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captain-nyxquillspear · 4 years ago

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Let Me Be Your Wings || Nyxion

Basically, Nyxion gets drunk at the Harvest Moon Dance, discussions are discussed, dancing is danced, flying is flown

@the-queen-clarion

Nyx Quillspear The Harvest Moon Dance was in full swing and Nyx was already several drinks in. She, of course, wouldn't drink on all three of the nights as the Scouting Guard took shifts on protecting the Hollow. But everyone had their night off to participate in the dance and drinking. It was a very important time after all.

Nyx wore a deep burnt orange pantsuit of fall leaves that sparkled like the night sky that draped behind her and wore a crown of multicolored leaves on the top of her hair which was let down to flow around her shoulders. One of the garden talents had very insistently poised the crown on her head. Not that she didn't love a good flower crown every now and then, especially when she had a few drinks.

She watched as the dancing continued, fairies all around her already looking like they were being knocked over by blustering winds. She spotted Clarion coming towards her and she bowed her head, a bit of a tipsy smile on her lips, "Queen Clarion."

Queen Clarion Clarion admittedly had also had a few drinks herself. She usually had a little at least, as she didn't want the Hollow fairies to feel that she wouldn't participate. There had been plenty of drunk experiences in her lifetime, and she had the feeling that perhaps this harvest moon might turn into one of them.

You see, it was still so awkward. And Clarion's mind still went to that dream of piracy and a romance that shouldn't be possible. So yes she had had a drink. Then a second. A third. And after that she decided counting was just silly.

She'd made herself a flower crown, setting it on her head and then her typical crown was crookedly attached to it and slightly tilted. If it looked a little silly...well. It would just have to look silly. She had just finished another drink of hers when she twisted around to face Nyx. "Nyx. I've told you so many timeees." She stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. "Just Clarion will do.”

Nyx Quillspear The Scouting Guard Captain actually let out a bit of a laugh. "Sorry... just you know. Formalities are my default especially after... well, being much less formal on a pirate ship. Suppose I overcorrected my reality." She gave a bit of a grin and downed the rest of her drink before looking at the crown on a crown, "Well, if you didn't look very royal already, I think you sealed it with a second crown, your highness."

Queen Clarion "I would certainly say so. It was a dream you know." Of course she knew that Nyx knew, but it was still weird. Awkward. Her hands went up toward her crown and she couldn't help but laugh. "Yes well it's important to participate in things you know. I'm not just a queen...I'm a fairy like everyone else.”

Nyx Quillspear "It was. But you know, some people, not necessarily me, of course, think dreams can mean things. Warn you of things." She shrugged one shoulder, "Had to be sure." Liquid courage flowing through her as she spoke to Clarion. She adjusted her crown, sure it was crooked by now. "So Clarion, as a fairy, are you partaking in the Harvest Moon dancing?"

Queen Clarion

"Mhm. Of course. Definitely not you." Clarion teased, a small smile spreading across her face. "Hmm...that depends. You know, I could dance...if I had the right partner of course."

Nyx Quillspear The Captain straightened up a bit and cleared her throat, "Well, I've been told I am a suitable partner at clumsy functions. Perhaps that would qualify me for fairy ones as well? You'd have to check my references to make sure, of course."

Queen Clarion Clarion's lips curled up into a smile and she glanced her captain over. "Oh? And what kind of references would that be? Who do I need to be speaking to to make sure?"

Nyx Quillspear Nyx's smirk grew as she stretched her arms behind herself, her wings fluttering behind her, "Oh, well, not to boast but the queen thinks very highly of my dancing, Clarion." She chuckled, "Other than that, my father also believes me to be quite an excellent dancer as well, reputable dust fairy that he is."

Queen Clarion "Oh does she now?" Clarion hummed, taking a step toward Nyx, her own wings fluttering a little and spreading a little pixie dust behind her in her wake. "I suppose those are pretty fine qualifications. Alright then, I accept. I was waiting for the right partner."

Nyx Quillspear "She does indeed. Told me so herself at a very terrible clumsy death party." Nyx's own wings fluttered a bit as Clarion stepped forward. She took the other fairies' hand in hers and easily glided up into the air before turning to face her quite beautiful dance partner with a smile, "Suppose I'll lead then?"

Queen Clarion She took the hand offered and flew up into the air along with Nyx, a smile lighting up her face as the two faced each other in the air, wings fluttering to keep her upright with her. "That would probably be the right move. Show me how great a dancer you really are."

Nyx Quillspear The Captain chuckled and pulled Clarion in closer, voice lowering, trying to make sure that she was completely coherent though given the drinks, "Sounds like a challenge, Clarion." Her eyes sparkled a bit mischievously before she slipped a hand to the fairy queen's waist and began to lead them in the air, wings fluttering in tune with the beat as well as keeping them afloat. That was the thing about going to clumsy parties and dancing, they'd never really know the true magic of dancing on air and the added grace of wings moving along to the beat of the music.

Queen Clarion "That's because it was one," she replied cheerfully, a smile lighting up her own face as Nyx started to guide them through a dance in the air. There was something truly magical and beautiful to watch Nyx hold to the beat and keep them going with perfect ease. Dancing like humans did was nothing like this. "I have to admit, you're doing pretty well."

Nyx Quillspear "I follow up on what I claim to be. I think you'll learn this about me very quick in that I rarely ever lie. So you should watch what questions you want real answers to." This was of course, a lot of the beverages she'd consumed flowing through her. Her mind was cloudy but her wings and feet never failed her. She led Clarion about the air in the area where the dance was being held, wings fluttering and swaying.

Queen Clarion "Oh really? So if I asked you why you felt you had to resort to calling me Queen Clarion again...you'll answer completely honestly?" Clarion had more she could ask, but this was the least bold thing to go with. She spun in the air with Nyx, pixie dust trailing down beneath them every time they moved.

Nyx Quillspear had honestly not been expecting that. And she most likely should have. She blamed the drinks she'd consumed before this on not keeping her perceptive skills quite as sharp. But she wouldn't back down from what she'd said. She spun Clarion out briefly before pulling her back in, composing her answer in her cloudy mind, her eyes looking over the Queen's face which was now fairly close to her own, "If you asked me that specific question, I would say that the dream made me evaluate how... friendly we've become and perhaps I took it as a warning."

Queen Clarion hummed, letting Nyx spin her out, though she tried to keep focused on Nyx's eyes and what she might say."You don't like being friendly hmm?" She might be a little intoxicated, but she knew what Nyx really meant by that. "You don't want to be friendly with me hmm?" Maybe it was too bold, but she still found herself reaching up to brush some of Nyx's hair out of her face. "I understand."

Nyx Quillspear Okay, so she wasn't expecting that one either. The Scout Captain just sort of opened her mouth and then closed it and then opened it again. Her eyes a bit wide. "No!" She cleared her throat and looked down as Clarion brushed her hair from her eyes, cheeks sort of flushing, "I mean, it's just not... I wouldn't want to impede your duties or my own with being distracted by... friendliness."

Queen Clarion "Of course, of course. I understand." And a sober Clarion would never have pushed at all. She, after all, knew very well hat duty came first, anything else...well it was extra and it was unnecessary. But she couldn't help but feel that something had felt right with that dream, no matter how twisted it was. "I apologize for pushing Nyx. I wouldn't want to impede your duties either."

Nyx Quillspear "You don't have to apologize, Clarion. You wouldn't have known if you hadn't pushed." She led them around, her wings fluttering as her hand adjusted itself on Clarion's waist suddenly feeling a little bit like she was a fire-talent and her hands were going to burn right through the queen's dress. She dropped her voice rather low though and said, "If it's not too bold to say, I did enjoy certain bits of the dream. Really mostly everything except my hand getting chopped off and utterly failing the Hollow."

Queen Clarion "That's true." And she was both glad she knew more, and annoyed by it. She wasn't sure what she was expecting. But she wasn't sober, and that meant she was a little bolder herself, and a little less responsible and collected. She let herself want things, a dangerous pastime like this. "Hmm...it's not too bold. I enjoyed the moments that we had. It's been....many many years since I was really held by someone like that. Well, it was a dream so I suppose that's not real...but I did enjoy it. The good points."

Nyx Quillspear It was a hard place to be put in. Nyx had all these memories that were not hers and yet hers with Clarion in all sorts of emotional states. Moments where they'd revealed much more than they had ever attempted to in reality. A drunk Nyx was a Nyx who's emotions seeped through her armor. All that she felt poked through the shell that she kept it in. A glimpse of the twirling tornado that she would never when sober let someone near. "Do you miss it?" She didn't know where she was going with that question, but it tumbled out all the same.

Queen Clarion It was a slightly unfair question to ask, because they had both lost their Hollow in that dream. They were different people then, and she certainly couldn't miss being as cuthroat as she had been in that dream. But the feeling? The comfort? She did. "I miss the closeness. I haven't allowed that for myself in a very long time. It was nice having that. I can't be selfish like that, but I do wish sometimes...."

Nyx Quillspear There was a very dark, obscured portion ahead in the tree that Nyx found herself in at the moment. She could climb back down and circumnavigate that path, or she could climb further up, risk slipping off. She had her wings of course, she wouldn't plummet, but it would be embarrassing all the same. She slid her hand along Clarion's lowerback and dipped her down, wings beating in longer strokes. "I miss closeness sometimes as well." She glanced over Clarion's face before letting her back up and the new song began once more. Would drunk Nyx say the thing she was going to-- "If you should want your wish granted... there really is no time better than the Harvest Moon."

Queen Clarion This was a dangerous direction to let their conversation go, but Clarion had already put her foot into it. And Nyx had put her own in, and now Clarion had an option before her that she shouldn't take. She shouldn't...but she desperately wanted to. "And you'd grant me my wish Nyx?"

Nyx Quillspear It was a moment. She could back away. She had one more opening to rescind the offer. But much of her just wanted to feel Clarion next to her again, in her arms. To see if maybe that dream had been telling her something. She wanted to know. Their dance had slowed by now, barely moving as the dust fell beneath them and their wings fluttered on, "If I was who you desired to be close to."

Queen Clarion She sucked in a breath and let it out again. She felt as if she were fluttering over the edge of something, the breath before the dive into flight, a moment before a plunge. "Of course it's you Nyx...I haven't....you're the only person I've thought of in that way in a long time.

Nyx Quillspear It took a lot to shock the Captain. Leave it to Queen Clarion to do it in a sentence. Her wings faltered a moment, just dropping her an inch or so before she was back again. Her cheeks heated up, even more so than what they had been from the drinks earlier. "Oh." She didn't have words so being a fairy of action she just took Clarion's hand and flew off, leading her towards a tree where they'd still see the festivities but were high up and it was dark enough to where they wouldn't be seen. She landed lightly on the branch and turned back to Clarion, "I've never really been one to think of Evergreens and partners and promises, of being close to someone, my entire life has been to reach the height of Scouting Guard Captain." She bit her lip slightly, "And I didn't know if what was happening between us was just admiration for a shared sense of duty or something more. And then the dream happened and I was worried for both of us." She held onto the hands of the Fairy Queen, thumbs running over them, "But I'd like to know if... we'd feel the way we did in that dream, should we let ourselves become closer.”

Queen Clarion Nyx's cheeks were rosy, and it gave Clarion the dangerous urge to rub her thumbs over them, or kiss them...she shook herself out of that a little, letting Nyx lead them to a tree and settling down next to her slowly. "I understand. It's not something to rush...I'll admit the drink has made me a bit more bold than I might be otherwise. But...I too want to know." She sucked in a breath, trying to keep herself steady. "It's selfish of me to want to know this...but I do. I want to know how it could be."

Nyx Quillspear The Captain folded her wings behind her as her back touched the trunk of the tree as she settled into the small curve of a dip in the bark. She was sitting quite close to Clarion, hands busying themsleves with the autumn colored leaves of her suit, mind cloudy and yet oddly clear. "Perhaps we could compromise with our sober selves." She took a breath, "Something that, well, could be between friends and is quite friendly without entirely meaning to be something more, although I'm sure if anyone saw me in that sort of state they'd be shocked." She gave a snort as she looked over to her dance partner, smirk playing on her lips. "Been quite some time since anyone's seen me do anything beyond a pat on a shoulder. Although, I shouldn't really be talking as I am, indeed, quite a bit younger than you."

Queen Clarion This startled a laugh out of Clarion. Of course she was considerably older than Nyx. She was considerably older than all of the fairies in her Hollow now. That was just the way of things as a royal talent. "You are younger yes, but that doesn't negate the length of time you haven't done something. My lifespan isn't something to make comparisons on." She smiled and put a hand on Nyx's shoulder. "Do what you want to do Nyx. Just for a moment. What is it that you want to do?"

Nyx Quillspear Didn't consider herself a funny sort of person so whenever she made someone laugh her instinct was that they were laughing at her. However, she did know drunk Nyx had a bit more charm and let out a bit of wit here and there to warrant a laugh. "Right, right, very improper of me to bring up a fairy's age. What has gotten into me tonight." Her eyes flickered to Clarion's, a little hazier than usual. She let out a breath, "Is it that easy?" She looked out into the night, the twinkling stars and pondered over what she wanted. "I'm very decisive, Clarion. You know this of course, but I'm not sure of what I want. I suppose I wish to be more than what we are." The Captain's hand came up to the one placed on her shoulder and laced her fingers with the queen's, pulling the hands from her shoulder to kiss the back of Clarion's.

----

And then they cuddled. The End.

#nyxion #I needed to document this discord para #outside of the fairy discord #we did not finish so I added the agreed upon ending

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sugar-petals · 6 years ago

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Cygnet (m)

⇁ pairing jimin x reader

⇁ word count 8k

⇁ genre royalty au | slow burn | smut, angst, action, drama

⇁ plot Under the sinister eyes of his hidden enemies, Crown Prince Jimin wants to prove his skill as your fencing disciple — and secret lover.

⇁ warnings foreplay, teasing, PDA, unhealthy relationships, violence, fights (physical/verbal), jealousy, assertive reader, sub!jm

⇁ a/n The time is right! I write about my home country. The story is less historical rather than a 19th-century convolute of German tradition influenced by “Swan King” Ludwig of Bavaria.

He slices the curtain in half. The noise is sharp, the cut is messy.

A jolt goes through the fevered crowd. King Albrecht rises from his seat in the central spectator’s box. With an exasperated strike from the side, you can barely ward off the Prince’s blade and create more distance between the two of you. Even the set of six clarions stops blaring at the end of the competition grounds. The colorful jesters, maidens, and buskers halt their endless chatter. Even the Princess, once preoccupied with eyeing up the musicians and floral swan decor all around the field, pays close attention.

The next, even taller metal frame shields you from the Prince’s following blow, long enough to switch the foil into your other hand.

But then—

No time for just one breath. He’s going for another lunge.

The consequent step almost causes you to slip. A hollow. The sand and earth are uneven. Oh, how you hate tournaments. Last weekend, the King celebrated his birthday with a grand mêlée. It must have been a rabid horse trampling across this section of the field at a more dashing speed than usual. But that is but a feeble excuse, isn’t it. At least, the hollow is not steep enough to twist an ankle.

You seek to find more stable ground behind the next frame. There are about fifteen of them set up on the field, all of them draped with silver curtains to create an obstruction, and only seven left if you keep moving away from him.

Crown Prince Jimin in his fencing armor, complete from helmet-head to pointed toe.

Spotting a blue piece of fabric trail left, then right, you see that he is indeed quick to follow. It is the bright neck scarf, attached to his belt.

“This is not a lance game, Y/N!” he intonates from behind the curtain. There’s rude pride in his voice.

You wait. Keep the foil in your right hand fixed. Once you see the Prince’s striking profile through the silver drape once more, which gladly, is not opaque enough to entirely conceal him, you step out to confront him with a feint from below. Going by the lax smile he flashes, he’s seen it coming. Your blade reaches the targeted spot on his shoulder delayed. The turmoil and caw of the audience peaks. He’s self-assured.

Again, you wait. Naturally, securely, the Prince bends sideward, preparing to counter. But then, he wavers. Casual, you retort his grin and angle your wrist enough to force him into a curve two times as stark than before through an angled flick. And so, it happens.

He steps into the hollow.

And falls over.

In the moment of abstraction, you make the blade spring from his gloved right hand with a swirl of your own weapon. High outside. Strike.

The Prince exhales when you depress the tip of your foil in his mesh jacket, then plant it into the ground next to this face where it parts the loose earth.

Inside the spectator’s box, seated next to the Princess, the three stoic judges raise their flags to signal the end and victory.

“This,” you say, “is not a lance game, my Prince. There’s more to it than hitting your opponent.”

Clarions resound, as do percussions. It takes a few seconds until your breath calms enough. Applause crashes down like a wave from the podiums where the audience rises from their seats, throwing hats in the air, waving thick banners with golden swans and lions.

“You got me there.”

The Prince, exasperated, unties the blue-white neckerchief at his belt and hands it to you. Chivalry. Above all bedlam, the bearded King’s jovial laughter and boisterous clapping accompanies the noise on the field.

An owl keeps on hooting outside in the arcade. You twist and turn in the sheets. It’s a relief that the maiden Anna knocks three times, then peeks inside the chamber in her blue nightgown. Equanimous, she informs you that the Queen will establish a banquet tomorrow evening.

“To celebrate the new swan pond in the royal garden.”

Big fountains, big dresses, big everything. You know how it goes. As usual. It’s what happens at Linderhof Palace all year long. At least you hate it less than tourneys.

Anna, discreet as always, puts out the oil lamp on your bedstand, leaving a fade of smoke in the room. She disappears in the corridor with fast steps, headed to the quarters of the servants in the west wing. Judging by the silence in the Palace, even the jesters are either too tired or drunk by now to fool around as always.

Once more, you try to recline in the pillows with a cool breeze coming from the open window. Although you don’t remember who left it open, you know very well how bleak the winds from the Alps can get at this time of the year. Getting up is easier than you thought, but you leave the duvet bottom-down to keep your warmth preserved instead of just kicking it to the side.

The second blanket below that, however, you draw out to wrap around yourself like a cape.

Headed to the window, you realize that it is open with good and familiar reason. There is a pair of gloved, trembling hands attached to the frame. It’s how he always does it. You tease, bend forward, voice louder to overrule the breeze.

“My Prince? So late?”

“Is it?”

Two hazel eyes flicker at the bottom of the opening, also making visible the not-so-typical ruffled hair he has been sporting since this very morning.

“You promised me this session. Last year, did you forget? It’s almost spring. We did the tournament.”

“You really want to practice now?”

“What do I look like?”

You peer through the frame gazing downwards. It’s not just icy cold. The wind bristles through the haggard pine trees all around. He’s developed more resilience as of recently.

“A silly guy hanging off his sword master’s window two stories high, wanting to hear about the golden lesson of fencing.”

He huffs out a cloud of breath. Now, a pearl of sweat runs off his forehead if you allow yourself to look particularly close, which you do delight in: Nothing better than a royal late-night exercise.

“Fair— enough.”

“So?”

“You said it yourself. We don’t practice for war. We practice for fun. Don’t we? Come, one lesson. Just theory. You made a promise for today.”

The Prince grits his teeth when the next chilly gust of wind comes along from the valley. You stroke your chin a few times.

“Can’t break that one, can I. Or are you just a sulking loser trying to get revenge after I’m done explaining my secrets?”

“Y/N. I’ve been hanging here for several minutes now.”

You tap your foot. So much for not complaining about endurance training.

“Prince, I see that.”

“My arms are so limp, I can hardly wield anything.”

Very well. Judging by how his fingers clamp at the window, quite rigid now, they are.

“The chambermaid took longer than usual, I know. Come on in to Rapunzel, you climbing ace.”

Relief in his features.

“Here we go!”

You offer a hand— the stronger one. He pulls himself upward.

“Thank you, Master.”

The Prince glides into the room with snowy laced up shoes and a large coat on, making your own makeshift blanket cape fall reasonably short in terms of flamboyance. At least he’s learned from the first time when he climbed up in his sheer nightgown with an outrageously plunging cleavage.

Now that he tries to stomp off the melting snow from his boots, you shush him fast.

“You fool! I’ve heard someone rummage in the kitchen.”

He closes the window with more care than he cleans his blades. Which means, hardly any. Some snow falls off the outside of the frame.

“Oh, really?

“You think a banquet prepares itself?”

The Prince frowns.

“Way past sunset?”

“Some people have to crook an extra finger unlike you sitting in the throne room eating apples. Sit down here, my Prince. At least you’ve come for theory.”

You eye the stack of books waiting at the fireplace. So does he.

“Sorry for the cold air.”

You pat the chair at the cast-iron oven for him to take a seat next to your wooden stool.

“If you come close enough, that will make up for it.”

The snow has melted off his shoes entirely, and the room temperature increases even more once you shove a scraggly block of wood into the oven. Although the kitchen does not seem to be bustling, here and there, a metal clank or wooden thud reaches the chamber, making either of you flinch. Keeping your voice low is a hard task given that theory lessons with the Crown Prince always cause a lively discussion.

“You’re more in the mood for learning when I defeat you, isn’t it so.”

He smiles. He shrugs. His oh-so famed eyebrows play whatever game. The fire tongues at the metal bars surrounding it, emitting a cozy heat around your feet.

All he can say— “The way of things.”

After tying your hair back with the help of the blue-white neckerchief, quite demonstratively so, you go through the pages of the old leather-bound book from the top of the stack.

“That’s quite lovely. You did try your best on the field today. You still can’t cut things in half properly. I’m still waiting for that day. But you improved with balance.”

The Prince rubs his poufy cheeks, then stretches out his arms as far as they permit, strained as his muscles have become.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “You pointed it out when we practiced in the forest. The shoulders. Upper body.”

“I like how you commit. Just be careful, my Prince.”

“Yes?”

You point at his torso.

“The more you focus on the flaw. The more you forget the things you’re good at. Which is?”

“Elegance.”

“Footwork.”

More surprise forms on his face.

“Footwork?”

“My Grand Prince. You know very well why I offered this lesson,” you pat the book with a flat palm, making dust escape from the pages. “With that attitude, you’ll have a hard time impressing the czarina. Or surpassing me.”

The Prince looks you dead in the eye now. His hands rest in his lap again.

“That is, if I want to.”

“Wasn’t it your motto when we started at Hohenzollern Castle?”

Your gaze shifts to the wooden sword holder at the far end of your chamber. The silver-colored sabre that you used at that time, named Cygnet after a witty suggestion of the Princess, remains the glistening centerpiece between all other blades. He sees it, too.

“I’ve changed my mind about what happened there, Y/N.”

“You’re probably right.”

Opening each metal button one by one, then shrugging his shoulders backwards, Jimin pulls off the big coat and rests it far away enough from the oven. His arms are almost completely slack. Outside, the pines still croak under the storm.

“I like being defeated,” he says, now before you in his purple princely jacket with the lion emblem.

Again, you strike a testing voice.

“Are you content with being second in line, in front of the King? The czardom?”

He nods.

“If the crowd enjoys the show, so will my father. That’s why we have the tournament.”

Even if letting your eyes trail off downwards his garment is tempting, your gaze remains hard on him.

“Albrecht cares more about the cakes and treats than the hierarchy, does he.”

“The Queen enjoyed the fights today.”

“If it wasn’t a banquet and for your arms, we could very well duel tomorrow.”

To put on a show, why not. To beat him again, why not.

“On even ground, yes.”

Marble, most likely. The garden with the adjacent arcade offers enough space.

“That’s why I like duels,” your voice turns low. And tantalizing. “They’re very intimate.”

“So do I.”

“Next week,” you lean forward, now in a whisper. “We might have a chance. Our generous Princess Marie is said to announce her departure to Saxony. We’d have enough time to ask the bard to organize a few minutes for us on the parquet.”

The Prince’s eyes light up.

“Oh, right! I almost forgot what he said! That ball! I was just thinking about the banquet.”

“Yes. Can you persuade her? The czar family will be present, too.”

Seraphims and chandeliers decorate the ceiling, among the ubiquitous swan motif that adorns just about every plate and painting. The musicians gather, hasty. Some of them you recognize from the King’s annual opera night. Even the jester wears his finest gown today, donning metres and metres of green fabric drapings. The Crown Prince, however, is nowhere to be seen on the parquet with his feathered walk, the voice, the laughter.

After the orchestra begins to fiddle, officially starting the ball, and the buffet opens, instead— you see her enter. A silhouette, clad in dark red.

It is the czarina.

Yekaterina Romanova, whose smile could melt the snow of the eternal Alps. Her diadem gleams more than any of your theatrical gowns or coronation attire could ever. Even her stride alone commands attention. It is firm.

The servants of the King are visibly in awe, nodding at her every move and word. Alongside her parents, after a minute or two, you see Yekaterina converse with Queen Therese. About Prussia, you assume. Or Austria. Most likely Austria.

There is no time for eavesdropping in the first place even if you are seated fairly close. And, quite regularly, yet another Saxon Duchess wants to beckon you into the mass of chatting aristocrats to talk about a private fencing lesson for her youngest. It seems that either your name has been making rounds or your plain brown clothing makes you stand out, ironically so. You decline but one request that comes as a question from behind you.

“Do I come to delight in your unfair methods today, master?”

There stands the Prince in his dove white robe, complete with an embellished frock. His voice is dripping with a type of flustered, cocky charm that you fail to sort into his usual moods.

“You sure do, disciple.”

You turn to seize him up further, leaving him no doubt that you do so. Hair set in more voluminous curls than normally. A golden edelweiss necklace cascading onto his chest. Heeled shoes making him inches taller. Smiling just enough not to violate the etiquette, you extend your hand toward him, feel his breath. He presses a kiss on its back. Far more chaste than the one on your lips last night before he climbed down the window again.

In the meantime, the bard, slender and clad in beige-golden fabrics, opens his scroll. The crowd stops to converse when he begins to read.

“A duel— The famed Parisian style! Only select observers will remember the infamous scene at Castle Hohenzollern. The King, his majesty, his utmost splendor, proclaims with joy his son, the Swan Prince, as a returnee after the tournament to reclaim the neckerchief!”

Wuthering applause. You raise the chequered piece of fabric in question for all to see, then wind it around the grip of Cygnet just below the guard, several times, then knot it tight. The musicians deliver a small, yet impactful melody. More witty remarks from the jester follow. The King, spotting the neckerchief, instantly reacts with more applause. While the mumbling bard announcer completes his list of titles and responsibilities of the royal family, then honors the imperial guests from Saint Petersburg, all you can do is mouth toward the Prince.

“Haven’t done a mock combat in two years.”

His eyebrows raise as a reply. Seeing just that, at least two of the servants appear to almost faint in the third row.

“Means you might have a chance with your supposed,” you add, “well, elegance.”

“I’ll try,” he stiffens his posture. Adjusts the saber. His frock. Flashes a polished, practiced smile.

“The czarina is in the first row. You’re lucky, my Prince. She sees your every move.”

Before he can answer, the bard finishes the litany of the scroll while the Princess steps forward, facing either of you for a brief moment in honesty.

“Thank you for assembling. I, Marie of Bavaria, now permit the commencement of the duel. May the bravest strike, but honor always win. Three, two, one!”

The handle sounds very different in the ceremonial white gloves, tightly fitting either of his hands. He barely trains in those, if ever.

You focus on the saber and keeping your knees bent at the proper angle not to fall for the distraction. Back foot first. An explosive jolt toward him. Low inside. His necklace sways left to right with the first exchange of lunges.

A twist. A stab. Your blade misses Jimin’s legs by a millimeter.

“Y/N!”

He backs away with a jerk of his knee. You raise your voice loud enough for all the audience to hear.

“What did you expect. Remember your footwork, my Prince.”

The crowd laughs.

“Just you wait. I get the neckerchief.”

He regains his stance, ready anew. You let your saber’s tip drop pointing to his crotch. The elaborate frock.

“I’ll be the one waiting. You’ll take forever with this thing on.”

Embarrassed, albeit amused reactions from the section where the overly decorated czar family sits, accompanied by the prime minister of the House Romanov.

The Russians do have humor, it seems.

The King, upbeat as ever, just guffaws right along.

Another high inside grazes Cygnet way down the Prince’s unstable weapon until both blades part again once he evades. The czarina gasps out loud. You lick your lips. It seems that the servants, on the other hand, have recovered from the Prince’s dangerous eyebrow play.

His taste on your tongue, however, has not even remotely faded. It still lingers. He could barely leave your chamber. The lesson could have been a lot longer. His hungry eyes still tell you that. You pick up more pace.

The entire ballroom bursts with tension since even the King has stopped commenting the scene. Another attack lets either of your sabers clatter five, six times in a row. Not just his endurance has improved. The balance and footwork, too. His arms are in perfect condition.

“It’s more than hitting your opponent,” he delivers a sharp cut from the right, then ducks and spins to riposte your following feint.

“I thought you gave up on surpassing me.”

Thanks to his lowered stance, you have an easy time bringing the tip right over his head. It audibly cuts through a piece of hair. The Prince’s curl dusts over the parquet in the direction of the czarina who promptly exclaims, horrified.

That’s how far the humor of the Russians goes.

He gathers himself. Another clash silences the room even more. Between the series of remises, one could hear a sewing needle drop on the ground. The Prince launches another compelling series of attacks, making you parry and take two steps back into the direction of the buffet. More ohs and ahs in the audience. He’s fast. A quick look at the bard makes you realize that the set slot for your combat is almost over. With a lunge, you make the prince retreat by two steps himself. Either of your blades remain entangled. A prise de fer is only one breath away. A final counter to settle the back and forth.

But the pompous announcement of the bard interrupts your next riposte already.

“It is a tie!”

A collective exhale. Particularly the Queen looks confounded. Either of the musicians don’t know what to play.

The King exclaims. “Yes, a tie!”

Mumbles from all corners. You draw back Cygnet and take up the beginning stance, as does the Prince. That gaze he shoots you. All too familiar. You have the same thought.

“If you pardon a suggestion,” you address the royal family. “We will settle the match with a simple cast.”

“A cast of what?” Marie blinks. The Prince nods at you and steps toward the buffet to pick out a red, plump fruit to present to the crowd. Confused faces all around. The Russian prime minister seems to be grumpy for a while now in particular. You decide that doing politics is better than talking about it.

“Princess Marie,” you continue to speak, “An apple.”

“Indeed?”

You nod toward the imperial Russian family.

“The czarina Romanova will cast it.”

Murmurs and rumbles among the aristocrats, even the orchestra. Jimin looks at you wide-eyed. The King, times as invigorated, discusses with the Queen Therese. You already toss the apple toward the House of Romanov. The czarina’s alert younger sister, nine-year-old Natasha, catches the apple.

“And you will compete who punctures it?” the Princess asks. Jimin nods.

“We will. Only the fighter who will pierce it wins the duel.”

Countless reactions all over the ballroom echo back and forth now.

“We will give the duelists three minutes to prepare in the adjacent room,” the bard announces.

Jimin tosses the apple onto the carpet.

“Y/N. I do not want the czarina’s favor!” he says, then strays off into a circle around the room.

“The King says it’s his plan for you. The entire Palace maintains that you like her, too.”

He violently shakes his head.

“I don’t care about his plan! The rumors are false. All they want is to appease the Romanovs. Haven’t I kissed you last night?”

“Then you have to prove your I don’t care. You mentioned how you liked being defeated.”

“If I don’t even try to pierce the apple, the House of Romanov will see it as a personal offense!”

“Tricky, isn’t it.”

You go to pick up the apple from the corner where the Prince has tossed it into. He’s adamant.

“Why did you suggest this?”

“The Queen wants you to propose to Yekaterina today, isn’t that the truth? We’ll have another ball like this in a month and you’re off to Saint Petersburg with a new noble title. Just like your sister goes to Saxony. I have more against that than the czarina herself.”

He tugs at his hair in desperation.

“Don’t you understand? How many more times do I have to climb up the wall for you to realize it? I want to stay here.”

“Then you have to be clever, my Swan Prince. If you don’t pierce, House Romanov will have bad blood with the Albrecht and Therese. Worse if they see it was a deliberate miss on your side. And, if you do pierce, you have bad blood with me. Just climbing doesn’t show the public who you really want. You have to make a statement, my Prince. I want to see your commitment. We’ve been putting this off for too long.”

Either of you push to raise your sabers the highest, dancing from foot to foot. The apple’s tangent is significantly skewed to the Prince’s direction. The czarina’s expression is a hopeful one when it does come down directly toward his blade. Not a single noise in the ballroom. Just held breaths. The Prince freezes once he realizes where it goes. The Queen exclaims. He closes his eyes.

Screams belt from each direction of the hall. All mouths agape in the first row. Three servants faint on the spot. You gaze across your shoulder.

The apple rests in the middle of the parquet.

Sliced in two perfect halves.

The cleanest cut you have yet to see.

Voices of bewilderment, the unknown, and explosive cheers alike mix in the surroundings. The bard looks clueless as of what to proclaim.

You sheathe Cygnet with a twinkle at the Prince.

“Neither of us wins,” you say. “Only piercing counts. However, as you have greatly impressed me tonight with your progress and hard work, my disciple—”

You tie off the neckerchief from the bell guard of your saber and hand it to the Prince, who promptly squeezes it tight at his chest.

Uproarious applause and whistling. Even the prime minister claps a bit. Both King and Queen fall into each other’s arms.

“Such chivalry!” Albrecht cries out. One of the bearers of the Bavarian coat of arms has to pass over his flag so the King can wipe his tears with it. Even the jester is speechless.

Uncaring of how her neatly laid-out violet dress creases, the Princess jumps up and down, then rushes to the parquet to inform the bard by whispering in his ear. The man in beige then comes toward you and the Prince, beaming.

“The Princess has determined the fighter of honor. Y/N wins the duel!”

While five buskers entertain the House of Romanov with pantomimes, the orchestra plays an upbeat melody. Couples row up to dance.

“The czarina has excused herself,” the bard, stopping to read the pairings from his scroll, intonates. “She doesn’t feel too well. It must have been the long journey. But she states that we should not worry.”

Albeit in festive mood, the Queen ends up looking rather concerned at the news.

“My son doesn’t have a dancing partner?”

Silence among the royal family. Until small Natasha runs to tug at the Queen’s giant gown from the side. She talks in broken German, pointing at you.

“Isn’t Swan Prince— Y/N boyfriend?”

Therese looks at Jimin. So do you. Natasha keeps on tugging, repeating the words.

“Boyfriend, boyfriend!”

“He has,” the Prince extends his hand toward you, “a dancing partner. May I?”

“Fiancé, fiancé!” Natasha exclaims.

While you walk off in sync to join the dynamic grid of dancers, the King shrugs, facing his wife.

“Kids. Isn’t it funny!”

“Oh, well,” Therese gazes after you and the Prince while Natasha runs back to the imperial family gathering on the dancefloor.

“That was quite a statement. So much fun. Marie had the time of her life. I love duels. We’ll grab a cake now with the Prime Minister, come, Therese.”

A few cobs bicker at the fringe of the pond, then glide off into the ripples to attend to their swanlings. You have to sit close together on the park bench to converse freely since the loud servants and music does drown out a lot of words. Natasha plays around the other side of the garden with the Princess, throwing snowballs and chasing a few willing musicians off duty through the arcade. Without the permission of just about anybody, but who doesn’t want to tease the violinists and clarion players with their ridiculous swan hats. Jimin, on top of his white frock, now carries an even larger and longer coat where only his delicate heeled shoes stick out of at the bottom.

“Don’t your feet hurt?” you wonder, pointing at them.

“Used to it. The curl hurt more.”

You pat his head with content eyes.

“Sorry for cutting it off.”

“Just admit that you wanted to shock the czarina. That was close. I thought you were about to provoke Russia’s armed forces.”

“It’s about fun, not war. I think the Russians enjoy chivalry just as much as your father.”

“If you say so.”

“And, as I said. I don’t have that much against her. She’s more charming than I thought. Yekaterina.”

You point toward the other side of the arcade where the Russian and Saxon nobles admire a lion statue, as presented by the King.

“But you knew. That, me losing would sway her not to propose. The House of Romanov values potent men.”

“That is true,” you pick out snowflakes from his coat and melt them in your gloves. “But I also knew that me losing would not please you, my Prince. I saw how you closed your eyes.”

“I was surprised that the apple didn’t stick on the blade.”

You laugh.

“It’s a saber, Jimin. Not the foil we practiced the cast game with in the forest. No apple can be pierced with a blade like that. Especially out of thin air. Neither of us could have possibly done it.”

His jaw drops.

“What! You knew that? It was just a test?”

“Of course. You were the one who wanted to hear about my secret lessons so bad, this was the golden one.”

“This was the lesson?”

“There is a reason I read old books and stay first in line. I also knew that the Prime Minister would enjoy you receiving the neck scarf.”

“Wha— What do you mean?”

“The bard said you fight to retrieve the neckerchief at the beginning. That translates to you winning the combat in the mind of the minister. Romanov mentality.”

“Yes?”

“Even if you did not win— once you retrieved the neckerchief, the minister was fond enough. It was never about impressing the czarina or puncturing the apple, my Prince. That’s not how politics work.”

“You mean, impressing the minister was more effective than trying to make good relations with a marriage?”

You nod.

“It seems that way. I doubt that the czar family will leave with you getting an invitation to Saint Petersburg. They’ve seen us dance. The czarina didn’t want to.”

“I think they should know where my commitment is now.”

“Precisely why you earned the neckerchief back.”

“So do you stop testing me now with your hidden lessons, master?”

“What do you think. You only offered your arm to dance because of Natasha’s help. That wasn’t all by yourself.”

“But it was the statement you wanted! Wasn’t it? I made a really clean cut through the apple, too! You said that I really advanced, Y/N. You’re so hard to satisfy.”

“You did crook more than one finger today, I’m rather pleased with it.”

“Rather? Is it that you want me to climb again?”

The Prince’s eyes dart to the tower at the west wing. All surrounding walls, stairs, and windows look particularly hostile after the recent snow.

“No, I have another idea. Later, my Prince. We have to accompany the Princess’ departure to Leipzig first. It starts in a few minutes.”

“Later? What are you planning?”

“Put on the garment that you wore when we first met at Hohenzollern. Tonight.”

An owl makes herself comfortable on the branch next to you. For raging weather tossing and turning around the palace like that, she looks rather friendly, almost unfazed. You do want to linger to observe for just a little longer, but the cold is hard to bear this evening. You turn to the masonry, knock. From behind the tracery of the frosted glass, you can hear light steps. No heavy boots on anymore. He’s already settled to sleep. A crimson blur acercates, then, the window creaks open. The Prince inside the now open frame exclaims in utter shock.

“Six stories! Y/N! Are you mad!”

Jimin scrambles to extend either of both gratuitous arms for you to seize by the wrists, pulling you inside the bedroom as fast as his stance in thin slippers allows. You greet him with a mischievous grin.

“I did assassin jobs for the Queen before you could even do as much as walk.”

You land, no, tip-toe onto the timber piling. The Prince, furied, builds himself up arms akimbo.

“We’re the same age!”

“I’m mostly kidding. I do own a collection of severed heads. They’re under my bed. If you go by the advice of the chef, the alcohol in the barrel will preserve them for years.”

“Did you hang out with the Russian prime minister after the departure or what? Did you chug too much beer?”

“No. This is late night sword master humor.”

Jimin is already on his way to the bed, sighing out.

“Figured,” he says and crawls back under the heavy, purple-colored duvet.

The pine branches rustle back and forth when you shut the window— not gentle enough, you note, to leave the owl undisturbed. It flatters off into the night, seeking another spot.

“Why are you angry? You do this thrice a week on the west wing.”

His arms are crossed.

“It’s four stories less and you know when I come. That was dangerous, Y/N.”

“It wasn’t, you know how high I climb when we practice in the forest. Should I just go and sleep alone?”

“You misunderstood,” he says. “I don’t want you hurt. That’s all.”

“Hm. That’s fair, Prince.”

“And I don’t want to fight.”

“Me neither. And I’m already here.” You point at the frock splayed out at the Prince’s elaborate birch-wood wardrobe now. “Is that thing why you showed up pretty late to the ball?”

“The way you didn’t like it makes me think that was in vain.”

“I didn’t like it because it messed with your fencing steps. How long did it take to put all of this on?”

Jimin shrugs.

“One and a half hours. Fitting included.”

“Royals. You astound me every day.”

“I tried my best to look good.”

“You did look good. And you danced well. Can the reckless sword master join in the sheets?”

He already loosens the all-around curtain of his bed from its posts where a thick decorative cord holds them in place, and lays down on his back.

“Put a block in the oven before you do.”

“Very well,” you pull off your shoes. And step towards the fireplace, where Jimin’s favored blade is propped up on a metal stand. Cinder. The one you first saw him fight with. The counterpart of Cygnet. It’s been three years. It shimmers as golden as it always did. With a painted-black guard and grip, and the neckerchief right next to it.

You select a particularly large chunk of wood and twist it into the half gleaming, half burning ashes. It’s gotta last long tonight.

Curtains closed. Gloves resting on the nightstand. You glide a hand across his cleavage. Goosebumps. Thumping heartbeat. Pulse between your legs. Scorching fire in the oven. It’s almost unbearable.

The Prince’s breath goes heavy. And blends into yours soon enough. The deep interplay of your tongues mimics more than just what happened on the tournament field. So slick, so fast, so hungry, and yearning. Never satisfied. But what could. You both waited for so long. Only gazes will only starve. No hand kiss is ever enough. You want to fuck him. So bad.

Depriving yourself of a scent as rich and a mouth as addictive was not a good idea. His hands are busy stroking downward your back while another surge of kisses spills down on him. Lips so runny with spit, you can slurp it off. There’s an overlay of wine and apple when you give yourself a second to taste. The servants were right. What don’t his eyebrows do to you. And what doesn’t it take you to remark it between kisses.

“Nice garment you’re wearing there, splendid Prince.”

He winds in the sheets.

“Thank you.”

Carefully, you retreat from the Prince’s face. His hands stay resting on your back.

“Love seeing it in this spot.”

He smiles.

“Why here, actually? I thought you would catch me in the bath later.”

“This bed is the reason,” you recline on the mattress next to him, arms spread out, one across his stomach. Looking at the vault of the room, you realize how many hours must have gone into crafting it from oak.

Jimin pats the bed frame.

“No barrel underneath that one, can guarantee you that.”

You roll closer to him again, tapping his chin with one finger. There’s still saliva.

“From what you say— Did you want to meet me in the bath?”

“I, uh.”

“You normally don’t go there after balls because it’s too busy. You went there on purpose and thought I would, too, didn’t you.”

Within the halo of the candle on the nightstand, shimmering through the bed curtain, Jimin’s face plunges into a deep red.

Marie has been making fun of you ever since for knowing his habits in every detail. Your excuse was always, well, the Prince’s personal bodyguard needs to know the nitty-gritty, doesn’t she, it’s not a useless feat.

“See,” you twirl one finger into his curls. “I have a few secret lessons. No need to be ashamed when you use one of yours. You have to work on effectiveness, however. Of course I show up here instead. I always play unfair.”

“The poor czarina realized that very early,” he sighs out. Your finger drops from his chin.

“I thought— you weren’t fond of her?”

Both his arms drop off your back. The Prince gesticulates. But he’s hesitant.

“Our bard. See... He informed me that she took the carriage to Moscow even before my sister departed to Saxony. Hours before, in fact.”

You fall silent for seconds. The spark of the fire is the only thing audible in the spacious room.

“I apologize for that,” you begin, equally hesitant. “My manners are not as impeccable as they should be.”

“The King,” he continues, “even volunteered to write a letter to smooth over the situation.”

You’re taken aback. He really did. Nothing of that reached you so far. It’s too much of a surprise. But the Prince looks far too earnest for it to be untrue.

“Was she really so aggrieved? No wonder you’re in such a bad mood as well.”

“Disappointed, I think. Yekaterina wanted to see me win. Can’t blame her.”

It makes you almost speechless.

“I understand that her hopes were high. But why do you care?”

“Well...”

“‘Can’t blame her’? What does that mean? When we prepared to duel, all you were about, oh, I don’t want her favor!”

He fumbles at the golden trimming on his sleeve.

“What I realized was, we could have been more polite with her. I mean, regardless of me not wanting the marriage. Just because I fancy you doesn’t mean I have to hate her.”

You cock your head, incredulous.

“A change of mind? So fast? And just when she went back to Moscow? Think you’re missing out there, all of a sudden.”

“A change of mind, maybe. After you made me a fool with the apple.”

“Take it as payback for your hubris during the tournament,” you poke your finger at his chest instead. The spot where you had planted the tip of your foil on the mesh shirt.

“I did nothing wrong. You’re mean to me, Y/N!”

“Sure. After I learn you talked to the King to win Yekaterina’s benevolence again. Just when we kiss. You contradict yourself, my innocent eyebrow Prince.”

“The marriage to House Romanov,” he sits up, “is off the list. Okay?”

“Oh, truly.”

“There will be no mention of me desiring a union in the letter. It’s just to avoid her resentment and being nice. That’s all. It’s not even me writing the letter. It’s just politics. You should know that the best.”

“I see,” you pat his arm. “You did go to the bath to anticipate me. And you put on the Hohenzollern gown.”

“Yes, I mean it. I am committed. I want to be your husband. In case you could not tell. And what do you bring to the equation? Falling off the east wing tower just to give me a heart attack in my slippers?”

Now, you sit up, too. The candlelight casts a long shadow of your silhouette, blurred through the fabric of the curtain, against the wall where the oven stands.

“You know very well that I have planned the entire duel. So I could win. So I could give you the neckerchief regardless. So I could dance with you. So we could stay here. So I could be your wife. All while still not pissing off the Russians. I wanted to have you. There was no other reason I climbed the tower. And suggested to duel at the ball in the first place.”

He takes a moment to reply. When he does, his voice is much more high-pitched.

“The Hohenzollern introduction as well? What the bard read out before we started?”

You exhale.

“Of course. I instructed him to pick up on where we began. There is nothing more persuading to ball crowds than a romantic story. With the swans around and all.”

He crosses his arms once more.

“Isn’t that— manipulation?”

“If manipulation means preventing you from sitting around in Lower Siberia for the next twenty-five years? It sure is. I know it had to be calculating. Because you didn’t do anything at all except keep your eyes closed.”

“Y/N, I could have easily persuaded mom on my own. Therese didn’t... force me to propose to the czarina.“

“The Consort would have followed the protocol rule by rule. You would be in the carriage with Yekaterina at this very moment. Probably sticking your cock in her because the House of Romanov needs an heir.”

Jimin’s eyes flare up, glistening like the fire.

“What! That’s what you think I’d do?”

“They probably don’t even have to compel you to drop your pants for a smile and diadem like that.”

“No?!”

“I’m not stupid. You know very well why you thought meeting me at the bath was a good idea. Less clothes. A perverted Prince is what you are.”

“Stop accusing me of these things! What does that have to do with Yekaterina? The bath is a relaxing place after a hard day. I thought you liked going there. What’s wrong with you? I’m here. With you, now! What do you want? A thank you for being so matronizing and possessive? Your jealousy sucks. Didn’t you say you found her charming a minute ago?”

“Look who’s talking. The guy who didn’t move the saber one inch when the apple was coming down on it. Commitment. Yeah, right.”

Gritting your teeth is not enough to subdue the resentment. The room, even if the heat has risen to the vault and now distributes in all corners, feels so much colder. Jimin is on the verge of tears.

“I’m sick and tired of these games. I thought you said I passed the test!”

“More because of the clean-cut than anything. Though that was not even deliberate, your eyes were shut. You would have allowed to apple to be pierced it if it had been a foil.”

“So what? You said it was dangerous to evade the apple not to provoke the minister! It was a lose-lose situation, and it happened so fast! What was I supposed to do? You didn’t tell me that piercing it was impossible anyways! ”

“You did absolutely nothing against preventing the marriage. If it is so easy to persuade the Queen, why haven’t you done it earlier? The whole Russian ruling class got invited for today!”

“That’s not true,” he cries, “I told you I didn’t want to go to Russia!”

“Of course you think I’m matronizing. You don’t really want me that much at all. You’re opportunistic. Aren’t you? No wonder you babble all of this, oh, I don’t want to quarrel, Y/N! You’ve got things to hide. That’s why the czarina gets a letter. Someone realized his chances to ‘climb’ are still better in Saint Petersburg than here. The fucking Romanovs. With their shiny clothes and attitude.”

And you, although it hurts to admit Jimin was very right, have climbed to heights not meant for you yourself.

“Why are you so distrusting, I don’t even know her! I come to the west wing three times a week, my promises were never empty!”

“Given how fast you change your mind, I doubt that as of recently. No kiss can prove that you take me seriously as a wife.”

“I didn’t change my mind!”

“Even then, why were the Palace rumors about you liking her so persistent since over half a year?”

“There is no grain of truth. The jesters started it to annoy me at the May festival. The Queen thought it was true and told everyone because she wanted me to marry Yekaterina so desperately. She was hell-bent. She believed everything without questioning it. I couldn’t do anything against the rumors.”

“Guess why I did all this shebang at the duel,” you roll your eyes. “I told you the Queen would have followed through and demanded the proposal with Yekaterina. You didn’t stand a chance. Indeed you should be grateful. I saved us from separating for literal decades. Instead, you peacock around before the Russians! What am I supposed to think?”

His sobbing voice raises even more.

“But you should respect I speak for myself! Looks like your first in line thing made you arrogant! Calling me a pervert, treating me like a liar, a cheater, what’s next?”

“All you would have spoken is precisely not canceling the betrothal with Russia. I did all of this in vain. I thought you wanted me back. I thought we could revive what happened at Hohenzollern. Don’t say I didn’t try hard to bring us together.”

You slip over the edge of the bed, tying your shoes back into place. Fast. The Prince’s tone, through all tears, becomes dark and glowering behind your back.

“God— I swear, Y/N. If you climb back down there...”

Not just empty promises, but empty threats, too. It makes the decision even more set. You fasten your belt, button up your coat, pull your gloves over either wrist.

“... then I will go right to the next best Dutchess and train her son in Württemberg or Hesse where I don’t have to see your face. I have plenty of offers and they are all more trustworthy than you. Received at least ten today. Don’t get jealous, Swan Prince.”

He shoves the duvet aside, follows you barefoot.

“Why do you do this to me! Why!”

You crank open the window regardless of how loud the frame joint squeaks, mount the frame, and already attach your fingers to the masonry.

“Fire’s the only thing keeping you warm tonight.”

“Y/N!”

“Two people playing unfair with each other is never a good sign. I taught you all I could. That’s all.”

Seemingly having found another snug place, the owl hoots in the afar valley. All wind swallows the yells from the tower. Jimin’s head, protruding from the window, gets smaller and smaller above you. And eventually, fades into the dark.

Anna already shifts to hurry back to the throne room again.

“Hermann Meier!” she suspires. “Don’t like this guy. He’s from the mill.”

The monger’s praise for his lackluster cart assortment is tremendously loud, resounding all over the courtyard. Several maidens gather their baskets and weaving looms and head inside at the constant repetitions.

“The most delicious crops of the Hercynian lands! Tread closer, tread closer! Plenty of offers! Crops of the Hercynian lands! Crops! Delicious fruit! Who wants to bargain? Exciting bargains! Only today.”

You observe, tracing your eyes across the man with the large yellow wayfarer hat, still— then raise your hand.

“Here!”

Anna is incredulous.

“Milady Y/N, where are you headed?”

“To the merchant.”

You sort two arrows into the quiver rested before you, then shoulder the cord across your back. Even now, it’s pretty lightweight. A custom piece.

You hand Anna the bow and march off the training ground past the five straw targets, leaving her expression even more flabbergasted. The merchant raises a pair of fruit from his barrow as soon as you steer into his direction.

“Archer, are you interested in a bargain for these pears and plums? Only five mark today!”

You stop short at his cart, seizing him up further.

“I will give you a hundred.”

Meier’s eyes, just as, if not more yellow than his hat, turn bulbous.

“What! A hundred mark!”

You point towards his hip.

It’s been two and a half years since you didn’t see it.

“For this blade you carry, merchant. A hundred and twenty when you tell me where it is from.”

The merchant guides it out of its sheath. The blade is golden, the grip ashen black. Your heart goes two times faster.

“I bought it in the guild’s shop on the market square, yesterday. From a hunky guy named Strengberg. No, Steinburg. That was the name.”

All you do is hum. Steinburg. Although you do look around the local market every Friday, it is an unfamiliar epithet to you. Maybe it’s because you didn’t touch a foil for five months unless it came to training, and avoided the smiths downtown for that matter.

“A hundred and thirty for that name.”

The merchant shakes his head.

“This is a good sword. Didn’t plan to sell it that fast after I found a gem like that.”

“With the 130 mark, you can easily go to Steinburg and get an even better one.”

Another negation. Meier ruffles at his frizzy hair.

“Let’s say Steinburg’s dealings are a bit more, well. Of the sleazy kind. He won’t be there next Friday. It was a one-time opportunity. I can’t say more.”

You tap from one foot to the other. Anna, in the corner of your eye, seems to recognize the sword that Meier holds as well. She looks back and forth from you, the barrow, Meier, and the other maidens. You stay grim.

“I want this sword. 150 mark. It’s an ideal bargain.”

Meier huffs out a belly laugh that makes his vest, filled with all kinds of vending paraphernalia, jingle.

“You’re a simple archer at Altfried Castle. Dressed in brown rags! Why would you want and deserve a blade as outstanding as this? I would sell it to your Duke for his birthday! But you?”

The crows at the training ground gather behind you, seemingly picking up on the nervous atmosphere in the courtyard.

“I have ten years of experience with swords. I have trained the Hohenzollern brigade, and the royal family of Bavaria. 200 mark.”

“Bavaria? The royal family? Ridiculous. And where does a person like you have all that money from, huh?”

“The 200 mark are not a problem. But if you only sell swords to those who deserve it, then, we will fight.”

Meier’s cheeks turn red from cackling. He looks up and down your body.

“With your hands? Your arrows? Those toothpicks! You don’t even carry a single knife either! So how could you wield a blade of this caliber! No honorable sword master walks around without their best piece!”

The memory would be too heavy on your belt. But seeing the golden blade, far from a place it should and would never leave without some things being very, very wrong—

“Anna!”

“Yes, Milady Y/N?”

“Retrieve Cygnet from my armory in the basement.”

“But, you said you’ll never use it again!”

Anna catches the key that you toss into her direction.

A dozen maidens clap and cheer from the windows of Altfried Castle. The wayfarer hat rolls toward the muddy pig through of the courtyard. It has a slash in its brim.

Pinned to the ground of the practice field under the tip of Cygnet, the merchant clamors.

“Who, who are you!”

“Y/N. First in line of all sword masters from East Prussia to the Rhine,” you sheath the blade. “And current teacher to the Duke.”

“The Duke Leopold!”

“The Duke himself. I advise him. He has good aim with pistols, Meier.”

“I can, I can imagine!”

You point towards the glistening object that the last high outside propelled toward the end of the training spot, thankfully, stuck in one of the straw men.

It is Cinder that you see.

The due cleaning already gives you a horror vision. Not because of the straws, but the man’s filthy fingers and lack of elegance that always was without the doubt the hardest to scrub off a weapon that was so eager to carry memory.

One day more and Meier would have soiled it with bends, alcohol stains, or stench, and who knows what.

“Do you believe I am worthy of the golden blade.”

You press down your saber on his jingling vest ever so lightly.

“Of course, of course you are, master!”

More cheers from the maidens at the weaving looms. The crows disperse, agile.

You turn toward Anna at the fringe of the training grounds, who’s in a patient mood, as always. Altfried Castle has turned the heavy bags under her eyes into a sweet nothingness.

“Anna! You can retrieve the sword from there. But use a cloth to touch it, please.”

“Yes, Milady. I think it is still in proper condition.”

The merchant tugs at the sleeve of your linen garment several times to regain your attention, voice even more pleading.

“Please, sword master, what else can I do for you, is there any fruit you want, anything else?”

A digit indicating toward his barrow, you speak with intent.

“One apple. And another piece of information, should you have it.”

“Yes! Pick any apple you like,” he proclaims, “And I am sure to remember what else you want to know!”

“Of course you do, Meier.”

After helping the monger onto his wobbling feet and picking out the most glossy among the dented and discolored array of fruit, you pull a bag of money out of the quiver’s side pocket.

210 mark land in the wayfarer hat when you pick it up and hand it to him. Out of the last bit of courtesy. The very last bit. But one question doesn’t want to leave your mind.

“I want to know where Steinburg is headed.”

“That’s nothing I can te—”

You point at his forehead, apple save in the other hand.

“Remember how good the Duke’s aim is. If I suggest you as a moving practice target, he won’t say no. You’ve been pestering the maidens for years and selling foul crops to the price of actual cattle. Whatever you’re doing at the mill and the market can’t be clean business. Not to mention you ridiculed the royal family.”

“Steinburg. He’s on his way to, to, uh.”

You stuff the apple into the quiver.

“Pray tell, Meier. I can’t wait forever.”

“The Black Forest. North. Somewhere around there. I saw him depart towards the creak’s end this morning with a band of three robbers.”

a/n: the second part is called Cinder (linked in mlist). | paintings by rubens.

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vociferouslyverdant · 6 years ago

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Heavy Lies the Crown

Blood.

Khoruun was no stranger to it; as first mender of the Gladewardens, he had seen more than his share. Captain Starflare directed the soldiers; Khoruun patched them up. The pair had developed an understanding and an agreement over the years, and it was a role that the shu’halo had always relished. In his mind, there could be no higher calling than to see to the safety of one’s fallen comrades.To see a dear friend nursed back to health in his care was something that never ceased to fill him with joy.

But then, some wounds never truly healed.

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

“What are your orders?” The accented query of the Zandalari to his right echoed in Khoruun’s ears, more panicked than the first time he had spoken. Khoruun’s piercing, steely-grey gaze passed over the battlefield, eyes wide with a trepidation that spoke to the uncertainty in his heart.

“I…” The tauren rumbled, clutching his staff more tightly, eyes narrowing as the rain starts to fall harder. Through the unnatural haze that gripped the field, Khoruun could just make out the golden gleam of the Draenei captain’s armor, vanishing under a sea of attackers.

“RAUN!!”

The hoarse, blood-curdling scream that was heard from the deck of the Beauty could scarcely be recognized as that of Raketar Buran, the eternally self-assured Anchorite stricken with dread and panic for the first time. Khoruun looked to his left and his right, the ranks collapsing around him as half ran for the safety of the transport, half still waiting on the beach, torn between duty and sacrifice.

In the moments that followed, Khoruun was vaguely aware of the arguments to his left and right - shouts of anger and sorrow, soldiers having to be held back by others. He could feel his throat going dry - sense his own heart starting to beat quicker, hear the pounding of blood in his ears. Looking from face to face among the Gladewardens, he opened his mouth to speak again.

“FALL BACK!” A clarion shout roared out over the battlefield - but the voice was not his own. Khoruun’s attention snapped to his left, the Quel’dorei paladin shining like a beacon on the hill as her barrier fell. Anniela Highguard’s trademark white and gold was unmarred by the blood of the villagers, though it was not for lack of danger. The possessed villagers seemed to collapse on the shoreline like a wave as the commander of the Aurelian Guard charged back toward the transport as the last to leave the field.

His eyes met hers for only a brief moment as he nodded, the troops falling into line as the retreat was called for, the words of the Harbingers echoing in his mind.

We will not be the last.

---------

PRESENT DAY

“Warden Oakheart?” The quel’dorei squire before him spoke up again, the freckled youth craning her neck to look up at the towering bull as he looked down at his desk. A portion of ale still remained in the Tauren’s massive tankard, the slow and steady beat of waves against the vessel’s hull causing the liquid within to slosh back and forth gently as he peered down at the rippling surface. “Is this a bad time?”

“Hmmmph,” Khoruun grunted as he wrapped a hand around the tankard, raising it to his lips. “Seems to be nothing ‘but’ bad times, of late.”

“I meant to talk,” The woman spoke up again. As her freckled face furrowed in irritation, Khoruun couldn’t help but note a resemblance, dismissing it quickly. “In light of recent losses and departures, we’re evaluating the fighting strength of the Order’s chapters. I expect the Grand Mistress will wish to meet with all the captains of the Order to discuss organizational operations. Can we expect a delegation from the Gladewardens?”

Khoruun paused, his gaze going back to the tankard, the tumultuous shaking of the boat sending ripples and reverberations across the once tranquil surface as the Tauren stepped forward to grip the desk with both hands. It was a matter he had considered, of course, since the untimely and unexpected departure of his superior. The Gladewardens had always been a smaller chapter - not a grand battalion like the Harbingers or the Aurelian Guard, nor did they command the staggering power of the mystics found in the Conclave or the Retinue. The Wardens were servants of nature - protectors of the wilds, who in many ways had often stood at a distance from their light-focused brethren.

All that had changed within a matter of weeks. The Banshee Queen had at last been driven from the Eastern Kingdoms, but at a terrible cost. The Tirisfal Glades were blighted beyond all recognition, Teldrassil had been put to the torch...and after the fateful Battle for Lordaeron, Khoruun’s captain had returned to Quel’thalas to face a formal inquiry into her loyalties. As for her second, no one had heard from Faelirra since the Battle for Lordaeron, and the question of what would become of the Gladewardens now hung heavily on his mind.

Would they now be assimilated into the Guard? That would not be so bad, he thought to himself - he had always been fond of Knight-Captain Highguard, and she served her people well. His heart sank a moment later as he thought of the motley collection of trolls, worgen, and tauren - so out of place amongst the proud, organized ranks of Quel’dorei clad in gleaming armor. What would he tell them? How could he explain that the order they had sworn themselves to now found themselves leaderless?

“I can come back another time, if you’d prefer?” The squire spoke up again.

“No,” Khoruun shook his head, waving a dismissive hand. “You may return to your superiors. Our business is concluded.”

“And tell them what, exactly?” The youth looked perplexed.

“Tell them...the Gladewardens have no Captain.” Khoruun replied, raising the tankard as he continued to stare into the depths of the ale. “That will be all, squire.”

#traumatized #iammyscars #newtothisleadershit

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daynaksmith · 6 years ago

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WisCon 2018!

So, this is only my second year attending WisCon, but I think it’s gonna be a habit because it’s such a good spot for mini reunions. Clarion 2015 represent!

More under the cut!

The folks in this pic, briefly:

If you haven’t read Jess and Sara’s AMAZING joint-written story, what the hell are you waiting for? Hopeful near-future concept-AND-character-driven SF awaits you!

http://clarkesworldmagazine.com/barber-saab_09_17/

Evan Mallon’s stuff is so good, we had to give it it’s own genre: Malloncholy. So be ready for that shit to hit your eyeballs and blow your lovely brains.

(Tiffany Wilson didn’t make it until later, but you can find a story of hers in this awesome anthology coming out soon!)

A con highlight was Shelley Streeby and Co’s awesome panel on the Octavia Butler archives. Seriously, I thought I already knew what was up with that material, but I actually got choked up seeing handwritten notes of self-doubt, righteous anger, and silly/familial love in Octavia’s own handwriting.

Octavia mused that we (anyone reading her stories) were all her children, and even No Thank You On The Children Dayner clutched her heart.

Shelley runs Clarion UCSD, and frequently participates in critiquing the stories written there-- she’s a sharp and generous soul. Her partner, Curtis, is a great conversationalist-- as are the Clarion 2014ers we met that day, Ellie and Manish.

I’m also super lucky to have shared a suite with a bunch of my novel camp buddies, the Happy Little Comets: Brooke Wonders, Alisa Alering, and James Brady.

All of their work in all places is The Best. (Brooke edits the painfully cool magazine Grimoire with Annah Browning, who is also my new bro.)

Other con highlights:

“Justice Demands Good Sex” panel moderated by Meg Elison, where she described people’s illusions regarding written sex as defaulting to “a simultaneous, orgasmic high five.” The call to arms (and legs, and sundry genitals) involved considering sex scenes (of all flavors and levels of success) as a vital component of both Character and Worldbuilding. (And honestly, where the hell is the Story if you don’t focus on both those things??) I have MANY thoughts on the subjects discussed, and will probably ramble endlessly once I get going.

So you all have that to look forward to.

The contributions of S. Qiouyi Lu and Alberto Yañez to the “Alternate Universes: The Anticolonial Version” (my version of the title, honestly can’t recall what it started out as). They and he, respectively, had many thought-provoking things to say about how to avoid cultural erasure while portraying a more engaged, egalitarian, interrogative social system from the get-go in secondary worlds. One of them (possibly accidentally) used the term “wokebuilding” as opposed to just worldbuilding, and I kind of love it.

WOKEBUILDING. TELL YOUR FRIENDS.

Getting to chill with Saladin Ahmed (our Clarion 2015 instructor from week two!) was awesome, as was chatting with various folks in the hotel bar, including but not limited to: Nino Cipri, Charlie Jane Anders, Annah Browning, Annalee Newitz, Maria Romasco-Moore, and Meg Elison again!

You guys, I cannot emphasize enough how nice and interesting people are at this con. I’m not usually one to strike up conversations with new people, but it’s yet to be anything but fantastic at WisCon.

Also, everybody had such incredible style game. I mean, Maria’s eyeliner, Meg’s SERIES of crowns, Nino’s tattoos, Annah’s earrings, Charlie’s hair, Annalee’s BESPOKE suit... I could go on.

It’s possible I was more aware of those little details this time around because I made such an effort with the blue lipstick in 90F heat...

Anyway, I’m so PUMPED to read everybody’s stuff if I haven’t already, and so down for next year!

See you in Madison next summer, and until then:

WOKEBUILD and WRITE SEX and talk to new people!

(Or at least read their stuff! Talking can be hard!)

Zoom your focus in and out, and make neat stuff!

#wiscon42 #writing #GPOY #Clarion 2015 #clarion #octavia butler #PULP PRIDE

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yuffy-from-nz · 4 years ago

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The Treaty of Waitangi workshop

During orientation week, we joined a two-day workshop on the Treaty of Waitangi. The Treaty of Waitangi is a treaty signed in 1840 between Maori chiefs and the British Crown.

We study the Treaty of Waitangi because the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi was the beginning of the disparity between Māori and Pākehā, which affected the constitution of New Zealand and the school curriculum. The key to understanding why New Zealand places emphasis on Maori culture lies in the Treaty of Waitangi.

The reason why the Treaty of Waitangi was the beginning of the disparity is that when the Treaty of Waitangi was translated from English to Maori, the English and Maori languages had different interpretations of the treaty. The purpose of this treaty was to bring security and order to New Zealand, where there was no law, and to maintain harmony between the two peoples. However, since it was translated in favour of the British, the Maori were forced into a disadvantageous position.

Article the First: Whereas the English version states that Māori cede to Her Majesty the Queen of England all the rights and powers of Sovereignty, the Māori version says that Māori gives up to the Queen of England for Governorship (Kawanatanga) of their lands.

Article the Second: In the English version, the Queen of England guarantees that Māori possesses their land, estates forests fisheries, and other properties. However, in the Māori version, the Queens of England agreed that Māori's possession of their land, villages, and all their treasures using the word taonga (meaning all treasures, including valuable culture).

Thus, the differences between the English and Māori versions were significant, and it led to the Māori Wars over the land that followed. Māori began to protest against Pākehā's land seizure and the unequal treatment of Māori by the government and the courts.

After the Second World War, New Zealand society changed little by little. It is said that this is because the government begun to realize that respecting Māori would lead to the national interest of New Zealand in order to solve the post-war human shortage and that showing an attitude of protecting the human rights of indigenous people would lead to the improvement of New Zealand's international position as human rights awareness grows around the world.

In 1975, the Treaty of Waitangi Act was passed. The government recognized the differences between the English and Māori versions of the Treaty and created the Waitangi Tribunal. In 1987, Māori became the official language of New Zealand, and initiatives for Māori language education and bi-ethnic and biculturalism began.

Nevertheless, in the education field, it proceeded with a one-size-fits-all approach (with no emphasis on Māori culture or values), centered on Pakeha students. As a result, Māori students were experiencing lower rates of university enrolment, lower school performance, and higher rates of suspension than non-Māori students (which is still ongoing).

Māori underachievements were understood as an intrinsic fault. In the 1970s, however, awareness of the need to improve education for Māori students grow, and in 2007, the curriculum was revised to reflect cultural differences. And in 2008, the government issued an education strategy to help Māori students reach their full potential, reflecting Māori values and norms.

“There is a clarion call for educators to develop sensitivity and sensibility towards the cultural backgrounds and experiences of Māori students (and to create) culturally-safe schools; places that allow and enable students to be who and what they are.”

Through this workshop, living in New Zealand, and the changes in life caused by COVID-19, I realized that it is adults who create a society of tolerance or discrimination, who create stereotypes, and who create culture. For example, in Christchurch, cars always give way to pedestrians at crossings (This always makes me happy). Children who grow up thinking of this as an ordinary thing would probably give way to pedestrians even when they grow up.

Many people had a hard time during the lockdown by COVID19. But I felt like New Zealanders were always caring about others, positive and never forgetting their humour. For example, my college closed, but our professors held weekly Zoom Meetings to help us all not feel lonely. Perhaps the children of New Zealand will be able to overcome any future crises in a positive way. I believe that these ways of thinking and actions will someday lead to the customs of a country.

Children are not born with stereotypes or discrimination against other people. Rather, they are pure and innocent. So I think we need to be aware of our stereotypes and biases and make an effort to get rid of them. I think what I can do as a teacher is to provide a safe and secure place for children regardless of their cultural backgrounds and to support them to reach their full potential while understanding their cultural values.

P.S. We watched a TED speech, "The danger of a single story" in the workshop. I recommend this to watch. The speech reminded me that we should always look at things from a different point of view when we study history, watch the news, or discuss with others, and not to forget to question ourselves for stereotypes and biases. https://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_ngozi_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story

#English

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dietaku · 5 years ago

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Unbearable [Reversal 1]

This certain project actually has two protagonists; the fiery-minded Bea and the dutiful, glamorous Victoria. Bea has had her turn, so now it is Victoria’s. I hope you enjoy her as well.

Also, I must put to bed a query as to whether or not I am dead. I can assure, to the best of my knowledge, I am not. I appreciate the concern, though.

[Reversal] The Emergence of the Strawberry Goddess of Absolute Success!

Victoria Ludovelga, 9th Degree Executor strutted through the pristine alabaster halls as a vision of beauty and grace. Unlike her peers, she lacked the sallow androgyny usual with maidens, where without her robes and cowl, she easily passed as a young mother; fit, glamorous and coquettish, and even on one occasion, did so. Oh, did so very furtively, as memorable as her face was, but she strode through the streets, even the mentaks and the peasant mothers gawked at her, causing her to titter with glee afterwards. Still, she tossed back her strawberry blonde bangs out of her face, there would be time for happy remembrances after she talked with Maestra Martha. Stopping her walk along the marble corridors of the central chapel to the goddess Libertas, finding her mentor, the raven-haired gran maestra standing there, a pillar among the gossiping first and second degrees gathered around her like ducklings around a mother duck. Spying Victoria, she smiled warmly, before turning to her charges,” Alright, children. Go on ahead. I must speak with sister Victoria for a moment. It shouldn't take long at all,” she called, before turning to Victoria.

“Maestra,” Victoria bowed, as Martha gently held her face.

“My flawless jewel, my protege, how do the days find you?”

“I am well. I have been blessed by Libertas, and I seek to spread her will to the peasants,” Victoria replied.

Martha beamed, “That does my heart well. Unfortunately, I must inform you of grave tidings. Constable Lucretia Valence was defeated while in Rintoun. A new martial artist has appeared.”

“One of the rebels?”

Martha shook her head,” No. The way she reacts to the activities around her suggests she is a lone operator. The pressing issue with her is her Orgone. Unlike other rebels, her movements are erratic and somewhat bizarre. I doubt she is aligned with the Coalition, but she still is a thorn in our side, acting against the Regime. Find her, and root her out.”

“As you wish, Maestra,” Victoria bowed.

Clarion trumpets swelled through the hall as Martha sighed, kneading her brow.

“What? What is it?” Victoria demanded.

“I suppose you wouldn't know yet, my dear, but this is the danger of being a high-ranking Executor,” Martha sighed.

“What's that?”

“Be silent, and you will see,” Martha replied.

“OH, MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARTHA?” the floor shook as the nearby gates swung open violently as a gigantic palanquin shuddered forward, hefted by a team of a dozen low-grade maidens. Upon the palanquin lounged a corpulent giant. Dressed in a gilded leotard that did little to hide the sprawling woman's expansive flesh. With garish orange eye shadow and golden coifed curls in her hair, she was a distinctive sight, a bronze buddha surrounded by adoring maidens feeding her grapes, waving palm fronds and massaging her as she stared down at the two maidens,” My, my ,my, who is this delectable sight?”

“This is my protege, Victoria Ludovelga. She is a 9th grade, so you'd not be interested in her Tribune. Now, what can I do for you?” Martha asked.

“Ahahaha, but she's so cute! I wouldn't mind sharing my chambers with her for a night, no matter the grade,” the Tribune replied.

“I'll lend you some of my students, Tribune, but I will say this, I would very much frown on you taking her. She is my crown jewel,” Martha replied with an air of finality Victoria never heard in her teacher's voice.

“Ah, too bad, then. I would make it worth your time, but if that is how you feel,” the tribune shrugged, “Now, to more boring issues, the Dragons would like to speak with you about the Coalition's activity in the Zeatt-L region.”

“Why is that? I have no jurisdiction in this area. Why are you not discussing this with Maestras Ethel, Jane, and Paige ?” Martha asked.

“Because the Dragons have disclosed to me that you are in the process of being chosen for the position of magister maestra,” the Tribune tittered, as Victoria sucked in a shocked breath. Magister maestra? The most senior and exalted of positions within the Executors?

Martha smiled at this,” I am eternally flattered at this, but I must decline. My place is here, training my dear little flowers till they blossom into the beautiful maidens I know they are.”

“Your dedication is duly noted, Maestra. However, you should discuss this with them. As for your little protege, I also have a little gift to your mission,” the Tribune leered.

“Oh? What do you have in mind?” Martha inquired. The Tribune tittered, as she snapped her fingers and the door opened once more, as a large green chair lumbered through of its own accord.

“What is the meaning of this?” Martha asked as a pair of eyes opened on the backrest of the recliner, with a leering grin opening from the seat cushion.

“Why, hellooooooooooooo, Sweetheart!” the chair declared in a wheedling, piping voice, sidling up to Victoria as it extended an armrest,” A pleasure to make your acquaintance!”

“An animus warrior?” Martha snorted,” I—Oooh, that's quite nice.”

Sensing Martha's derision, the chair rushed up behind her, and tossed her back onto its seat.

“Do you see now its ability? This is Sconehound, one of the finest animus warriors of the Regime, and a perfect counterpart to Victoria here. I have read the reports. This new Coalition fighter is a mother who flaunts her womanly power, correct?” the Tribune sneered,” What better way to defeat someone who waggles their ass about than a chair?”

“Indeed, my Tribune! I, Sconehound, am an avid scholar of the human bottom! Derriere I say, I am the leading expert! Even other animus warriors cow to my immense knowledge,” Sconehound mocked,” For instance, Maestra, with how you sit upon me, you had a cold within the last month, did you not?”

“I did, actually. A small head cold, but one nonetheless. How did you know?” Martha replied.

“It's quite simple! How you tense your muscles, your heartbeat, the scent of your sweat, all of it gives away your health!” it explained.

“Martha quickly hopped off Sconehound, “Very...cute. I must thank you, Tribune. I'm sure Victoria will be greatly assisted by your warrior. Now, Sconehound,” she turned to the chair,” Victoria will be departing at dawn tomorrow. Be prepared.”

“Aye-aye, Maestra,” it called, as it saluted with an armrest smartly before returning back inside the door.

“Very good, Maestra. Now, sadly that is all the time I can afford you. Do take care of this Coalition fighter, will you?” theTribune yawned,”Take us back inside, lovelies!”

The maidens grunted as they hefted the palanquin, returning back inside the gate as well, as Martha kneaded her brow in frustration.

“Never get involved in politics, Victoria. Such things are too much trouble for their own good,” Martha sighed.

“But, I wish to be a maestra myself, Teacher! I want to follow in your footsteps!” Victoria protested.

Martha looked up at her with a warm smile,”How blessed I am to have such a dedicated and thoughtful student as you! Now, do get prepared for your deployment. And remember, Victoria, you are an instrument of Libertas' grace.”

“Roger!” Victoria saluted, and walked off smartly. A pillar of stability and grace as she walked through the corridors, she kept Martha's words in her mind, pausing only at the sight of a sobbing young maiden, beside a bored looking sixth grade, while a group of other maidens gossiped with each other nearby.

“Come now, you're holding up the others,” the sixth grade chided.

“B-but--” sobbed the maiden, rubbing tears from her eyes.

“What's going on here?” Victoria asked.

“Oh, Line Officer Ludovelga. I'm overseeing the low-grades providing ministrations to the eastern villages, and this one is going on her first trip. Someone must have spooked her because she's been like this all day,” the sixth grade explained with a sigh. Victoria nodded; she understood entirely now.

“So, this is your first ministration deployment?” she asked, kneeling before the sobbing maiden. The tiny maiden nodded, wiping her eyes with her cowl, as Victoria tutted gently, handing her a handkerchief.

“Mmhmm. Meastra Jane told me ministrations hurt! That mentaks use it as an excuse to hurt you! They get away with it, while you have to live with the scars,” she explained, as Victoria frowned.

“There, there. It's not that bad. You get used to it, and you have to think about it from a different way. Instead of fearing the mentaks, think of your ministrations as a way to help people, so they don't think of hurting people,” Victoria offered.

“That's easy for you to say. The goddess blessed you,” the maiden pouted.

Victoria shook her head,” That may be, but I still went through ministrations, just as you do now. Yes, it sometimes hurt, but I also helped many, and sometimes, wonderful things happen. I met my betrothed when I was in ministrations, so it's not all bad. Just focus on that, and remember that even if things go bad, you can turn to your sisters in the Executors,” Victoria smiled, as the maiden nodded. Standing up, she bowed to both Victoria and her superior.

“Thank you, Senior. Um, I'm ready to go now,” she said, as the sixth grade looked from her junior to Victoria, clearly impressed.

“You are most blessed indeed, Line Officer. I've been cajoling her for almost an hour now. My thanks to you,” she bowed, and led her gaggle of maidens away.

Victoria smiled as she recalled her own ministrations. True, it wasn't something she'd jump to return to, but one day, as she, then only a mere fourth grade, a lanky young man with a unkempt blond mane and a nervous smile, entered her tent. After a tense exchange that lasted only a few minutes, Victoria sighed, as she counted this as merely yet another mentak she aided, until he kissed her afterwards.

“Thank you,” he called. And left without another word. He left such an impression on her she sought this young man out once her tour of ministration ended, and discovered his name and residence, and from there, it was like a dream come true!

“Ah, Nichol,” she sighed, pausing at her apartment, punching in her door key and entered,” I'm home!”

“Oh....Hello, Victoria,” Nichol called. Still lean and muscular, he now possessed bronze stubble, and even though Victoria wished he'd grow it out, it remained mere shadow,” How...was your day?”

Victoria smiled. Sweet, dear Nichol. He was always so nervous around her, even though she doted on him. Even so, she still found it adorable.

“I am doing quite well, Nichol. I talked with Teacher today.”

“Oh? What does Maestra Martha need of you?”

“She needs me to deploy tomorrow. I may be gone a few days.”

Nichol grimaced,” What does she having you do?”

“I will be hunting down a fugitive of the Coalition,” Victoria replied,” Do not worry, though. The Tribune has given me an ally. I won't lose.”

“That's not what I'm worried about, Victoria,” Nichol sighed,” You keep going on these missions. I'm just worried, where will this leave me if something goes wrong?”

“I understand, and I'm trying to make it happen! I've applied for a teaching position, where I'll be off the front lines, and I can be home more. On top of this,” she smiled coyly,” Instructors are a fast track to tenth grade; to Gran Maestra! If I can achieve that, then we can finally start a family together!”

“Oh...Of course,” Nichol nodded, looking away.

“Oh, don't be like that,” Victoria beamed,” Here, let me make it up to you...”

Nichol snored, collapsed in their bed, as Victoria showered. Lost in her own thoughts, as the drizzle fell off her, she flexed her fingers along the wall as she sighed.

“Why couldn't I have been born a mother? To be a maiden; a woman and yet not. Such a waste,” she grumbled, as she nodded. No matter what, she would take care of Nichol. It was the least she could do. Joining Nichol, Victoria drifted to sleep, freeing herself from her worries in this moment of peace.

The next day, Victoria rose early, dressing herself and set out, affording herself only a peck on Nichol's cheek as she departed. Approaching the outer gate, she found Sconehound already there alongside a Executor skimmer prepped with its crew at the ready.

“Gooooooooood morning, Victoria! I trust you slept well?” Sconehound called.

“I have no complaints. Now, let's not waste time,” she replied, hopping aboard as the driver, skinny, mocha-skinned maiden in glasses saluted to her.

“Executor, fifth grade, Laura Hyrdegard, ma'am! I'll be your driver today! According to our intel, the rebel fighter is currently hiding nearby Tack Ohm. We will begin the search there,” she explained, as Victoria absentmindedly nodded, and the skimmer rose, rapidly gliding over the terrain. Even though this wasn't her first time on a skimmer, one never really forgets the rush of the wind flying at one's face Even Sconehound was enjoying the ride as it stuck its tongue out into the breeze.

“I never knew that a seat could also be a dog,” Victoria called, as Sconehound smirked.

“Be careful how you speak to me, dear Line Officer. I have more influence than my fluffy exterior may lead you to believe.”

Victoria snorted,” At least I'm not a chair.”

“Ah, but that you are. The difference between you and I, though, is that I was made like this, forced by human technology to become what I am now. You, you were trained to become a seat for others to lean on,” Sconehound replied.

“Silence, sofa!”

Sconehound snickered,” Do you know what they call you Executors within the safe space of the inner sanctum, Line Officer?”

Victoria shrugged, “I've never been. Maidens are not allowed in the inner sanctum of the Tribunes.”

“They call you 'Butterfly Witches', strange, unnerving monsters who shift from their ungainly state to something unnatural and beautiful; to possess the heart of a woman and yet not be; forged into perfect weapons.”

“What is your point?”

“My point, my dear Executor, is that it is you who are the pawn here. I will utilize your pretty face to raise my own position in the inner sanctum and soon, I will be the headboard of all animus citizens!” Sconehound cackled. Victoria rolled her eyes, focusing on the city looming in the distance. As they approached, she noticed the milling masses of mentaks as they hefted great bundles of tubes onto large trucks, which, when loaded, zoomed off towards the city.

“What is all this?” Victoria asked the driver.

“Tack Ohm is a mining city, Line Officer. You know the Spidernet? The great processing tubes used for it, that connects each home terminal to the main net are forged here. It is because of this that the city is all the more critical,” Laura explained, as Victoria nodded. She wasn't particularly technically skilled, but who didn't know of the Spidernet and its ability to connect every member of the Regime, from lowly mentak to the highest Dragon?

Hopping off the skimmer, Victoria stood before the working mentaks as they paused, staring at the vibrant strawberry goddess before them.

“Mentaks of Tack Ohm! Your efforts are to be commended. I come not to punish you but to protect! I am searching for a young mother who uses Orgone without a license. She is dressed in an odd and shameless fashion; some sort of gown, I believe. If you kindly tell me where she is, then I can remove her and be on my way.” The mentaks looked to one another, with none moving. Victoria sighed. She expected this level of cooperation from them. Clearing her throat, she continued,” If you all cooperate, I will arrange for a second deployment of ministration for you all.”

“D-d'ya mean it?” One mentak asked, as Victoria nodded. The crowds looked at each other darkly, before opening a path to the central complex.

“She's inside, Executor!” one mentak explained, as Victoria gave him a warm nod.

“Thank you. You all have done well,” she waved. Inwardly she sighed,” I figured I'd have to resort to such bribery. Horny mentaks.”

Stepping inside, Victoria sucked in a breath as instead of merely the machnery and endless materials, she found a series of crystal clear pools, Technicians pored over them with intruments, some even dipping sensors or glass stirrers inside, s large rings hummed above each pool.

“What even is all this?”

“Well, ever since the collapse of the Brotherhood of Evil and the rise of the Council of Dragons, the accumulation of raw resources is a dangerous, dirty task. Metals, once found n deep in the earth, have all been ripped out and were used to build gigantic, disgusting structures only to glorify their own greed and lusts. Now the only reliable way to find metals is to scour the earth's water and draw them out using magnets and sieving technologies,” Laura sighed. Victoria nodded, taking in the strange machines around her.

“How are you so knowledgeable about all this?” she asked, as Laura giggled.

“Because, ma'am, I want to be a pilot. To become a licensed pilot requires years of testing and certifications, so I just have picked up it all in so doing,” she explained.

“I see. I wish you success, then,” she replied.

“Thank you!”

As the trio walked forward, they found a crowd of mentaks gathered around one pool, as chuckles and banter arose from the center. Pressing her way through the crowd, Victoria's eyes widened at the sight. Unlike the other pools, cream-colored mud filled his lake, and in the center sat a single mother, like a brown shrub planted there, she sat shoulder deep in the mud as she chatted with an elderly man as a wiry mentak lounged nearby, picking his ears. About them, the crowd sat, chatting and laughing with each other.

“So, you were trained by Mornington and Windsor? Gods, it's been years since I heard of those two,” the old man chuckled, as the mentak ceased cleaning his ears and sat up.

“Wait, so when she said she was raised by bears, she wasn't joking?” the mentak sputtered.

The elder cackled,”My boy, you've never heard of Windsor and Mornington? Damned fine fighters, the both of them. Each time they met, the town or mountain was destroyed. Although, I suppose it makes sense. The only fighter close to their skill in recent memory was Alexander the Sage, and he was captured.”

The young woman perked up, standing from the mud excitedly,” You know Alexander? Can you tell me where he is?”

It was then the elder noticed his visitors, as he leaped to his feet,”Ah, I—err, Miss Executor! What can I do for you?”

Victoria looked from the grovelling elder to the young woman bathing in the mud, “I believe I am here to arrest that mother. Step aside, if you please, Elder.”

“Please, Miss Executor! This girl has done no wrong!”

Laura gasped and Sconehound snickered. Victoria looked down at the Elder darkly.

“I will ask you this once, Elder. Did you just assume that mother's gender?” she roared, raising her open palm and striking the Elder on his shoulder. Her hand flared to life with golden Orgoneflame, and he crumpled under the blow, collapsing to the ground.

“Ugh, my old man hip,” he wheezed.

“Elder!” the mentak cried, rushing to his aid, as the woman stood there in the mud, her own Orgone erupting menacingly.

“So, what? You're to get revenge for that one blue-robe from before?” she demanded.

“I am Victoria Ludovelga, 9th Grade Executor. Face me, rebel, so we can get this over with,” Victoria called, as the woman snorted.

“Fine. Name your battlefield, then/ I'll take you blue-robes on anywhere, anytime,”

“Bea, please! These guys don't mess around!” the mentak warned.

Laura sucked in another breath, as Victoria gritted her teeth, “You really don't learn, do you!” Lunging forward at mach speed, Victoria's hand lashed out once more, striking the mentak with her blazing palm as he grunted in pain, collapsing back.

“Your language sickens me, Mentak! You are under arre--” she huffed, before Bea kicked her in the cheek, sending her flying through the roof, skidding to a halt outside amid the crowds of mentaks working outside. The crowd around her paused, as she hopped to her feet, feeling her cheek.

“Oh, dear. I hope I don't bruise,” she lamented, as Bea stomped outside, her Orgoneflame a bonfire. Ignoring the mud still caked to her person, she stood before Victoria defiantly. Victoria eyed her enemy's limb and her eyes widened in shock.

Noticing her opponent's stare, Bea smirked, flaunting her wounded leg,” A gift from your compatriot. She sought to seal my fists. However, I'm not so easily defeated.”

Victoria stared, unsure how to respond, as Bea jumped forward, Spinning about, her bottom glowed with power as she hurtled towards Victoria. Victoria froze, shocked at this assault, as Sconehound burst from the complex like a graceful ottoman swan, interposing itself between the battling pair, deftly catching Bea midflight.

“What just happened now?” she asked,” Am I in a seat?”

“Ooooh! Oh! Such tone, such power! You truly are a potent warrior, Miss!” Sconehound cackled,” However! No bottom can flatten a seat! Such is just the nature of things!”

“Was this part of your plan, then?” Bea angrily demanded, turning to Victoria.

Sensing an opportunity, Victoria stood tall and laughed haughtily,”Of course I did! From the intel I gained, you are quite a potent force, but with your main weapon sealed, you ought to be no trouble to me!”

Bea gave her a look,” Really? You?”

Victoria giggled, spreading her arms wide. Bea blinked as her opponent stood before her, a blonde goddess wreathed in golden flame. It took all she had to not leap into her arms, even if the temptation weighed heavily in her mind. Leaping off the cackling animus warrior, Bea lashed out at Victoria with a thunderous kick.

“Bear-Knuckle-Boxing; Bear-Sole Beat!” she roared, as Victoria smirked, grabbing her foot and spinning her about like a spindle before tapping the sole of her foot with a single fingertip. Bea shrieked in pain, flying back, landing in grip of the lounging mentak from earlier.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

“Oh, I'm fine, Lad. I just have a chair attacking me, and now this blonde bimbo. Today's just a bang-up day,” Bea complained, as Lad stared at Victoria, before rushing to her side.

“It is you! I wasn't sure, but now, it has to be! Miss Victoria! I'm a huge fan!” he grinned.

“Lad, really? You know this woman?” Bea asked.

“Who doesn't know Victoria? She's the Strawberry Goddess of Victory! She defeated the General Grosanthamus of the Lord's Revolution rebellion, and a superb martial artist! I, err, even bought your photo collection,” he admitted.

Victoria blinked. True, she had admirers and many fans among the mentaks, but this was a new one, “I am...very flattered by your kind comments. I apologize, I don't have my pen for autographs, but would a hug suffice?”

“Of course!” Lad nodded eagerly, and embraced her roughly. He squeezed her too tightly for her own taste, but smiled through it, only releasing him when she saw Bea leap up again, aiming a kick at her head. Lifting Lad up bodily and shielding herself with this witless mentak, both Bea and Lad were shocked by this move, leaving Lad face-down in the dirt, with Bea standing over him.

“Look, you idiot! You harmed that mentak!” Victoria yelled.

“Me? You tossed him in the way! You apologize to his soul so he can rest in peace!” Bea demanded.

“I'm...not dead,” Lad groaned.

“Poor, poor mentak! This cruel mother harmed you so! Here! Let me avenge you!”

“But you were the one to hurt hi--” Bea offered.

“Fist of the Deceitful Trap, Burning Love Subschool; Careless Caress!” Victoria intoned, rushing ahead, just as Sconehound scampered ahead himself, scooping up Bea out of Victoria's path. Victoria careened to a halt as her blazing right hand fell to the ground gently as a fire exploded on the spot.

“What is the meaning of this, Sconehound?”

“MWEEHEEHEE! Victory is mine! Thank you for your help, Line Officer, but this kill is mine!” Sconehound exulted, clenching Bea between its cushions and squeezing her like a vice. Clenched in the middle of this vice, Bea's face betrayed her confusion and worry, as Victoria growled at her impotence.

“Sconehound, this wasn't part of the operation! We ought to work together!” Victoria cried, which only served to increase the chair's cackle.

“Ah, but that it is, my dear Executor! We are disposing of a terrorist and a known threat to the Regime!”

Victoria cursed under her breath, as Lad shakily rose to his feet.

“Why-why aren't you getting out of this, Bea?” He groaned.

Bea shot him a look,” W-why do you suddenly care? Isn't that blonde one more your type? It's because she has bigger boobs, isn't it?”

Lad's cheeks burned red, “Now isn't the time for that, Bea!”

“Isn't it, though? I'm about to be crushed to death! You might as well tell me!”

Lad, now stuck in a vice of his own, looked to the onlooking mentaks and his idol, before grimacing and shouting something he knew he'd regret, “ Yes, I like Executor Victoria, but between her and you, I'd much rather have you! You saved me! You talked to me like I was a person and not just a mentak! Even if her boobs are bigger, I think that's more important!”

Silence rang throughout the yard, before Sconehound finally called,” That was a foolish thing to say!”

“You mean that?” Bea asked.

Lad nodded, his face hardening into the grimace of a man who has made peace with his own death,”Yes, every single word.”

Bea sighed with relief, as she wriggled out of Sconehound's grip in a single spinning flourish, standing on its seat,”So, seat-thing, you said no butt could harm you, right?”

“Yes, that is true,” Sconehound conceded.

Bea then slammed her foot right through Sconehound's base, punching a nice-foot shaped hole through the animus warrior,”Then, it looks like I need to dance all over you then!”

Sconehound whimpered and collapsed onto its side, as Victoria sucked in a shocked breath, while Bea hopped off the deceased recliner and ran into Lad's arms.

“Well, there's that, then,” Bea mocked,” You still wanna dance, Blondie?”

Victoria merely smiled,”It's a beautiful thing you two share. The budding blossom germinating between you two.”

“What are you talking abo--” Bea demanded, as Lad fell limp at her, covered in thorny vines.

“Haha! It finally germinated! When that mentak touched me before I decided to perhaps utilize him for later. However, I never knew I could capture you so easily,” Victoria chuckled.

Bea growled, hefting Lad even as the vines dug into her flesh,” I promised myself I'd never use this power. It sickens me.”

“Oh? And why's that?” Victoria asked.

“Because it's my sister's power. Bear-Knuckle-Boxing: Right to Bear Arms,” Bea huffed, leveling her hand at Victoria as she pulled back a finger and flicked it at her opponent. Victoria blinked.

Then it hit her.

A torrential cyclone of wind slammed into her leg, slicing off her limb at the thigh. Collapsing to the ground, she howled with pain, clutching the useless stummp. Blinking back tears, she tried in vain to steady herself as her head pounded with pain and shock As she cursed her opponent while they hobbled away, and with mentaks and Laura rushed to her aid, she fell into unconsciousness...

#Adventure #fantasy #dark fantasy #science fantasy #ya fiction #my writing #unbearable

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