re the one choosing this life.”

His bluntness made you sigh, feeling the sting of truth in his words. “Because it’s all I know,” you confessed. “But I don’t want to be alone in this.”

“Too bad. That’s your problem,” he replied, crossing his tiny arms again but failing to hide the faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.

Despite the hurtful nature of his response, you felt a flicker of determination ignite within you. “I’m not going anywhere, Dabi. Whether you like it or not, we’re in this together.”

His eyes narrowed, but for a brief moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something softer beneath the cold exterior. Yet, he quickly masked it with indifference, turning away. “Whatever. Just don’t expect me to hold your hand.”

As the days passed, Chibi Dabi continued to be an enigma—cold, distant, yet somehow intriguing. You couldn’t help but be drawn to him, the fiery spirit that flickered beneath his tough exterior. With each passing day, you sought to break through the wall he had built around himself, determined to warm the icy heart of your chibi soulmate.

One evening, after an encounter with a rival villain left you rattled, you returned home, only to find Chibi Dabi sitting on the table, legs swinging in mid-air. He eyed you with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. “What happened? You look like you lost a fight.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I didn’t lose, but I didn’t win either. It was… complicated.”

Chibi Dabi leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious. “Complicated? You mean weak.”

“Dabi!” you exclaimed, half-laughing, half-frustrated. “I’m not weak. I just—”

“Then stop whining about it,” he interrupted, a small flame flickering to life in his hand. “If you’re going to be a villain, act like one.”

“Easy for you to say,” you shot back, trying to keep your tone light despite the hurt lingering beneath. “You’re all fire and no fear.”

His expression softened slightly, though he quickly masked it with irritation. “Maybe you need a little fire, too.” He stood up, his tiny fists clenched at his sides, glaring defiantly at you. “You don’t need to wallow. You’re better than that.”

A warmth spread through your chest at his words, despite the typical coldness of his personality. “Thanks, Dabi. I appreciate it.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t dismiss your gratitude. Instead, he seemed to regard you with a flicker of admiration. “Just don’t let it get to your head.”

Days turned into weeks, and with every shared moment, your bond grew deeper. Dabi’s once-icy demeanor began to soften as he discovered the warmth of companionship, while you learned to embrace your vulnerabilities. Though you remained villains in a chaotic world, you found solace in each other’s presence.

One night, as the two of you sat together on the couch, the glow of the television illuminating the room, you decided to watch one of your favorite movies—a thrilling tale of heroes and villains in a world much like your own. You settled into your spot, and Dabi perched on your shoulder, his tiny form fitting perfectly against you.

“Why are we watching this trash?” he grumbled, crossing his tiny arms as the action began to unfold on screen.

You chuckled. “It’s just a movie, Dabi. Just enjoy it.”

“I’ll enjoy it when I see some real fire,” he shot back, but the way he leaned closer to you hinted at his interest.

As the story unfolded, you found yourself glancing down at Dabi. His fierce expression mirrored his adult self, but you noticed the way his little eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He was fully engaged, despite his earlier complaints.

During a particularly intense scene, you felt him tense up, gripping your shirt tightly. “What’s going to happen?” he muttered, clearly invested despite his attempts to act tough.

You laughed softly. “You actually care, don’t you?”

“Shut up!” he exclaimed, his face turning a shade of red that contrasted with his usual cool demeanor. “I just want to see how it ends, that’s all.”

As the movie progressed, you noticed that Chibi Dabi began to shift closer, using your shoulder as a makeshift pillow. His tiny form curled up against you, and you could feel the warmth radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cold exterior he often projected.

When the credits rolled, you found yourself smiling down at Dabi, who was now fast asleep, his tiny face relaxed and peaceful. You reached down to gently stroke his spiky hair, a sense of warmth enveloping you.

“Guess you really enjoyed that, huh?” you murmured, your heart swelling with affection for the tiny villain.

Dabi stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly. In that moment, you realized that the icy barrier around his heart was slowly melting, revealing a warmth that matched the flicker of fire within him.

You knew the road ahead would be challenging, but as you watched him sleep, a sense of peace washed over you. Things would be okay.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Moonmaiden's Reconstitution

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, minor appearances by a few supporting OCs Length: ~10000 words Rating: T, for angst and references to canon-typical violence. Summary:

"We have grown up on tales of your exploits, hearing about the Sword of the Silverlight. It is a nigh-unimaginable honour to be able to thank you in person. On the eve of a grand ceremony, no less, here at the heart of Our Lady's worship!" Unimaginable, Aylin thinks to herself with a rising bitterness, casting another glance over the large hall, skirting over heads and faces, failing to find the one she yearns for. How long need one be gone for, to pass even from imagination?

A year after the defeat of the Absolute, their travels take Aylin and Isobel to Waterdeep, to the House of the Moon, where they are both driven to confront things they were trying to avoid.

Contains various flavours of angst, dealing with trauma, and emotional hurt/comfort, as well as a bath. Also contains the author thinking the House of the Moon is cool, while also finding it very convenient and fitting that it has very detailed writeups and maps… that are about 100 years out of date in-universe, save for one little addition and a brief mention in one 5e adventure. This started off as a bit of a followup or companion piece to With Tremulous Cadence Slow before growing completely out of control.

Written for day 4 of Aylin/Isobel Week 2025, for the prompts: Returned to the fold of time | Hero worship, smitten, argument, anger

Also on AO3.

—

Moonmaiden's Reconstitution

Dame Aylin is ill at ease.

Even here, in the mightiest citadel of her Mother's faithful, where Her face gazes down on Aylin from statues and reliefs and frescoes around every corner. Where the night is as bright as it should always be: lit gently with motes of moonlight and pale droplets embraced in the petals of a flower-garden; lambent silver filling fountains and pools, shining from secluded chapel niches and lofty domes alike.

The House of the Moon is as magnificent as any palace other than Argentil could ever hope to be. White stone intricately carved, tiled marble; blue and silver everywhere one looked, topped with gleaming gold. Why, if Aylin felt like it, she could don her armour, stand stock-still next to a line of statues, and the visitors passing her by would surely be none the wiser.

How could anything here be wrong, be out of place, when the entire complex was built not to align with the crisscrossing of streets and city infrastructure, but to provide views on the moonrise and moonset on those special days when Selûne would climb highest in the sky and bless Her faithful with Her direct light and loving gaze the longest? The entire brilliant arc of the moon's nightly travel could be comfortably beheld from underneath the temple's domes, enchanted to become transparent when touched by moonlight.

Aylin has been here many times over her many years in her Mother's service, indulged in many chances to come to know it well in all its occasionally overwrought splendour. She has always been welcomed, too; each of her visits proclaimed a portent of blessings to come - or as a timely warning to shore up the defences before an imminent threat reared its often shadow-wreathed head. The welcome has not faded, even after more than a hundred years of absence and a transition in leadership.

With the familiarity comes also the disquietude of all the changes a place goes through in a century. It's at least doubled in size, for one; Aylin cannot muster any complaints about that. But then there is the frustration of a hallway she'd trod down dozens of times suddenly leading her to somewhere completely unexpected, of finding rooms whose functions she'd once relied on confusingly repurposed, or the disorientation of an entire silver-tiled wing she doesn't recognise at all. Domes and cupolas looming over her where before there was nothing but a view of the sky and sea.

Isobel only ever visited here when she was very young, with her mother, and what little she can recall from then is so vague as to make everything more or less new to her. Her delight every time she exits onto a sea-view balcony is contagious, and a most welcome distraction. The thrilled glimmer in Isobel's eyes when they first stepped into the temple's grand library and she realised she could levitate up into the air remains unmatched. The sight of her simple joy at the not-quite-flight, taking both of Aylin's hands in hers and pulling her along until they faced the very tops of immense bookcases, is something Aylin will treasure for the remainder of her eternal life.

As for the rest of it, well, Aylin wrestles with her odd bouts of rudderlessness and feels a tiny prick of envy.

And then there is that tremendous, eye-catching tower that Aylin will, of course, be flying a glowing trail around during the upcoming ceremony of, as they've chosen to term it, the Moonmaiden's Reconstitution. The very tallest in Waterdeep! the High Priestess proclaimed it while leading them around on a tour upon their arrival. As befits Our Lady of Silver, one of the silverstars flanking her agreed with great enthusiasm.

High, high, high above the city, remote, untouchable, quietly watching from afar…

Fitting, is it? Aylin feels her gut churn whenever she catches sight of it, and says nothing. For better or worse, nobody seems to notice.

-

Since their arrival, the two of them have helped with everything from rite-related formalities and daily services, to all the practical aspects of worship the temple housed and offered. They've blessed, healed, advised, trained, studied maps and records - there is more than enough here to fill their days, even without venturing into the fabled city of splendours proper.

But even as occupied as she's been, Aylin's thoughts keep catching on the one prominent effort expected of her in the future, and the cause for their invitation and detour to Waterdeep in the first place - the ceremony. Official-looking correspondence from the House of the Moon had found them, somehow, in the midst of their travels; a summons written in an elegant script, in a dark blue ink with silver residue set in for a sparkling effect. The House has always been somewhat ostentatious, which Aylin can't say she dislikes.

For some unknowable reason, the perfectly benign and even likely to be lovely occasion has felt like a sword hanging over her head ever since, a strange shroud over her near future.

It was publicly proclaimed and announced not long after their arrival, underneath the very Dome of the Moon, weeping its silver haze brightly over the gardens. Aylin didn't mind the ever-present chill there, but she'd noted with some gratitude Isobel was dressed in a new and warm set of robes. The High Priestess, meanwhile, was in her fabulously grandiose outfit, and yet still looked so small and unassuming when stood next to Aylin herself. The joy and approval from the crowd were immense and swiftly and raucously demonstrated - though the promise of a grand feast or two somewhere in the proceedings may have played a part in that.

But the one thing Aylin remembers most prominently from that day is not listening to and approving the various plans for celebrating the blèssed return of the Moon Daughter, nor is it the speech she herself delivered, as heartfelt as always, for she knew no other way to be. No, she remembers barely making it through the formalities due to being impatient and almost giddy with the anticipation of showing Isobel a part of the temple she'd yet to visit, and one of Aylin's all-time favourites. For, oh, if Isobel's eyes lit up at the sight of the sea, she was going to adore this!

She remembers taking Isobel's hand in hers as soon as could possibly be considered polite, giving it a quick kiss, then pulling her along out of the jubilant crowd and down the first set of stairs, towards the magical, unique spectacle that was the fabled Hall of Wind and Waves.

She remembers stepping into the enchanted area first, immediately exclaiming in joy at the sensation of the salty spray on her face, the excitement of the fresh sea breeze in her feathers, the rocking and creaking of the ship's deck under her feet. Knowing it to be an illusion had never made the rush of it any less real.

She remembers when the part of the experience that included a spell-wrought sense of solitude fully set in, somehow concealing even Isobel's hand held in hers. Aylin found herself fighting a tightness in her chest utterly out of tune with the freedom and exhilaration the illusion had ever evoked in her, lurching forward and marching on to exit the enchantment as quickly as her feet could carry her.

She remembers she'd felt such a fool for forgetting that part. Later, when she'd reached some sort of calmness once more, when a flushed and thoroughly, endearingly windswept Isobel found her again, quiet and leaned against the library wall. When Isobel, now awash with concern, looked askance at all of Aylin's claims that she'd merely left to let her properly experience all of the conjured sensations for herself, but remained quiet.

How very unlike her, to forget - it sticks in Aylin's mind still, days later, like the tiniest pebble stuck in her boot and refusing to be expelled. The fastidious nature of her memory has ever been a point of pride. It stings, that it has let her down in this way, and that it has led her to this… embarrassment. Weakness.

What Aylin has not forgotten since is to plan her way around the third floor of the temple carefully, never even brushing against the limits of the enchantment.

-

The ceremony is only a day away.

Returned to the fold of time, Aylin called herself once, in the turbulent times of the Absolute crisis.

Returned, bit by bit over the past year, to the midst of many of the richly varied communities under her Mother's guidance and protection, as scattered as they are devoted. In her search, she has found that some have been lost forever, and found some that have changed enough to be unrecognisable.

Aylin had known so many of their particularities, once; all the fascinating local twists on how worship was to be performed, how respect was to be paid, how the moon was to be honoured in each of her phases. And be it ceremonies or feasts or celebrations or blessings, she was all too happy to participate and contribute. Rejoicing and basking in her connection to her Mother, gladly acting as a conduit for whatever was required, Aylin has never dreamed nor dreaded that it could be otherwise.

Now there is this foul, niggling thought, insistent on making itself known at the most inopportune of times - do the people, does this world, even want her back?

In a century, some of them have been born and died. Villages and towns have sprung up, others have disappeared. A century should never have mattered so much, or been so long and impactful a time for an immortal. But it seems to Aylin sometimes that every moment of the past hundred years is carved in her mind in grand and disproportionate scale as well as detail, and it drags her down like the clawed hands enforcing her imprisonment in the Shadowfell.

Most of all, she remembers the faces. And after each and every face, a death.

Will these people, feasting in her honour now, welcoming her with open arms, turn against her as easily as some in Reithwin did? Or will they hang on until the very last, desperate moment, and give in only then?

Aylin feels unpleasant, cool perspiration gather on her neck, and wants to curse at the way it stains the pressed collar of her fine shirt.

None of these are the people she once considered allies, comrades-in-arms, even friends. Heroes she used to adventure with, her contacts in temples, in enclaves, the soldiers she had led into mighty battles, and out of them into moon-blessed triumphs. Where are any of them now? Surely some of them still live - those of elven blood, at the very least. Shar could not have gotten to all of them, though she'd have doubtlessly tried. Where to even begin with tracking them down? When?

And what has Aylin done, in that time?

Died. Suffered. Raged, with futility as endless as her lifetime is to be.

Brow furrowed in frustration, Aylin gazes at her pristine reflection. Outwardly, she is the very picture of splendour in her silvers and blue brocade, outfitted to match both the occasion and the premises. Her wings remain tucked away for the evening, which she now regrets agreeing to.

"Brooding again?" Isobel interrupts. Clad in her fine new dress-robes, she wraps her arms around Aylin from behind, and peeks around her at the image of both of them in the mirror. "I understand. The smaller enclaves seemed so much more… manageable."

Aylin shakes her head. "It will be fine," she says, tugging a finely embroidered sleeve into place. "I am ready to leave. Shall we go?"

-

The crowd gathered in the refectory for the feast on the night before the ceremony is far larger than anything Aylin anticipated, filling up the great hall even with many of the long tables removed. Isobel, guided away by a veritable flock of white-and-silver cloaked priestesses as soon as they stepped foot into the hall, remains nowhere to be seen.

A senior cleric, drunk on a combination of wine and awe, has cornered Aylin and is regaling her with a lively tale of how she herself turned a sordid, ill-omened winter into an illustrious triumph over a band of marauding Sharran assassins. Striking in the dead of each icy night, in utmost silence, they'd driven several towns almost to extinction - until, of course, the Moonmaiden sent Her radiant daughter to dispel the darkness, leaving them nowhere to hide to escape retribution.

They rattle off names of the villages Aylin saved, then point out with particular pride the one they themselves hail from. Aylin nods along, sips at the drink in her hand - a tasteless thing she does not recognise, thrust upon her as, she supposes, another honour. Only, she remembers it hadn't been winter at all, and the Sharrans had been the very antithesis of subtle - they'd left a trail of burning wreckage along a narrow mountain pass, first cutting the villages off by causing a large rockslide at its end. Aylin, and her wings, had been the people's quickest hope for reprieve - and so reprieve was gladly and swiftly granted.

An entire generation of accomplished devotees to Selûne stemmed from there, the cleric claims, pride mounting. A fine crop of acolytes sprouted from the seeds of inspiration sowed by Aylin's own deeds.

"We have grown up on tales of your exploits, hearing about the Sword of the Silverlight. It is a nigh-unimaginable honour to be able to thank you in person. On the eve of a grand ceremony, no less, here at the heart of Our Lady's worship!"

Unimaginable, Aylin thinks to herself with a rising bitterness, casting another glance over the large hall, skirting over heads and faces, failing to find the one she yearns for. How long need one be gone for, to pass even from imagination?

It was her, yes, and those were her deeds - more or less. But tonight she feels such a gaping, yawning divide between herself and that radiant paladin, not yet so blemished by world or duty. Something has appeared between them, vast and unforgiving. Something that, for better or worse, seems not quite so obvious from outside.

Aylin has never felt such an odd jolt at the concept of affirming yes, I did that, with a simple nod and scarce few words. "I do indeed recall the region, as well as the incident. I am pleased to hear it has recovered."

"More even than that! You saved so many: not just the lives of those who were there to shake your hand afterwards, but the lives that sprang from them, that flourish there even now. It is a thriving community, you know - why, I would not dare to impose, but if you have the time, if some quest or another takes you near there, I would urge you to visit and witness for yourself."

And yet nobody came for me for a hundred years, is all that Aylin can think suddenly, bitter bile peaked in the back of her throat, the pettiness and unfairness of everything, of everyone here, herself included, of the entirety of the Realms and beyond, making her want to scream, or retch, or curse, or a hundred other unbecoming things.

"You will have to excuse me," she mutters instead, providing no excuse at all, and extracts herself from the conversation as quickly as possible without manifesting wings to fly directly upwards. "Moonmaiden's blessings!" She thinks at the very last moment to throw over her shoulder at the poor, faultless cleric, her insides already steeped in guilt.

There are two behaviours a rowdy Selûnite crowd exhibits when confronted with Dame Aylin. The first is being almost magnetically drawn to her presence, pushing against each other to come as close to her as possible; to graze and touch, perhaps, a gleaming pauldron. The other is to part before her like an awed, scurrying sea, and it is this second one Aylin is relieved to experience tonight.

It makes it easier to reach the stairs, to make quick and steady progress towards where she and Isobel have been put up in a place of honour on the fourth floor, overlooking the garden.

In her retreat, Aylin's hand brushes against a smooth white wall, and she remembers, vividly and with a jolt, orchestrating fine marble being brought over all the way from Reithwin to complete both a reconstruction after some Sharran-inflicted damage and an expansion of the premises. A sign of our enduring faith, Ketheric Thorm had spoken so proudly over the heavily laden ships departing downriver, the very ground under our feet offering up its riches to honour the Moonmaiden, entwining two places of utmost dedication to Her, forever.

Forever.

-

Isobel returns, eventually, from wherever the celebration had taken her, or wherever she had squirrelled herself away to avoid the worst of the crowds. Aylin watches her slip into the small but elegant antechamber of their quarters, and watches the polite, refined mask slip from her face at the same time. Every step she takes after kicking off her shoes, every little bit closer she inches to where Aylin is sitting, brooding on the edge of their bed, makes a small weight lift from her shoulders.

Isobel takes one look at Aylin, takes in her moody slouch, and meets her gaze with an exhausted smile. "There you are. I was half-convinced you'd still be down there, enjoying the ruckus - perhaps causing some of your own."

"Not… not today," Aylin replies, sounding as tired as she's ever heard herself be. Isobel kisses her temple, then sits next to her, and doesn't say anything like you would have loved this, once.

"I am hardly at my best, either. They asked me to lead a prayer in blessing of the ingredients intended for tomorrow's part of the feasting, and I just froze. All I could produce were horribly shallow platitudes. Hope prevails! I stammered out over some leeks and potatoes, Light conquers darkness! And then I realised, gods, isn't it odd, to quote one's own engraved epitaph? Would it be considered in poor taste?" Isobel grimaces, then chuckles at the absurdity of it all. She draws closer to Aylin, leaning against her shoulder in a way almost conspiratorial, eyes widened in mock-curiosity but still crinkled with amusement at the edges: "What if it's not the done thing in the big city?"

Her laughter at her own jokes is bittersweet but contagious, and Aylin gladly joins in, shaking off a bit more of whatever shadows seem to be clinging to her with every chortle and titter and giggle either of them produce.

"Their wine is rather strong. And I must have lost my stomach for both wine and grand events and loud crowds somewhere along the way," Isobel says, then shrugs. "Perhaps along with my actual stomach. Who can tell?"

It is horrible, yet also hilarious. Aylin wants to protest, in between guffaws, even thinking about that grim period, seeing what was once the person she adored most in the world be interred in cold marble. But Isobel makes it so… palatable. Light, but darkly amusing - for a precious moment, it's like it happened to someone else, like there is enough distance between them and it all to allow them to breathe freely.

"Let's go to bed. I feel like I could sleep for a century." Isobel winces and drags a hand down her own cheek, clears her throat of something unpleasant. "Ah, no. Awful phrasing. Just horrible. Please pretend I did not say that."

Aylin nods solemnly, then wraps her arms around Isobel's waist and tips them both backwards onto the covers in one swift movement. Isobel's little squeal of surprise turns into giggles soon enough. Though increasingly breathless, the giggles - Aylin notes with some satisfaction as she keeps fuelling them by pressing feather-light kisses to the parts of Isobel she knows to be most ticklish - do not turn into coughs that night.

-

As the day of the ceremony dawns, the first rays of sun find Aylin already awake. It is hardly Selûnite custom to rise so early - the moonlit night belongs to them, after all - but her reason is simple enough: she hasn't slept at all.

There were no night terrors jarring her awake in a sweat, nor shades of the past clinging in their nightmarish wake and denying her respite; no coughing fits from a guilty, apologetic Isobel, rousing them both. The night went by peacefully, quietly, with the mellowest rays of the almost-full moon filtering hazily into the room, setting Isobel's softly and regularly breathing figure all aglow. A rarity, such uninterrupted peace.

And yet Aylin spent it restless for reasons she still cannot name or explain. It felt, at moments, like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin and exist, for at least a little while, as something else.

She would have gotten up, and gone for a flight - anything to dispel this nervous, gnawing energy. But with Isobel so sweetly asleep on her chest, when she'd had such a trying few months on the road - Aylin did not have it in her to even risk jostling her beloved.

So here she is, and here she must sit with herself and her own thoughts for company. And there are few things Dame Aylin despises as much as having nothing to do but think, with simple acting being out of the question.

Her salvation finally comes in the form of Isobel squirming, mumbling sweetly against her skin, nuzzling into her as if looking for more warmth to leech - Aylin welcomes her to it, always. She tightens her arms around her, and digs them both further into a nest of duvets and blankets.

"Good morning, my love," Aylin whispers into silvery hair, to a charmingly unintelligible reply as Isobel entangles their legs further, then makes no other moves towards awakening. But she seems to melt against Aylin with the added warmth, and Aylin feels some of her miserable concerns melting alongside.

-

The gnomish youth walks up to them in the cheery daylight of the sunny morning, in the middle of their stroll around the outer temple concourse. He seems nervous but excited as he approaches, clears his throat, then wipes his hands on his robes. Their light grey colour and half-moon trim proclaim him an acolyte.

"Excuse me for the intrusion, but I… If I may have a moment of your time, Nightsong, I—"

Aylin whirls around on him in an instant, stepping closer only to loom over him terrifyingly, threateningly. "What did you call me?"

"Aylin," Isobel says in a hiss, herself yanked to a sudden stop, then places her best attempt at a calming hand on Aylin's arm. Aylin shrugs it off, somewhere at the periphery of her perception.

Nightsong nightsong nightsong is all she can hear - the dismal soundscape of the Shadowfell. Knives in the dark; cowards staying just out of reach of a woman bound but never helpless; taunting, mocking, jeering, cutting, stabbing. Killing.

"One of her lackeys, are you, slipped through the net?" Aylin manages through teeth clenched so tightly her jaw twinges with pain. "Thought to follow me here and catch me unawares? In my sleep, perhaps? Ho, but would that suit your yellow-bellied sort so well!"

There are visible beads of sweat on the acolyte's forehead as he tries to stammer out a reply, frozen in appropriate terror. "P-please, I, I only meant— I didn't, I didn't mean anything by it—I heard—"

"What?" Aylin roars into his face, eyes ablaze, arms thrown wide in a futile attempt to encompass the whole of her rage and the whole of her disgust. The insistent but weak pull on her sleeve she barely notices, now. "What did you hear? That your dark lady had a captive waiting for your blade? That easy sport was to be had, her fickle favour earned with but one display of wretched spinelessness? No more! No more, and never again!"

"No! No, please, I— your honoured titles, I thought it was just… just a title, I—"

"Aylin!" Isobel is there, suddenly. In front of her. Her Isobel, darling Isobel. Larger than her slight stature would suggest - or is that merely how far Aylin's vision has narrowed? Her clear, sweet voice is barely audible over the sound of Aylin's heart drumming in her own ears.

Two small, familiar, ever-cherished hands take Aylin's trembling one between them with aching tenderness. Sunlight warms Aylin's face, a breeze tickles her cheek, carrying over the smell of fresh bread and the damp of morning dew. The tension rushes out of her so rapidly Aylin fears, for a moment, she might just collapse into a heap on the ground then and there.

There are people around them, hushed, frozen stock-still, staring. There is a quivering young man behind Isobel who looks to be in tears.

Isobel takes in everything about Aylin in one long look - she sees and understands, as always, far too much. Aylin swallows with some difficulty, mouth unpleasantly dry, and a bitterness slowly but insistently crawling up her throat.

Isobel turns to the acolyte, voice so very soft, careful, and gentle: "Are you unharmed?" Oh, Isobel. Isobel, Isobel, Isobel, the calm in any storm.

"I-I think so, yes," the man - the boy - answers in a thin, reedy voice. But there were boys in the Shadowfell, too, near the end of Ketheric's campaign; no less doomed for their callowness, and no less determined in their efforts. He is pale, his robes visibly stained with sweat, and his wide-eyed gaze does not leave Aylin. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean any offence."

Aylin wants to speak some kind of apology of her own, but her lips manage only soundless, futile movements. And, herself the coward she was just accusing this man of being, she surrenders to it, averts her eyes, and hides behind Isobel - avoiding the glances she keeps shooting Aylin's way.

"That is a relief to hear," Isobel says sweetly, soothingly, taking and smoothing over the entire unpleasant situation with enviable and practised skill. Her voice, now that Aylin's own mind allows her to hear it, is truly a balm for every ill. "A great relief to us both. Please do not worry, we know it was a misunderstanding. Can I help you, perhaps, with whatever it was you needed?"

"It's… it's nothing really important. It is to be my first attendance at a formal ceremony and I had some questions. And, and the, uhm, Dame Aylin," he enunciates it so very carefully, "Dame Aylin is known for her open, welcoming nature, and willingness to instruct and share her great Mother's blessings. My teacher told me, they remember, from. From before."

Isobel's friendly smile is strained in that subtle way that, Aylin thinks, only she can recognise. "Perhaps another time, hm?" She asks, head tilted charmingly, and who could ever disagree with her? "Dame Aylin has been on some very trying missions of late - we should let her rest up and recuperate, so that she is at her best for the ceremony."

The acolyte nods, bows deeply, and leaves on still shaky legs.

Isobel takes her hand without another word and guides them back towards their quarters. Aylin does not protest.

-

She and Isobel take their light lunch in their room, trays set upon the unmade bed, legs tangled in feathery duvets.

Quiet companionship. That is all.

And then Isobel gets up to leave, off to participate in midday prayers. Mercifully, after one good look at her, she offers to excuse Aylin with some white lie or other.

Aylin, in her misery, doesn't even notice the chafe of her pride as she agrees.

-

Isobel does not return for quite some time. It is long past the chimes ringing out to mark the end of the daily devotions, fast approaching the start of their preparations and meditations in advance of the ceremony.

So Aylin gathers herself, shakes off the soft temptation of cowardice, and ventures out.

Her first guess, the temple's grand library and one of Isobel's favourite hideaways, does not produce any trace of her beloved. But the search does not take long from there; a little ways further down the quiet hallway she hears Isobel's voice from one of the unused chambers in this array of housing quarters.

"There is… something…" Isobel stammering, hesitating like that is highly unusual. Aylin's attention is arrested on the spot, and she steps closer to the door cracked only slightly open, listening keenly. "Some foul residue of death, some rot, still within me. I have failed to expel it on my own. I have tried prayer and ritual and herbs, but…"

"What would you ask of me?" It is the voice of the High Priestess; serious, but with a definite touch of concern.

"A blessing," Isobel sounds, to the untrained ear, perfectly composed and polite. But Aylin senses an undercurrent of uncertainty, even fear, in her words. A tremble so slight it is barely perceptible. "A restoration, or rejuvenation of some sort - perhaps a retaking of vows? Any vows you and Our Lady would deem fit. It is only that… none of my own spells have had any effect, and time has not truly helped."

Every word out of Isobel's mouth feels like agony. Like a hot, searing knife of shame cutting into Aylin's belly - that she is so weak, her dearest Isobel would prefer to suffer in silence rather than burden her, and wait for so long for an opportunity to seek help. If her own stalwart champion could not help her bear her burdens, keep her happy and hale - what was the thrice-damned point of her?

Aylin clenches her teeth and tries to calm her breathing, resting the back of her head against the wall - it would not do to alert anyone to her presence, to interrupt Isobel's doubtlessly hard-won consultation. The High Priestess was always a busy woman, and especially so in times surrounding celebrations and grand occasions, holy days and rituals.

"As for the, ah, incident… word has doubtlessly reached your ears—"

As soon as she tries to focus on the conversation again, Aylin freezes, aghast at the realisation they are talking about her, about her failure in broad daylight in front of half the temple.

The High Priestess is choosing to stay quite diplomatically comforting. "Rest assured no harm was truly done - save for the harm that was already there, that remains to be dealt with."

Isobel's sigh is deep and long. Though Aylin cannot see her, she can picture so very clearly that way she holds her hands together and runs her thumbs over the seams on her gloves when she is thinking. "I am… not sure how."

"You love, and care, and listen. And intervene against her worst, unwise impulses. I should think that will suffice, eventually."

"Eventually," Isobel repeats, as audibly disgruntled as Aylin has ever heard her allow herself to be in company. And it stabs at her with mild and bittersweet amusement, that in some way her darling is running out of patience, wearing it desperately thin, just as she is.

"We are rich in experienced clerics here," the priestess continues, her voice gentle but not quite descending into pity. "We have seen such things many times, alas. I am afraid time, and care during that time, have proven the only reliable cure for ills like these."

"I worry. For her. For myself."

"It is only natural. You love her."

"I do," speaks Isobel with the determined, silky softness over that core of steel - her darling will not be daunted. Aylin almost wants to grip at her chest, with how her heart swells in its eternal home. "And… well, we have tried rest. We have tried travel and pilgrimage. We have tried removing ourselves, a bit, from everything. Perhaps that was my mistake. Being back here has been… challenging in ways I did not quite expect."

"Look up," Aylin herself follows the High Priestess' instruction - the ceiling, growing slowly transparent as moonrise draws near, still has visible designs of all the moon's phases running around it. Round and round and round in their destined cycle. Forever. "Our Lady shows us many faces. But Her fiercest countenance She shows towards Shar, the ancient enemy who would sink us all into darkness. Fierce battles must be fought, when your opponent will not stop or deign to show mercy, when they are hell-bent on your eradication. Is it not then right, if we must fight, to have those who are trained and taught to do so lead the charge?"

"I suppose so, yes," Isobel sounds cautiously uncertain of the point being made.

"The Sword of the Silverlight is our best defence, after all, as they say - a good offence."

"She is," Isobel agrees. "And she loves being this. She genuinely enjoys her duties and does not wish to be excused from them - and I understand."

And that is the beauty of it, Aylin thinks with yet more warmth blooming in her chest, for Isobel does. Even with the concerns she has voiced over the years, on some fundamental level she sees Aylin like none other ever will. For Aylin counts herself blessed to have been granted clear and glorious purpose, to have been born to do such good, to take up arms for a cause so worthy and noble and right. Not many can claim this. Her oath is no great burden foisted upon her, no tragic anchor weighing her down - it is one of the precious things that kept her truly alive and holding together the pieces of herself throughout her captivity. She takes great pride in all that she is, and great satisfaction, too, and wishes to relinquish none of it.

What is troubling to her, in fact, are those rare occasions when the satisfaction wanes, when the joy of her gladly-borne duty slips just a bit out of reach—

"For all of her singularity, she was not— you were not meant to be set apart. Not from the world, or from the faithful, or, I should think, each other. You have suffered a great injustice, during this century of sundering, and now the most immediate parts of it have been undone. Now there is a sense of moderation to be found, a balance to be struck, and you have yet to hit upon it. From everything I have seen, I believe you will, as surely as I believe that I will look upon the sky tonight and be graced by the light of Our Lady's face."

"So you must also understand why I worry for her," Isobel insists. "A century may not be long in her seeing of the world, her understanding of time. But the wounds are so fresh. No matter how many times she rises after being felled, how far she flies to enact Selûne's holy will and keep Her faithful safe, or how much genuine joy she gains from this, eventually she needs healing and rest like all of us do."

"How fortuitous, then," the priestess' smile is audible, "that she has a skilled cleric at her side."

"For as long as I am able, I swear it," Isobel states, voice slightly raspy with unpleasant reminders. "Though I might not be… oh, never mind."

"Spoken as if you were the paladin of the pair. Very well, Isobel Thorm. You have already dedicated one life to serving Selûne. I myself do not see the need for this reconsecrating - but since your resurrection was unusual, to say the least, and you yourself feel the need, I have no objections. You have my blessing, and you will have it at the ceremony." Then, far more pointedly: "For all to see."

Isobel did not bring up the tongues wagging in ugly gossip, the venom injected into the name Thorm whenever it was spoken, or the cruel rumours; those and all other reasons for her not exactly hiding, perhaps, but keeping so often to either their chambers or the quiet library after the first few days of their stay. That this has not failed to escape the High Priestess' notice was, perhaps, to be expected. "Thank you," Isobel says quietly, only slightly embarrassed. 

Aylin's glare was usually enough to silence any unjust insinuations aimed at Isobel for the sin of her parentage, but she couldn't be everywhere at once. And the cruel words seemed so often to resume once her back was turned. Perhaps a different demonstration could indeed help quell this utterly misaimed ill will - or perhaps it is, once again, a question of time, and of memory. Aylin is not blind to how often Isobel has introduced herself using nothing but her given name this past year, but has not commented upon it, either.

The conversation seems to be reaching its end, and Aylin realises she feels wretched. She cannot undo her intrusion, she cannot unhear what she has heard - so she does the one thing that befits an honourable paladin. She waits quietly until Isobel is finished, and when she exits the chamber, Aylin steps out from her hiding place, head contritely bowed, ready to accept her judgement.

Isobel understands immediately - her face drops in a way Aylin finds agonising, especially since she is the cause - then she closes the door behind herself rather pointedly. She tries to muster up a more characteristic, wry little smile, but the frustration in it makes it crooked. "I assume there is no point in asking how much of that you overheard?"

"A thousand apologies, my love," Aylin lowers her head further, reaches for Isobel's hand slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. But she does not, and Aylin heaves a sigh of relief as she brings it up to her lips for a gentle kiss. Her thumb rubs little circles into the cool hand, hidden beneath the sturdy leather of Isobel's gloves more often than not. "It was not my intent to intrude, and yet— and yet I did."

"I do not want nor need to be coddled, hovered over, or put under a fancy glass-crystal bell. I would like to remind you of this, Aylin," Isobel does not raise her voice, but her words carry a distinct sharpness.

"But it is my own most hideous failure that you do not feel you can confide any of this in me. Doubly so when I add my own burdens to yours, I…" Then, a rush, something actionable. "If I can somehow prove to you that—"

"Aylin, stop," Isobel is quiet but tense, brows furrowed in visible irritation.

Aylin bows her head again, swallows, re-centres herself in silence for a moment, and speaks the truth. "Then I want you to know that I hope, deeply and ardently and with every fibre of my eternal being, that you get whatever it is you desire out of the ceremony. I hope your burdens are eased, even if I am not the one to ease them. That is all."

Isobel's mouth is still twisted downwards in quiet anger, but she relaxes a bit with a long exhale. "Thank you, Aylin. Now, our bath awaits. Let's not waste the time we have been given, and have the attendants say they emptied the chamber for nothing."

-

It is difficult to remain at all tense or displeased when immersed in hot water. The steam rising from the clear surface seems to form a wall between Aylin and the rest of the world, with all its troubles and concerns; a pale shielding dome, much like those oft conjured by Selûne's servants.

Isobel, herself visibly mellowed by the warm, finely-scented water, is letting it wash away the worst of her foul mood, and is focusing on inhaling the damp air deeply and slowly. Aylin still feels horribly guilty over it all, and so they sit, uncharacteristically, at the opposite ends of the shallow recessed pool. It is a rare treat and privilege still, to have a bathing chamber so large all to themselves.

For the guest of honour to prepare for the ceremony in privacy, ostensibly, was the reason Isobel gave for this arrangement yesterday. Aylin thinks Isobel simply knows her too well, and is far too crafty for anyone's good.

With a heated head set against cool tile, Aylin's thoughts seem to swim against each other lazily. Not much is expected of her tonight, honestly - all of it is so very far from any challenge to her abilities. A swoop across the Dome, like a shiny bird of prey. A bright trail around the tower. A proclamation in Celestial, with some rather rote blessings. But visibility is the goal of the endeavour, first and foremost, and being noticed is something Aylin knows how to accomplish all too well.

It is horrible to imagine that rat Lorroakan being alive still, or going along with the initial plan of convincing him Aylin had been killed. Horrible to think of there being more of his ilk, and with Aylin drawing attention to herself like this—

She shakes her head with a growl, damp hair whipping against her face - what a preposterous thought to even begin to indulge! Dame Aylin hiding, cowering, obscuring her very existence - out of what, fear? She, who is meant to be a beacon in the thickest, vilest darkness!

For the ceremony is above all a signal to Shar and her followers, whose schemes against her Mother and Her flock Aylin was distraught but unsurprised to find out had escalated severely in her absence, as word of her disappearance spread. It is crucially important to send a message: the Selûnites are protected once more, the Sword of the Moonmaiden returned, as sharp as ever.

Only it isn't quite, is it?

Which nobody can know. Not even Isobel, Aylin would have said - but it has always been impossible to truly hide anything from Isobel.

"Aylin," Isobel's voice comes, suddenly, from right next to where Aylin has reclined. She startles, a bit - she hadn't even noticed her wade over closer.

"I am sorry," Aylin speaks up at once, turning to meet her eyes. "my intrusion was unbecoming—"

"It was," Isobel is determined, merciless, but there is a slight rueful smile dancing around her face. "And I was a fool - we are both fools for attempting to hide from each other, all in the name of supporting the other. We will achieve nothing this way."

"Agreed," Aylin mutters, wincing just a bit at the contents of her most recent thoughts.

Isobel moves even closer, until they are sitting thigh to thigh, still comfortably immersed up to their shoulders. Aylin notes, to some relief, her smile seems far lighter and brighter already. "I demand recompense, then, Dame Aylin, and I will consider the matter settled for now."

Aylin immediately sits up, causing the water to slosh out onto the stone tile. Fresh alertness blows away the last traces of her warm haze. "Whatever you would ask of me, you will have," she exclaims ardently, taking one of Isobel's hands out of the water and running her lips along the damp skin. Then she pauses, hesitates, swallows in trepidation. "Only, do not ask me to leave your side or be apart from you. I could bear a great many things, but not that. Never that."

"Oh, Aylin, my darling. I couldn't bear that, either," Isobel wraps her free arm around Aylin's neck, clings so closely to her she is almost sitting in her lap. Aylin makes no move of her own, but simply basks in her presence. "All I ask is that, to make us even, you share one of your troubles with me. Whichever one you want - goddess knows you have been stewing in them this past tenday, and have told me nothing at all."

Aylin's teeth worry at the golden scar that bisects her lower lip, and she considers the arrangement as Isobel's hand traces a comforting pattern down her neck to her shoulder and back up again, smudging droplets in its wake. Then she inhales deeply until her ribs strain, and exhales slowly, watching her breath disturb the curtain of steam before them. Finally, she begins. "I would have gotten utterly turned around looking for the old bathhouse, had you not led me here. If I let my mind drift or wander for even a moment, I end up lost, staring at some unfamiliar chapel in a dead end hallway. It is maddening that I cannot even trust my footsteps in this, a temple to a goddess of guidance and navigation and my own holy mother. More than a hundred years out of date," Aylin scoffs at herself, letting an agitatedly gesturing hand drop back into the water with a splash. "Perhaps they were right to call me a relic."

"Don't say that!" Isobel doesn't take those words very well, and Aylin herself is not sure just how jokingly she'd meant them.

And Aylin remembers, in a rush and with a wince, the sight of Isobel stowing away her cherished robes that very morning. Darling Isobel, as displaced as she. The Selûnite vestments found around the Heartlands haven't changed very drastically, but what is different became noticeable as soon as they first left Reithwin behind them, all those months ago.

Isobel has not made any alterations to her robes. She carefully mends what she can when she needs to, and has acquired a new set in addition, from one of the first enclaves they visited. The point was, according to her, to alternate depending on company and comfort levels, and to not wear out her original, precious set quite so much.

She touches them and puts them away so carefully and reverently every time - one of the rare surviving bits of a Reithwin one hundred years ago. Some parts of them, Aylin remembers being told, originally belonging to Isobel's mother in her youth.

Aylin leans down so their foreheads can press together, and closes her eyes.

"Perhaps it would help if you told me how it was before - something you were particularly fond of," Isobel suggests, a gentle, soothing hand running up and down Aylin's upper arm. "Or, better yet, something you hated that they've now fixed - surely there's some of that, as well?"

Aylin hums, casting her mind back, combing through a thousand little fragments. The kitchens have clearly gone through some well-thought-out changes, considering the lovely fare they've been serving - or perhaps, a small part of Aylin pipes up, it is merely that she has still not had her fill after a century of unwilling fasting.

She shakes her head, as if to physically direct her thoughts down different avenues. "The addition of the tower is… altogether too much, in my view. But the newly expanded east wing, with that row of inner terraces that look out across the gardens - that is truly lovely."

Isobel huffs out a small sardonic laugh. "You know, I myself have grown quite wary of people who strive to build very tall towers, claiming this is meant to honour Our Lady. When instead, all it feels like is them trying to reach for Selûne herself, for whatever their own selfish reasons."

Their peace is suddenly interrupted by the clear ring of a set of silver bells, and a polite summons from just outside the door - a reminder that their time here is up, and their duties call once more.

-

The ceremony goes by without incident. Afterwards, very little of it seems inclined to stick in Aylin's mind - like so much running water, it has passed her by in a blink, and it would be futile to try and retrieve it. But she has done it, and it is an immense relief. There is even a tentative sense she has captured some small piece of herself that had been floating around aimlessly, and slotted it back in its proper place.

Because throughout the proceedings, however long or short they had truly been, thousands of pairs of eyes stayed on her, rapt, and Aylin sensed from them nothing but hope, and joy, and amazement. No covetous glares, no ill intent. A great many of these people wanted a great many things from her, but none of them anything Aylin was not willing to give.

It is a good, much needed reminder of a truth Aylin has always known: there is no faith without the faithful. The people are what truly matters, and her place is among them.

Formalities done with, they all proceed to the festivities quickly enough. Aylin is congratulated, thanked, praised for her efforts as they go. She shakes so many hands, dispensing yet more blessings amongst the crowd as she navigates the grandly decorated hall.

She is trying, as always, to find the one person she would not hesitate to say matters above all others.

The one moment of the evening Aylin can picture clear as day, as if it were engraved in her memory, is this: Isobel, radiant, receiving acknowledgement, crowned with silver blessing to a great and roaring cheer - and, hopefully, finding at least a fragment of whatever peace has kept eluding her.

But Isobel is nowhere to be seen, again. Aylin takes a deep breath and allows herself to plunge into the crowd, tries to focus on drawing on that sense of connection she'd felt so keenly while up in the air, doing a showy loop for them all.

She finds her first target quickly enough, even though he is small enough to get lost in a crowd all too easily: the young gnomish acolyte who'd performed his role as the main altar attendant with gumption and gusto and relish.

Aylin stands a politely pronounced distance away from him, and extends her hand when he turns and notices her. She is relieved to see him only nervously hesitate for a blink before stepping forward and taking it - a slight, sensible amount of nervousness that Aylin is well used to.

"I wish to congratulate you on duties well-performed. As well as reassure you I bear you no ill will. My ire this morning was entirely misaimed," Aylin says, quietly, drawing a bit closer to him for some semblance of privacy as the crowd continues to be rather loud in their rejoicing. "And I was entirely at fault."

"Thank you, Emissary. Bearer of the Silverlight. Dame Aylin," the acolyte rattles off only some of her numerous titles, enthusiastically shaking her hand with both of his. "I apologise for my disrespect, and I swear it was not my intent. It was merely something I overheard and mistakenly counted among your long list of accolades. It sounded, forgive me, poetic enough."

"The Nightsinger has her moments, her sick amusements," Aylin tries to wave it off, and finds her teeth gritting in mounting anger - now with nobody to aim it at. "How were you to know? I have been gone for a miserable century. That moniker has spread far enough, even with much of its true meaning lost along the way. Once a thing like that takes hold, takes any root at all… well, let us just say I will have a time of it, disabusing people of the notion."

He nods, rapt, hanging on Aylin's every word, a low fire burning behind his eyes. Still, Aylin notices to her amusement, holding on to her hand and shaking it. She extracts it with a light tug and curls it into a determined fist between them. This gesture, too, is mirrored, and Aylin smiles sharply.

"Rest assured, and mark my words well: I am, have ever been, and shall always be Dame Aylin. Nightsong was only ever a curse, and foul Shar's attempt to claim me as her own. She has not, and will not succeed."

"Selûne willing," the acolyte agrees, a matching passion mounting in him as well. "May She guide our hands. I, for one, will not allow Shar or her lackeys to steal any more from any of us."

"A comrade after my own heart," Aylin claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. His knees only buckle for a moment, and Aylin's grin widens. A moment of brilliant clarity comes over her - a segment of her birthright, as well. "We will meet again. An illustrious future awaits you, I have no doubt - my Mother will ensure it. Continue your training here. Dame Aylin, the Nightsong-no-more, shall await your stalwart companionship on a quest of great import, one day. Together we will do Our Lady most proud. May I have your name?"

The acolyte beams, straightens his back, and squares his shoulders. The half-moon brooches on his ceremonial garb, polished with great care, catch the light as he moves. "Glint, my lady. Not two moons out of my novitiate, so I fear it may… it may yet be a while before we do anything of the sort."

"An auspicious name, Glint," Aylin nods, and then speaks a reassurance for the both of them, infusing it with every measure of certainty she can. "Worry not; there will be time enough for everything, now."

-

They are comfortably away from the world, sequestered in their quarters, long after the night's festivities have ended. The moon has sunk out of sight, and the first tease of grey dawn has started to bleed into the sky.

Snuggled deep in the cocoon of soft blankets and coverings and feathers that has become their usual, they are twined around each other so tightly it is difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. Neither of them would have it any other way.

That is when Isobel dares ask her question, in a voice so quiet Aylin fears she would have missed it, were she not so utterly attuned to perceiving and absorbing everything about precious, cherished Isobel.

"Do you sense… anything different about me?" When Aylin doesn't respond save for a brow furrowed then raised in question, she amends: "The ceremony - do you think it changed me in any way? Did the blessing… take?"

Aylin is quiet for a while. Leans back as far as the thickest duvet will allow to almost feign taking a better look at Isobel. Peels away a few layers of soft coverings and runs a light hand over a bare shoulder, down a pale arm. Closes her eyes to hear better, then takes a deep breath of the incense-infused air.

"I do not sense any change," Aylin can only ever be honest, though the way her words seem to cut gaping wounds into Isobel makes her want to spout deceits worse than a conniving devil. "But I did not notice anything off about you before it, either. You know this, Isobel. You know I cannot lie to you, and I would not even if it was within my power."

Isobel smiles, then the chuckle she produces turns into a tearful hiccup. "I think I pinned too much hope onto one silly thing - I think I somehow convinced myself this one simple miracle would solve all my problems. And the truth is… I do not feel any different at all, either."

"I think the miracle we both received is a little more complex than a single temple blessing, no matter the loftiness of the premises," Aylin replies softly. "Even if we are both still grappling with its many aspects."

There is a long quiet. A trouble for a trouble, Aylin thinks, remembering their arrangement.

"I did not want them to know," Aylin manages, finally. She hates how subdued and defeated she sounds suddenly; how small. Still she continues. "I did not want anyone to know. Not even you, who I cherish above all others. But it is impossible to hide from you."

"There is no shame in it—" Isobel begins.

"But there is," Aylin insists immediately, and curls tighter around her, the feathers in the duvet rustling in tandem with her wings. "It is shameful, it is a fallibility, it is a weakness. A year, and I am still like this. A year, and I am undone by a single word. I could have gone too far today, hurt an innocent for the crime of a phrase overheard, a mere misunderstanding."

"Perhaps you could have. But what matters is that you did not."

"Because you called me back from the brink. Isobel Thorm," she murmurs into Isobel's hair, trails fingers beneath a thin camisole, across the skin of a sharp hip and a soft belly, warm and real. Grounding in a way nothing else could ever be. "Witness to my wax and wane."

"As you are to mine," Isobel murmurs back, just as quietly, the sound almost stifled against Aylin's collarbone. "I did not want them to know how I felt," she says, mild rasp audible in her voice. "I did not want you to know, I did not want Selûne to know."

Aylin guffaws wetly, hides her tears in Isobel's hair as she feels her own skin grow damp where Isobel's face burrows against it. "What a pair we make. What a match."

"We always were, were we not?" Isobel laughs as well, soft, barely-there, and yet it feels more genuine than any other sound she has made today. She takes one of Aylin's hands between both of hers, presses a soft kiss to the knuckles, and holds it to her chest. "Nothing can change this - no matter how we ourselves might change."

"She is always so wise, my Isobel," Aylin whispers, feeling a bone-deep exhaustion slowly but surely settling into her, weighing down all her limbs.

"Yours," is all Isobel replies, as both of them sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.

-

They leave Waterdeep by ship.

Isobel seems, outwardly, her elegant and composed self, but Aylin can see the way she is thrumming with thrill and delight as they climb aboard in the chill that clings to the air just before dawn. Her previous excursions were only ever confined to little river boats and the Reithwin lakeside - Aylin, meanwhile, was more used to flying to her destinations. The joy of the two of them sharing a novel experience is buoying, making Aylin's insides leap far more than the waves rocking the still-moored vessel would justify.

Once they've deposited their belongings in their tiny cabin belowdecks, they return above to witness the departure and bid their silent farewells to the city. Suddenly, instead of resting them against the railing, Isobel throws her arms around Aylin's neck, feet tiptoeing just barely on the swaying deck. "Pretend the strength of that last wave surprised me - it's not like I have my sea legs, after all," she whispers against Aylin's lips. "Clearly I should have practised more, in the hall."

"Clearly," Aylin smiles into each salt-tanged kiss Isobel punctuates her sentences with, and holds her close. This time, the wind and waves and briny spray are real, and Isobel is not going anywhere.

"Thank you for indulging me," Isobel murmurs, before letting go and slipping down to find her balance again. She stays pressed against Aylin's side as she does, one arm around her waist.

"Hardly an indulgence," Aylin waves it off. "Perhaps you will decide you hate it within the first day of travel. Then we shall simply have to make our excuses and apologies to the captain, and rely upon my wings again."

"Why would I ever hate it?" Isobel looks up at her, both eyebrows raised.

"I admit, I have my concerns. The incessant rocking to and fro… the cramped cabins…"

Isobel smirks and presses, somehow, even closer. "I can think of worse things."

The cries of the crew start up around them before Aylin can think of an appropriately heated reply; a spectacle of ropes snaking about, anchors rising from the harbour's depths, and sails unfurling in the wind.

Aylin takes another deep, fresh, bracing breath as she looks up. She meets the face of the moon preparing to descend below the horizon and surrender the sky to ruddy, golden daylight. The wind turns just so; the ship cuts sleekly through the sea below, and leaves the pier far behind within moments. "We have a fine journey before us," she states with great certainty.

Isobel hums her agreement as the lights of the city slowly disappear out of view.

[idkfitememate]

Love Written in the Stars

૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა Pairings : SAGAU!CREATOR x Reader

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა W.K. :

໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ Tags/CW&TW : Fluff & angst

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : Y’all… I couldn’t help it… you tall as FUCK (If you haven’t noticed I like making reader big because we’re always tiny and it sucks-)

The Creator - They whom created all - was a benevolent Being.

The stars and beyond the known universe mortal and immortal eye could see, was ruled by Their gentle hand - that of which carved mountains and forged rivers in Their awesome image - and claimed by Their loving heart.

The Creator - that of whom bleeds in golden blood and cries tears untainted and pure - had no name that can be said by Teyvatian tongue. No one language - be it Old Inazunese or Forgotten Liynese or Ancient Mondstan - had a single name for It. No one title seemed enough to envelope even a fraction of Their power. Not a single word one may have used to describe It was enough.

Nothing was ever enough.

That’s why every nation had Shrines and Temples and Churches dedicated to Their honor. The ripest fruits, the shiniest metals, and most beautiful of arts and culture and literature and knowledge - anything a person could think of would be given to The Creator. In hope that maybe a person would be blessed.

That perhaps they may be recognized by Them.

Like the Acolytes.

Strongest of the strong in terms of Vision and Element users. Gods and mortals alike blessed with the ability to create large bursts of energy and fearsome attacks.

The front lines.

The most blessed.

The one whom worshipped the most.

If these Acolytes were not helping around their nations they were preying, spending no time for themselves. For how could they? Being blessed in the eyes of their Creator to have even a fraction of The Creator’s power for a blip of a second was more that what their life would and should ever be worth - they owed their entire puny existences to their Creator what kind of awful children would they be to not give their everything - lives, fame, money, worldly possessions, etc - to their almighty Creator?

And so, this was Teyvat.

A land ruled by a merciful Creator who was heard - but not seen - and loving to their subjects.

Until you came.

When you wondered into Mondstadt, the first thing noticed by the people was how similar you looked and acted like their Creator. Long loose-fitting clothes that left little to the imagination flowed around your body with mystifying patters and colors. Your feet lightly - barely - touched the surface of the earth, giving you a sense of floating as you aimlessly flitted around the area, seemingly entranced with worldly wonders like a sheltered child who’d never seen their own shadow.

The people of Mondstadt bit their tongue as you walked around, seemingly on another plane with a hauntingly gently smile placed gently on your lips, serene mind seemingly hours away from the watchful eyes of every Mondstadtian watching you like hawks above a sparrow. You were unaware. Unfrightened. Unchallenged.

Then Barbatos descended.

His voice, usually like a playful breeze, whipped around like a wind storm as he spoke to you:

“Whom DARES copy the looks of Teyvat’s Master and DARES try to get away with it!!?!?”

The people of Mondstadt hid behind walls and pillars, having never seen their God so offended - really, they had never seen him be anything but jovial in this lifetime, stories of his wrath long being buried under snow in Dragonspine and in the seas surrounding his Nation.

Anemo wrapped around your body and lifted you, though in both Barbatos’s and his people’s furies they could not see how his angered winds became light wisps as they lifted you high - like an offering.

His shouts of threats and death went through deaf ears as you stared at the small Archon with wonder, reaching a hand out and patting his head.

The world itself seemed to stop, the whipping winds dying down as his already wide eyes became even wider. His wings fluttered and feathers rose. His breath stuttered when you ran manicured nails across his scalp, a soothing sensation trickling down across his very being.

Everything seemed to stop. No one breathed - besides you who continued to pet the God’s hair. The silence was deafening, enough to hear a dandelion seed whisk through the air. Venti’s eyes traveled up to your own and you smiled - he shuddered.

It was instantaneous, really.

The sharp feeling of winds searing through your flesh and bones, ripping your wrist and hand away from your body. Venti’s blank expression scorched your soul, your smile dropping in favor of surprise. Your lost limb flew through the air and landed before the startled Mondstadtians.

Red.

Your blood, was red.

It was immediate, the way you were thrown to the ground and bound by those with Visions, tight and painful did the ropes squeeze around your ankles - not your wrist for you had only the one now. The gag of leather they stuffed in your mouth was hard and smelled awful, and the bag they threw over your head was stiff and scratchy.

You barely struggled as they took you, paraded you around town, and eventually threw you in some dank dungeon, rank and humid, and left you to rot.

Weeks passed, perhaps even a month. You didn’t know how you had survived but you had, and you were wretched from your cell, still bound and gagged, and thrown onto… something. And it started. A parade… maybe a caravan? You couldn’t see but you could feel the climates change as you were dragged about Teyvat, met with the cheers of vicious civilians who threw foods and rocks at your bound form, much to the amusements of nearly all Gods you came across.

After Barbatos removed a hand, Morax took his turn and stabbed a Polearm through one of your thighs, leaving it there for the wound to fester and decay. Beel did the same, slashing across your chest so that your Red, ‘unholy’ blood would be on display.

The only God who showed you any sympathy was Nahida - it would feel rude to call her by her Godly name when she treated you with more humanity than any other human you had encountered. While her subjects cheered for your death, she sat silently, ashamed. When asked if she wanted to stake her name on your body, a mark to show Sumeru would never forgive, she gave you little more than a cut on your arm. While her nation was distressed at her action, you felt the truth. She had healed you, set a seed in your soul so that warmth spread through your veins and numbed the stabbing pain of all your other wounds.

You’re sure you saw her smile.

However, it was the same through all other Nations. Furina made a show of it and formed a water bubble around your sack, dampening it so you would be waterlogged for the rest of your journey, slowly water boarding you. Mavuika did something similar, slamming a club into your scull till a sickening crack echoed through the arena, met with joyous cheers.

Finally, you made it to the Tsaritsa’s land. The people in charge of transporting you left you in your now torn and rag-like fabrics - no longer flowing and white - and soggy sack, so that you would feel the full effects of the bone freezing chill of Shnez.

She seemed uninterested when you first met her, or at least you thought so, then your entire bottom half was frozen, skin long since numbed and blue from the frigid temperatures.

With the parade done - which was a month long campaign - you were taken to some kind of middle point, where all the Nations gathered to witness the finale of your misery: your execution.

The blade was sharp, ceremonial carvings gracefully curved over its surface, glinting in the midday light. The roar of the crowd was deafening, if you could’ve, you would’ve moved your one hand to cover your ears from the noise, but naturally, you were tied down. The damp sack had been ripped from your head so the crowd could watch the life in your eyes die, which creeped you out.

The honor had gone to Barbatos, being that it was his Nation that captured you. You could vaguely hear Morax mumbling under his breath but ignored it in favor of looking to Nahida.

Where every other Archon was standing strong, sure, she wasn’t. She was shaking, small tears dolloping her eyes. She was scared, worried, so you offered her a smile. You could hear the confusion run through her head at your grin. Though before any words of comfort could be offered, it happened.

The pain was brief, quick. The searing pain you felt through your neck and throat passed by immediately leaving you in painless bliss for a moment. The deafening cheers from the crowd silenced as the light left your eyes.

Barbatos raised the sword high.

The crowd roared.

Nahida clasped her hands together, holding back tears.

It had been done.

Or so… they thought.

The skies grew dark in mere seconds, wind and rain whipping across the gathered crowds of mortals and immortals. The Gods looked to the skies in confusion, should their Creator not be proud of what they’d done?

A blink and they would’ve missed it, the hand that guided the winds took Barbatos by the neck and squeeze, before throwing him down onto the earth before his subjects. Both the Archons and Acolytes looked around, weapons raised.

The wind continued to whip, Barbatos desperately trying to get control but the winds refused to listen to the traitor. A storm began to brew, and it was only mere seconds before a mix of hale and rain poured from the sky, lightning catching unsuspecting crowd members off guard. The Archons tried desperately to regain control, teeth gritting and gnashing but nothing worked. As regular civilians began to cry, Their voice sounded.

“You dare to lay a finger on my beloved?” They whispered, and even despite this their voice made bounds above the storm. Their voice was soft as snow and rung like a bell. The storming clouds parted, giving way for Them.

Slowly They descended, birds singing Their praises as nearby animals bowed. It was as the Teyvat itself sighed in relief when Their bare foot touch ground.

The gods mouths gaped, long having resigned to a life where they may never seen Them, only to see Their heavenly beauty after years of silence. Quickly they fell to their knees, heads hung low with noses pressed to the wet mud. Their followers quickly bowed, faces pressed to the floor as They found their footing on the soft earthy ground beneath Them.

Their figure glided across the floor, not sparring a passing glance to anyone, only slowing as They came to your beheaded body. A whimper left Their lips when They picked up your head, hugging it tight to their body while glaring at the gods.

“… How could you…” They cried, voice swept up by the winds and traveling through the crowds. Eyes widened as pants grew from the now steady stream of tears running down Their face.

“I-If I may be so bold, Your Grace-“ Barbatos started, but he was silenced by a single harsh glare from Them.

They held your head close, pressing kisses to your forehead and whispering as They gilded over to where your still bleeding body lie. Gods and Acolytes watched in wonder as They placed your head onto the stump of your neck with care, humming while energy flowed through your body.

Eyes widened as your wound healed itself, color returning to your skin and muscles loosening. They took you into Their hands, holding you bridal style as your torn and weathered clothes rebuilt themselves at Their silent request. Golden power flowed in your veins, glowing proudly.

The Archons and Acolytes stared on in both fear and adoration as you came back to life, eyes opening to find Their’s staring right back. You smiled, which led to a chuckle, pressing a palm against Their face, grunting at how some of the Archons had to hold back noises of shock.

“My dearest, you came.” You mused, “I had begun to worry.” Everyone seemed to gawk at your causal tone while you situated yourself in Their arms, sitting up and wrapping your legs around Their waist and arms around Their shoulders. They grabbed your thighs and sighed, nuzzling into your neck.

“I would’ve come sooner my love, but knowing you, I waited. I hope this cured that morbid curiosity of yours?” They whispered. Nobody strained to hear what They said, as the world had fallen silent with Their appearance.

The Gods flintched… ‘My love’..?

You hummed pulling a lock of their hair into your hand and twirling it, thinking.

“I think it did,” you decided, “but, I don’t much like having one hand, I’ve found.” Barbatos shuttered. It was evident he was holding back tears to everyone, shaking as he knelt with the sword still stained in your blood before him.

Their eyes widened for a moment before nodding, one hand leaving your thighs and reaching for your wrist, assessing the damage. Their other hand drifted, a newly formed arm taking its place as the old one felt across your body for scars, wiping them away as though they were made of dust. They pressed a kiss to the stump of your wrist, golden light slowly over taking the spot until a hand blossomed like a golden rose.

You smiled and laughed joyously at the new hand, flexing fingers and rotating your wrist. You turned to Them with pursed lips, then used the new hand to grip Their hair and pull Them in for a kiss, Their hands tightening around your thighs while They leaned impossibly closer into you. You parted the kiss, the both of you flustered and grinning.

“Hehe… are you alright, dearest?” You hummed, staring at Them with Their blissed out expression. They simply giggled, nuzzling Their face into the other’s neck.

“… My Lord?” The call was soft, nearly silent. The world itself seemed to pause, the only true audible sound being your breathing.

Their hands tightened around your legs, gripping the flesh with animosity - though They were still careful enough to not leave bruises. Slowly Their head towards the call, eyeing all the Archons behind them with hatred. They scanned the row of shivering gods… besides Nahida.

She stood strong, hands clasped as she stared up at the both of you. Then, her head bowed low. The stern silence that encompassed the area lifted - if just slightly - at her display.

“Your Grace,” she began, “Please accept my most humble apologies-“ “There is no need for that, child.” They interrupted. A hand silently took the small God’s chin, tilting her face from side to side.

“You are Lesser Lord Kusanali… Buer, correct?” They asked. Nahida nodded. They hummed.

“Then there is no need to apologize. You did no wrong.” Their words were clear. Concise. They left nothing for interpretation. Every other Archon’s eyes widened as a hand found itself into Nahida’a hair.

“You did well, child.” They praised. The Dendro Archon herself stood still - rigid - as Their hand found and caressed strands of hair. Her breathing slowed as she leaned into Their touch.

The world was silent at the praise for the littlest Archon - all others in shock as they watched on. You still sat snug in Their grasp, hands clutched at Their shoulders while you lazily watched the praise as it happened - weariness in your bones ignited the large yawn that breached your lips.

“Is my Love tired?” They cooed - leaving you to whine and push away from droves of hands trying to pinch your cheeks. Onlookers still sat in shock as Their playfulness matched yours.

“M… My Liege?” The moment was broken by a small, trembling voice. Both your and Their gazes moved to the other Gods - Archon title stripped away in your mind - to see who had the audacity to speak.

Focalor. Her hands were clasped together - much like Nahida’s had been - with a shaky smile plastered to her lips. Any softness in Their eyes vanished when They stared at her.

“My Liege, if I may be so bold-“ “You are being bold by speaking to me after your crimes, but continue.” All the other gods jaws dropped. Focalor began to shake, tears staining her eyelids.

“O-of course! Uhm.. My Liege, my Lord, our Shining, Glimmering, Illustrious-“ “Get on with it.” “Y-YES!! What exactly is your… uh… relationship with the false one?”

Silence quickly swept over the stage.

Flustered, Focalor jumped up, tears fulling streaming down her face. She blabbered on and on - excuse after excuse about how it had become habit and how she no longer meant it and blah blah blah… you stopped listening as she brought up the others and their influences, which led to a rising argument.

The air grew suffocating as Focalor dragged more gods into her arguing, completely unaware of the stewing wrath of your Love under you. You huffed at Their expression, leaning over and pressing a kiss to Their cheek.

“I think,” you whispered, “that just leaving now and allowing them to fight it out would be best. And funniest… mostly funny.” Their head tilted towards you, humming, a grin growing on Their face. Before They could respond you lit up.

“Can we take Nahida too? She was sweet.” Their grin turned to small chuckles and a nod at your question, resulting in a fist pump from you.

“All this time has made you quite sadistic hm?” You flushed, face hot and laughed back.

“Maybe just a little.” You mused. They smiled and silent reached a hand to Nahida - who was unfortunately engrossed in the argument before all of you - and gently lifted her into a pair of arms.

Nahida looked surprised as you pressed a finger to your lips and winked - before all three of you lightly disappeared in a cloud of light smoke, rising into the sky, leaving the now loudly arguing gods behind to fight before their shell-shocked followers.

Like losers.

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🎂🍦🍩୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

The halls of the Chapel were silent. That silence was then promptly broken by the sounds of six distinct walks through the halls.

You sat on the lap of your Love, resting against Their chest to nap - disturbed by the marching from down the halls. You groaned, shoving your head into Their chest, causing them to laugh.

“Looks as though we have company, Dear.” They sung - your only response was a groan.

You both listened, unmoving, as the steps grew closer and closer. You didn’t turn around when they entered your main throne chambers.

Together to footsteps stopped - and in their place six loud thuds echoed as each god fell to their knees. You sighed and pressed further into Them, taking some strands off hair between your fingers and curling them gently.

“Why have you six come to us?” Their voice did well to hide Their anger. Eyes hidden from all but your own glared down at those before you both - those whom would never be worth your time again.

“We have come… to… apologize.” Said Morax. The silence that then filled the air was palpable - able to be sliced through with a knife.

They only stared at those below you while you continued to simply lay on Them, soft breaths bordering on snores. The awkwardness of Their lack of response seemed to be weighing on their shoulders because after a few more minutes of silence, Beel spoke up.

“We are apologizing because we recognize that we made a mistake, My Lord.” She was curt and straight to the point. It almost pissed you off - if you weren’t so tired and bored of the interaction all ready, you huffed into Their neck and They sighed back. With a wave of Their hand, They answered with one word.

“Dismissed.”

You could hear the gods hearts shatter under Their cold gaze - some started and sputter and mutter while others softly gazed at the floor with blank expressions.

“B-but you Illumanence!! Surely you must understand it was just an- an… an accident we-“ “Silence.”

All speech came to a screeching halt. Your closed eyes pressed against Their neck as the order hung in the air. Their hands ran across your spine and shoulders in a soothing way - but Their eyes never left the pitiful forms of those gods before you.

“My allowing of your continued existences is enough of a mercy for such… insolence. Begone with you. Leave. Before I change my mind…” This was the coldest you had ever heard Their voice.

The air grew icy with Their demand and within seconds - the gods had left. There was no reason to continue to grovel, especially with you in Their arms.

“They are gone now, Love.” You hummed, pressing yourself further into them, as though you wanted to combine and become one with Them. They giggled.

“Mmmm… I wanna take a nap.” You mumbled, barely shifting as They picked you up in Their arms as they rose.

“That would be beneficial… considering the tea party we are set to have with Lesser- ahem. I mean, Nahida this afternoon.” You lifted your head with a lazy grin.

“Yippiee…” You cheered, half-heartedly raising an arm before dropping it with a sigh.

“Mmm that was tiring… I don’t like hearing their voices.” You whined. They hummed, continuing to walk you both to your quarters.

“I could get rid of them-“ You snorted.

“No no, that won’t really do much for us heh.” Your voice became more whispery as you got closer to your bedroom. They hushed you, caressing your head.

“You won’t have to see them again if you don’t wish, love.” The door clicked open and silently slid shut behind you. They gently placed you in the large, plush bed in the middle of the room.

You watched as They moved about - the sounds of water running in the connect bathroom soothing your mind. Sunlight beamed through the window gently, warming your body some as you slipped under icy sheets that began to warm beneath your body.

The world began to drown out as your eye lids slowly shut - the last thing you hear being Their voice.

“Sleep well my Darling, I love you.”

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : GUESS WHOS BACK. BACK AGAIN. This was not the best but I feel it’s pretty good for first thing back :3 also FUCK YOU TUMBLR FOR FUCKING MY DRAFT UP DIE-

[jadegretz]

Red Sonja: Queen of the Battlefields by Jade Gretz

Shadows of the Crimson Blade:

In the distant remnants of a time steeped in legend, a figure clad in crimson armor roamed the darkest reaches of the Hyborian lands. Her hair, the color of fire, flowed like a burning river down her back, and her eyes sparkled with a fierce determination. This was Red Sonja, a warrior unmatched, whose prowess with a sword was rivaled only by her untamed spirit. The songs sung by bards celebrated her bravery, but they spoke in hushed tones of the shadow that loomed over the countryside—a creature born of nightmares, spreading fear as its wings darkened the skies.

The folklore of the region spoke of a terror known only as the Dread Wyrm, a beast of colossal proportions, its scales shimmering like obsidian as it writhed through the forests with sinuous grace. Villagers had begun to vanish without trace, their homes ravaged and left to rot, and whispers of the Wyrm's hunger swept through the taverns of towns that had once been lively. It was said that the beast thrived on the fear it inspired, and with every soul it claimed, it grew stronger and more malevolent.

In the town of Ebonhold, survivors gathered in the square under the flickering lights of torches, their faces pale with dread. The air was thick with despair, and even the bravest men found solace only in their cups of ale. Yet, amid the hopeless murmurs, a glimmer of hope appeared: the townsfolk spoke of Red Sonja, the legendary warrior who carved a path through the darkness wherever she roamed. Tales of her victories against sorcerers and beasts alike ignited a spark of courage within the trembling hearts around them.

As fate would have it, Red Sonja rode into Ebonhold on her magnificent mare, a creature as fierce as a thunderstorm. The vibrant crimson of her armor shimmered in the sun, setting her apart from the earth tones of the weary villagers. The moment her boots struck the cobblestone streets, the whispers rose to a crescendo. A thin, grizzled man stepped forward, his eyes wide and desperate.

“Lady Sonja! You must help us!” he implored, his voice quivering. “The Dr …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

[faeries-child]

No place for love

(I got inspiration from Thomas Shelby's line: "Everyone's a whore, Grace. We just sell different parts of ourselves")

Pairing: Azriel x reader / (y/n) / oc

Warnings: Mentions of sex, drugs and prostitution.

Enjoy :) (I'll maybe make part two)

Azriel didn’t really prefer places like this. Not at all. Even if he, Rhys and Cassian had been really stupid and young once, the male was not going to indulge himself in those activities anymore. Azriel remembered the time when he and his brothers used to have females at the same time, in the same room. Azriel however had grown fully past that phase centuries ago. But the spymaster would play this role, if not for Velaris’ sake then for his high lord and lady. 

Before him now rose the dark and luminous red light district of the court of nightmares. The path that now opened right before him was crowded and the most unwelcoming. For when it came to the court of nightmares the so called road of lust offered far more than just satisfaction for bodily urges. Azriel could see vendors selling illegal substances, suspicious looking jars filled with dead things and he could as well see things sold, alive. Spymaster also noticed females and males alike leaning in the doors of buildings in very little clothing to cover themselves with, trying to lure people into entering. The Whole place had a sinister feeling but Azriel didn’t have any other choice than to wander deeper into the streets.

Rhysand had sent him to gather information about a mole that had been delivering crucial information to their enemies, Beron included. Spymaster had heard from an important source that his suspect visited the den of sin often. Especially a particular brothel. He had also heard that the brothel in question was one of the more expensive ones, they would provide their clients with anything that they asked for, almost anything.  

It was not hard to spot the brothel in question. Building was bigger and grander than the others surrounding it. However no females were outside luring men in. 

Building was made of stone, painted black and there were curtains in the windows, so the only thing that one could see was candles that shone through the light fabric. 

Spymaster blended into the shadows and approached the brother. Front doors were open, so one could see what really was happening inside. There was carving over the door in the wooden frame. It read: “There is no place for love here”. In Azriel’s mind that was a weird thing to be carved in the doors of a pleasure house, but that wasn’t important now. He set a foot into the building and was met with the smell of scented candles, wine and to no surprise, sex. Music could be heard, someone playing instruments, sensual tune that matched with the atmosphere of the place. There were mostly men, drinking and indulging in activities that Azriel did not stay to watch for any longer than necessary. What he did point out was that the place certainly seemed to be on a more expensive side than the brothels he had visited in the Illyrian mountains.  

“What is it that you're looking for, lord of shadows?”´

 Hearing the voice Azriel turned around, as calmly as he could. Given the amount of people in the room and the acts that were currently being committed, his shadows had a hard time sorting out what each of them were doing. So the speaker had succeeded in surprising him. 

“I’m am sure whatever you are looking for, we will be able to provide”

Speaker was a woman, not an high fae. Her ears were longer and eyes bigger. She was also dressed in very little clothing, so Azriel focused mainly on her face when he spoke: “I’m not here for your services, but I am looking for someone with important information. I am here in high lord’s name.” Female let out a short laugh, smiling in a way that Azriel could only describe as sinister. 

“In high lord’s name you say?” Female circled around letting her gaze wander around the spymaster's body. “You seem rather… uptight, but I would gladly help you to relax.” She was now reaching to touch Azriel’s wings but the male took a step back immediately after sensing the woman's intentions. “But since you’re not here to pay for them I will sadly pass the opportunity”. Woman turned to leave but Azriel opened his mouth before she had a chance to: “I will pay you a nice sum for the information I’m looking for.” 

“Now that's what I like to hear. Follow me, our mistress will surely be interested in your offer.” 

Female gave him no choice but to follow her up the grand staircase that was leading them to a corridor that had many doors on both sides and with his precise hearing Azriel could hear exactly what was happening behind those closed doors. 

The woman led him to the end of the corridor, where there were big twin doors, decorated with gold accents. Without knocking, the female opened the door and let Azriel in while following behind him. 

Room was covered in different kinds of fabrics, pillows and areas designed for lying around. Room was mostly red colored, with some gold and black accents. Air here smelled like vanilla candles and surprisingly, some kind of musk. 

Almost immediately after stepping into the room, Azriel’s focus was drawn to another female in the room. She was sitting on the ledge of the window smoking something like a cigar, but by the smell Azriel could definitely swear that the substance was way stronger and most likely, illegal. Smell of it traveled to his nose and lungs.

High fae female, well she was… The only word Azriel could think was gorgeous. Her hair was left down, curling down all the way to her back. Color of it was white, whitest that Spymaster had seen in his 500 hundred years on this world. The male also pointed out that the female was wearing practically nothing. Only a long translucent black gown that widened towards hem on her ankles. One could see everything, her wide hips and almost spotless skin. She didn’t bother looking at them. Only opening her mouth to say: “I thought I told you that I’m not taking anymore customers for today Daphne”

Azriel’s shadows seemed to delighted to hear her voice, slivering out of their hiding place to caress the shadowsingers hands and neck. 

“But I have brought someone special for you my lady” said the female whose name allegedly was Daphne. 

When the woman turned, Azriel was left gasping for air. Her eyes were the color of ice, same as the gaze that she gave him. However something seemed to spark in her as her mouth curved into a wicked smile. “Oh well, I might be able to make an exception under this special occasion.” Woman walked closer to him and Azriel for the first time in centuries felt like compromising his morals. 

“So tell me lord of shadows, what do you desire? I am sure whatever your heart wants, I will be able to provide”.

Female stopped just a few feet from him. Looking him up and down like he was a prey and somehow Azriel felt like it too.

“I do not seek what you are offering, I am here only for the information-” but Daphne interrupted him “He says that he’s here in the name of the high lord”. Azriel could sense almost a hint of mockery in her tone but let it slide since he was not looking for trouble right now. 

“Leave us Daphne, tell the girls not to bother me for the rest of the evening”

Daphne only nodded and left the two in the room alone.

“Sit” 

And to his surprise, without questions Azriel sat on the cushions that made up some kind of strange sofa. Female got closer and was now standing before him, only a few feet between them. The spymaster could smell her. Vanilla and a hint of tar. Azriel could also smell whatever the female had been smoking. 

“So if you truly aren’t here for my services, why are you looking at me like you would give up your title and all that comes with it to be with me?”

Azriel tried collecting himself and threw on a mask of calmness. “I am here to collect information about a traitor and hopefully catch him. My sources tell me that he visits this particular establishment often. The High lord-” Azriel could not finish his sentence because the female moved closer to him, too close. Before the spymaster could do anything, the female moved to his lap straddling his legs. She placed her hands on Azriel’s shoulders. “The high lord of the night court. So much does he oversee and control, but unfortunately you have come to the one of the few places that even his gaze doesn’t fall nor does his words reach.” Female continued to smile at him as she leaned close to his ear: “What power does the lord of shadows hold in a place like this, where everything is of shadows, how are you special?”

The spymaster could almost feel the female's lips on his throat. He didn’t even notice that control over his shadows was now slipping, they were traveling around her exposed thighs. 

Gathering the last drops of his control he pushed the woman gently farther away from him, so he could see her face. “The night court will pay you nicely for your information” he said, trying to keep his voice steady and not to just take the female's offer to make an exception for him. 

The woman rose from Azriel’s lap and said: “You’re no fun. But at least now you're talking my language. But what makes you think I have what you need?”

“They said that he prefers your… company. Almost exclusively.” He answered. “So can you help me?” Azriel didn’t know why he felt like… the female already knew what he was asking. It could be her face that now showed a certain kind of bitterness, maybe some sadness as well. 

The female now walked towards the writing desk on the other side of the room and leaned on it. “I might know who you are talking about. So what now, do you want me to catch him or… Oh” her face twisted in a knowing smile. “You need proof that he is the male you’re searching for-” Azriel interrupted him: “I have heard of your reputation. You get people to reveal their secrets”

“Men talk when they are happy, easy as that” She now eyed Azriel like he would be her next meal, and Azriel truly thought that maybe he wouldn’t even be opposed to that. “I will pay you-” again she interrupted him: “I don’t want money”.

His mouth tightened into a line: “Then what do you want?” 

“I want you to owe me a favor, you cannot ask what kind or when I will ask for it”

It wasn’t good deal on Azriel’s part, but he really didn’t feel like he wanted to torture anyone right now, he was tired. “Deal.”

Azriel rose and walked to the female offering his hand, which the female took without hesitation. Azriel could notice a tattoo forming on the female's fingers. The spymaster couldn’t really read the female's face, nor did his shadows provide him with any assistance. They almost seemed a little unsure of how to act around her. 

Azriel turned to leave, but his interest in the female got the best of him. “So that’s it. I know your profession, but you are willing to do this just like that?" The female's smile fell and her eyes hardened as she said: “We are all whores shadowsinger, we just sell different parts of ourselves.” 

That was that, Azriel turned and left. But somehow he could tell that this definitely wasn’t the last time he would visit her. 

Shadowsinger cursed himself, by the time he had already reached Velaris he realized that he didn’t even ask her name. 

[codexmaledictus]

The Plague Ascendant: The Fall of Krastellan

The Plague Ascendant

Prologue: The Wages of Decay

In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, Mortarion, Primarch of the Death Guard, waged his unending war against the Imperium with tireless resolve. Bearing the favor of Nurgle, the Plague God, he had become a harbinger of decay, wielding pestilence as a weapon against those who would defy the inevitability of entropy. His Death Guard, a legion of bloated warriors and corrupted war machines, had set their eyes upon Krastellan, a Forge World of the Adeptus Mechanicus in the Segmentum Obscurus. For months, the planet had suffered from outbreaks of a virulent disease that afflicted not only organic life but even the machine spirits themselves.

Reports trickled in from the explorator fleets of a shadow moving through the void like a ghost—Mortarion had come, and with him, the stench of doom.

The Rusting Sprawl

The Corroded Outskirts of Krastellan

The opening clash erupted at the borders of Krastellan’s manufactorum districts, a sprawling expanse of rusting machinery and towering cogitator stacks. Here, the Adeptus Mechanicus had established a defensive perimeter around a plasma reactor whose energy fed the Forge World’s central production. The outer defenses consisted of Skitarii Vanguard armed with radium carbines and transuranic arquebuses, bolstered by Kataphron Breachers wielding graviton cannons and torsion crushers. Overhead, Serberys Raiders patrolled, their mounts’ augmentations gleaming coldly under the dim light.

The Death Guard came like a tide of corruption, their ranks bloated and festering. Plague Marines, led by Champion Gorvoth the Undying, marched with grim determination, while Blightlord Terminators lumbered behind, their armor eternally weeping with putrescent fluids. Above them loomed Mortarion, his immense form shrouded in a cloud of pestilence. The scythe Silence glowed with malevolent energy in his grip, while The Lantern at his side flickered with an unnatural light.

The Clash

The battle began with Mortarion calling upon his psychic power. He conjured Rotwind, a haze of fetid fog that rolled across the battlefield, thick with the stench of rotting flesh and chemical decay. The fog did more than obscure vision; it corroded the very armor of the Skitarii, rusting it away before their eyes. Bolts of radium fire passed through the mist, their efficacy blunted by the miasma’s touch. Those that did find their mark either deflected off Mortarion’s daemonic flesh or withered against his invulnerable save—a dark blessing from Nurgle that shrouded him in a veil of entropy.

As Mortarion advanced, the true horror of his abilities manifested. His wings, ragged and pockmarked with sores, unfurled and beat against the air, launching him into the midst of the Skitarii. As he landed, a pulse of noxious energy emanated from him, thickening the air with decay. Mortarion's form, both immense and repulsive, seemed to grow larger in the eyes of those around him, his monstrous aura a weapon as terrible as any scythe. With a swift swing of Silence, he cut down a score of Skitarii, the blade leaving trails of filth that ate away at the bodies of those it did not kill outright. The fallen quickly began to twitch, their flesh splitting open as Nurgle’s diseases took root in their corpses.

Gorvoth and his Plague Marines moved in close behind their Primarch. With bolters belching foul ammunition, they laid down suppressive fire, each plague bolt detonating into a burst of caustic slime that chewed through armor and flesh alike. Gorvoth himself swung his manreaper in wide arcs, each strike accompanied by a wet, sucking sound as his blade cleaved through cybernetic limbs and decomposed muscle. The Champion’s laughter bubbled up through the vox-grille of his helmet, a sound more like the gurgling of a clogged drain than any mirth.

The Horror of the Psyker and Daemon

As Mortarion continued to carve his way through the defenders, his psychic power swelled, the air thick with his daemonic influence. He invoked Putrescent Vitality, unleashing a burst of necrotic energy that washed over the battlefield. The greenish glow that emanated from his form warped and distorted reality, tainting the ground and air. Where the light touched, the Mechanicus’ machines began to fail; cogitators sputtered and died, and servo-arms seized up as their circuits corroded. Flesh fared even worse, with the Skitarii dropping to the ground, clutching at their throats as they coughed up black bile.

Mortarion raised The Lantern and fired. The weapon’s warp-corrupted beam ripped through the ranks of the Mechanicus, vaporizing a Kataphron Breacher in a flash of light. The machine’s remnants fell to the ground as little more than a slurry of slag and rancid oil. The beam continued its path of destruction, striking a cluster of Servitors. Their bodies swelled grotesquely before exploding in showers of offal and circuitry.

The Mechanicus fought back with grim determination. Kataphron Breachers unleashed graviton blasts that hammered into the Death Guard’s ranks, while the Skitarii fired radium rounds that detonated on impact, showering the Death Guard with lethal radiation. Even Mortarion was not impervious to the onslaught, and his armor sizzled as it absorbed the brunt of a plasma blast. Still, the Primarch fought on, the blessing of Nurgle fortifying his resilience beyond mortal comprehension.

The Despairing Maw

Then, as the battle raged on, a rift tore through the fabric of reality at the edge of the battlefield. Known as The Despairing Maw, this warp phenomenon manifested as a swirling vortex of darkness, from which daemon-beasts of Nurgle emerged. Beasts of Nurgle, massive and bloated, surged forth, their slobbering maws wide open as they loped towards the defenders. Plague Drones buzzed overhead, their grotesque riders casting pox grenades into the midst of the Mechanicus formations.

Yet, The Despairing Maw was not simply a portal; it was a hungry maw that consumed the souls of the dying, pulling the recently slain back into the warp. Even the daemons emerging from it were not spared, as some were dragged back into the swirling darkness, their forms unraveling into viscous streams as the maw fed upon their essence.

The Duel

Tech-Priest Dominus Vireon Thalax, the commander of the Mechanicus forces, stepped forward to meet the challenge of Mortarion. His cybernetic limbs glinted in the dim light as he raised his power axe, its blade charged with an electric hum. The clash of Mortarion’s daemonic form and Thalax’s mechanical bulk was a brutal display of raw power versus cold logic. Thalax swung his power axe, the blade glowing blue as it crackled with disruptor energy. Mortarion parried with Silence, their weapons clashing with a resounding crack that echoed across the battlefield.

Mortarion grinned behind his helm, his voice echoing like the rattle of chains. “You cannot hope to resist the inevitable, tech-priest. Your machine god’s blessings will rot, your circuits will fail. The embrace of Nurgle is inescapable.”

Mortarion channeled his psychic might into a surge of necrotic energy, blasting Thalax back. The Tech-Priest’s armor began to corrode, the intricate mechanisms within grinding to a halt as corruption spread through them. The machine spirits in Thalax’s limbs wailed in agony as they were consumed by decay, their binary prayers turning to static.

The Aftermath

With Thalax broken, the Adeptus Mechanicus lines began to waver, and the Death Guard pressed their advantage. The plasma reactor, once the heart of the defense, was soon overrun by the plague-ridden warriors, and the stench of death hung thick in the air. The survivors of the Mechanicus withdrew, dragging their damaged constructs away to fight another day. The battlefield was a ruin of rust and corruption, the once-pristine manufactorum reduced to a rotting wasteland.

The Price of Decay

After their victory in the first battle, Mortarion and his warriors consolidated their hold on the captured manufactorum district. The very ground seemed to heave and warp beneath the corrupting influence of Nurgle’s blessings. Pools of stagnant, toxic fluid seeped up through the cracks, and the once-gleaming manufactorums decayed into crumbling ruins. The stench of putrefaction was everywhere, and even the air seemed to crawl with contagion.

Mortarion brooded as he surveyed the battlefield. He could sense something deeper within Krastellan, a hidden power that lay dormant beneath the forges. As his warriors reinforced their positions and fortified the newly taken ground, the Primarch sent forth his Plaguebearers and Blightlord Terminators on a search for the secrets buried within the Forge World’s depths.

The Iron Tide

The Forge-Spires of Krastellan

The Death Guard’s conquest of Krastellan’s outer manufactorum district had not gone unnoticed. Deep within the Forge World’s network of towering spires and labyrinthine industrial sectors, the Tech-Priests gathered in councils of war. Led by Magos Prime Helrikkus Kaarn, an ancient and heavily augmented Tech-Priest, the Adeptus Mechanicus devised a strategy to halt the relentless advance of Mortarion’s forces. Kaarn, whose body was more machine than flesh, had overseen the defense of Krastellan for centuries and was determined to preserve the Forge World’s sacred technology from the corrupting touch of Nurgle.

The battle unfolded within the Forge-Spires themselves, a vast complex of towering structures that housed vital data-vaults and manufactorum facilities. The Forge-Spires were linked by a network of gantries, catwalks, and mag-lev platforms, while massive chimneys belched toxic smoke into the air, further obscuring the sunlight. Here, the Tech-Priests and their servitors had fortified their positions, with defensive emplacements of heavy phosphor blasters and arc rifles, and squads of Skitarii lined the platforms, ready to repel the invading forces.

The Adeptus Mechanicus had prepared an array of war assets for this conflict, deploying Triaros Armored Conveyors outfitted with neutron beam lasers to serve as mobile bunkers, while Ironstrider Ballistarii, their lascannons gleaming coldly, took up positions on the high ground. Helrikkus Kaarn himself commanded the forces from the central spire, directing his legions of cybernetic warriors and combat servitors with the cold precision of a data-savant.

The Death Guard’s Assault

Mortarion, undeterred by the formidable defense arrayed against him, ordered a multi-pronged assault. His forces included a greater variety of corrupted units than before, with Myphitic Blight-Haulers and Foetid Bloat-Drones providing mobile firepower to support the Plague Marines. The Daemon Prince Gloamfall, a twisted monstrosity birthed from the warp, accompanied Mortarion, his rotting wings spreading decay with every beat. Blightlord Terminators once again formed the vanguard of the assault, alongside squads of Plaguebearers that loped forward, their flesh glistening with rot and dripping with pus.

The Death Guard's weapons of war varied greatly, reflecting the many ways in which Nurgle's blessings could bring death. Some Plague Marines carried plague spewers, unleashing torrents of bile and acidic slime upon their foes, while others hefted blight launchers that lobbed canisters filled with virulent spores, spreading pestilence wherever they detonated. The Blight-Haulers unleashed their multimeltas and missile launchers, burning away metal and flesh alike with beams of searing heat and clouds of toxic gas.

The Clash

The Death Guard’s assault began with a volley of artillery fire. Plagueburst Crawlers, positioned at the periphery of the Forge-Spire district, unleashed salvos of plague-ridden shells. The projectiles exploded upon impact, releasing bursts of corrosive slime and viral agents that clung to the defenses. Skitarii Vanguard and their Radium Carbines retaliated, unleashing a deadly hail of fire that could pierce through even the hardened armor of the Plague Marines. Their weaponry, though effective, did little to slow the advance of the Death Guard, whose daemonic resilience allowed them to shrug off even the most grievous wounds.

Mortarion descended upon the battlefield with the wrath of a vengeful god. His wings unfurled wide, casting an oppressive shadow over the Mechanicus ranks as he landed amidst a cluster of Kataphron Breachers. With a sweep of Silence, he felled several of the augmented warriors in a single blow, the scythe's daemon-forged blade slicing through ceramite and cybernetic limb with ease. The ground beneath him erupted in boils and sores, as his mere presence corrupted the very land, creating pools of stagnant pus that bubbled and festered.

His psychic powers were unleashed with unparalleled fury. Mortarion invoked Gift of Contagion, causing the air to grow thick with pestilence. The Mechanicus warriors found their limbs weakening, their augmetics faltering as the plague gnawed at metal and flesh alike. Radium fire struck Mortarion’s armor, but it seemed to do little more than sizzle against the filth-encrusted plate, his Daemon resilience absorbing the blows.

The Daemon Prince Gloamfall joined the fray, his rotted form glistening with unholy ichor. His warpsword, a vile blade that oozed corruption, swept through the air in wide arcs, tearing apart Skitarii with contemptuous ease. The Daemon Prince bellowed a challenge to the machines that dared to defy Nurgle's will, his voice an unearthly gurgle. Gloamfall's warp-infused breath weapon spewed clouds of disease that withered metal and caused flesh to blister upon contact, adding to the cacophony of war.

The Iron Response

The Adeptus Mechanicus retaliated with machine-like precision. Helrikkus Kaarn activated a secretive war asset—a massive Castellan Knight, known as Ironclad Thallos, that strode forward from a recessed alcove within the central Forge-Spire. The Knight’s massive battle cannon roared, its shells exploding amidst the ranks of the Death Guard with devastating force. Streams of phosphor fire from the Knight’s shoulder-mounted incendiary cannons turned even the hardiest of Plague Marines to ash, and its iron gauntlet smashed the corrupted war machines beneath its tread.

The Triaros Armored Conveyors and Ironstrider Ballistarii unleashed their lascannons in tandem, focusing their fire on Mortarion himself. Though many shots were turned aside by his invulnerable save, several beams burned through the haze of his aura, searing the corrupted flesh beneath his armor. Mortarion staggered, briefly, before righting himself and leaping forward to engage the Castellan Knight directly.

The clash between Mortarion and Ironclad Thallos was nothing short of apocalyptic. Silence struck at the Knight’s armor, the daemon-scythe's warp-infused blade cutting deep gouges into the machine’s thick ceramite plating. In return, the Knight brought its massive chain-cleaver to bear, swinging the weapon with the force of a battering ram. Mortarion parried the strike, but the impact sent him reeling. The Knight’s cannons fired at point-blank range, bathing the Primarch in fire.

Yet, Mortarion's Gift of Nurgle was not to be so easily denied. He summoned forth Curse of the Leper, unleashing a wave of necrotic energy that washed over the Knight. The mechanical limbs began to seize and decay as corruption spread through its circuitry, and the machine spirit within writhed in agony as Mortarion’s power seeped into its cogitators. The Knight faltered, its limbs moving sluggishly as the taint of Nurgle infected its systems.

Turning the Tide

Just as the Death Guard seemed to gain the upper hand, the Mechanicus revealed another secret weapon: a Thanatar Siege-Automata, known as Vigilus Varlok, emerged from the depths of the Forge-Spire. Its plasma mortar charged with a deadly hum, unleashing blasts of incandescent energy that melted entire squads of Plague Marines into pools of bubbling gore. The Siege-Automata’s weapons were optimized for obliteration, and the massive machine strode forward, its armored hull impervious to most conventional attacks.

Mortarion, seeing the threat posed by Vigilus Varlok, directed his forces to focus on the automaton. Blightlord Terminators, armed with reaper autocannons and combi-weapons, fired salvos of explosive bolts and corrosive shells at the Siege-Automata. Yet, their efforts seemed to only scratch its thick plating. The Blight-Haulers, circling the automaton, unleashed their multi-meltas, aiming for weak points in the armor, while spewing noxious fumes from their bile-spewers in an attempt to corrode its inner workings.

Vigilus Varlok responded by unleashing another volley from its plasma mortar, followed by a rapid-fire burst from its mauler bolt cannon, turning one of the Blight-Haulers into a smoldering wreck. As it reloaded, Mortarion took his chance, soaring towards the automaton with his wings propelling him like a cannonball. He brought Silence down in a mighty overhead strike that cleaved into the automaton's plasma reactor, causing a massive explosion that engulfed both Mortarion and the Siege-Automata.

A Narrow Defeat

The shockwave from the exploding Siege-Automata sent waves of debris and toxic fumes across the battlefield. Mortarion emerged from the blast, wounded and scorched but still standing, his Daemon resilience and Gift of Nurgle sustaining him. The remaining Death Guard forces rallied around their Primarch, pressing the assault with renewed ferocity. Yet, the Mechanicus' defensive lines held firm, bolstered by the firepower of Ironclad Thallos and the disciplined ranks of the Skittari.

A Narrow Defeat

The explosions from the Siege-Automata and the intense back-and-forth firefights had taken a toll on both sides. Despite the overwhelming resilience and supernatural resilience of Mortarion and his Death Guard, the Adeptus Mechanicus had achieved a narrow victory. As the Death Guard’s assault faltered, Helrikkus Kaarn’s voice boomed through the vox channels, his tone emotionless but tinged with an undercurrent of triumph.

“Fall back, abominations,” Kaarn’s voice resonated with cold authority. “Your corruption has no place here. The Omnissiah will not suffer such blasphemy. I shall scour this world of your taint, as one would cleanse rust from iron.”

Mortarion, his voice deep and reverberating like the tolling of a death knell, responded through the battle’s din, his words laced with an unnatural echo. “You speak of rust, Tech-Priest, but your machines are as vulnerable as flesh. I shall return, and the corrosion will run deeper than any of your cleansing rites can mend.”

Kaarn’s mechanical laughter crackled through the vox, the sound hollow and devoid of true mirth. “Return if you will, daemon. We shall be waiting with the tools of your destruction.”

Mortarion, unwilling to risk more of his forces in a futile push, ordered a withdrawal. The Death Guard retreated into the mists of their own making, leaving behind a battlefield littered with the broken remnants of Plague Marines, shattered Blight-Haulers, and the decomposing bodies of their daemonic allies. Yet, the withdrawal was not a simple retreat; as they fell back, the Death Guard seeded the area with virulent spores and toxins, ensuring that every inch of ground gained would carry the risk of death and decay for those who tread upon it.

As the dust settled, Krastellan's Forge-Spires held firm, but the victory was not without cost. The Mechanicus’ defenses had suffered severe damage, and the taint of Nurgle lingered in the very air and soil, turning each subsequent breath into a risk for the tech-priests and their machines.

Resilience and Rot

Following their narrow defeat, the Death Guard regrouped in the corrupted manufactorum district they had claimed in the first battle. The air within their occupied territory was thick with noxious vapors and the constant drone of fat, bloated flies. Mortarion stood atop a crumbling iron tower, his gaze cast across the decaying landscape. His body still bore the scars of the conflict, blackened wounds that wept pus, but his resolve was as strong as ever.

The Primarch spoke with Champion Gorvoth, whose own body had become more grotesque with each passing day, his belly swollen with parasitic growths that squirmed beneath his armor.

“We must press forward, my lord,” Gorvoth rasped, his voice gurgling as if spoken through a mouth full of sludge. “The magisters of the Tainted Choir have discerned a warp-nexus beneath the central Forge-Spire. It pulses with energies that could empower Nurgle’s blessings tenfold if we claim it.”

Mortarion’s eyes gleamed with a dull, green light as he turned his gaze toward Gorvoth. “Yes,” he rumbled, “I have felt it too. But Kaarn and his minions will not yield their sanctum easily. We will need to break them entirely, shatter their defenses, and corrupt the heart of this world.”

He gestured toward the remaining Death Guard forces, many of whom were already participating in the foul rites to bolster their corrupted weaponry and summon reinforcements from the warp. The sound of gurgling chants and the droning buzz of flies filled the air, as new Plaguebearers emerged from the summoning circles and bloated Daemon Engines wheeled into position.

“Prepare the host,” Mortarion commanded. “We shall drown this world in the gifts of our lord. I will deliver this Forge World into the maw of entropy, and no machine-priest will stand against the will of decay.”

The Heart of Rust

The Central Forge-Spire

The third and final conflict would decide the fate of Krastellan. The Death Guard launched an all-out assault on the central Forge-Spire, the heart of the Adeptus Mechanicus’ control over the Forge World. This structure was a massive construct of interwoven steel, plasteel, and adamantium, its towering spires bristling with defense turrets, energy shield generators, and countless cogitator hubs. At its core lay the warp-nexus, a convergence of ancient technology and latent warp energies buried deep beneath the spire.

To defend this stronghold, Helrikkus Kaarn had gathered every remaining warrior and war machine available. Skitarii legions stood shoulder-to-shoulder, while Kastelan Robots and Kataphron Breachers formed bulwarks of mechanical power. The Knight Castellan Ironclad Thallos had been refitted and repaired, its cannons gleaming with newly sanctified oils. Further bolstering the defenses were the newly arrived Legio Krastellan Titans—Horus Imperius, a Reaver-class Titan equipped with a volcano cannon and laser blasters, and Ferrum Purgatus, a Warhound-class Titan armed with turbo-laser destructors and a plasma blastgun.

Mortarion’s forces, swollen by the blessings of Nurgle and the reinforcements from the warp, now included some of the most grotesque and potent warriors and constructs the Death Guard could muster. The Daemon Prince Gloamfall returned, accompanied by a cohort of Nurgling swarms that giggled with unholy delight. Plaguebearers numbered in the hundreds, and numerous Bloat-Drones and Blight-Haulers buzzed and crawled across the battlefield. At Mortarion's command was also a Plague Surgeon known as Morlokk the Seeping, whose unholy ministrations kept the Death Guard’s warriors fighting far beyond mortal endurance.

The corrupted psyker Typhus, Herald of Nurgle, had joined the battle as well, leading his own contingent of Blightlord Terminators. Typhus wielded his signature weapon, Manreaper, a massive scythe encrusted with filth and pitted with decay. His dark magics swirled around him, a shroud of corruption that withered the air itself.

The Initial Assault

Mortarion led the charge, soaring high above the battlefield on his rotted wings. He extended his hand, and the very air around him darkened as he invoked Nurgle’s Rot, a vile spell that spread like wildfire. Below, the advancing Skitarii were enveloped in the greenish haze, their metallic bodies corroding and flesh bloating grotesquely as the contagion took hold.

Champion Gorvoth the Undying, flanked by his Plague Marines, fought with a renewed vigor as they advanced toward the Mechanicus positions. The Plague Marines’ boltguns barked death, firing rounds filled with virulent toxins. Gorvoth’s manreaper, now swollen and pitted with the filth of countless battles, carved through Mechanicus warriors, leaving trails of putrefaction in its wake. His voice, booming through the vox-amplifier in his helmet, taunted the defenders.

“You cannot hide behind your metal bodies forever, machines!” Gorvoth roared as his manreaper cleaved through the chest of a Skitarii Alpha. “Even your circuits shall rot!”

The defenders unleashed everything at their disposal in response. The Knight Castellan Ironclad Thallos roared its defiance, opening fire with its plasma decimator. The superheated energy blasted through the Death Guard’s ranks, reducing Plaguebearers and Nurglings to ash. Horus Imperius, the Reaver-class Titan, strode into battle with its volcano cannon unleashing beams of molten fury, vaporizing Myphitic Blight-Haulers and melting chunks of the very ground into slag.

Mortarion met Horus Imperius in a cataclysmic confrontation. He soared toward the Titan's cockpit, Silence raised high to strike. The Reaver turned its laser blasters upon him, unleashing beams of energy that seared through his armor. Mortarion's invulnerable save flickered and strained under the assault, but he continued forward, gripped by an unholy fervor.

“You dare defy Nurgle’s will, machine?” Mortarion’s voice boomed, filled with ancient malice. “I shall rend your iron hide and let your spirit rust!”

He brought Silence down in a sweeping strike, the scythe's blade gouging a deep scar across the Titan’s chest plate. The impact sent a ripple of necrotic energy through the war machine, causing its systems to glitch and falter momentarily. Seizing the opportunity, Mortarion conjured a psychic pulse of decay, corrupting the Titan's internal mechanisms and spreading rust like wildfire throughout its superstructure.

The Heart of the Forge

Meanwhile, Typhus and his Blightlord Terminators teleported directly into the central spire. They emerged amidst a mass of Skitarii and Tech-Priests, their appearance heralded by a burst of filthy spores that filled the air

A Battle of Scale

The forces assembled at the central Forge-Spire numbered in the tens of thousands, a confrontation that would decide the fate of the entire Forge World. The Adeptus Mechanicus had deployed a significant portion of their remaining military might to defend the spire. Among them were:

10,000 Skitarii warriors, including Vanguard and Rangers armed with radium carbines and galvanic rifles.

1,500 Kataphron Breachers equipped with grav-cannons, torsion crushers, and arc claws.

300 Kastelan Robots in maniples of six, heavily armored and outfitted with incendine combustors and heavy phosphor blasters.

Ironstrider squadrons numbering 200, with Ballistarii and Sydonian Dragoons providing mobile firepower.

1,000 Corpuscarii and Fulgurite Electro-Priests, their bodies crackling with lethal energies, forming a vanguard to counter the daemonic tide.

50 Knight-class war engines, including the towering Knight Castellan Ironclad Thallos and Knight Paladins armed with rapid-fire battle cannons.

2 Legio Krastellan Titans, Horus Imperius, a Reaver-class, and Ferrum Purgatus, a Warhound-class, each with enough firepower to level cities.

The Death Guard’s forces, swollen by Nurgle's dark blessings and the warp's foul gifts, launched an all-out assault with:

8,000 Plague Marines, led by several champions, each wielding a variety of corrupted weapons such as plague spewers, blight launchers, and bolters loaded with virulent rounds.

1,200 Blightlord Terminators, advancing in squads of ten, heavily armored in their ancient Cataphractii war-plate.

4,000 Plaguebearers of Nurgle, shambling forward in rotting hordes, accompanied by 2,000 Nurglings.

200 Myphitic Blight-Haulers and 150 Foetid Bloat-Drones, providing mobile artillery and airborne support.

A dozen Daemon Princes, including Gloamfall, accompanied by hundreds of Plague Drones swooping through the air.

Mortarion himself, commanding the battlefield and wielding his full array of psychic powers, martial prowess, and unholy blessings.

Typhus, Herald of Nurgle, leading 300 Blightlord Terminators on a direct assault into the heart of the central Forge-Spire.

30 Plagueburst Crawlers, lobbing toxic shells that spread corrosive filth wherever they landed.

The surrounding landscape had transformed under the influence of Nurgle’s corruption. Once-pristine metalwork was now tarnished, rusting, and crumbling. The ground was covered in a thick carpet of fetid moss and foul-smelling fungi, while the air hung heavy with the buzzing of flies and the sickeningly sweet stench of decay. Pools of stagnant, oily liquid dotted the battlefield, where toxic sludge bubbled up from deep underground, spreading noxious fumes that burned the lungs of any not blessed by Nurgle.

The Heart of the Forge

As the battle raged on outside, Typhus and his 300 Blightlord Terminators emerged directly within the central Forge-Spire’s sanctum. They appeared in a burst of virulent light and foul spores, warping the air with the stench of rot and corruption. The teleportation had brought them into the midst of the 1,000 Skitarii Vanguard and 300 Tech-Priests who manned the inner defenses, and the air was immediately filled with the crackling of radium fire and the hum of arc weapons.

Typhus, towering over the Tech-Priests and Skitarii, raised his weapon, Manreaper, a massive scythe crusted with grime and corruption. His voice boomed through the halls like a death knell, reverberating off the metallic walls. “Witness the true power of entropy! Your metal limbs shall corrode, your circuits shall falter. Embrace the decay, for it is the fate of all things!”

The Blightlord Terminators followed their dark master’s lead, moving like an unstoppable wave of bloated metal and foulness. Their combi-bolters spat diseased rounds that exploded on impact, spraying caustic filth over their enemies. Blight grenades were lobbed into the Mechanicus ranks, releasing clouds of pestilential spores that choked the life from Tech-Priests and melted the flesh from Skitarii. The Tech-Priests fought back with their arcana and machine rites, unleashing electromagnetic pulses to disrupt the warp energy that clung to the Death Guard, while servitor-mounted plasma culverins burned glowing rents through the ranks of Blightlord Terminators.

Typhus vs. Magos Helrikkus Kaarn

Typhus and his Terminators carved a path toward the heart of the spire where Magos Prime Helrikkus Kaarn awaited. The Magos stood surrounded by his most powerful tech-guard and heavily augmented combat servitors. As Typhus approached, Kaarn’s voice emerged from his vox-unit, a grinding, metallic hiss.

“I know you, Typhus of the Death Guard. You were once a warrior of flesh and bone. Now you are nothing but a vessel of decay, a broken thing wearing a god’s chains.”

Typhus grinned beneath his rusted helm, his eyes blazing with malevolent green light. “I wear the blessings of Nurgle as my armor, machine-slave. It is you who are broken, clinging to a false god that cannot protect even the simplest of your circuits. Today, you will learn the futility of resisting decay.”

Kaarn’s servo-arms lashed out, wielding a power axe that crackled with disruptive energy fields and a volkite serpentia that spat lances of searing heat at Typhus. The Herald of Nurgle countered with the Manreaper, the scythe’s blade glowing with unholy power as it clashed with Kaarn’s axe. Each swing of Typhus’ weapon released a burst of necrotic energy that corroded Kaarn’s augmetics and seeped into the metal floor, leaving trails of rust in its wake. Kaarn retaliated by activating his neuro-phage emitter, a device designed to disrupt the nervous systems of organic beings and even daemon forms. Typhus stumbled back as the waves of disorienting energy washed over him, briefly dulling his senses.

“You see, rot-bearer?” Kaarn intoned. “Even your blighted god cannot overcome the purity of the Omnissiah’s will.”

The Tech-Priest's moment of triumph was short-lived. Typhus gathered his psychic power and invoked the Curse of the Leper. The power surged through the air like a foul wind, warping the very atoms around Kaarn and his retinue. Flesh and metal alike bloated and split, the Tech-Priests’ augmetics began to fail, spewing black oil and diseased coolant. Kaarn’s limbs twitched uncontrollably as the corruption spread, and he staggered, his neuro-phage emitter sparking and failing.

“Fool,” Typhus sneered as he advanced, swinging the Manreaper in a deadly arc that severed Kaarn’s primary servo-arm. “There is no will but Nurgle’s will.”

With a final strike, Typhus drove the Manreaper into Kaarn’s chest, splitting the Tech-Priest from shoulder to hip. The Magos collapsed to the floor, his eyes dimming as the corruption ate away at his remaining augmetics.

The Battle Outside: Titans and Daemons

While Typhus claimed victory inside the spire, the battle outside intensified. The massive Titans, Horus Imperius and Ferrum Purgatus, continued their relentless bombardment of the Death Guard forces. The Reaver-class Titan’s volcano cannon melted swathes of Plaguebearers into steaming sludge, while the Warhound's turbo-lasers swept across the battlefield, vaporizing Nurglings and obliterating corrupted war machines.

The environment had become a surreal landscape of chaos. The once-smooth metal ground was cracked and cratered, and the Forge-Spire's walls dripped with foul fluids that ran like diseased veins. Mortarion, flying above the carnage, invoked Gift of Contagion once more, saturating the air with a virulent haze. The Titans’ sensors began to falter as corruption seeped into their systems, warping targeting cogitators and causing malfunctions.

Gloamfall, the Daemon Prince, took to the sky alongside a dozen Plague Drones. The Daemon Prince soared towards Ferrum Purgatus, his warpsword blazing with green fire. The Warhound Titan retaliated, its plasma blastgun firing a bolt of incandescent energy that struck Gloamfall’s chest, sending him hurtling backwards. The Daemon Prince's resilient form began to heal almost immediately, the wounds sealing up as Nurgle’s blessings coursed through him.

“You cannot slay what is eternal!” Gloamfall roared, diving again toward the Warhound.

Gloamfall's Assault on Ferrum Purgatus

Gloamfall's warpsword plunged into Ferrum Purgatus’s cockpit, the blade's corruptive energy surging through the Titan’s systems. Sparks flew as the Daemon Prince tore into the machine, his talons ripping out vital components and tearing through armor plating. The Warhound Titan staggered as its servos groaned under the weight of the corruption spreading through its circuits. It managed one desperate swipe with its chainfist, but Gloamfall was already moving, his wings propelling him upward in a burst of speed. With a final heave, he drove his warpsword deep into the Titan's reactor core, unleashing a torrent of daemonic energy that detonated the massive war engine from within. The explosion tore apart the Warhound in a fiery blast, scattering molten debris across the battlefield.

As the Warhound fell, its wreckage aflame and smoking, the environment responded to the intense conflict. The corruption of Nurgle spread outward like a living tide, consuming the debris. The ground itself seemed to buckle and bleed, bubbling with noxious fluids that seeped from the earth, while the Forge-Spire's walls groaned under the pressure of the warp energies saturating the air.

Mortarion vs. Horus Imperius

Meanwhile, Mortarion continued his cataclysmic confrontation with Horus Imperius. The Reaver-class Titan unleashed another volley from its laser blasters, the beams searing through the atmosphere and gouging deep furrows into the ground. Mortarion’s form blurred as he dodged and weaved through the barrage, his wings carrying him upward in a spiraling ascent. As he closed in, he drew on his psychic powers, invoking Curse of the Leper once more. The power swelled around him, a toxic miasma that seeped into the Titan’s systems, spreading rust and decay across its armored hull. Servos locked up, targeting arrays malfunctioned, and the machine spirit howled in dismay.

“You cannot stop the rot,” Mortarion intoned as he swooped down towards the Titan's weakened chassis. “Entropy is the only certainty.”

With a mighty swing, Silence cleaved through the Reaver’s power conduits, sending arcs of electricity crackling into the air. The Reaver stumbled backward, its footing unstable as Mortarion pressed the attack. Using The Lantern, Mortarion fired a concentrated beam of warp-tainted energy into the heart of the Titan, blasting apart its control center and sending the towering war machine toppling to the ground. The fall of Horus Imperius shook the battlefield, a deafening crash that reverberated through the very walls of the Forge-Spire.

The Last Stand of the Mechanicus

Inside the spire, the situation was growing dire for the defenders. With Magos Prime Helrikkus Kaarn slain and Typhus carving a path toward the warp-nexus, the remaining Tech-Priests and Skitarii struggled to hold the line. The Skitarii Vanguard, now down to only 3,000 warriors, fought in desperate squads, unleashing bursts of radium fire and charged arc shots in an attempt to slow the advancing Blightlord Terminators. Combat servitors armed with plasma culverins and powerfists rushed forward, their attacks fueled by last-ditch programming, while Tech-Priests activated the spire’s final defensive measures—automated turrets and graviton pulse emitters.

Typhus, his armor soaked in the filth of battle, laughed as he saw the defenders’ efforts. “You only delay the inevitable,” he mocked, swinging the Manreaper in great arcs that dismembered servitors and split open Skitarii. “Your god of machines will rust, your sacred forges will fall silent. This world will become a garden of decay!”

“Then we will die as warriors of the Omnissiah,” one of the surviving Tech-Priests declared defiantly, leveling a volkite blaster at Typhus. “We do not fear the end.”

The Warp-Nexus and Mortarion’s Dark Ritual

As Typhus and his Blightlords reached the central chamber, the warp-nexus itself pulsed with raw energy. The nexus appeared as a swirling, iridescent maelstrom of warp-light, contained within a complex array of ancient machinery and arcane circuits. Its power was immense, its presence tugging at the fabric of reality itself, and Typhus could feel the raw warp energy radiating from it, a feast of corruption that could fuel Nurgle's blessings tenfold.

Mortarion, his wings folding behind him as he entered the chamber, spoke a single word, his voice reverberating through the nexus chamber. “Begin.”

Typhus and Morlokk the Seeping, the Plague Surgeon, stepped forward and began the dark ritual. Their chants echoed throughout the chamber, invoking Nurgle's name in the foulest of tongues. The nexus reacted, its energies drawn into Mortarion as he focused his psychic powers upon the swirling vortex. The room filled with a sickening green light as the nexus’ energy was channeled into a cataclysmic wave of warp-corruption. The ground split open, and from the gaping cracks, foul tendrils of diseased flora and rivers of bile surged forth, covering the walls and machinery with festering growth.

The Climax – Kaarn’s Final Gambit

Just when all seemed lost for the defenders, a hidden failsafe activated. Magos Kaarn’s last command echoed through the spire’s systems—a final protocol designed to sever the warp-nexus from the material realm. The machinery around the nexus began to glow with an ominous red hue, and a resonant hum filled the chamber. The device would collapse the nexus upon itself, sealing away the warp energy but destroying the entire Forge-Spire in the process.

Mortarion felt the shift in the warp and understood the Tech-Priest's final gambit. With a snarl, he redoubled his psychic efforts, attempting to wrest control of the collapsing energies. Typhus joined him, focusing his dark powers on stabilizing the nexus long enough to complete the ritual.

“You seek to destroy what you cannot defend!” Mortarion roared, his voice shaking the walls. “But even in your death throes, you only bring about the inevitable decay.”

The Final Outcome

The tension built to an unbearable level as the nexus pulsated, caught between collapsing and releasing its energy in one last explosion. The spire’s walls cracked, and the floor buckled as Mortarion fought to control the volatile warp energies. Finally, with a guttural shout, Mortarion poured his will into the nexus, and with one last surge, the energy was released—not as a destructive explosion, but as a wave of corruption that swept outward, enveloping the entire spire.

The Adeptus Mechanicus within the Forge-Spire were consumed by the wave. Their metal and flesh dissolved into filth, and their machinery crumbled to dust. The once-mighty central Forge-Spire fell silent as its structure decayed, collapsing in on itself, leaving nothing but a rotted ruin.

Epilogue: A Garden of Decay

Krastellan had fallen. The central Forge-Spire, once a beacon of the Omnissiah’s light, lay in ruin, consumed by Nurgle’s touch. The corrupted landscape around the spire continued to grow, withered flora blooming in grotesque beauty. The air itself seemed alive with decay, and pools of stagnant water, thick with slime and pestilence, dotted the land.

Mortarion stood amidst the ruin, victorious but pensive. He looked out over the corrupted wasteland, his gaze distant as if seeing beyond the material realm.

“The Omnissiah's light has flickered and died,” he murmured. “And this world shall rot forevermore.”

Champion Gorvoth approached his Primarch, his grotesque form even more bloated and warped than before. “The Forge World is ours, my lord. The victory is complete.”

Mortarion turned his gaze to his champion, a faint smile curling behind his rusted helm. “Yes, but the war is never complete, Gorvoth. There is always more that must be reclaimed by the inevitability of decay. This world is merely the beginning.”

The victory on Krastellan would serve as a dark testament to the power of decay, a warning to the Imperium that even the mightiest of worlds could fall to the plague. As Mortarion prepared to leave the rotting remains of Krastellan behind, he knew that there would always be more worlds to claim in Nurgle's name. The Plague Ascendant would continue, spreading entropy and suffering across the galaxy, one fallen world at a time.

Note from the CodexMaledictus:

As you reach the end of The Plague Ascendant: The Fall of Krastellan, reflect on the tale's weaving of decay, inevitability, and the grotesque beauty of entropy. This account showcases Mortarion's harrowing mastery as a psyker, daemon, and warlord, embodying Nurgle’s relentless will as he leads his festering legion through the war-torn Forge World. The story highlights the iron resolve of the Adeptus Mechanicus, clashing against the insidious corruption of the Death Guard, all while exploring the psychological unraveling of warriors trapped in a war that promises only rot.

Themes of perseverance, the cost of devotion, and the blurring line between machine and mortal are interwoven through the core battles and dialogue. I welcome your thoughts, critiques, and requests for future tales of war, glory, and the dark forces that shape the 41st millennium.

For those drawn to the grim and the inevitable, come back and let your curiosity lead you through future chronicles. After all, decay waits for no one, and the CodexMaledictus is never short of tales to tell.

[suguwu]

minors and ageless blogs dni

gn!reader, angsty ig, reader is an ambiguous oceanic/water being

he dreams of the sea.

the deepest reaches of it, fathoms down, where the water is frigid and night-sky dark, a bruise of a thing. where the currents have teeth. where the children of the sea are sleek and dangerous, dotted with little lights that flash like dying stars.

he dreams of you.

neuvillette, you call, shadowed by the water, blurring at the edges, a watercolor being.

he finds he cannot answer.

that is your name now, isn't it, you ask. you reach for him with aching fingers; they brush against his skin, slick and soft like seaweed. he leans into it.

yes, he manages, the word unraveling from somewhere deep inside him, a heart-string of a syllable.

i like it, you say, your teeth gleaming in the dark, a knife's blade of divinity, a flash of lightning crackling across a storm-struck sea. in the waking world, sometimes he looks for that smile in the sea, when it is roiling and dark, waves crashing and biting into the shoreline.

(he searches for you in many things: your voice in the echo of a shell against his ear; your body where the waves have carved the sand in sweet, soft curves and sharp lines alike; your kiss in the way seafoam dissolves between his fingers.)

neuvillette, you croon. it suits you.

it is not for you, he says. call me by my true name.

the expression that crosses your face is terrible and beautiful, all st. elmo's fire, a glowing crackle of emotion.

i cannot, you say. not until you return.

he shakes his head.

come home, you say, thought it is more of a plea. come back to me.

you come closer, until he can feel the cool length of your body pressing against his, a ghost of what he once knew. come home, neuvillette.

he leans into you, into the cradle of your hips, your chest, your embrace. you curve around him as the horizon does the earth.

i cannot find you, he says.

you hum and it sounds like waves upon the shore. i know.

he brushes his lips to the corner of your mouth. waits for you to turn into the kiss, as you always do.

the world is not ours anymore, you tell him, your lips brushing his with each word. i am not meant for it.

what am i to do without you?

you smile, soft and sad and sweet. you start to fade, seafoam dashed against the shore.

don't go, he says, but you never listen.

he comes awake without a sound. he does not sleep again that night, lest he dream of the sea.

when day breaks, it is raining in fontaine.

[bigskydreaming]

Like yes merpeople but ALSO what about merpeople who are specifically half-shark, or the underwater equivalent of giants, half-human/half-whale? We've got the occasional half-human/half-octopus but also yes to half human jellyfish and half human manta rays and not naiads specifically so much as the underwater equivalent of dryads, having the same connection to coral gardens and reefs that dryads do to trees and forests.

Gimme underwater lamias who are actually more accurately half human/half electric eel, with all the associated zapping ability, that lends them insight into electricity and related phenomena they use to build high-tech wonderlands deep beneath the waves.....and far from any shore, underwater travelers fear crossing paths with 'ghosts' which are actually like a supernatural form of jellyfish who wrap their translucent selves around their victims to "possess them."

I want selkies who don't just come ashore to have angsty love affairs with beguiling humans, but who also live in communities deep in arctic regions far away from any human civilization where they carve entire villages and cities into the undersides of icebergs.

Underwater vampiric creatures, maybe lamprey or shark themed, who specifically drink blood for the oxygen in it, as that's what enables them to go 'top side' for awhile before having to retreat back to the depths they're more naturally adapted to live in. Krakens but also a Fae-like version of angler fish who use their lights as an undersea version of will'o'wisps, leading denizens of the deep astray.

Multiple types of undersea shapeshifters, going to and from the surface and the deep, with entirely different branches of the same shapeshifter family trees.....the dolphin shapeshifters of the Mediterranean being descendants of the sailors cursed by Dionysus and having very little in common with the encantado who live in the waters of South America, but often lumped in with each other and sharing similar issues and interactions with other civilizations due to the fact that so many others just assume all dolphin shapeshifters are connected or alike even though they have completely different natures, parameters for their shapeshifting, and an entire spectrum of supernatural abilities with very little actual overlap between the different 'types.'

Not just one god of the sea, but multiple gods of the deep, all associated with their own regions, from Poseidon to Sedna to Tangaroa to Manannán mac Lir and Kimbazi. The deep sea equivalent of druids, cultivating kelp forests and coral groves and gardens warmed and nourished by the undersea volcanoes they're planted in the shadows of. Sorcerers as fixated on trying to control and harness and direct the power and positioning of underwater currents as above-the-sea counterparts are with trying to control the weather.

Narwhales often mistaken for the unicorns of the deep, but only because there actually ARE an undersea version of unicorns for them to get mixed up WITH. Protective amulets and talismans and charms made of sea shells, alchemical potions mixed from octopus ink and kraken blood and marine sinkholes like the Great Blue Hole off the coast of Belize being the undersea equivalent of fairy rings, serving as entrances to a subaquatic Otherworld or Underworld.

The rivers of various pantheons' Underworlds having exit points at multiple places around the world, so there are entire regions considered haunted or places of wild magic because they're where the waters of the Styx or Acheron slip out and get mixed into the ocean, altering the properties of the water in those regions in strange and unpredictable ways.

Deep sea mages using and manipulating pressure in ways there's no above-water equivalent for because on land its not really a natural phenomenon of note or a force of nature all its own, not in the same ways it would be for those who live their entire lives and build cities at depths where the water around them has a weight and power that the air just does not possess for those who do the same at sea level.

A spectrum of sirens, different types and different cultures all with their own unique distinctions....as much as some are associated with seduction, there are other clans with reputations as scavengers, known for sending hunting parties to the surface where they sing down storms to scuttle ships and drag them and their contents down to the depths.

An entire world where there's always a lower depth, a darker chasm, a further mystery just below.....the deepest abysses an uncharted badlands populated by eldritch creatures older than anything else in the world, a pitch dark landscape dotted with the ruins of empires so old nobody remembers they ever existed, let alone what they were called.

Idk, idk, I just think there's so much more to be mined from the sheer wealth of sea creatures and concepts and phenomena and traditional mermaids and selkies and sirens, cool as they are, are really just the tip of the iceberg. And we have gotten a couple cool glimpses of undersea civilizations and how wild and colorful they can be in the last decade or so in cinema, but again....tip of the iceberg. There's soooooo much more that can be done, I'm just like. *vibrates in place wanting it all*

[inkonherfingers]

Amartëa Melmë - The Last Tale of Gil-galad - Chapter 1

"High King?"

He opened his eyes at the sound of Elrond's voice.

Only then did he remember where he was. Only then did he begin to feel the breeze of the wind upon his skin again. He knew again that he stood on the highest balcony, overlooking the lands and the people of Lindon. His hands, which had tightened around the sandstone railings, relaxed. For a moment he stared down, where fog hid what lay in the deep. He walked slowly along the railing as he watched the dense fog over the rocky depths swirl into and out of itself. Only then did his eyes travel and find the solemn ring on his hand. But as quickly as his eyes had looked upon it, did they release it. Where he had gone that he had forgotten where he was, he did not want to remember. Trying to retrace the steps of his mind would lead to a path that would so very suddenly vanish before his feet.

He blinked once, granting the landscape one last lingering gaze before he looked over his shoulder, at the Half-Elf.

Only as he did so did Elrond look up to meet his eyes. On his right cheek was a bruised, purple and red cut that was yet to heal. The blue of his eyes were dark with sorrow. The High King turned his body to face him fully. The Herald was dressed in black, just as he himself was. They, and all of Lindon were in deep mourning.

The hour that was upon them was dark.

It had only been two nights and a day since the Fall of Eregion. Word of Celebrimbor's passing had reached ear before any soul had returned to the kingdom. The horns of Lindon were sounded the second night and all Elvendom had stood under the tree that had been carved in his remembrance in the dark of the night, alike a river of candlelight. By dawn, all Elven Lords had ridden and sailed to the Kingdom, come to assess the damage that was done to the fallen city… and the danger that, too, was already on its way.

It was not going to be a pretty scene.

"…they await you, High King." Elrond's voice was steady, but there was a tremble in his eyes as he'd spoken.

Gil-galad nodded, part of his dark hair falling over his shoulder as he did. It was all let down, neither tucked behind his ear nor held back by his crown, for he was not wearing it. The sorrow he felt in the wind and in his own heart demanded to be weathered in bareness.

"Let us go." he said. Elrond nodded and followed his step as he left the balcony and led the way to the King's Council.

"Echuio i magol lín an i Hîr Vain! Raise your swords for his majesty!"

Silver blades flashed in the shadows of the long and dim hall. The King walked on without halting. The Herald followed close behind him, his eyes following the rays of sun that shone on the King's head each time they passed under a window in the ceiling.

As they approached, Elrond could see the Elven Lords in their seats. Their words too, were growing louder, with each step he came closer. And the harsher they sounded.

Gil-galad, too began to hear them. He could feel his blood begin to heat with anger, but he knew he'd have to control it. Elrond took a deep breath and closed his eyes before his next step brought him into the light.

The words of the Elven Lords died at the sight of Ereinion, who marched across the circular marble floor. Between each seat that sat against the wall was a window that almost touched the ceiling, leaving the elves to under the shadow of the walls.

Elrond stayed behind, his left hand tight around the letter carrier by his hip. He could feel the cut at his cheek sting.

The King took his seat, the seventh among thirteen. Elrond watched as silence reigned and none among them dared to speak, before the last strand of hair on the King's head stood still. Gil-galad, too, kept his eyes low before looked up.

Just as he did, did the first voice raise.

"Your Majesty….where are Eregion's survivors?"

He turned is head and looked at them, before spoke,

"They have been safely led to a hidden valley not far from the dwarven Kingdom of Khazad-Dûm, where they are being tended to by our kind and the dwarves sent by King Durin."

"And what of the scrolls in Eregion's library? It guarded age-old secrets of our Smithery. The eldest of secrets!"

The council erupted into a storm of accusations that flew like the enemies arrows.' Elrond flinched at their sudden rage and lack of understanding. His eyes darted around, always finding the King again. He saw Gil-galad's hand raise to press against his temple as he closed his eyes. At the movement of his head, Elrond, for the blink of an eye, saw the bruise at the King's shoulder blade that hid behind the collar of his garment.

"…What have I missed?"

Elrond looked to his side and found the kind eyes of Cìrdan, before he felt his comforting hand upon his shoulder.

He tried to speak, but he felt a lump in his throat he could not overcome.

His eyes, which Cìrdan then followed, led to the King, who seemed as if he wasn't there anymore.

Gil-galad drew a deep breath as bright red flame appeared behind his eyes' lids, breaking and reforming in bright and dangerous hues. At the center of the vision lingered a deep black center, flashing, disappearing and reappearing like the blinking eye of a terrible creature, etching its mark into his memory with burning pain. His grip tightened around the arm of the throne. A voice, terrible and thunderous screamed words in a dark tongue only his heart could understand, for it only spoke to fear and terror.

The shouting match that was unfolding in the council sounded like the furthest noise, replaced by the harrowing sound of thousands of feet, stomping the earth and grass beneath their feet, ravaging forest and river, and killing everything in their path.

Cìrdan furrowed his brows, his eyes wandering over the elves before it fixated on Gil-galad. Concern made his gaze linger when he saw the Elven King's eyes move with speed behind the lids, as if he was was being shown somethimg. Things; Past, present and to come.

He knew because he himself has seen, even felt it to his bones.

"This is a disaster!" said one of them, "We have lost our strong-point! How will we now be able to wage war against Sauron if the city that made our strongest weapons is no more?"

"Plenty of Elves have shed their blood and lost their life, trying to save it! Any of it! And there is nothing??"

"And the rest of the armies," Injected another, "wasting the journey to Mordor, where the evil was not to be found!"

The Herald watched them and felt tears begin to sting in his eyes.

Since it all happened, he hadn't found a way to let himself breathe again. He hadn't found sleep or rest, instead nightmares and flashes of memories that made the left hand he once held his feather with tremble in shock at the haunting sensation of the sword it bore not long ago. Hearing instead the voices of the dead in his wake and his sleep, forced to see remember their lifeless eyes and hear the death's cursed silence infest a once living place.

"And what of the treasonist?!"

Very suddenly and quickly all other voices died away. Many, in shock at the implication, sat back down. Both Cìrdan and Elrond gasped at the insult, and took a step backwards, eyes wide in disbelief.

"This tragedy! This defeat," they spoke,

"would never had happened if he had not gone behind the King's back to forge in secret with unknown alliances and thereby putting all of Elvenkind at risk! That he shall never be named again, in these halls or outside of them!"

"Silence!"

the King's voice thundered, bouncing off the walls and resounding up to the high ceiling over their heads. All heads turned to look at him as he suddenly rose and stood tall, towering over the rest of them. He had balled the hand that bore the ring into a trembling fist as his dark eyes now, full of rage, fixated the one who had so mistakenly spoken out of turn.

"I will have you know that the elf you speak of used his genius to save our kind in its darkest hour!

Three Rings, bearing forces we only believed to be attainable in Valinor itself, did he craft by his bared hands! Three Rings for his kind, our kind, untouched by the evil that slayed our kin and the rest of middle earth! Three means to vanquish Sauron once and for all! This is the Elven Smith you speak of."

Cìrdan's eyes found Elrond, who, with glassy eyes, held his breath. Rage fired up inside his bones at the careless words. A rage he thought he alone felt so bitterly. Witnessing it in Gil-galad, who had since their return to Lindon seemed unaffected, soothed it so quickly and suddenly and yet, turned it into an intense feeling of loss so unbearable he felt as if trapped underwater, airways filling with choking fluid that would now and forever never let the name of the one he should have saved come off his lips again.

"Celebrimbor was his name. A son of Fëanor… one of our best and most cunning. None among you!" he exclaimed, his voice growing louder ang angrier with every word,

"Will dare sully His name in his death!"

The King's last word echoed on and complete silence followed. But in Elrond's ears the last word grew louder. In the end, a single tear fell from his eye, before he turned his back to them and left.

Gil-galad's eyes shifted and only found Elrond's back before he disappeared into the hallway, his steps echoing only faintly, before he heard them no more.

_____________________________________________________________

He exhaled as shuddered breath,

before he reached the flower's stem, gently pulling at it until he heard it snap off. He knelt in a field of grass, the cloak of his black garments draped over the blades of grass, gathering flowers not faraway from the tree statues. The forest was without sound, and the setting of the sun had blued the sky, making the airs hues turn cold.

Silently, he picked the white Chrysanthemums that grew by the roots of an old tree. Seven were gathered and an held in his right hand, when he saw a drop of water fall upon the white petals of the eight, in his other. But there was no rain… the tear belonged to him.

Elrond looked at it for a long moment, before he sniffed, transferring the blossom to the others he had picked. Another fell from the tip of his nose. He plucked one more before he slowly rose to his feet. Silently, he walked away, taking to direct path towards the carved statues.

He paid no attention to his surroundings and only looked up when he arrived at the feet of his statue.

His tearful eyes rose to meet the wooden face of a friend. A tear rolled off his cheek when he finally saw it.

The night before during the burial ceremony was a blur to him. He did not know whether he'd cried.

But what he did remember was his shame.

His confusion.

And his guilt.

He remembered he had never lifted his head to look up, to see. He did not understand why all there ever was too see when he looked up… were the things that he lost.

His eyes wandered over the details of the statue's face, stayed until the made him remember his friend's smile. He looked away quickly, two tears falling as he did. He exhaled, lowering himself onto his knees before he laid down the flowers.

He bit his lip, before he wiped away the tears with the edge of his sleeve.

"…It will begin to hurt less in time."

Elrond's eyes shifted to his left, before he turned his head only slightly,

finding Gil-galad. His brown eyes were focused and mysterious, as they always seemed. Still, he sensed a genuine care behind them. Never had he seen those eyes shed a tear.

"…Not this time." Elrond whispered, before he turned his gaze back to the flowers.

The wound of this loss would not heal this once.

Gil-galad lowered his eyes for an instant, feeling the Herald's words cut deeper than he may have wanted them to.

For they were not his own, they belonged to all Elvenkind.

He then looked out into the sky, where dark clouds approached, bringing the darkness of the night.

Only did he pray the dark clouds that were coming for Middle Earth would depart like these would…in the morning.

Without another word, he left Elrond's side.

[amiserableseriesofevents]

Wherever you find love (it feels like Christmas)

24 Clegan Christmas drabbles for 24 days!

Prompt from here (but randomized)

[Day 1] [Day 2] [Day 3] [Day 4] [Day 5] [Day 6]

[Read on AO3]

Day 07: Fireworks

My Canon AU, post-war, wc 978

The popping sound, loud and staggering rhythmic, wakes Gale up with a start: they’re under attack, the Germans are firing at them, God how was he asleep? How did they get here? The war is supposed to be over — but is it? Or was it just a dream?

Red light illuminates the room; a flare, so someone’s in danger. One of their fortresses, some of their men are coming back wounded, the plane shot to bits, leaking blood and fuel alike and for some reason he’s not outside waiting for them, helping them. What kind of a Major is he become? The one who abandons his friends, no, his men in their time of need? What a disgrace. What a shame to the rank they’ve given him.

Another loud crack sends him flying off the bed, barely registering the outraged meow as the shadow of something skitters away in the darkness — what is a cat doing here, his panicked mind wonders for a second then he realizes, more proteins. He’s back there, then. He’s not in England anymore, he’s back in Germany and he’s being shot at by friendly fire. Someone’s come to liberate them but don’t they get that it’s more dangerous like this? That they’re gonna kill them if they continue shooting at them?

“Stop!” He shouts, as if the soldiers in the planes can hear him over the commotion. “Stop! We’re here, we’re still alive! Help us!”

Another crack and he cries out, covering his ears and hiding his face in the cradle of his arms; he doesn’t care about how it looks like, a Major losing his cool like that. He just wants it to stop, he wants peace, he wants to go home, he wants-

Another thought fills him with icy cold dread: John. Where is he? He wasn’t in bed with him so does that mean he’s outside? Is he fighting, is he ok, is he alive? The idea of having survived all the nightmares they’ve lived through just for John to be shot down by friendly fire makes him sick, bile rising up his throat scalding and corrosive. “John!” He calls, but he’s shaking so fiercely it comes out as barely a whimper. “Please,” he insists through sobs. “Please.”

A door opens somewhere flooding the room with light. “Buck!” A familiar voice calls as someone rushes to him, cold and sticky hands grabbing his face. “Buck, it’s me. It’s ok, we’re home. It’s just fireworks.”

Home? Blinking blearily through tears Gale tries to focus his gaze on the shape in front of him and starts crying louder in relief when he finally recognizes it’s John, alive, older, worried. His pupils are wide with fear, his brow furrowed, and he flinches visibly when the next shot goes out but he doesn’t waver, doesn’t remove his hands or his gaze from Gale, keeps him steady. “It’s ok,” he repeats softly. “You’re ok. Come back to me, Buck. Come home.”

Home.

Little by little the rest of the room comes back into focus: the quilt on their bed, the heavy curtains at the windows, the paper Christmas garland hung to the door of their wardrobe, Meepo hiding behind John and staring at him with outrage in his green eyes. Home is their farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, home is their bedroom that smells of cedar wood and resin, home is away from the war, home is safe. He is safe.

One last sob slips through his teeth and then he goes quiet, sees it in John’s eyes when he realizes he’s back from where the noise of the fireworks had taken him and relaxes, the crease of his brow smoothing out. Then he notices something else and tries to pull away with a mumbled curse but Gale grabs his hands to keep him close. “What?” He croaks out.

John shows him his palm, smeared with blood from a fresh cut that runs up his thumb. “I was carving wood when the noise started and I jumped, I probably cut myself then and didn’t realize. Then you started screaming and it didn’t matter anymore, but now I’ve made a mess all over your face with the blood, sorry Buck.”

“Don’t worry,” Gale shakes his head. “It’ll wash away. I think I scared Meepo,” he adds, pointing to the cat still hiding behind John.

“Nah, he’s not offended, right Meepo?” John asks, turning toward the little creature. “He’s used to us, he knows shit like this happen when fucking kids decide to celebrate New Year a few weeks earlier,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna have a very interesting conversation with their mums and I promise you, they’ll think twice before shooting up their fireworks near the house where two veterans live.”

“Yes please,” Gale says and attempts a smile that feels pale on his own lips. “Not now though. Stay here now, ok?”

“Sure Buck,” John says. “I was just about to come call you to suggest we drink some hot chocolate, what do you think of that? Or would you rather just stay here for a little while? We can do whatever you want.”

“I think hot chocolate’s a good idea,” Gale answers, his voice still thin. “And some jelly sandwiches maybe. But first we have to fix this,” he adds tracing the cut on John’s palm with his fingertips. In any other occasion he might have kissed it but right now the idea of tasting blood, even John’s, makes him queasy. He’s still trying to avoid thinking about that smeared on his face, he hopes John will find a way to clean him without him having to look in the mirror.

John, seemingly understanding, nods and pulls him closer to place a kiss on his forehead. “Sure thing, Buck. Nothing that can’t be fixed when it’s me and my favorite boy.”