#crystal shepherd-cross

[wildcmbcrsupdates]

liahoprey: Polignac arrive… C’est ce soir, les épisodes 5&6 de Marie Antoinette arrivent sur Canal+, vous me verrez jouer Yolande, comtesse de Polignac :) Coming out very soon in the UK and US! @marieantoinette @canalplus Lots of love for all of the cast and crew who made this experience so special for me 💐and a special shoutout to lovely @jazziblackborow with whom I don’t have many photos unfortunately but god knows she was a big part of my experience on the show!!! Last group pics from @johannaberghorn, thank you! (Je tiens à remercier aussi @rouje pour la tenue, @modimagine pour mon maquillage et @iamjasonthomas_ pour ma coiffure pour notre belle première il y a quelques semaines❤️)

Caroline Piette, Crystal Shepherd-Cross, Emilia Schüle, Gaia Weiss, Jack Archer, Liah O'Prey, Louis Cunningham, Margaux Balsan, Nathan Willcocks, Philippe Tłokiński and Roxane Duran via liahoprey on Instagram, 11/14/2022.

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

three | chapter list

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you. 

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Julianna is a real princess. As the niece of the Queen, her title is official. She’s been a princess all her life, and it’s a detail you can’t miss. 

James’ hand is hot but amicable against your shoulder blade. He hasn’t stepped away from you since Julianna arrived, though what threat she poses has yet to be seen. She doesn’t seem particularly volatile. You can’t imagine her in all her dewy skin and fine clothing lifting a finger, let alone her fist. 

“Mama says you’re an artist,” she drawls. 

“Not really.” How her mother knows anything about you is a mystery. “It’s a hobby, is all.” 

“And you didn’t finish university?”

“No.” You don’t owe her anything. You know you don’t. But it’s not just her you want to defend yourself to, not when Remus is sitting by the window of the parlour and James is close enough to hear your heartbeat. “I tried to, obviously, but I couldn’t, uh, afford to not work.”

“Ah.”

You don’t expect her to understand it. You know most people don't. Studying and working, the majority can handle both. You’d been ashamed of yourself for failing, but you’d come to the realisation that it was sink or swim. You could sink —hate yourself for being a little more fragile than others, for needing more time, more space, more accommodation— or you could swim. Accept your ‘shortcomings’. Make the most of what you have. 

Find yourself in a foreign country surrounded by the highly educated and the ridiculously wealthy. People who might never comprehend why you’ve struggled, or how. 

In that moment, you decide to treat this heart-wrenching trip as nothing more than a holiday. James is nice to you. The food is free and apparently plentiful. The grounds… 

Fuck, the grounds. The scenery. The royals aren’t currently living in their most famous residence, Loswell Castle, but are instead mourning the Prince at the more private and more subtle Bellaverden House. Subtle, yet gorgeous. The grass is green and stretches as far as the eye can see in all directions, broken up only by the silhouette of the alps to the east and the shimmering Lake Orlo to the west. The palace itself is nothing like you’d expected, and so far from the capital city of Genovia it is no surprise to find that the royals let their personal tastes bleed into every corner. It’s tasteful, silent wealth, no crystal chandeliers hanging from the eaves but instead a Rembrandt in the hallway. No solid gold cutlery, but instead Noritake porcelain tea cups and their matching exorbitant saucers.

“Loswell is the gaudier of the two houses,” James had said, evidently pleased by your wide-eyed surprise.

A nice boy who’s being paid to spend time with you and his funny friends. All you have to do is survive the paparazzi (check!) and your suspicious possible relatives (less so).

Any hour now, the paternity test will come up negative and they’ll be shepherding you home in search of the actual princess, wherever she may be. 

If she exists at all. 

“You haven’t eaten anything today,” James says softly, for your ears only. “Should we go down to the kitchens?”

It’s hard to describe the true and daunting scale of the palace, but James’ use of ‘kitchens’ rather than ‘kitchen’ sums it up nicely. 

Julianna rolls her shoulders, reaching for a black telephone on the side table. “No need. We’ll have it brought up. What do you like? They have yards of fresh pasta prepared by now. Doesn’t matter, I’ll ask for some of everything.”

“Oh, no,” you say, stepping out of James' reach. “I don’t want to be an imposition while I’m here.”

“That ship has sailed,” she says neatly. 

Ouch. You look back to James without intending to, an automatic movement. He’s become your safety net too quickly. His job is to protect you from harm, not your catty maybe-cousin’s mild disdain. 

“Sit,” Julianna says. “James, you can take up station in the hallway. Go on.”

Her voice possesses all the snobbish airiness you’d expect it to. She’s regal, elegant, and rude. James’ hand stretches toward yours, but your skin never touches. You think it might be his silent way of saying he won’t be far.

He gives you a reassuring look, not quite smiling. “If you need me,” he says. 

“Tutor,” Julianna adds once James is at the door, “you can leave us.”

“Remus, please.” You smile at Julianna appealingly, piping up before she can steal your last lifeline. “I need him to tell me what silverware to use. If I have any hope of catching up, I’ll have to start learning about proper etiquette straight away.”

You look to your tutor to make sure he’s on board. Remus gestures for you to sit and crosses the hardwood floors between you, his soft shoes barely making a sound. Julianna sniffs, your suggestion agreeable but tiresome for her, and pulls the telephone receiver to her ear. 

Remus settles into the chair next to yours at the table. 

“Don’t worry. We won’t leave you for wolves,” he says.

You’re grateful. You nod to the book in his hands. “What are you reading?”

He turns the book around. A Comprehensive History of Contemporary Genovia. 

“I’ve never had to educate someone who didn’t already know a very specific, very intricate history of our country,” he says in his rough voice, the barest hints of his accent peaking through. He says our country like you already belong as he does, not native but citizen anyhow. “Honestly, I provide supplementary education for the well-educated, I… I’m like a second chance for rich slackers. You’re neither, and so I’m unsure how I can make this easy on you.”

You admire his thinking. You’ve been lucky to find yourself in the care of people who put your comfort first. Remus, James, Sirius, even the ambassadors of the country, and the matron you’d been introduced to upon your arrival here, they’ve all been so conscientious. 

But it won’t matter. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. 

“You do?”

“You’ve made it clear how much faith you have in the current situation. I believe…” that you’re who we suspect you are, you think he might say, but he parts his legs to bump his knee into yours. “I believe we’re going to be good friends.”

That is… “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

He nods.

“So, what’s with the bruise?” Julianna asks abruptly. “And the bad makeup. Mean boyfriend back home?”

Her cavalier attitude rubs you the wrong way immediately. “I was a little too close to the door when someone opened it.”

“Ah.”

Again with the Ah. Extra syllables must be at cost. 

Positivity, you remind yourself. This is a vacation. This inane and insane need to constantly prove yourself to the people around you is going to make you crazy, especially when all of this is temporary. Who cares what princess Julianna thinks of you now when, in a day or two, she’ll remember you as nothing more than the girl who they brought by mistake? And wouldn’t it be nice to just… not care? Who cares what Julianna thinks. 

You stand and walk to the door where James is standing, because calling for him would make you feel like an entitled dick. He turns his head to you obligingly. 

“Would you come back inside?” you ask. “The painting is giving me the heebies.”

“That’s a portrait of your great great grandmother.”

“She’s scary.”

He claps your shoulder, giving it a tender squeeze. “If the test comes out negative, princess, I’ll happily commit royal espionage for you and fix the results.”

“That is not a joke you should make,” Remus calls mildly. 

“Probably not. I’ve made it now. Sit down, princess, the food’s arriving.”

The food they bring up to you is incredible. Genovian cuisine is actually mostly stolen from the Italians, and how fortunate you are for that. You have no clue where to start, surrounded by rich smells of broth and stewed vegetables, the spritely aroma of white wine and tomatoes so fresh their roasted skins split under the gentle bottom of your spoon. 

James refuses to eat with you, as he’s on the clock, but Remus sits down at the table as promised to guide you through the fascinatingly awful etiquette of a new royal. 

“That’s Cioppino,” Remus says, pointing to a dark red stew bragging large pieces of crab, smaller chunks of a white meat you’re unsure of, and the distinct dark brackets of mussel shells. “It’s actually an Italian-American dish. It’s served with sourdough or french bread, but in our case, where you can’t necessarily use your hands, we’ll go without.”

“Well, there’s nobody here I need to impress, right?” you ask quietly. 

You swear you can hear Julianna twitching. 

He ignores your comment, but his voice is riddled with amusement when he says, “It’s more common for the crab to be served in its shell, but I don’t suppose they want the royals using crab forks and crackers." He points to a second bowl. “This, from the looks of it, is a variation of stufato di capra e fagioli, Italian for ‘stew of goat meat and beans’. Self explanatory. It’s very popular here in the winter, it’s,” —his voice drops to a lower register— “Sirius’ favourite. Shoulder meat, onions, carrots, celery, white wine and white beans. I don’t suppose I have to tell you what that is.” He nods to a heaping bowl of gnocchi coated in a green, buttery sauce, and its familiar wingman — fettuccine alfredo. 

“Now there’s one I know,” you say with a smile. 

“I think they’ve gone easy on you,” Remus says. “Given you something they knew would be familiar. The head cooks, Marl and Marsha, hardly ever serve fettuccine without ragù di pollo. Chicken ragù. It’s a sacrament in Marlene’s eyes to separate the two.”

He moves so easily from English to Italian. You wonder if he speaks Genovian. Is there a Genovian language? You’re too embarrassed to ask, and instead pile some unadventurous fettuccine into your bowl. 

Julianna picks up the telephone again and you let yourself relax as her conversation begins. She picks at her food and talks in Italian down the line, staring straight at you as she says the word, ‘principessa’. You don’t have to be a linguistics expert to know she’s talking about you. Eventually, her attention fades. Remus relaxes with you. 

“This spoon,” he corrects, before opening his book and sagging into his seat.

You're famished, but now all this rich food is making you feel sick. You pick at your fettuccine alfredo and a little of the cioppino. Weirdly, you miss the ordinary smells of your kitchen. You think you might prefer a white bread sandwich and a packet of crisps.  

A figure moves behind you, James shadow shifting to cover your hands. “Unladylike it might be,” he says, “but you’ll regret it if you don’t try the bread, princess. Freshly baked, pretty much soaked in pesto, it’s what us peasant folk fight over at the end of a shift.”

You hold your hand to a beautiful sliced baguette, “This one?”

“That’s the one.”

You pull the bread apart and enter a stodgy, olive oily sort of heaven. The only thing better than how it tastes is James' happy sound when you set aside a huge slice in a napkin and usher it behind your back, as inconspicuous as you can possibly be about it. He has no choice but to take it. You don’t look, but a telltale crunch comes quickly and poorly smothered. 

Julianna excuses herself, and a maid, maybe, comes to take her plates and dirtied cutler on a silver cart. You lean toward Remus with a hand over your mouth. “What do you call them? The ladies in uniform.”

“Princess, you could call them whatever you wanted to,” James butts in. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and sits in one of the chairs facing the door and windows. He’s always on the alert.

“But what’s nicest? I don’t want to be offensive.”

“You’ll learn their names in time,” Remus says easily. “You’ll be fine. Officially, they’re ‘attendants’. Maids, cleaners. Oh, you’ll have a lady in waiting–”

“A what?” 

“A personal assistant,” James says. 

Your face heats up like an instant flush, all hot pinpricks and embarrassment, “No,” you beg, standing up, “please, that would be entirely unnecessary, it’s not like I’m some sort of–”

“Princess!” A familiar voice shouts. Sirius has weaselled inside the door and closed it tight, his back pressed against it for a moment like he’s keeping someone out. He wears an exuberant smile and a brilliant dark ensemble with fine pinstripes that mess with your eyes as he approaches. He’s practically running. “I’ve spoken to Delilah who’s spoken to Bella who’s spoken to Lily who’s been in contact with the legal team in charge of Y/N’s care here in Genovia, and they’ve heard from the medical team who have been fighting tooth and nail to be put in talks with you,” —he looks at you now, and there’s something about his expression, part wide-eyed awe, part sympathy, that freezes you to the spot— “because it’s technically your care, and–”

“Sirius, mate, just put her out of her misery,” James says. He’s looking at you in a different way. Like he’s waiting for you to fall over. 

“Your father,” Sirius says, promptly deciding to start again. “The paternity test came out positive. Your DNA is a match for the Prince, may he rest in peace. You’re a princess. You’re the princess, by blood. You’re a Thermopolis.”

There’s a stretching silence. You wrap your hand around the back of your chair and stare at the velvet upholstery of the seat. 

“Terrible last name,” he adds sympathetically. 

You don’t want to be the girl who faints. That would be ridiculous, to fall over and crack your head. So, though you hate to ask for anything, you mumble, “James?”

He wraps a shapely arm behind your back and under your armpit before you lose the feeling in your legs. 

“I think I need to sit down again,” you say. 

“Reckon you do," he agrees, as he pulls the chair out with his foot and arranges you in it efficiently, the tip of his thumb pushed into the pulse point on your neck. “We’ll get you something cold, princess. You can breathe.” He gives you a little shake, hand spreading wider as it drags down your collar. The pressure is like the safety release of a suction cup. You take in a huge breath. “Breathe. There’s a good girl.”

“I’m fine," you say meekly. 

“It’s alright,” he says, with his impossible softness. He’s unafraid to be kind, even when there are people watching. 

“I’m fine. I–” You can’t finish your sentence. You’d wanted to say you’ll be okay. That this is just some melodramatic episode, but it isn’t. This is a human reaction to unbelievable news. Because you’re a– you’re a princess. 

You cover your face with both hands and curl in toward your thighs. Silence pervades, your ears abuzz with white noise. You aren’t sure how long you sit there paralysed, but soon James’ gentle murmuring and shushing cuts through the ringing. “It’s alright,” he’s saying, his hand at your elbow, “I swear, it’s alright. You take as long as you need.”

“Mickey’s at the door,” Sirius says. 

“Good. Tell him to radio in a level two security detail and stay by the door. Who else knows, Sirius?”

“By now? Everybody in the castle. Including government officials.”

“And you’re sure?” 

Sure said severely. 

“Of course I am.”

You’re trying very hard to keep your pasta down. This can’t be happening. It can’t be right. Their test is wrong. They swabbed the inside of your mouth wrong, or got it mixed up with some other person test, or the doctors are lying. Not once in your whole life has there ever been any indication that you are more than the nothing you’ve always been. All your worst insecurities rip to the surface. Not me. Not me.

“Level two isn’t as bad as it sounds,” James says gently. He’s been talking to you again. “All it means is that I’m not at full attention, and I need someone else to watch the room. That’s all it is.”

“I’m not,” you say. 

“You’re okay.”

“I’m not a princess,” you say, peeking at him through your parted fingers. 

His hand curves around your arm. He pulls it toward him. Encouraging rather than demanding. You let him. 

“Whatever it is that you are,” he says, meeting your eyes, “I’m here to take care of you. Okay? Try to calm down for me.” He nods, hoping you’ll nod back no doubt. You worry at your lip, your teeth scratching delicate skin. 

“Sorry,” you say. 

“No one’s expecting you to feel a certain way right now,” Sirius says. The urgency in his expression has departed completely. He has an air of regret about him now, an uncomfortable set to his jaw. 

It’s not just James in the room witnessing your wobble. You cover your face again and try to become one with the furniture. 

James stands off of his knees, having seemingly decided that you aren’t in any mental peril. He stays hovering behind your chair. You think you might’ve found them all at a loss for what to do. 

The door opens. You imagine a nightmare, Julianna coming to play nice, but it’s the British ambassador Lily once again. She looks as perfect as she did when you saw her last with an immaculately straightened sheet of hair fluttering behind her, her steps hurried. Despite her speed, she doesn’t look unhappy. She’s smiling. Genovian ambassador (in particular, the ambassador that facilitated your movements between the two countries and the establishment of your dual citizenship status) Emmaline follows behind her. 

You try to straighten up. 

“We have wonderful news,” Lily says.

“You’re the princess!” Emmaline squeaks, her tiny stature no bounds for her excitement. “Welcome home!”

She begins clapping. It slows when nobody joins in. 

“What?” she asks cluelessly. “Has something bad happened?”

That’s what you’re trying to work out.

—

James can hear you sniffling.

He rests his shoulders against the wall by your bedroom door and sighs. You'd held it together for hours now after the announcement, but Sirius' last amendment had toppled you over. 

You have to meet your grandmother tomorrow to begin preparing for your father's funeral. 

James thinks you might have reached your breaking point. He can't imagine the grief of losing a father you didn't know you had, and the stress of being pulled out of your life so suddenly, carted across Europe and left under the judgemental eyes of royals and officials with little direction. Now that the paternity test has been conclusively positive and checked by many, many professionals, your confirmed identity should hopefully provide a more stable schedule. From James perspective, the days ahead will be easy. For you, they are going to be very, very hard. 

You'll meet the Queen tomorrow at breakfast. The plans for your permanent residency in Genovia will be decided. Your entire life is about to change, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. 

Well… James doesn't really want you to stop it, but it's not entirely true that you can't. You could reject your heritage and go home to your flat, your art, your degree equivalent classes. Maybe you're crying because you're scared you don't have options. 

James thinks about knocking on the door to talk to you. He meant it when he said he has a duty to all aspects of your health, the mental as well as the physical, but it's difficult to define the line between professionalism and being friendly. He's already crossed it. 

He sighs and rubs his weary head. He's fucking tired. Today has been the longest day ever. You'd slept for an hour in the car from the airport to Bellaverden Castle, and James had watched you half jealous and half enraptured. He won't mind looking after you no matter how you look, but your being easy on the eyes is a brilliant plus. Well, when ignoring the huge bruise staining your cheek. 

"Fuck," he says. 

He hasn't been doing very well. Honestly, his failure to keep you from harm in your flat (even if the harm had been him) and then his screw up with the paparazzi… 

He pulls out his pager. He should swap with one of the night guards now and he trusts them all, having picked them himself, but he wouldn't feel right walking away while you're crying. 

He clicks in Remus' code and waits until he hears it back. It's shorthand between them. If he wasn't awake or didn't want to see him, Remus could've ignored James' page and there'd be no hard feelings. But he answered. Tonight, once James has made sure you're okay, he'll crawl into Remus' bed like when they were kids in a cold dormitory and missing home and sleep for a glorious eight hours. He might even tell Remus how stressed he is. He knows his friend will listen. 

He'd invite Sirius, of course, (and that's assuming he isn't already there) but it's well past ten. Sirius is definitely asleep. 

James hasn't had a proper night's sleep in a week. He feels poorly. He misses his mum. He's hungry. This job is great, he loves what he does; he gets paid to take care of people. It's also too much. It eats at him. 

"Fuck," he says again. 

"James?" 

He flinches hard. 

There it is, his third mistake. He's very lucky that the chief of royal security is busy making funeral arrangements, because if Mary were here she'd gut him. 

You've crept up on him in his distraction and that is so fucking dangerous. How could he not notice your footsteps across the floor, or your door handle's heavy metallic thunking?

"Princess," he says, biting his tongue when you wince. He'll have to call you something else. "I'm sorry, I–" James squints at your sore eyes. 

"It's okay. I just wanted to ask… are you alright?" 

His shoulders hunch slightly. "Am I alright?" 

You fluster. "I just heard you and I wanted to make sure you were doing okay. You sounded… stressy." 

"You don't have to worry about me. That's my job." He frowns at the remnants of your tear stains, dampness shining at the corners of your eyes and your lashes sticking together in darkened triangles. "I was just about to come and see you, actually. I know today's been hard, and I know I haven't helped you. I'm so sorry, again, for your cheek. And at the airport, I know the scuffle with that photographer didn't help your nerves. I know," he stresses, "this is hard. I swear things will be smoother from now on. You have my word." 

You rub your elbow wordlessly. He's about to backtrack, or perhaps dig himself a bigger hole, but you look up at him and give him one of the softest smiles anyone's ever given him in all his years. 

"It's forgiven. Believe me, James, this is the least of my worries," you say, gesturing to your cheek. It only takes a second for shame to stick its hooks in you, yanking your gaze to the floor. You're wearing an expression he's seen a thousand times on the people closest to him. 

He flicks you under the chin gently. 

"Things are gonna get easier. I swear it," he says.

You plaster a smile on. James figures he can push it some more and wipes the smudgy shine of old tears off your cheek. 

"There. Looking good, angel." 

Definitely unprofessional. He keeps getting this weird feeling like you're his friend and not his charge. It's fleeting and it's making him stupid. This and the sleep deprivation. He swears to himself he'll be better tomorrow. 

You bid him goodnight. He listens to your night time motions until another guard comes to release him from duty. James rushes to his room for a shower and a cereal bar, giving his teeth a half-hearted brush before setting off for Remus' room halfway across the castle. Remus and the other scarcely employed scholars don't have to sleep in the servants' quarters like he and Sirius do. Schmuck. 

He finds the door unlatched. Mercifully, James decides to spare them both the safety related lecture. He tries to be as quiet as he can, but a head of sandy brown hair turns his way. 

"James?" Remus asks, his voice thick with fatigue. 

"Sorry. You can go back to sleep." 

"I was waiting for you. Drifted off." 

James scrubs a hand through his damp hair and knocks off the light. He can find his way in the dark. 

"Sirius isn't here?" 

"James…"

"What, are we still pretending?"

"James."

"I'm sorry. Forgive me, Moony." 

"Yeah. Don't lean on my left side. I'll move over." 

"What's wrong with your left side?" 

"I don't know. Maybe from carrying the bags. Maybe not." 

James slides into the warm space Remus has made for him and tries not to go into overprotective mode. Loving someone who's constantly in pain can be confusing. You don't know how much love you're allowed to give before it starts to look patronising.

Remus can take care of himself, but he doesn't need to. 

"Anything I can do?" James whispers. 

"Tell me what's bothering you." 

"Oh, you know… Everything. Nothing. I'm so happy we're all together again, I mean, what are the fucking odds? How long has it been since I could come and see you guys after work without making an appointment? And I didn't love the Prince, but I hate that he's dead, and I…" 

Remus turns his head to James. They're a pillow apart. When James looks at him, he can't remember what he looked like when they were young, but he can feel the years of knowing one another stretching out between them. A straining curtain of yellow light from the hallway catches the edges of Remus' features. James can see the corner of an uneven smile. 

"Go on," Remus says quietly. 

"She's nice. She's really nice. I don't want her to get hurt."

"James, you don't want anyone to get hurt." 

"I thought this was a demotion." 

"Isn't it?" 

"If it is, it's one I deserve. I deserve another one. Once Mary sees the mess I've made…" 

Remus reaches across the sheets to pinch James' bicep. "Nobody is good at their new job. Sirius didn't touch up the princess' bruise when we got off the plane, and while they're paid off for now, someone who needs the better payout is going to publish those photos, and soon. Sirius should've been doing his job, but he was too busy looking after me." 

"I tried to cover it–" 

"I know. You did a good job and I'm not blaming you, Prongs, anyway. My point is that he made a mistake. Does he deserve a demotion?" 

"Ew. Hate you." 

"And I should've better prepared her for meeting Princess Julianna. It was my fault that she felt embarrassed. I tried my best to fit in some coaching for breakfast tomorrow but the poor girl doesn't know a butter knife from a paring knife." 

"That's not true." 

"No," Remus agrees. "I'm making her seem less educated than she is to prove my own point… James, she isn't a princess. She has the blood, and soon she'll get the official title, the land and the money and the education and maybe some of the bad bits, as well. But right now, she's new to being a princess, and she's not very good at it." 

"I get it." 

"Yeah, I know." 

Remus readjusts in bed. James almost misses the pain in his friend's exhale under the sound of crunching fresh sheets. 

"Are you sure I can't do something for you?" 

"I wish," Remus says. He isn't depressed. The opposite, he sounds way too spritely for the time. "You could stop hogging the blankets, for starters." 

James feeds Remus some more blanket and sighs. The mattress is heavenly. The quilts and sheets and pillowcases are soft and thick. By all means, James should've fallen asleep the second his head touched anything mildly comfortable. 

"You've asked Mickey to look after her tomorrow, right?" Remus asks. 

James had radio'd Mikkelson after his shower to put the early morning shift and protocols in his jurisdiction temporarily. That means James will hopefully be able to sleep until his body feels like it can hold itself together again. He doesn't like leaving you to face the Queen by yourself, but it's not as if she'll hurt you, and Sirius will see you bright and early to help you get dressed. James isn't worried. 

"I have. How did you know that?" 

"You're the only one of us who knows how to properly take care of themselves," Remus explains easily. "Good. I'm glad you did. You haven't been sleeping."

"How do you know that?" 

"I love you. I know everything about you." 

James smiles at the ceiling. Beams. There is nothing quite as valuable to him than his family. He would do more to keep them all safe and healthy than he should admit on the record, so he keeps it all tucked inside and out of view. It's terrifying and freeing at once to look at someone you love and know you're going to do something awful one day if it means they'll come out on the other side of it alive. 

"Not everything," he murmurs. 

"Everything, James."

"Yeah? How many fingers am I holding up right now." 

"One." 

"Which?" 

"Middle."

"Lucky guess." James laughs at their childish squabbling. "I love you too. I'm really glad we're in the same place again."

"What did you say? What are the fucking odds?" Remus quotes, so tired now that his words are running together. "I'm not sod enough to do the maths, I think it's gotta be deep in the decimals. Lily's and Mary's involvement definitely helped, but to have someone come along who needs security detail, special education, and a lady in waiting is unfathomable." 

James laughs and feels his abdomen shaking. "I'm telling Sirius you called him a lady in waiting." 

"Sorry," Remus says, and James knows his friend is genuinely repentant, even though Sirius would've laughed himself if he'd heard the joke. "I'm not trying to put him down. He's worked so hard, he– He's working so hard. He thinks it's easy work because he's good at it. He doesn't realise it's easy because he worked very very hard to be good at it." 

James has to chew it over for a moment to understand what Remus is saying. Once he understands, he vehemently agrees. Sirius is skilled in so many areas. He can style both a model and their wardrobe spontaneously. He's a media liaison, a sleuth, a sweet talker. He understands the inner workings of Western media — Sirius can deduce the honesty of a smile from a precursory glance. He may not always trust what he's seeing, but he sees it undeniably. 

"He's the best of us," James sighs agreeably, stretching down the length of the bed until his spine pops and his calves burn. "Shit. I need to start working out properly again now we're here." 

"Tomorrow. We'll figure it all out tomorrow, James. Go to sleep." 

James is obedient. He falls asleep, and doesn’t wake until the sun is warming his cheeks. His hair is still damp and he feels awful in a new way. Better for having slept with someone close by, and catching up on the hours he’s been missing. But his back is stiff. 

He goes back to his room. His neck aches as he brushes his teeth. He does a workout in the small space of his room and stretches out his rigid limbs until he feels human again. 

The black telephone on his nightstand starts to ring. He hates them. He wishes the royals would go back to bells. 

“Hello, sir,” Lily says cheerfully down the line. James can picture her sweet smile. “I couldn’t help but notice your absence this morning.”

��How did it go?” he asks, trying to tug on a new pair of socks one handed. 

Lily hums. “It wasn’t awful. It wasn’t good, but it could’ve been worse. Her majesty liked her. Y/N was quiet, she was awkward, but we all know they prefer quiet to mouthy. The last thing they wanted was another Julianna. I felt kind of bad, really. Like I was handing her over.”

“She…” James sighs. “She didn’t seem upset, did she, Lils?”

“No, I actually think she was feeling good. Your boys took good care of her.”

“Brilliant. Oh, and to answer your unasked question, I’m being slovenly. I’ll be back on duty by noon.”

“Slovenly,” she repeats. “I’ve never known you to be any sort of lazy.” She laughs. James is happy that the sound doesn’t break his heart anymore. “Alright, James. I’ll see you later.”

He appreciates what she’s doing, letting him know you’re okay while he’s away. It’s uncanny how fast the people in charge of your care can band together. 

James gives himself a minute to wipe away yesterday and prepare for today. He closes his eyes and shakes his head ferociously, his hair flying every which way. He sorts through all his worries one by one, letting that anxiety eat at him methodically —he’s a bad bodyguard, he’s a bad friend, he doesn’t call his mum enough, he’s chicken shit scared of dying alone, the works— and then pushing it away. Today is a new day with new opportunities. He can prove to you and to himself that he’s good at his job, he can make sure his friends are doing alright, he can call his mum tonight before dinner, and dying alone? He isn’t dying today. So that one’s on the back burner. 

He makes his way from his room in the quarter and into the main building, wary that he might come upon a duke or duchess. His radio, clipped as it always is against his left shoulder, chirps with chatter. He bites back a scolding about keeping the line clear and looks out the huge glass windows at the grounds below. A marble water fountain spurts proudly at the foot of the stairs, and an elaborate hedgework stands at pruned attention. It’s a nice day. He wonders if you’ll be up for walking. 

He looks for you in the secondary parlour, the den, the library, the dining room. He swings by your room, and when you aren’t there he admits defeat and unclamps his radio, cutting through an inappropriate joke unapologetically. 

“Afternoon. Location on Princess Y/N?”

He imagines his subordinates scrambling to answer, embarrassed by their unprofessionalism, but it’s likely they just don’t know where you are. 

“If I don’t get an answer in the next five seconds, you can all expect to be running laps tonight. That includes you, Mikkelson, I don’t care how much overtime–”

“Sir, this is Daniels. Me and Roma are with the princess in the south wing.”

“Why?”

“She wanted a pencil sharpener.”

James grins to himself. The south wing (or, as James might put it, the guest wing), houses the scholars, the ambassadors, and whatever government official the royals are trying to butter up at the time. He’s feeling positively joyful when he finds you, sketching away with your face pressed to the window. The genovian mountainscapes take shape on your page one confident stroke of graphite at a time, a small leather bound sketchbook pressed flat to your knee.

“Settling in?” he asks. 

You raise your head but not your eyes. “You could say that.”

“How was meeting Her Majesty?”

You frown. 

“That bad?” he asks. 

“No, I mean. You know. She’s a queen. It was terrifying.”

Despite your unhappy mouth, you look as relaxed as you have since the moment he met you. You’re in what’s clearly a casual Genovian dress, what with the subtle but remarkable stitching a shade darker than the dress itself and the squared neckline. Your calves are out and glossy in the daylight. They’re rather distracting. 

“You look good,” James says carefully. 

“I’ll miss the fancy lotions,” you say. Your pencil scratches away. 

James’ hands falter where they’re clasped behind his back. “What?”

You meet his eyes properly. He hadn’t realised you’d been avoiding his gaze until you weren’t, your face ringed with guilt, an explanation slow to come. 

“I’m not staying. I can’t be a princess, James.” You shake your head mildly. “I’m going home.”

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

thanks so much for reading! oh no, you want to go home!! rest assured, james and co aren’t letting you go too easily. i hope you enjoyed, reblogs are always appreciated, a thousand kisses for all of you either way <3<3

[literaryvein-reblogs]

The Lady of Shalott is a painting of 1888 by the English painter John William Waterhouse. It is a representation of the ending of Alfred, Lord Tennyson's 1832 poem of the same name.

The Lady of Shalott (1832) By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Part I

On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; The yellow-leaved waterlily The green-sheathed daffodilly Tremble in the water chilly Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver. The sunbeam showers break and quiver In the stream that runneth ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley, The reaper, reaping late and early, Hears her ever chanting cheerly, Like an angel, singing clearly, O'er the stream of Camelot. Piling the sheaves in furrows airy, Beneath the moon, the reaper weary Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy, Lady of Shalott.'

The little isle is all inrail'd With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd With roses: by the marge unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken sail'd, Skimming down to Camelot. A pearl garland winds her head: She leaneth on a velvet bed, Full royally apparelled, The Lady of Shalott.

Part II

No time hath she to sport and play: A charmed web she weaves alway. A curse is on her, if she stay Her weaving, either night or day, To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be; Therefore she weaveth steadily, Therefore no other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear. Over the water, running near, The sheepbell tinkles in her ear. Before her hangs a mirror clear, Reflecting tower'd Camelot. And as the mazy web she whirls, She sees the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market girls Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot: And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, came from Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead Came two young lovers lately wed; 'I am half sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flam'd upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down from Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down from Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over green Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down from Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:' Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom She made three paces thro' the room She saw the water-flower bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; 'The curse is come upon me,' cried The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Outside the isle a shallow boat Beneath a willow lay afloat, Below the carven stern she wrote, The Lady of Shalott.

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight, All raimented in snowy white That loosely flew (her zone in sight Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright) Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot, Though the squally east-wind keenly Blew, with folded arms serenely By the water stood the queenly Lady of Shalott.

With a steady stony glance— Like some bold seer in a trance, Beholding all his own mischance, Mute, with a glassy countenance— She look'd down to Camelot. It was the closing of the day: She loos'd the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam, By creeks and outfalls far from home, Rising and dropping with the foam, From dying swans wild warblings come, Blown shoreward; so to Camelot Still as the boathead wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her chanting her deathsong, The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy, She chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her eyes were darken'd wholly, And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot: For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony, By garden wall and gallery, A pale, pale corpse she floated by, Deadcold, between the houses high, Dead into tower'd Camelot. Knight and burgher, lord and dame, To the planked wharfage came: Below the stern they read her name, The Lady of Shalott.

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest, Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest. There lay a parchment on her breast, That puzzled more than all the rest, The wellfed wits at Camelot. 'The web was woven curiously, The charm is broken utterly, Draw near and fear not,—this is I, The Lady of Shalott.'

[cutiecusp]

Ignorance

Part Two to All i Wanted Was You, Phillip Price x Reader.

Time for Dear Reader to get on the warpath, avenge herself and her team against Phillips betrayal in Part One. Readers thoughts are in Orange

A mega thank you to everyone has been so kind about my writings!

TW, blood, violence, a character death (or two) pining, angst, gaslighting, slight kiss coercion. HEA! Its a long one, apologies!

....................................................................................................................

You took a deep breath before you step into the debrief room, where you know Soap and Ghost were waiting to talk to you. Gaz had excused himself, not ready to deal with the situation at hand.

Your ex husbands betrayal cut the team deeply, and you knew this was your chance to fix everything, if they would let you.

"Hey guys." you say tentatively, you met the steely gaze of Ghost, and the cool gaze of Soap, and kept your chin up.

"I understand-" you begin.

"Let us be crystal fucking clear. You may be innocent, but you will never understand." Ghost cuts you off. His deep voice seemingly fills the room, yet you refuse to bend under the intimidation.

"You are only here because John trusts you enough to do the right thing. I am not so easily convinced." He adds. He stands up, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"In fact, i think he might like you a little more than he lets on."

You look at Soap, who looks just as confused as you by the revelation.

'Surely not? Your Captain has never been anything other than professional with you, and you were a married woman, and there's a line you were sure he wouldn't cross, would he?'

You shake your head and go to the desk, crossing your legs at the ankle and using the wood for support.

"Hate me after the mission is over. Right now, the best case is we get Ale back, and the intel Graves has been holding for Shepherd." You shrug off, and put the file on the table.

"Aye, Bonnie. Pull this off and i'm sure we will all be friends again." You hear Soap say, and you are grateful for his attitude bridging the gap between you all.

After looking through the files, and making plans for the mission ahead, you leave the room to find Price, Ghosts words echoing in your brain.

You admittedly had a crush on the Captain before you met Phillip. It went nowhere, as you met the Shadow Commander shortly after. It was a whirlwind relationship, married within months, and it had consumed you, and him, you had thought.

'What if it was all a ruse? How much of it all was real to him?'

You found Price outside, the cherry red light of his cigar a pinpoint to where he was standing out in the courtyard.

"Mission briefed?" He asks, straight to the point. At your affirmation he sighs.

"This is a real fucked up situation." You admit, wrapping your arms around yourself and bracing your body against the cold.

"Permission to ask something personal, Sir?" you ask.

You hear Price tut as he shrugs his coat off and wraps it around your shoulders, you relax slightly as his cigar and signature scent envelope you.

'Ever the gentleman.'

"Go on." came the reply.

Your eyes met his nonchalant gaze, and your heart started beating a little faster.

"Ghost is under the impression you have feelings for me, Sir." you pause. "Any truth in that?"

A heavy silence clouds the area between you both, after a few minutes, you hear him clear his throat.

"I did, but It doesn't matter now, Sergeant. You still married someone else. We ship out in a few hours. Go get ready, and for the love of God, make sure your feelings for your ex husband are buried. Last thing we need is feelings getting in the way."

A few hours later, you were on the helicopter with the 141, Gaz and Soap talking between themselves was the only thing you could hear over the rotors. Price was deep in files, and Ghost was cleaning his knives. The weight of the mission sat heavy on you, but you needed the intel, and the mission always came first.

You nod, and head to the armoury to grab what you needed. Your mind clouded with this new revelation.

'What if I chose the wrong man at the wrong time.. could myself and John had something?'

You had noticed a few heated glances your way from your Captain, but you shrugged them off, he was right, you needed to get your head into the game.

"Two minutes until drop." Came the voice of your pilot. You stand up to move to the door, regrouping with your team, holding out a fist, you address the group.

"Let's get Ale, the Intel and get this mission done. You guys are the best for the job, and I'm sorry for my shit taste in men." You chuckle, bumping everyone's closed fists as the tension is broken between you all.

Landing into the location wasn't hard, but you knew the next part was more difficult. You had been advised that Graves was back collecting Intel in Mexico, and that he held Alejandro at a local jail. So you needed to split into two teams and retrieve your friend, and get the Intel from Graves.

You nod at Ghost and Price, who's accompanying you on the Intel retrieval, as you double-check your packs and head along the perimeter. The cool night air did nothing to calm the inner anger that was building up. Everything you thought you ever knew about your husband was a lie.

Stopping short, you manage to find a hole in the fence that was big enough for you to get through, and make bigger for your two larger teammates. Scaling along the closest building, you could hear a familiar American accent.

"I have the Intel you need, my wife isn't a concern anymore." You hear Graves tell someone one the phone.

He has the gall to laugh, and you feel your hands tighten around the grip of your pistol.

"Nah, she thinks she's divorcin' me but she will see, it's all part of a bigger plan. Mexico, the missiles.. all paints the 141 in a damning light, she will be back."

You make eye contact with the team and nod. Yoir job is to get Graves away from the room, while Price and Ghost take down targets and retrieve the laptop and files. You hear a few grunts as a few targets are immobilised, leaving the doorway clear.

You open the door and Graves turns around, his cocky grin taking up his face, heavy shadows under his eyes, and his usually neat hair has finger waves through it. A signal that this is a man on the edge.

"Well hey darlin'." He drawls, opening up his arms and walking towards you.

"Gonna reconsider leavin' me?"

You scoff, and raise your arm, holding your pistol in line with his forehead.

"Never." You whisper, your finger over the trigger, a slight pause in your actions.

Graves takes the moment you pause to attack, bending your wrist so you drop the pistol, the metal clattering to the floor. He sidesteps you, planting your body down to ground, and holding you under his boot.

"I didn't want it to end this way, sweetheart. Don't you see? This has all been for you? I wanted you to see what the 141 you cherish actually gets up too. I wanted you to join me.."

You roll away from him, scrambling for your knife, slicing his forearm as he reaches for you again. He pulls away, giving you a chance to stand.

"You betrayed me." You shout, anger coursing through you.

"I thought you loved me." You choke. Memories of your relationship flashing before your eyes.

Graves just smiles as he twirls your knife between his hands.

"Oh darlin' I don't believe you understand me. I do love you. I want the world for you, and by my side, you can have it."

He pulls you into his arms, wrapping his arms around your waist as you try and fight him off, but it's no good, his weight pushes you back to the floor, his hands move to your wrists as he straddles you, his face dangerously close to yours, his lips hovering over yours.

"You were always such a fiesty little thing. I wonder if this is what your captain thought about when he was alone at night. Your body under his, your lips close to his.. ripe for the taking."

You see a dangerous glint in his eye. While dominant, Phillip had never forced you into doing anything you didn't want to do, but this was different. You look into his eyes and see madness in them, and you take a deep breath. You'll have to play his game to be free.

"Why would I think about the captain. When I have you?" You say quietly, ignoring the bile that rises in your throat.

Graves pauses at that, his face searching yours for a lie.

You press your lips against his, and your mind floods with memories, your wedding night, your honeymoon, two passionate bodies under the stars. The intense kisses, the feel of each others skin.. its almost enough to make you forgive him. Almost.

Graves softens into the kiss, his right arm letting go of your wrist, as he cradles your head with his calloused hand.

"Be with me, and we can watch the world burn." He says softly, cupping your cheek with a tenderness you miss so much.

You mentally shake away the cloudiness, and use your forehead to force your head into his, breaking his nose, blood streaming down both your faces as he rips himself away from you.

"I should have known you would do this!" He restrains you, making you unable to move.

"I would have given you everything. EVERYTHING!" He shouts as he grapples with your body armor, picking you up by the chest and slamming you repeatedly against the concrete floor.

Your vision blurs as you feel his hands move to your throat, squeezing the breath out of you.

'This is it. I've failed.'

Using the last of your energy, you scramble for your thigh pocket for your emergency blade and manage to stab it into Graves thigh, allowing his grip to loosen, taking advantage of the power shift, you roll onto your side, gasping as you reclaim your breath.

Bloodied, and struggling to breathe, you get yourself onto your knees, and using all your strength, you spear his side with your knife, over and over, his screams filling the room.

Graves makes one last ditch to overpower you, wrenching the knife away, your eyes meeting for the last time, as you strike it home into his chest. A sharp pain pierces your chest as his lifeless body falling over you and pinning you to the floor.

You vaguely hear the door slam open, and footsteps race over to you both, but your exhausted mind can't keep your eyes open long enough to see if it's a friend or foe.

"It's okay, love. It's over." You hear John over the sound of blood rushing through your ears.

You feel the weight of the body on top of you get removed, as your eyes flutter open. You see John kneeling over you.

"I made it back to you." You hear him say, but the black spots in your vision, and your damaged throat made it difficult to reply.

"John, we need a medivac." You hear Ghost say, his deep voice thick with emotion.

"This isn't the way to convince me, Sergeant." He adds.

You feel hands on your chest, as your limbs grow weary.

"I got him." You croak out.

"Yeah, yeah you did love." Came John's reply.

"But he got you too."

You use your strength to look down, in the fight you hadn't noticed Graves had picked up your knife, and it was now protruding from your ribs.

Your glossy eyes meet John's, and you knew that this was it.

"I'm sorry, John." You manage to get out. "Ghost, I got us into this mess."

John takes off his gloves and smooths your hair out of your face.

"Now you listen here. We will get you out of here, we will get you patched up, and we will consider this mission successful, we clear?" He says, his voice thick with tears.

"I can't lose you."

You feel as if your body weighs a tonne, and all you want to do is close your eyes and rest, but deep down. You know this is the last time you'll see each other.

"John.. i-" you whisper.

You groan as you try and sit up, you can feel your body growing weaker due to the amount of blood you were losing.

"Kiss me, before I go." You say softly.

John's eyebrows raise, as he takes in what you've asked of him. Leaning forward, he presses his lips gently to yours, eliminating the kiss you had to give Graves. You could taste his cigar, and the peppermints he always chewed on missions and you let out a contented sigh before your eyes close for good.

Your body grew cold and your eyes lost focus as he held you close for the first, and last time.

'I wish I could have lived another life. If I got to be with you again.'

A/N THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN TO EXPLORE!?!?! I am so sorry it waffled on a bit though? Let me know what you guys think 💜💜💜

@going-to-ikea-for-the-fries @xoxunhinged @misshugs @kneelingshadowsalome

[mutantthedark]

Call Of Duty Modern Warframe II - Howling and Hollow

Chapter 1: Interrogation

So much for the meeting with Shadow Company, Sigma felt weird there are only men here. Although she didn't mind and wants the mission to get done.

Weirdly enough, one guy stared at her with confused look, yet shocked, looked like he knew her from somewhere... but he decided to play cool.

Two SAS operators and Los Vaqueros, Alejandro and Rudy did some damage looking for Hassan while Sigma had to help with air support. She was lucky to know Spanish.

After Hassan's capture, Soap's and Sigma's blue eyes met, caught right into sight... He can already tell he never saw a female pilot before. And she couldn't stand Graves talking nonsense, and some of the Shadow mercs are really fond of her... When she met Ghost, her blood ran cold seeing him in skull mask, strong, huge man would beat the shit out of anyone.

From affar before the flight with the Shadows while she met Graves, one of the Shadows said from afar: "Who is this girl? She’s cute and pretty." 

...

Pretended she didn't heard anything.

…

The sky is dark, it's night. The stars can't be seen, a calm peace, only crickets chirping in the field. A faith of howl calling by coyotes in the darkness, then it went silent.

Multiple truck's doors closed as the men jumped out. Soap dragged Hassan out of the vehicle and walks to the field.

"On your knees." Soap shoved Hassan on the ground, removing the black cloth bag off his head.

Graves is working on a signal in front of the green crate while crouching down.

"Ya'll got a clear picture?" Graves asked.

General, adjusting his seat to get comfortable. "Crystal."

"All set." Laswell replied, exhaling the smoke from her lips while smoking a cigarette.

"Alright, we are live, folks." Graves stands up, Hassan watches him approach.

"Do you speak Arabic?" He asks.

“No.” Graves replied, shaking his head.

“Farsi?”

“No.” He replied again, standing in front of him.

Sigma watches them as she stands beside Simon, remaining silent. If Hassan is going to ask her something, he better watch his tongue.

Hassan looks at Sigma, he smirks a little bit. “A woman in war... Who’s holding a weapon.” He starts, “I’m surprised you’re fighting for your country and battles without blood in your hands.”

“Women or men, doesn’t matter. If a man can be one, so do women. So English, you retard.” She replied with harsh voice down her throat.

Hassan nods his head a little bit, turning his attention to Graves. “Of course, then I’ll speak your bastardized medieval English because you are all uneducated street dogs.”

“Ahh, see… We’re getting off to a bad start here, Hassan.” Graves gets annoyed quickly, looking on the ground, tapping his foot.

“You are talking to a Quds Force Officer.” Hassan states proudly. All Sigma could just watch and shake her head.

“You’re the commander of a foreign terror organization,” Graves notes, not willing to put any stupid formalities.

“I can say the same thing to you.”

“What’s your target, ‘Major’?” Graves asks, his voice turning into a sarcastic one.

“What was your target when they sent missiles to my land?”

Graves shrugs a bit. “Oh, wild guess… To nails your ass.”

“So insolent and foul-mouthed. You will learn to respect me when your nation sees fire.”

“You will respect an anchor who will sink you in the bottom of the ocean.” Sigma glares at Hassan, crossing her arms. Hassan ignores her, Graves steps closer to him with anger and impatience in his eyes.

“You are in bed with the cartel, Hassan. If you dissapeared, no one would know where to look for a fuckin’ stain.” Graves said as he shakes his head.

“I have no doubt you’ll take pleasure in torturing me.” Hassan replied with a smirk.

Oh, Sigma would definitely torture him, if Graves would let her. Soap starts to speak out-

“Who’d you get American missiles from?”

“I don’t care who they’re from, I wanna know where they’re going.” Shepherd interrupted the conversation.

Coyotes howled in the endless darkness of the shadows, making the others to turn attention. Graves looks around, letting out a low whistle, his hand clutching his tactical vest.

“Take a look around Hassan. Now, you can either become part of the food chain,” Graves lowers himself in front of Hassan. “Or you can start talking.”

“I’m a hostage here,” Hassan states. “This is illegal.”

“You’re a prisoner of war.” Alejandro replied, tilting his head while his hand is squeezing Hassan’s shoulder.

“Iran is not at war with Mexico. I’ve broken no lawns. These men, one useless slut, and their commanders are the law breakers.” Hassan looks at Sigma and Ghost who are they stand beside the vehicle.

Her eye twitches after she heard he called her slut, slowly, her hand is curled into fist.

“You and your beloved General Ghorbrani broke every-“

“Do not speak his name!” Hassan shouted at Soap, cutting him off. He’s forcibly held by Alejandro.

“You executed him, and you will pay for your crimes! Only God can help you now!” He rolls his tongue at Graves angrily.

“I want this bastard in permanent custody or looking up at the goddamn grass!” Shepherd snarled his strict demand through the broadcast.

“General,” Laswell quickly intervened, “Killing Hassan is an act of war, keeping him here is illegal. Right now, he is too hot to hold.”

Shepherd sighs, adjusting his seat. “Tell me you’re getting something actionable, Laswell.”

“Working on it, stand by.”

Graves grabs the laptop and places it on the vehicle’s hood. “Actual, let me finish this.” he loses patience for a second.

“There is nothing I’d like more,” Shepherd agreed with the Commander, “But Laswell's right. Without proof we need to turn him loose. See where he leads us.”

Sigma’s eyes widens after hearing this. Releasing him?! Nonsense! She would’ve asked the questions about the missiles, not Graves. So much for General saying this, making the wrong decisions.

“What?! You can do that!” She joins Graves beside him.

“She’s right! He’s right there, you can’t be serious!” Soap joins along, looking at the screen.

“I’m afraid I am, you both.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Sigma hits the vehicle’s hood and starts to pace out, hands on her hips.

Ghost is holding Hassan’s phone with his right hand, looking at it while standing in place. “Did we get anything from his phone?”

“Affirmative, we got a hit.” Laswell concluded, but not much information required.

“Good. Now, take him back and let him go.” Shepherd confirms.Hassan is watching them, with a smile on his face. Alejandro shoved a black bag back on Hassan’s head, hiding his smile.

“Up, asshole. Come on.” Alejandro grunt in Spanish, raising Hassan back on his feet, dragging him to the vehicle. Ghost shoves Hassan’s phone in his pocket, walking past him.

Soap looks at the laptop and closes it, letting it a grunted sigh. Sigma walks to Graves, clearly not proud.

“That was completely stupid.”

“Call stupid to General who made the choice, but not me.”

“He’ll cause more damage with those missiles, we may be not find who the target is! And we’re just taking him like that?!”

“Sigma…” Graves sighs. “We need to know. I wanted to finish that guy, you wanted to right? Kickass name. We’ll find the missiles and it’s going to be over.”

“Unbelievable…” Sigma shakes her head and walks to the vehicle, avoiding the argument with him. Soap watched it from afar and follows her, gun in his hand.

So much coming to Mexico with Air Support and work with the Shadows, SAS operators and Los Vaqueros. She’s not done yet. She never had blood on her hands in battlefield. Her blood boils by General’s choice, she’s careful with people who can trust the most.

And been in Air Force for 4 years, finally fighting on the ground with heavy loads on her shoulders...

...

Yippeeee, I might draw some cutscenes whanever I can!

[cursed-40k-thoughts]

The Lion and Leman regarded each other cooly across the ancient oak table. There was no measure of hostility in their eyes, but they seemed to radiate silent animosity. Any mortal observer would have quailed at their demigodly presence, despite no word being spoken.

Finally, it was the Wolf King who broke the silence.

"You are sus, Lion," he said, and his voice carried all the mournful gravity of creaking ice on the Fenrisian sea. He did not speak with anger, but a hatred crystallized to ice.

Lion, for his part, was not roused. He crossed armored arms across his great chest, and made reply. "Tell me how you come to this, Leman. I take any words you speak without reason as nothing. Why do you vote to eject me, then?"

Leman planted one hand on the table- it strained and creaked under his mass -and pushed himself up. He paced the room in mighty strides as he spoke. "You claim you were doing tasks in Ultramar, but what alibi is that?"

"Guilliman is my witness. Sanguinius would be, were he here. Or Curze, if you would believe him," Lion replied, his lip turning up in wry remembrance.

"I do not ask about your witnesses, Lion, I am questioning your motives. Any impostor could have smuggled himself among the crewmates. A sleeper cell, to activate if the main sabotage did not carry through. A time-bomb buried in the largest sector of completed tasks yet!" Leman rapped the table for emphasis. His cool was melting as passion broiled beneath.

Lion set his jaw but remained seated. "You invent mad schemes and pin them on me, Leman. Give me concrete proof and I will debate with you, but until then I will waste no effort to parry these bladeless blows."

"Very well," Leman replied promptly. "Then tell me, why did those tasks in Ultramar take so long? They had no call to. Unless, among that stalwart host which was doing- what, exactly? -there was an impostor. A millstone grinding the work to a halt…a highly-placed commander sabotaging the tasks?"

Lion leaned forward in his seat, his face intent, his brow furrowed with thought. "Yet, the tasks were completed, were they not? And we arrived at Terra to aid here as well. We broke the sabotage, Leman. The Impostormaster would have overcome you if we had not."

"Hah!" barked Leman, scornful. "Precisely. You waited to see if your fellow Impostors would triumph, and only when it became clear we outvoted them did you throw your lot in."

"But were I an impostor," Lion carried on earnestly, "why do you stand before me, brother? I could have killed Guilliman while we were doing tasks in Ultramar. Were I an impostor, I could have allied with Curze, slain both Guilliman and Sanguinius. A double blow, and none to witness it."

"Precisely, brother. And that would square the blame on you, because not a one of us would believe that Curze could have killed either of them. So you played the crewmate and allowed them to complete their tasks there, hoping to shepherd them to destruction at Terra. A fifth column, tagging along in their midst. Precisely like the Drop Site Body Report!"

Lion arose tectonically, and drew Fealty from her sheath. His eyes burned with resolve. "I have heard enough of this, Leman. Draw your vote, then. Eject me. Go on."

Leman loosed Mjalnar, bringing her to bear with a flourish. "As you say, brother. I vote to eject."

Once more my inbox is graced by art given written form. Incredible. Stunning. Flawless. Thank you.

[strawberry-cowgomooo]

Just Like Their Dog

The Just Like Their Dog, 10 Gen Legacy is based on 10 different dog breeds. Each generation has to have that type of dog in their household at all times. Complete the challenges, take care of your dog, and max out friendship with them. And most importantly, have fun!

Use Hashtag: #JustLikeTheirDogChallenge

Gen 1 Golden Retriever Complete Super Parent Aspiration Complete Fish Collection Max Fishing Skill Max Parenting Skill Must Have A Pool On Lot Must Host A Pool Party Every Week Traits: Family-Oriented, Loves Outdoors, Slob

Gen 2 Border Collie Complete Freelance Botanist Aspiration Complete Frog Collection Max Gardening Skill Max Herbalism Max Cross-Stitching Must Can Must Own A Farm Must Live Off-The-Grid Must Have Simple Living Traits: Loves outdoors, Animal Enthusiasts, Active

Gen 3 Husky Complete Musical Genius Aspiration Max Entertainer Career, Musician Branch Max Singing Max Guitar Max Piano Max Violin Max Dancing Date A Coworker Leave Them at the Altar Have A Random Hookup At A Bar/Nightclub And Find Out Your Pregnant Move In You Parents To Help Raise The Baby Traits: Music Lover, Family-Oriented, Party Animal

Gen 4 German Shorthaired Pointer Complete Bodybuilder Aspiration Complete Feather Collection Max Athlete Career Max Fitness Skill Max Comedy Skill Must Have An At-Home Gym Marry Someone You Met At  Bar Have A House Party Every Week Traits: Active, Loyal, Goofball

Gen 5 German Shepherd Complete Friend Of The World Aspiration Complete Fossil Collection Max Cop Career Max Charisma Max Comedy Max Fitness Be Engaged To Someone Be Left At The Altar Marry A Co-Worker Traits: Active, Outgoing, Bro

Gen 6 Corgi Complete Romantic Explorer Aspiration Complete Axolotl Collection Max Romance Consultant Career Max Painting Max Knitting Max Romancing Must Host A Dinner Party Every Week Must Marry An Elder Right After High School Elder Must Live In A Mansion Marry For True Love After Your First Spouse Dies Of Natural Causes Traits: Lazy, Lovebug, Outgoing

Gen7 Chihuahua Complete Serial Romantic Aspiration Complete Crystal Collection Complete Metal Collection Max Charisma Max Debate Max Wellness Max Gemology Marry High School-Sweetheart Must Have Married Three Times, Each Spouse Must Die Before Remarrying Have At Least One Child In Each Marriage Have Little To No Relationship With Your Children Traits: Noncommittal, Hot-Headed, Overachiever

Gen 8 Pitbull Complete Chief of Mischief Aspiration Complete My Sims Trophies Collection Max Mischief Skill Max Video Gaming Max Programming Skill Max Criminal Career, Oracle Branch Marry Your Neighbor Who Is A Secret Agent Once You Reach The Top Of The Career, Quit and Become A Full Time Parent Traits: Socially Awkward, Geek, Loyal

Gen 9 Schnauzer Complete Master Chief Aspiration Reach Level 8 Of Chief Career Before Quitting And Opening Your Own Restaurant Marry Your First Love They Pass Away, Never Marry Again Max Cooking Max Gourmet Cooking Max Mixology Max Baking Have A Dinner Party Every Week Have Restaurant Reach 5 Stars When Spouse Passes, Change Romantic Trait To Gloomy Traits: Foodie, Romantic/Gloomy, Glutton

Gen 10 Poodles Complete Master Actor Aspiration Complete Postcard Collection Complete Poster Collection Complete Snow Globe Collection Max Acting Career Max Acting Skill Max Charisma Skill Must Have A Sauna On Lot Must Have A BFF That Moves In With Them Have One Enemy In The Acting World Traits: Self-absorbed, High Maintenance, Perfectionist

I hope you enjoy the challenge! If you want to play them in a different order, feel free to do it! I just set them up this way to make it flow easier in a story telling way, but have fun!

[theblackestnight-ffxiv]

[ffxivwrite2024] prompt 8: free day

Prompt 8: free day

When she was concentrating, Airraim got a particular furrow in her brow. D’zinhla found it desperately endearing. She also found it endearing that Airraim would scowl if attention was drawn to it, a scowl which only deepened the furrow. 

Right now, she stayed silent, merely watching her beloved over the rim of her glasses. D’zinhla had been working on more transcriptions, work that was very pleasant to do with Airraim also present in the room. Airraim’s own work was at her botany workbench, where she was examining the growth of the plants she tended. It was while she was doing this that D’zinhla had taken note of that furrow of concentration, and paused her own work to admire her.

Airraim hadn’t noticed her regard, putting all her focus into the seedling she was examining. She tilted her head, delicately brushed the newly formed leaves aside, then frowned in consideration, and all the while D’zinhla watched, her heart swelling with warmth for the person who had stolen it.

Whatever it was that had so captured Airraim’s attention seemed to have instilled a low-level frustration in her, because she set the seedling back down and sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Zinhla, next time we go to the market, I’ll-” She broke off as she looked at her, and found her already watching. A wry smile twisted her lips. “How long have you been staring?”

D’zinhla couldn’t help but grin. “Long enough.” She pushed her chair back from her desk, crossing over to slide her arm across Airraim’s shoulders. “I adore you.”

Airraim chuckled, her tail swishing as she leaned into the half-embrace. “You make this quite obvious, my heart. Not that I’ll ever tire of hearing it.” She lifted her hand to where D’zinhla’s rested on her shoulder, brushing her fingertips over her knuckles.

“Mm.” She leaned down to rest her head against Airraim’s, inhaling her scent, mixed as it was with the loam of potting soil, the green of her plants, and the soft floral fragrance that clung to her. She could easily get distracted by this. “But you were saying?”

“I was saying, the next time we go to the market, I think I’ll need to try something different for these new seedlings.” Airraim gestured with her free hand at the dozen or so, in small cups of soil. “I think they need soil that drains better. Or containers that do. They’re showing signs of retaining too much water.”

“I see. Easily accomplished, I’ll make sure we spend time there.” The climate of Ishgard made gardens a very difficult matter, but the proliferation of greenhouses and conservatories proved that its people were still quite willing to try. Clever things could be done with arrangements of crystals, for instance. Airraim had no few contacts among Ishgard’s green thumbs, and was starting to gain a name for herself, mostly for the exotic plants from far-off places that she provided to them in exchange for their support and advice with her own plants. It was a nice arrangement, and one that made D’zinhla delighted, for it meant that Airraim had her own connections at a remove from herself. Certainly the reason she went to those far-off places was because of D’zinhla, but the work with the plants was all Airraim, and her botanical colleagues here in the city were her connections first and foremost. It gave her joy and relief to see Airraim at work within those connections.

“Thank you,” Airraim murmured, looking up at her with a soft smile. “I do apologize for distracting you from your own work.”

“Oh,” and she waved her own free hand dismissively at her desk. “Nothing terribly interesting. Just transcribing a few more copies of that Pelupelu alpaca-herd song. It’s astonishingly similar in structure to a La Noscean shepherd song, so I have some inquiries of my own to make. But nothing I regret setting aside for some moments of admiration.”

“Careful, or one might think you’re utterly besotted.” Behind the teasing words there was a softness, the softness that told her that Airraim still quietly marveled that she was the focus of D’zinhla’s affections. She could recognize it, because she had the mirror of it herself. 

So she smiled. “Of course I am. How could I not be?” And she pressed a kiss to Airraim’s cheek, rewarded with the soft flush of her skin.

Airraim was silent for a few more moments, then sighed softly, the hint of a purr in her exhalation. “My heart,” she murmured, and D’zinhla knew that this time, at least, she had won, with Airraim having no further comeback but her favorite term of endearment.

With her heart full to bursting, she said, “I love you too.”

[arachnixe]

A Cage Of Gold

(Part 2 of The New Goddess - Previous: Small Minded)

Clouds break in slow motion upon the walls of the crystal palace. The grand structure floats high in the sky, far above a kingdom bathed in the rays of the morning sun.

The view is stunning from up here. It’s like eating breakfast on the sky’s shoreline. Almost hard to imagine that not so long ago I was one of those tiny specks struggling for survival down below, in the streets of a city that looks very different from this vantage.

I can’t say I miss that life.

Standing up, I leave the table behind me. A backward glance reveals the dishes have already been removed, as has the table I was just using and the window I’d been gazing out of. No servants here, at least in the traditional sense; the palace itself serves. I’m still getting used to that.

I resume my daily exploration, ambling where my whims direct me. The steady tap of my boots echoes through a hallway that takes me to another wing of the palace, varying slightly in style from the one with my quarters. Has it been here the whole time? Last I came by this way, the same path led to a garden, and the time before that, a library. No idea whether these rooms still exist when I’m not visiting them or whether the palace simply chooses to guide me to wherever it wants me.

Once upon a time, I’d have gone out of my way to spite anyone that tried to lead me to do anything I hadn’t already decided I wanted, but I guess things change when you find religion. My Goddess is my shepherd, and I happily walk the path She lays before me.

Today Her path takes me to an ornate pair of doors. With a gentle push, they glide effortlessly open in a wordless invitation for me to continue.

A gorgeous foyer greets me, lavishly appointed with soft rugs, ornate tapestries, gold trimmed furnishings. It’s an entryway fit for the royal quarters of some big-deal monarch, much like the lodging provided for my use. Excitement gets the better of me, and I feel an uncontrollable grin split my face as I break into a jog. Could the other guest here be…?

From the antechamber to the private dining area through several more opulent rooms—I’m sure palaces have fancy names I’ll never know for each of them—I check for an occupant, finding nobody until I barge into the bedchamber and find myself staring at the sorceress who killed me.

Now, I’d like to credit my faith in Her for helping me stamp down the spike of fear that suddenly grips me, but to be honest with myself, it’s the gold shackles binding her arms, the collar of bone, and the chains anchoring her to the wall that are doing most of the heavy lifting there.

“Velle.”

The raven-haired woman responds to her name with a wild-eyed stare, managing to look like a wretched and bedraggled mess even while wearing an immaculately tailored dress of luscious crimson, trimmed with lace. Black-painted lips open and close wordlessly, shock momentarily robbing her of speech.

“You escaped?” The words come at last. “No, of course you did. You were the picklock, were you not? The criminal. You were the one who helped them escape every trap I set. You probably broke free of a hundred prison cells to avoid justice whenever it came for you.”

The sorceress Velle leaps to her feet, and to my surprise the chains extend from the wall to allow her this much freedom. “Set me free,” she hisses in desperation. “Let me join you on your escape, and I will grant you anything you desire. Riches? Power? An army at your command!” Her eyes dart around the room. Her voice cracks. “Anything your heart imagines. Just hurry, before she returns!”

“Wow.” This is too much to process right now. “I mean, wow.” There, that should clarify my position on the topic. Wait, hold on, I might be able to do a bit better: “What are you on about?”

I recognize the expression that crosses her face. I’ve seen it on a lot of people I’ve met, usually accompanied by the question, “are you stupid?” Velle, at least, refrains from saying that aloud, choosing instead to gesture with shackled arms in a way that makes her chain rattle at me rather pointedly.

“Yeah, I didn’t have anything like that,” I reply. “No point in chaining someone up who doesn’t want to escape. I mean, have you looked at this place?” I gesture at the opulence surrounding us. “Who would try to escape paradise?”

“A cage of gold is still a cage when those inside cannot choose to leave it.”

“Oh no!” I gasp in mock horror. “I can’t leave behind all these free meals and silk sheets and actually having a bit of privacy for once! I can’t return to the thrilling life of a cutpurse, running from guards and sleeping outside! How I’ll miss wearing the same mud-soaked clothes for months at a time—”

“Shut up.”

“Come on, I’m not done. I’m still lamenting that I’ll never again experience the sublime joy of starving on the road, deciding to try eating berries I found, not expecting the stomach cramps followed by explosive—”

“I don’t want to hear it!”

“Are you sure? I can go into detail. I remember so much so vividly. Actually hold on, I’ve got one more memory for you: There was this time an evil sorceress fired shards of glowy stuff that ripped through my most important organs and killed me for no good reason.”

“I think you mean sh—”

“That one really hurt, you know. I died about it.”

Velle scoffs. “Obviously you did not die.”

I erupt in a fit of laughter. For some reason this strikes me as hilarious, the best joke I’ve ever heard, even. “Obviously!” If you’ve never died, it must seem reasonable to assume someone could be mistaken about it! But no, she has no idea, and she has absolutely no idea how much she has no idea! I wheeze hysterically, and I wonder if it’s possible to die from laughing too much, whether I might give her another demonstration right here and now!

“I did. I did.” The laughter subsides enough to speak. “I promise, when your soul leaves your body, it’s hard to pretend you’re just taking a nap. When you feel the embrace of a Goddess, when She cradles the core of your whole existence and brings you back, safe and whole, it’s quite different from bandages and reparation magic!”

“Princess Natalia resurrected you? Truly?”

“A bit more than just a princess now, isn’t She?” Come on, I can squash down my giggling while praising Her, right? “But yes, the Goddess resurrected me. She loves me, and I am blessed.”

“Love.” The sorceress in chains sneers. “At last. Now comes to light the real reason for your freedom. I bet the two of you were fucking,” she emphasizes the crudeness of the word, “while poor Sir Wolfgang dutifully followed behind, pining for a lady who was already spreading her legs for some rancid street rat who no doubt could barely even concentrate on her royal cunt, too busy salivating over her family’s wealth.”

Nope, no stifling this one. I double over in another fit of laughter. Was she really trying to upset me by talking about my Goddess and my friend like that?

“Please,” I gasp, “go on.”

With a scowl, Velle remains silent.

“It’s a good start! I think you could really lean hard into the cuckoldry thing. Oh, maybe the Goddess (in Her mortal aspect as the Princess) was betrothed to the Knight before Her ascension. Maybe She really loved him too, in that romantic way, but was determined to wait until the wedding to consummate their love. He understood, and he admired such acts of purity even though his carnal desires cried out for release. Now enter the dashing Rogue, a scoundrel whose peculiar services were needed to get them out of a trap laid by their fiendish enemy (that’s you, naturally)…”

Velle groans. I continue. “The trio escapes! Now, the Rogue plans to rob the two of them before leaving, but the Princess finds Herself strangely captivated by this stranger, whose charm and wit possess a certain irresistible allure. She begs me—the Rogue I mean—to join them on their journey to save the land from certain destruction. Our Rogue claims to be moved by such arguments, but in truth recognizes an opportunity in the blushing glances She sneaks.

“Now the Princess is determined to remain pure for Her betrothed, but oh! How the dashing Rogue’s shirt leaves such a tantalizing swath of unclothed chest open and visible! And the Knight sees how She steals such scandalous glances when the Rogue leans forward in a bow, how hard She blushes at a sly wink, how She laughs at some honestly kind of half-assed puns.”

“How much longer is this going to go on?”

“Not a fan of slow burns? I wasn’t planning to have any bodice ripping for a while yet, but I think if you stick around for a few more chapters we can really get to the juicy part where the Knight finds himself torn between his jealousy and the slow, creeping realization that he’s also falling for the Rogue. There’s a really good moment when the Princess tells the Rogue ‘you’d look so beautiful with painted lips,’ and the Knight stumbles into the scene. He’s taken aback by the gentleness with which the Princess decorates the Rogue’s features, his face scarlet and, for a moment, unable to hide his desire. As he looks at the two of them, the princess in Her underclothes and the Rogue in rouge, it’s unclear what exactly he yearns for, but not even he can deny how he yearns.”

“Are you sent here to torture me then, is that it? I am a gift to you, that you may do with your murderer as you wish?”

I sigh and drop the bit. “No, I’m sure you’re here because She loves you too.”

“A funny sort of love,” Velle says, tugging her chain for emphasis.

“I have faith that if you embraced Her as your Goddess as I have, you would be freed.” I offer a genuine smile. “Sure, it’s especially easy for me to love She Who Saved Me, but if you can learn to love Her as I do, you’ll see that you’re already home. And like me you’d never need to fear death again.”

The other guest spits, hitting me directly in the eye. “Well look at you, getting a wink from the dashing Rogue yourself,” I say with a chuckle, wiping sorcerous saliva from my eyelid. Impressive aim, really. On an impulse, I lick my hand clean, maintaining eye contact as I do so. “If you want some bodice ripping of your own, just say so. But maybe let’s keep this a slow burn of our own, okay?” With a charming grin and a wave of my hand, I turn and walk away.

Maybe Velle’s right, though. Maybe she is a gift of sorts. What could be greater than helping guide a lost soul such as her to the warm embrace of the Goddess? I’ll visit her again the next chance I get.

[ikeromantic]

Alice in College pt 1

An IkeRev Central characters AU! Written for my IkeRev 1K Celebration, a boarding school AU was the poll winner. Approx. 2700 words. 1/6

On Being the New Kid and Other Horrors

Alice looked up at the soaring towers of Cradle College, her neck tilted back uncomfortably. They were impossibly tall, and looked needle thin. Pennants fluttered atop them, their colors too distant to determine against the steely gray of the sky. The clouds above were heavy with the threat of a coming storm. “Figures,” she sighed. 

There was nothing for it but to go in. She knocked once at the large, wooden entry. A smaller door set into the giant gate swung open. “There you are.” The voice that came from the shadowed threshold was warm and gentle. A moment later, Alice had a face to go with the voice as a young, bespectacled man stepped out. “I’m Blanc Lapin. And you must be our new Alice.”

“Yes, Mr. Lapin.” Alice felt flustered under his rose-gold gaze. He was beautiful in an almost fragile way, with his pale hair and complexion, thin frame, and elegant hands. She found it hard not to stare, and when she did, iIt felt as if he saw right into her heart. His playful smile and wise eyes said they knew every thought she had as she climbed the steps to meet him. 

“Please, call me Blanc.” He took her hands in his and gently squeezed them. “Welcome to Cradle.” 

Alice let herself be led inside. 

The courtyard was old, overgrown with thick, verdant vines. Ivy and roses over crumbling statues, arches, and stone walls. She didn’t have time to really look at any of it as Blanc set a fast pace. He opened the door for her and shepherded her into the entry hall. Alice had just enough time to gawp at the floating crystal chandelier above them before she was herded into another room. 

“Here we are.” Blanc came to a sudden stop, and Alice nearly collided with him. “You’ve arrived just in time for afternoon tea.” He smiled at her wistfully. “Go ahead and grab a tray. You’ll find the food here is quite good. I recommend the carrot cake.”

“The . . . carrot cake?” Alice blinked at him. 

“Yes. Though the strawberry and caramel creme are also very good.” 

“Stop flirting with the new kid. Nobody wants to see that.” A child’s high-pitched voice interrupted before Alice could say anything else. 

She turned to see a small boy with a ridiculous top hat marching toward them. His green jacket and matching bowtie were pressed and formal and far fancier than the simple blue dress and white pinafore Alice wore. The boy looked much too young for college, she thought.

“Oliver, did you come to introduce yourself?” Blanc smiled at him with the same gentle expression he’d show Alice. 

“No.” Oliver crossed his arms. 

Alice wasn’t sure how to react, but Blanc was giving her an encouraging look so she took a breath and held out her hand. “Hi, Oliver. I’m Alice. It’s, um, nice to meet you?” She hadn’t meant it to sound like a question but his frown and lowered brows made her uncertain it was nice.

“Wonderful.” Blanc put his gloved hands together. “I’m afraid I have somewhere else to be, but it looks like you’re getting along just fine.” He gave Alice one last smile and then left. 

She stood there awkwardly, glancing between Blanc’ retreating form and Oliver’s bored expression. 

“Ugh. Come on.” Oliver rolled his eyes and turned on his heel. 

Alice reluctantly followed after. “So. You must be pretty smart to be in college already, hm? What are you studying?”

“Don’t patronize me. I’m not some stupid kid.” 

“Oh. Ok. I - I didn’t mean to?” She took a breath. Clearly the kid was touchy about his age. She didn’t try to make any more small talk as he led her to the snack table. There were pastries, savory and sweet, and a large samovar full of hot tea. 

“Metaphysics.”

Alice was just reaching for a plate when Oliver spoke, and nearly dropped it in surprise. 

He reached out, grabbing her hand to stabilize the plate. “Great. You’re clumsy too.” Oliver sighed. “Anyway, get what you want and then find somewhere to sit.” He let go of her and turned to go. 

“Thanks?”

“Just try not to drop anything.” He took a step and then paused. “You can sit by us, if you want. Not that I care.” And with that, he left her alone.

Alice frowned after him for a moment. “No thanks,” she murmured. She didn’t think she could handle any more kid-sass. Not today anyway. She filled her plate, grabbed a mug of tea, and found an empty table. 

The cafeteria looked like it was meant to house a lot more students than it currently did. Large, round wooden tables dotted the room, with six chairs at each. Only a few were occupied. No one looked over at her arrival, which was fine. It wasn’t her first time being ‘the new kid’ and it would take time to get to know people. 

She picked up a strawberry pastry and took a bite. It was quite good. As good as anything the sweets shop she worked at in London might make. Alice finally started to relax as she sat there, sipping tea and people watching. Despite the magical nature of Cradle, the students here really weren’t that different than -

“You look so beautiful when you’re enjoying yourself.”

The voice caught Alice offguard and she spilt her tea on her skirt as she made a slight jump and turned towards it. Her eyes were met by a pair of wide, grey-blue eyes and a bright, friendly smile. 

“Sorry, did I startle you princess?” He didn’t look sorry at all as he gave her a mischievous wink. “Here, let me help you with that. It’s my fault, afterall.” And then he knelt, leaning into her lap to dab at the spot of tea on her pinafore.

Alice felt completely tongue-tied, her face going instantly hot from the sudden, unexpected familiarity. She took a moment to find her voice again, though it was a little squeakier than she liked. “Who - who are you? What are you doing?”

He laughed warmly and tilted his head to look up at her. “Ah, there I go, jumping right in without even introducing myself. I’m Dalim, and it’s really a pleasure to meet you, Alice.”

She blinked at him uncertainly. He at least looked like he meant it, even if he was entirely too close for someone she just met. His hand was still resting on her leg beside the stain. “N-nice to meet you too. But. Could you . . .”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry about that. I suppose I just got a little carried away. I feel bad I just met you and already made a mess.” He drew his hand back slowly, the warmth of his palm stroking her through her skirt. 

Alice wasn’t sure how to respond. People were just not this forward where she was from. 

“You’re really freaking her out, Dalim. You should give it a rest. Don’t you have enough girlfriends already?” Another interruption, welcome this time. 

She turned her head to see a pink-haired youth a step behind her chair. His shaggy bangs almost covered his oddly colored eyes, one scarlet and the other a tawny gold. He had on a hoodie with cat ears, and fitted t-shirt that said ‘Free Hugs’ in a bubbly yellow print. 

He saw her looking at him and broke into a smile. “Hi Alice. I’m Loki. And I’m rescuing you from this guy, ok?”

“Ok?” Alice echoed him, which was apparently the wrong response because as soon as she spoke, Loki grabbed her hand and pulled her along with him toward the door. 

“W-where are we- hey, what-” She tried to get her question out but before she managed, they were surrounded by a bright light and then she was standing someplace else entirely. The dining hall was gone, replaced by a small balcony on one of the school towers. 

The wind here was cold and the rain felt like tiny needles on her exposed skin. She clutched the balcony railing, trying not to panic as the expanse of the school grounds spread out below her. 

“This is one of my favorite places to escape to.” Loki’s lips brushed her ear as he spoke, and she felt his arms slide around her. “Here, you can lean against me if you’re cold.”

Alice gave him a withering look. She was tired of being teased and manhandled. “This is not a rescue. This is a kidnapping! I was perfectly fine. Enjoying pastries and some cute flirty guy. And now I’m freezing to death on a balcony while you try to - to -” She stopped her tirade as she saw his expression shift from glee to hurt. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, his lips forming a perfect little pout. 

She took a breath and got control of herself. “Look. Loki. It’s fine. I’m just really cold out here. And I wasn’t expecting this. Plus, I don’t know that I like being hugged when I’ve barely met someone.”

He considered for a moment and then nodded. “Alright. I’ll wait until we know each other better before I hug you again. Now come on. Let’s get out of the rain.”

Alice half feared he would magic them someplace else, but instead he turned around and opened a hidden door on the roof that led onto an upper floor of the school library. The walls here were lined with books from floor to ceiling. Magic crystal lamps hovered in the air over long tables, low-slung couches, and private reading booths. 

After a moment, she located the ladder that led up to this level and clambered down. Her hands were so cold she had trouble holding on. Loki, on the other hand, looked none the worse for wear, other than being a little wet. 

“This way,” he gestured for her to follow him through the maze of shelves and reading spots. Alice wasn’t sure she ought to trust him, but it was that or wander off on her own with no idea which direction to go. 

Loki stopped at one of the private reading nooks, a big grin on his face. “Alice. Look,” he whispered.

She leaned forward to see what was in the nook and her eyes landed on a strange-looking man. He had dark hair and wore some sort of small, metal mask. His visible eye was closed in sleep, head resting on a huge, open tome. “Loki. He’s sleeping. Let’s leave him be.”

“Nah.” Loki gave her a wink and then pulled a feather from thin air. He reached forward to tickle the sleeping man’s nose. 

Alice grabbed at the feather, but missed as he pulled it out of reach. She swiped at it again as he wiggled it toward the peaceful face of the sleeper. As Loki yanked it away again, she lost her balance and tumbled straight onto the man. 

He didn’t yell or jerk awake. His eye opened quickly though, and slid to the side, taking in the woman now draped on top of him. In a strained, quiet voice he spoke. “Could you. Please. Get off of me?”

“Sorry. I - I fell. And. Um.” She pulled back and stood straight, flushed to the roots of her hair with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to. You see. Loki - he -” she pointed to him and found the spot empty. In fact, the little pink-haired trouble maker was nowhere in sight.

“He got away.” The man sat up and ran a hand over his hair, trying to pat it into shape. He was failing spectacularly, as clumps stood straight up on the side that had been pressed to the book. “It’s fine.” He sighed. “He does this sort of thing.” He gave up on his hair and held out a hand. “I’m Harr.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Harr. I’m Alice.” She shook his hand. “Sorry I woke you like that.” She couldn’t help but notice he was blushing and wouldn’t meet her gaze. 

“Not your fault.” He took a breath. “Why are you soaking wet?” At her long-suffering sigh, he smiled. “Ah. Loki. Right. Well. Do you know where your room is? You should probably change out of those wet things.”

Alice shook her head. “I assume Blanc - Mr. Lapin - was going to show me, but, I think I’ve lost him completely.”

Harr stood. He was, she realized, very tall. Was he a teacher? A senior? She couldn’t say. “Let me show you.” He rummaged in his bag and took out a plain black notebook. He handed it to her. “This has a map of the school and another of the grounds. And you can take notes in it.”

“Oh, umm. Thank you. You really don’t need to -”

“I don’t need it. And you do.” He smiled and it was the first time he really looked directly at her. It was such a nice smile that she felt almost stunned by it’s sudden appearance. Then it was gone and he was walking away, his long legs taking him further from her with every step. “Come on,” he said over his shoulder. 

She clutched her new notebook in hand and hurried after him, happy for a guide, even one as shy and mysterious as Harr. In fact, she was watching him so intently that she didn’t see the student about to step into her path until the moment they collided. 

“You idiot! Watch where you’re going!” The dark figure she’d run into nearly spat the words as they stood up and straightened their clothes. Black hooded shirt, dark pants. Purple scarf. A strand of pale hair, and a pair of furious amber eyes. He bent down to pick up his books.

“I am so sorry! It was my fault entirely.” She set her notebook down to help him collect his things. It was a pretty big stack of books, notebooks, and loose paper. Tight, scrawling cursive covered nearly every page in tiny, chaotic lines of text. 

“It was absolutely your fault.” He paused to get a good look at her. “You’re the new Alice.” He said the words with even more venom, surprising her into dropping what she’d picked up. 

“Yeah. Sorry about that too, I guess,” she snapped. 

He bent and picked up the rest of his things, snagging her notebook as well. “You should be.”

“Right. Hey - that’s mine though!”

He glanced down as she snagged the black notebook from his hand. 

“Alice?” Harr had stopped a few meters ahead and turned back to check on her. His eyes widened. “Amon?”

The rude guy - Amon - frowned fiercely before hurrying away. He didn’t say anything as he left, but he did spare her one final glare before turning into another doorway.

“Who was that,” she asked Harr as she hurried to catch up to him again.

“Amon Jabberwok.” Harr paused before he went on. “You should be careful around him.”

“Why?” Alice tried for more information, but Harr clammed up and said little else as he practically jogged down the hall and down some stairs. 

Alice was doubly glad she had a guide when she realized how ridiculously tangled the halls and stairways of the school were. Even with a map, she knew it would have taken her awhile to find her room. 

“Your bags should be inside already.” Harr finally spoke up again. “When you’re cleaned up, you should speak to Dean and Blanc about your class schedule.” He gave her a nod and then turned to go.

“Wait!”

He stopped. “Did you need something else?”

“No. Just. Thanks. For the help and the - the notebook.”

Harr nodded. “You’ll need it. And . . . if you . . . have questions, I’ll be around.”

“I appreciate that. I’ll see you then.” And with that, she was alone. Alice opened her door and stepped into the quiet room. Her’s, until the end of the school year. It was pretty nice. Light blue curtains framed a window with a view on the courtyard, and her bed had a nice heavy quilt to chase away the winter chill. There was a small fireplace too, though the flames that danced inside were no normal fire. They threw a light purple glow over the room as they flickered between shades of white and violet. 

Peace. And warm, dry clothes. Alice took a breath, realizing that college here was going to be nothing like London. Nothing at all.

[creacherkeeper]

a little town in the desert that you have to be lost to find

{praise the rain - joy harjo / @coyote-west / the saint of lost causes - justin townes earle / @dappermouth / pissing contest (or an interrogation on behalf of a lover who is no longer mine) - @silasdenvermelvin / unknown / their eyes were watching god - zora neale hurston / old black train - the blasting company / once in a while you get shown the light - crystal dipietro / last stand - adam joseph}

[ID: a 10 image litstack

image 1: black text on a white background. "praise crazy. praise sad. / praise the path on which we're led. / praise the roads on earth and water. / praise the eater and the eaten. / praise beginnings; praise the end. / praise the song and praise the singer."

image 2: a red, maroon, and light tan drawing on a tan background. it shows desert mountains with some scraggly plants, a cactus, a snake, and a big red sun. red text says "the west has made a deal with the sun"

image 3: black text on white background. "you know the folks that's most afraid of the wolf / if you really stop and think / throughout time, between a wolf and a shepherd / who do you think has killed more sheep?"

image 4: a digital painting of a black wolf in a dim, snowy landscape. text underneath it reads "you feel you've been here, once before, in a memory that was not quite yours"

image 5: black text on a white background. "have you shot a gun? is your / blood authentic? is your blood / authentic? is your blood authentic? / can you prove it to me?"

image 6: a traditional colored print of a skeleton wearing a black cowboy hat and a red bandana. we see their bust floating over a scene of a graveyard with crosses, cactus, a bull skull, and two human skulls wearing hats. theres a mound of dirt with a shovel in it and a large rising sun. the text reads "live fast / die last"

image 7: black text on white background. "half gods are worshiped with wine and flowers. real gods require blood"

image 8: black text on a burnt orange background. "come on now, young strangers / weren't you someone's son? / how'd you find this depot / cause it aint where you belong"

image 9: a realistic traditional painting of desert shrubs and mountains with a cloudy sky. the painting is done in steel blues and bright orange

image 10: black text on white background. "i'll bet you thought this'd last, cowboy / but nothin ever does - / it's just this wasteland / and it's just god / and it's just us." end ID]

[wildcmbcrsupdates]

roxaneduran: What a gang but I have to say we deeply missed @jamespurefoyactor @oscarlesage @yolifuller @jazziblackborow #marthekeller @jonasbachan @jonasbloquet @gerardwatkins @paulbandey @martijnlakemeier @thomasaldente @parispaulnyc @zeldarittner @maximilienseweryn Meet us all tonight in the new eps of @marieantoinette on @canalplus Once again, couldn't be happier than in @miumiu organised beautiful by @isabrulier A million thanks for the fun shoot @johannaberghorn

Caroline Piette, Crystal Shepherd-Cross, Emilia Schüle, Gaia Weiss, Jack Archer, Liah O'Prey, Louis Cunningham, Margaux Balsan, Nathan Willcocks, Philippe Tłokiński and Roxane Duran via roxaneduran on Instagram, 11/14/2022.

[notbeingnoticed]

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

       To many-tower'd Camelot;

The yellow-leaved waterlily

The green-sheathed daffodilly

Tremble in the water chilly

       Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver.

The sunbeam showers break and quiver

In the stream that runneth ever

By the island in the river

       Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

       The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley,

The reaper, reaping late and early,

Hears her ever chanting cheerly,

Like an angel, singing clearly,

       O'er the stream of Camelot.

Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,

Beneath the moon, the reaper weary

Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,

       Lady of Shalott.'

The little isle is all inrail'd

With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd

With roses: by the marge unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,

       Skimming down to Camelot.

A pearl garland winds her head:

She leaneth on a velvet bed,

Full royally apparelled,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part II

No time hath she to sport and play:

A charmed web she weaves alway.

A curse is on her, if she stay

Her weaving, either night or day,

       To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be;

Therefore she weaveth steadily,

Therefore no other care hath she,

       The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear.

Over the water, running near,

The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.

Before her hangs a mirror clear,

       Reflecting tower'd Camelot.

And as the mazy web she whirls,

She sees the surly village churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls

       Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

       Goes by to tower'd Camelot:

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

       The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

       And music, came from Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;

'I am half sick of shadows,' said

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley-sheaves,

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,

And flam'd upon the brazen greaves

       Of bold Sir Lancelot.

A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd

To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,

       Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

       As he rode down from Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

       Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

       Moves over green Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'

       Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom

She made three paces thro' the room

She saw the water-flower bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

       She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

'The curse is come upon me,' cried

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

       Over tower'd Camelot;

Outside the isle a shallow boat

Beneath a willow lay afloat,

Below the carven stern she wrote,

 The Lady of Shalott.

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,

All raimented in snowy white

That loosely flew (her zone in sight

Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)

       Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,

Though the squally east-wind keenly

Blew, with folded arms serenely

By the water stood the queenly

       Lady of Shalott.

With a steady stony glance—

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Beholding all his own mischance,

Mute, with a glassy countenance—

       She look'd down to Camelot.

It was the closing of the day:

She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

       The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam,

By creeks and outfalls far from home,

Rising and dropping with the foam,

From dying swans wild warblings come,

       Blown shoreward; so to Camelot

Still as the boathead wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her chanting her deathsong,

       The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,

She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,

And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,

       Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden wall and gallery,

A pale, pale corpse she floated by,

Deadcold, between the houses high,

       Dead into tower'd Camelot.

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

To the planked wharfage came:

Below the stern they read her name,

 The Lady of Shalott.

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,

Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.

There lay a parchment on her breast,

That puzzled more than all the rest,

       The wellfed wits at Camelot.

'The web was woven curiously,

The charm is broken utterly,

Draw near and fear not,—this is I,

       The Lady of Shalott.'

[detournementsmineurs]

“Marie-Antoinette (Saison 1)” série créée par Deborah Davis avec Emilia Schüle, Louis Cunningham, Jasmine Blackborow, Liah O'Prey, Gaia Weiss, James Purefoy, Nathan Willcocks, Oscar Lesage, Martijn Lakemeier, Jack Archer, Crystal Shepherd-Cross, Caroline Piette, Laura Benson, Paul Bandey, Gérard Watkins, Jonas Bloquet et Marthe Keller, novembre 2022.

[youre-ackermine]

The Lady Of Shalott

Part I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

       To many-tower'd Camelot;

The yellow-leaved waterlily

The green-sheathed daffodilly

Tremble in the water chilly

       Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver.

The sunbeam showers break and quiver

In the stream that runneth ever

By the island in the river

       Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

       The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley,

The reaper, reaping late and early,

Hears her ever chanting cheerly,

Like an angel, singing clearly,

       O'er the stream of Camelot.

Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,

Beneath the moon, the reaper weary

Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,

       Lady of Shalott.'

The little isle is all inrail'd

With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd

With roses: by the marge unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,

       Skimming down to Camelot.

A pearl garland winds her head:

She leaneth on a velvet bed,

Full royally apparelled,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part II

No time hath she to sport and play:

A charmed web she weaves alway.

A curse is on her, if she stay

Her weaving, either night or day,

       To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be;

Therefore she weaveth steadily,

Therefore no other care hath she,

       The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear.

Over the water, running near,

The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.

Before her hangs a mirror clear,

       Reflecting tower'd Camelot.

And as the mazy web she whirls,

She sees the surly village churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls

       Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

       Goes by to tower'd Camelot:

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

       The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

       And music, came from Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;

'I am half sick of shadows,' said

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley-sheaves,

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,

And flam'd upon the brazen greaves

       Of bold Sir Lancelot.

A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd

To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,

       Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

       As he rode down from Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

       Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

       Moves over green Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

       As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'

       Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom

She made three paces thro' the room

She saw the water-flower bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

       She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

'The curse is come upon me,' cried

       The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

       Over tower'd Camelot;

Outside the isle a shallow boat

Beneath a willow lay afloat,

Below the carven stern she wrote,

       The Lady of Shalott.

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,

All raimented in snowy white

That loosely flew (her zone in sight

Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)

       Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,

Though the squally east-wind keenly

Blew, with folded arms serenely

By the water stood the queenly

       Lady of Shalott.

With a steady stony glance—

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Beholding all his own mischance,

Mute, with a glassy countenance—

       She look'd down to Camelot.

It was the closing of the day:

She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

       The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam,

By creeks and outfalls far from home,

Rising and dropping with the foam,

From dying swans wild warblings come,

       Blown shoreward; so to Camelot

Still as the boathead wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her chanting her deathsong,

       The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,

She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,

And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,

       Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

       The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden wall and gallery,

A pale, pale corpse she floated by,

Deadcold, between the houses high,

       Dead into tower'd Camelot.

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

To the planked wharfage came:

Below the stern they read her name,

       The Lady of Shalott.

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,

Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.

There lay a parchment on her breast,

That puzzled more than all the rest,

       The wellfed wits at Camelot.

'The web was woven curiously,

The charm is broken utterly,

Draw near and fear not,—this is I,

       The Lady of Shalott.'

Lord Alfred Tennyson - "Works" - 1832

Paintings : various portraits of the Lady of Shalott by John William Waterhouse

[hylianassassin]

CONTRAST

Chapter 3: Consequences

By the time he had been brought home, Jori had steeled himself. The elegant stonework of the shadow king’s temple, grey, black and violet motifs of writhing dragons, animal skulls and geometric patterns that were framed by vaulted arches and columns of teal and veined orange was a stunning sight to most, but for Jori it had little appeal anymore; especially now as it rang with snarled orders. Steward constructs hustled about in organized mayhem as they strove to complete one task or the other. He was greeted pleasantly by a few, but he did not pause to do more than thank them as his rickety governess shepherded him towards the throne room.

Members of his father's inner circle sneered down their noses at him when he passed, and he returned their judgment with a rude gesture. Even if he had no interest in the throne, he could still imagine a pleasant outcome where every one of them found themselves unemployed.

He rounded the corner, and there he saw him: his father clad in robes of black and violet, seated upon a dark wooden throne carved with the same motifs that decorated his keep, and at its apex, two wooden dragons held a circular icon with an inverted triangle in its center, with smaller circles adjacent to each of its faces; the icon of the shadow tribe.

Jori curled his lip in disgust at the sight. The king did not look up at him, however, choosing instead to focus upon the black plank straddled between the arms of the throne. It was draped with a red cloth. A trio of violet candles glowed in one corner beside a jar of deep violet ink, and in the other sat a crystal decanter of dark red wine and a nearly empty glass beside it. His father scribbled some notes, then picked up a handful of ivory pieces inscribed with a variety of symbols.

Haxion put his quill down and gestured elegantly for the governess, and everyone else for that matter, to leave. Once they were alone, the king clasped his hands together and shook them, their contents clicking together eerily before he dropped them onto the table. Jori stood there in awkward silence as his father took up the quill again, muttering to himself as he tapped each bone with the feathered end of the quill, reckoning each symbol in turn before he returned to his notes.

Jori shifted his weight, the silence deafening as Haxion once more picked up the ivory and cast them again, repeating this process until his son could barely stand from the soreness and exhaustion. Just as he made to slip away, however, Haxion’s voice cut through the air and made the prince flinch.

“Nine times, and twice by nine times again, have I cast the bones for you tonight, and every time they speak ill of your future.”

Finally they locked eyes. It was evident where the vivid green of Jori’s eyes had come from, for those same eyes glared back at him. The red in his pelt, however, had clearly come from his mother as his father was coated in a noble inky black that caught the light in odd ways, leading to traces of gold on the brightest surfaces.

Haxion laid the plank upon his side table, then rose and strode over to Jori, a swagger in his step that made the youth bristle. 

“I still don’t understand why you put so much store in those.” Jori said, trying not to look intimidated as Haxion stood before him.

“One day perhaps you may understand the depths of the heathen powers that govern our bloodline, if you manage to survive that long. Clearly there are numerous other things that you also do not understand. Civility, for one.”

Jori stood his ground, despite the shaking in his knees. He was so tired. 

“Well?” That familiar voice, smooth and dangerous, prompted him, its owner's arms crossed. “Care to explain yourself?”

Jori held his eyes stubbornly. At this age his father was still slightly taller than him, but that was of little consequence to his attitude.

“Even if I did, you would still brush it off.”

The scowl he got in return made him shudder, but he had grown accustomed to hiding it. Jori's body hurt, and he did not have the patience for this. Not tonight, and likely not ever. He turned away.

Haxion growled at his back. “Stay yourself, boy. You have not been dismissed.”

Jori did not even try to hide the fact that the fur all down his spine was on end. Reluctantly he turned back.

“If it is your intention to sit the throne in a time of war, you are certainly succeeding.” Haxion growled. “Naydra is furious.”

“Good.”

The wrath in his father’s snarl, however, made Jori bite his tongue, painfully.

“I don’t care for her or her ilk any more than you do, but we cannot let our personal sentiments endanger the lives and livelihoods of those who look to us for leadership. I would have thought you would be aware of that by now.” He scanned his son up and down. “No, you are aware. You just don’t care.”

Jori sighed, unable to decide if he was angry or hurt by the scrutiny. 

“You’re right, I don’t care. She and her high and mighty kin have gone out of their way for too long to discredit us just because we deal in magic she doesn’t understand.”

Haxion’s expression softened a moment, then slipped from frustration to firmness.

“That said, boy, the tribes need not understand each other to show respect for each other’s territory and property. What you did tonight… I cannot begin to comprehend what was going through your head." Haxion angrily poked his own forehead with two fingers as he said it. “You speak out against Naydra’s mistrust of us but then in the same night give her justification for that mistrust. The way of the shadows is subtle. Calculated. And there was nothing subtle or calculated about what you did tonight. And to make it worse, you dragged Rauru into your trouble. Don’t you think he has struggled enough since the loss of his family?”

Jori finally wavered, and let his gaze fall. 

“The floor is not going to solve your problems.”

Jori sighed and made eye contact again. 

“I want to have faith in you, Jori, have faith that you are simply young and wild and will grow into a refined leader by the time my burdens become yours.” Haxion sighed and circled the youth, as if to help himself gather his thoughts. “But yet every time I give you a bit of freedom you do something that's just.. Just… So stupid that I cannot fathom where in your upbringing that I’ve gone so wrong.” The king lifted his arms in frustration and let them fall to his sides again. He sighed, and Jori remained silent as he sought solace from the floor again.

Haxion shook his head, looking at his son with helplessness. He put a hand on his shoulder, then stepped away and returned to the throne. He pulled a large workbook with cracked leather on its covers from the side table. From it he produced a document scrawled in elegant, sharp curves with a vivid sapphire blue ink. “Naydra has demanded compensation for the damage to the construct; enough for repairs and to pay her soldiers for leave while their training grounds are refreshed. Additionally, she has asked for part of that sum from Rauru and his family, which you and I both know will crush them.”

Jori pinned his ears back. Since the death of their parents on the surface, Mineru had been forced to raise her brother. He knew just how much of a struggle it had been for them. He opened his mouth to speak, but stumbled over the words.

“Is there… There has to be something we can do to stop that.”

Haxion studied the prince, and nodded. “Now you are thinking like a leader. What do you propose we do?”

Jori ran his bruised hand through his long dark hair, which shimmered in the same gold reflections as his sire’s coat. “...Is it possible to cover their portion of it? Somehow?”

Haxion, then, actually smiled and nodded approvingly. “I came to the same conclusion.” 

He produced another letter, this one in his own violet ink, that looked to be half finished.

“I have already sent the payment to Naydra. Still, I would not expect her favor anytime soon.”

Not that Jori wanted it, but he nodded. “But?”

“Again, you’re finally thinking like a leader should. As you can imagine the cost of this disaster has cut deeply into the pay for everyone else. Health cannot be generated from nothing else it would be worthless. But you know that.”

Jori braced himself, none too fond of the change in Haxion’s tone to one of mocking. 

His father continued, “Nor is it fair to demand of our miners on the surface to increase their output to compensate for the loss. The work is difficult enough. So, I am sending them some help.”

Jori’s blood ran cold.

“So, two days hence you will be taken down to the surface and put to work in the mines. Perhaps some hard, honest labor will work some sense into that sharp and stubborn mind of yours. At least, I can hope. You will work until you have provided an equal share of output to this loss, and then you will work further until you have provided an equal share of the profit you have cost your tribe. It may take months, or it may take years, depending on how hard you are willing to work.”

Every ache in his body was amplified by each word. The mines… There were so many tragedies that had happened there. The Depths were said to rot away a person’s sanity until nothing but cruelty and hatred remained. But, that was where the zonaite was, and without zonaite the entire zonai nation would fall.

“I…” Jori began, then went silent. As much as the proposition horrified him, there was no way he could justify avoiding it. Not if Rauru and his diminishing tribe were to suffer for his own mistakes.

“Alright.” he said through gritted teeth. Haxion nodded.

“There is one more thing. I have a question.”

And what could that possibly be? “...Yes?”

“...You are gifted in the power of our people. Why didn’t you use it in the fight?”

Jori tilted his head in confusion, but for the life of him he could not find an answer. 

“I don’t know. I guess I just… Didn’t think about it.”

Haxion frowned. “Perhaps that is because you have been slacking in your studies. You are Skyborn. A zonai. Magic should be your first solution to any life threatening situation.”

Jori scowled. “Is that what you would tell someone who doesn’t have magic?”

“No. But you do. And as such you should never forget it. Your life could, and likely will, depend on it. Perhaps in the Depths, surrounded by the darkness, you will learn to better attune yourself to it.”

Jori took his leave then, head down as he processed his fate. Haxion watched him, a pang of guilt in his breast. Maybe he had been too harsh.

“Jori.”

The prince ignored him, slinking away down the hall.

“Jori.” he said more firmly. His son ignored him still, almost out of sight now.

“Majora!”

Jori finally stopped, his fur on end. Then, slowly, he turned. “You know, I just realized something.”

Haxion glared at him in silence, any guilt he had been feeling long gone. “And that is?”

“...The only time I ever hate that name,” Jori continued.  “...is when it's on your tongue.”

The king narrowed his eyes. “Majora—”

“And one day,” the prince cut him off. “I hope you regret that fact.”

***************

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