#do not be fooled by the tidy pink bun

[lunarreverb]

I am starting on a... actually bad Durge run. On Tactician difficulty. Ooof ough ouch augh. (will get to smooch Minthara though!)

(Glasses are from tristellini's "Tav's Glasses" mod on Nexus. Hair is from Toarie's "Tav's Hair Salon" mod on Nexus)

[lady-o-ren]

The Dig

You can read this on ao3 // HERE //

Suffolk, England

1939

“What's going on in Sutton Hoo, then that has you in such a hurry?”

James Fsaser reluctantly looked up from where his head had been braced on his leather satchel, clutched atop his knees, and gave the old ferryman a one-eyed stare.

“I've a job. Digging,” he swallowed, trying mightily to keep himself from retching as the wee boat he was in bobbed up and down like a mad carousel.

“You came all the way from Scotland to dig like a dog?” He laughed hoarsely, hawking up a wad of phlegm into the murky river water as he swung his oars.

“Ipswich,” Fraser muttered, turning a bit more green.

Ipswich Museum to be exact.

He'd been hired to help excavate a centuries old burial site located at a rural estate in Sutton Hoo, overseen by the archeologist, Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. A woman much admired (or envied depending on the man) for her keen mind and boundless curiosity (and unrivaled stubbornness that often spiraled into outright defiance according to those same particular men) that had her uprooting half of Great Britain in pursuit of the secrets hidden beneath the mossy plains. And more often than not her instincts were right and another antiquity would be dusted off to be reborn again.

Fraser wasn't sure what he'd done to earn the right to work by her side but Christ, he wouldn't question how lucky he was.

The boat then suddenly coasted to an abrupt stop against the rivers side.

“Here we are, Mr. Fraser. All in one piece. And I thank you for keeping me boat and boots tidy,” said the old ferryman with a wink.

Fraser didn't bother with a retort, he was just happy that the world had blessedly stopped spinning and hopped onto wonderfully solid land.

Smoothing the wrinkles from his attire and fixing his father's old grey cap atop his head (taking special care to tuck in his dark ginger curls that always peeked out from just under the rim), he made his way down the brambled path that the old man said led to the big house. After a brief introduction with the owner of the estate, he was then directed to where he'd be working, and trotted past the trees and sprawling country green to an open field.

From afar, Fraser could see three burial mounds jutting from the earth, grassy topped with yellow dandelions sprouting all over.

But what made his breath catch was the sight of the woman he'd been so eager to meet.

She was surveying the site with her hands on her trousered waist looking like a general on the cusp of conquest. Sensing his approach, she turned away from her prize and future glory, her short curls bouncing and gleaming a rich shade of earth in the dewy sunlight, and met his gaze with her own.

Sharp with intelligence. Kindled with mirth. Shimmering like molten gold.

"A Dhia," Fraser whispered to the fragrant spring air, and took off his cap, twisting it between his hands that ached to trace and memorize every curve of the archeologist's face.

She waved him over seeing him linger and a terrible heat sprang to the young lad's face at having been caught staring at the beauty like a halfwit, and forced his legs to move. Prayed he didn't fall flat on his face.

"Hullo there," she greeted, and clasped her small hand to his, but there was nothing dainty about its grasp. Fraser could feel the years of hard-earned experience chiseled in her palm that held his hand firmly, letting him know exactly who he'd be working for.

It sent a thrill down his spine.

"I'm Dr. Claire Beauchamp. And you must be the very late Mr. Fraser I've been waiting for."

"Aye, and I beg yer pardon for that, ma’am," Fraser replied in earnest, detecting a subtle spike of irritation in her voice, seeing the annoyed flick of her brow. "The morning train was running late.” By three hours! “ Then I had to wait for the ferryman to take me across the river -" He'd been taking his "tea" in the pub " - all a lousy excuse, I ken, but I promise ye it willna happen again."

Beauchamp crossed her arms and tipped her head to the side giving Fraser a scrutinizing once over that made his throat bob and the blood in his heart to palpitate.

"Good," she smirked, nodding her approval from his noticeable discomfort. "If you're anything like how the stiffs at Ipswich Museum described we'll get along well."

He clenched his jaw at the mention of the museum, the cantankerous men who worked there. Especially a certain Dr. Randall, who valued a good cigar over the work of a “farm boy”.

"And what do they say of me, if I may ask?"

Beauchamp bit her full bottom lip (wonderfully pink Fraser bashfully noted), quirking wryly.

“Quite a lot depending on who you ask. From what I've gathered you're hardworking, painfully intelligent and have an innate knack for reading the earth. But that you're also highly unorthodox, difficult and the most insufferable Scotsman ever to step foot in Ipswich. So naturally I had to work with you."

He let out a tightly held breath and chuckled softly.

"Weel, who am I to argue wi' a reference like that. I'm passionate about my work and little else, apart from food and kin. And while I've never been disrespectful to reason, I haven't the patience for men who think a title is deserving of my unquestionable fealty."

"And why should you? The conviction of a Viking is something to be admired not belittled,” she praised, making Fraser glow. "I only wish I could've been there to witness how you earned the ire of half the museum.”

“I'm merely in the right and they the wrong, more often than not,” he shrugged.

“I'm just as terrible,” she proudly grinned. ”But I know we'll make a good team. We'll have to if we want to tackle this lot.”

She motioned her head at the site looming tall, brimming with excitement that spoke to Fraser's own spirit.

"If that's so then it'll be an honor working wi' ye, ma'am."

He shook her hand once more and thought he felt her thumb move against his knuckle, light and curious as a brush stroke.

//

Working with two assistants from her previous digs (the studious Jeremy Foster and the wide-eyed youth Elias Pound), Fraser and Beauchamp made great strides in plowing the core of the mound that was the larger of the three, even when logic argued that the dip in the middle meant thieves of the past had already plundered it's horde.

But Fraser's gut and bones told him that there was something different about this one.

Beauchamp had thought so too.

"There's something grand and marvelous here begging to be found. Don't you think? Can't you feel it?"

The deeper they dug only intensified that feeling.

As had his attraction to the irrepressibly brilliant Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.

However, after a fortuitous streak of good weather, the air started to blow with the sweet scent of rain and the leaves of the oak trees that dotted the lush clearing turned toward the skies, parched and longing.

"We have some time, I think, before the rain comes," said Beauchamp, gauging the skies westward still clear of thunderclouds.

Fraser leaned against his shovel in the hollow of earth he stood in, his dirt stained sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and could see the mad impulse to defy mother nature flash in her eyes.

"Usually I'd agree wi' ye, ma’am, but yer hair -" his mouth flicked upward in unbridled appreciation. "Is curling like a tumbleweed."

She pressed a dirt-flecked hand near her temple and felt the wild frizzy pushback of flyaway curls fallen loose from her twisted bun, springing around her face like a mane.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she huffed. “Have I been like this all morning, Fraser?”

"Pretty much," he grinned, enjoying how her usual regal self pinked across her freckled cheeks and the wee scrunch of her nose.

But Fraser's smile faltered, catching himself for a fool, and averted his attention down to the soil where his heart had fallen. Writhed. Burrowed with the worms and roots.

For what use was it for a man like him to yearn for a woman like her?

He swallowed the hopeless lump in his throat.

"Shall we go for lunch then, wait for the weather to clear?"

Hearing the word lunch, Foster and Pound looked up from their own end of the excavation with hunger in their eyes.

"Did that on purpose did you?" said Beauchamp, throwing an accusatory glance at the ginger lad while trying to gather her wayward curls back to partial respectability.

He gave her a half smile.

"The Almighty is the one making it rain, ma’am. Take it up wi' him."

She sighed and her hands fell to her waist as she took one last disappointing glance above.

"I would if He ever bothered to listen,” she frowned, then gave the other men a nod that made them hoot and holler.

“Numpties,” she mumbled, though did so fondly, and puffed at a rebellious forelock flirting with the wind.

After covering the ditch with a tarp secured to the ground, the men headed for the local pub raucously singing an old drinking song with a few choice words changed.

Our Lady must have been an Admiral, a Sultan or a Queen

And to her praises we shall always sing

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp who fills us up with cheer

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp . . .

Their lady laughed and rolled her eyes, before waving the lads off with a promise to catch up to gather her things, and headed to the shepherd's hut that had been provided by the estate.

Fraser glanced back watching her go, and after a moment's hesitation where he reasoned it would be rude to leave without her, he too told the others he'd forgotten something and went after Beauchamp.

Cursing himself an "EEJIT!" every step of the way.

//

Inside the hut was a small curtained window softly lighting the room from the back and two wooden scuffed chairs positioned along the side wall with a table snugly fit between them. Beauchamp herself was crouched by the table legs where Fraser had left his satchel but it was now laid open on its side, contents spilled over.

At his unexpected appearance that shadowed the doorway, she turned his way with an apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry, I was just grabbing my bag when I tipped yours over and . . ."

She held up his small green fieldbook opened at the first page.

And white-hot panic flooded Fraser's veins.

"The writing caught my eye," she continued on, seemingly unaware that the poor lad was gripping the doorway for support. "I didn't know you spoke gaelic beyond the odd phrase here and there. That you can even write it too is something of a feat,” she said, impressed by the words secreted on the page.

“Aye,” he managed to breathe, relieved that she hadn't seen a thing. Not a thing! “I don't get much practice living away from home so I speak it in my mind and heart, write letters to my family when I can.”

“You've spoken of a sister, if I'm not mistaken. Older or younger?" She prodded, as if he were a new discovery, and he answered in hopes to distract her from what she still held in her hands.

Felt a fluttering warmth overtake him that she recalled him having a sister.

"Jenny,” he said, as he moved to kneel down beside her to stuff his scant belongings back in his bag. “She's older and feels the need to remind me of that fact whenever we see one another.”

“And you're the brat aren't you?”

Despite his predicament, Fraser couldn't help the grin spreading across his face.

"I was the devil's spawn, aye, but Jen was no angel. We once got into a terrible stramash about our chores on the farm, the way wee bairns do, and I ended up telling her she had a face uglier than a coo, smelled worse than one too. Next I knew, I was being tackled to the ground wi' my face shoved into a ripe pile of coo shite and my sister above me laughing her wicked wee arse off.”

Beauchamp broke into laughter and it made his stomach do a flip.

“I'm sorry, that must've been awful for you, but I think I may love your sister for that.”

“Everybody says so. Not sure it was worth it in the end myself . . .” said Fraser, his voice suddenly trailing off at the end seeing her attention turn back to the page.

His mind spiraled into action.

"But we really should get going before the rain catches us. It looks to be a downpour, a terrible one.”

“Well it's a good thing we're under a roof then isn't it?” She countered, eyes sparkling through her long lashes. “ Besides I'd rather have an impromptu lesson in gaelic on what,” she paused, squinting down at the book opened on her knees. “Baa-mia-’bruu -” means.”

“Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr,” he begrudgingly corrected, wondering how rude it would be to just snatch his own fieldbook away. But then Beauchamp smiled as if charmed by his voice and echoed back his words with near perfect silky inflections, looking pleased as punch as she did so.

Endearing herself even more to the young Scot's already smitten heart.

“Verra good,” he hummed softly.

“Absolute luck,” she grinned, tapping her fingers atop his writing. “Now tell me what does it all mean?”

He shook his head embarrassed. "You'll think me daft, ma’am."

"I promise I won't."

She said it in such an earnest way, Jamie knew she spoke true. But then a deep rumble of thunder sliced through the air, enough to give Beauchamp a jolt that made her forefinger on the page slip and Fraser's stomach to rip and plummet to the old wood floor.

There, drawn on the page, was Beauchamp's face staring back at her.

“It’s nothing but some wee scribbles,” he stammered to explain, reaching for the book only for her to angle it away.

“You're right about that,” she agreed, her fine brows furrowing as she traced a slim finger to her pencil drawn cheek. “You've made one of my eyes bigger than the other, my nose a dash too long and -"

Her eyes went comically round as she pressed the pages to her chest, a sudden thought coming to her.

"You don't have anyone posed in the nude here do you?"

"O-Of course not! I'd never. I- I'd -"

"Breathe Fraser, I was only teasing you," she nearly giggled, but then her face softened with regret seeing his own face take on the horrible color of a split beet left to shrivel in the sun.

“But really, why bother with me?”

He had no answer but the one that pounded from his heart, a noise like a thousand drums that all struck the same adoring note. She could see it beaming from his face and a hushed silence fell between them as the rain finally came down, hitting the rooftop in a pitter-patter that enveloped her quietly spoken -

“Oh.”

That single utterance had Jamie wishing the rain would flood and swallow him up but it was now or never to speak his heart. No matter that hers would never be his to cherish.

Looking down at his hands, anxiously wringing the strap of his satchel, he spoke.

“There was never any helping it, me liking you. I'd never seen a sight sae fair as you, stubborn as you, nor wonderful as you. And I could never get ye out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried, but ye were always there like the sun and air."

He lifted his gaze to her likeness on the page.

"And then I just started filling my fieldbook wi' pictures of you if only to have something to remind me of you for when the job ends and we part ways. But I'm none so good as ye can see. I never could capture the grit and fire of yer spirit, the way yer curls bristle in excitement or the way yer eyes glow like a match to a candlewick . . . "

His heart tightened as his words faltered while Beauchamp remained quiet. Then like a blow to his chest she flipped through the small book once more, her face unreadable as stone. She looked through his sketches, one of her curls drawn like the ripples of the tide, another of her hands digging through the earth, and of her lush determined mouth curved into a beaming smile, bitten with impatience, beneath a perfect speckled nose.

And threaded between her gestures, her features were more bits of gaelic.

 A bòidhchead . . .

Tha pian orm . . .

Tha cho teann sa tha a ’bhriogais gam iomain

"I told you I was no good. I ken I should just rip up the pages -” Fraser began to miserably say, but Beauchamp hushed him by taking his hand in hers and softly stroked her thumb against the work-hardened skin. 

"You have a fine hand, Fraser. Especially for making my nose look as delicate as Garbo’s,” she smiled, cheeks touched lovely in pink.

Then in a moment that made it hard for Fraser to breathe, she simply said . . .

“Ask me for a drink.”

He blinked, thinking he misheard her, mouth agape. But there was no mistaking what brightened her eyes to shine like whisky.

“Ask me,” she repeated impatiently, almost laughing, as she squeezed his hand. 

Fraser inhaled sharply and tentatively squeezed her small hand back.

“Will ye join me for a pint, ma’am?”

“Claire,” she grinned, and coyly tilted her head . “And of course I will. Took you long enough to ask,” she winked, making Fraser stare at her in charmed disbelief.

And then Beauchamp closed the distance between them, hand light as a feather against his chest.

“But first you ought to kiss me, Fraser. It's still raining and I might catch a chill from all this waiting."

Still staring at her mesmerized, with questions that could wait another day flitting through his mind, Fraser wove an errant bonnie curl around his fingers and smoothed it behind her ear. Letting his thumb drag against her cheek.

“It's Jamie,” he murmured, in a brush of his lips to hers. 

And on and on it went.

//

Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr. . .

I dreamt about the mourning. The deaths of great men. Terrible men. Old and young. Of Kings lost in battle buried beneath us. They cried out to me and the Earth came to life and twisted her roots around me, dragging me inside her womb. Dark and cold, breathless like a cave. But I wasn't frightened. I saw lights rushing around me, bright as the twilight sky. The souls that lie ahead. Surrounding us.

They brought me to you.

//

A/N: This had a ton of notes and explanations so you can read all those on ao3. But for sure I’ll say here this is very loosely based on the movie The Dig.

[ninja-scenarios]

Spa day w/ Illumi ✨🐰

I started writing this a month ago so it still says “15th of Christmas” pls bear with me lol

This is part of a Illumi/Hisoka/reader poly relationship! But there won´t be any Hiso in this, sorry! I have another fic planned tho so pls anticipate it :)))

Now I can´t stop imagining Illumi with a bunny ears headband... uwu

Support me on Ko-fi | Masterlist | My AO3

„What is this?“

- „A jelly peeling.“

„And this?“

- „A brush used for applying skin masks, so you don´t have to use your hands.”

You beamed with anticipation. This year, you had decided that it was time to show the boys how to make a couple-advent-calendar. A collection of 24 enjoyable things you could do together. And here it was. The 15th, “spa day”.

Hisoka was out, so you´d grabbed Illumi and dragged him into your study in what had to be the most comfortable kidnapping in history. He actually behaved very well, and you had the slight suspicion that he already enjoyed this.

“First is a headband.”

After you´d both taken a steaming hot bath together and rose from it super relaxed, you slipped a bunny-ear headband onto your boyfriend. Illumi turned to view himself in the make-up mirror. The feeling of something restricting yet comfortable was new to the assassin. The headband wasn´t meant to hurt him or for training, just to hold his hair out of his face. It felt... good. And the light pink went beautifully with his crème bathrobe.

“Look! You look like a bunny now!”

“Is that good?”

“It means you´re very cute and I like it.”

“Ah.”

“My cute little bun bun~”

While Illumi was admiring himself in the mirror, you had to resist the urge to braid his luscious hair, simply gathering it in a ponytail and then taking a seat in front of him.

Illumi´s mind wandered to the rest of the bathroom. You really had taken the time to tidy and clean everything and even decorate. Everything smelled so good! The light-scented candles held a soothing glow and they smelled sweet, as if Illumi just had to stick out his tongue and receive candy. You had placed them on every available surface, creating a big palette of colours that put his mind at ease. The products sitting neat next to them had big beautiful names and colourful packaging. Together with the tasteful instrumental music they made Illumi feel something he didn´t before. A thrill of anticipation.

“We´re starting off with a cleanser.”

Illumi´s watchful unblinking eyes followed every step of the routine. He sat there a little stiffly in a tailor-fashion, yet it reminded you fondly of a watchful cat. Or bunny, in this case. The outfit was so cute on him! It was a pity he wouldn´t let you take a picture.

You started to apply the soap-like foam onto his face with gentle care. Your nails were cut short just for this occasion and the way you worked the product into his skin was light and even. Your touch made him want to flinch, with how light and gentle it was, yet Illumi willed himself to hold still.

When would it start to sting? Illumi anticipated the pain, yet he trusted you. Whatever would happen, whatever would come, he wouldn´t flinch away. Even if you hurt him, he would be able to take it.

“Is this okay?”

“It is.”

You watched Illumi for signs of discomfort, a little concerned since he still wasn´t able to relax. It looked like he was preparing for the worst, even though you had mobilized everything to arrange a relaxing spa day... Ye the longer you brushed over his face, the heavier his eyelids became.

“Do you like it?”

“...”

His eyes closed and he started to relax. His shoulders became heavy, his hands slipped from his thighs into his lap where they loosely intertwined.

“Lumi?”

“Mh.”

Illumi wondered, when was the last time someone had taken care of him that way?

There was a memory from when he was about 3. He had fallen face first into the mud while running. Branches and dirt and pebbles had hurt his skin, yet by this age he had already learned not to cry. Illumi tried to remember. Had he already been numb to pain then?

One of the pebbles had lightly pierced through his cheek, resulting in an ugly wound that started to bruise. His mother had started yelling, fussing over his face and ushering him inside. She´d been angry and Illumi had felt responsible, mentally preparing himself for punishment. But then she had sat him down in her room, in her high chair in front of her vanity and tended to the wound under his eye with maybe the tenderest care he had ever seen in her.

“Illumi? I said do you want to wash your face yourself or do you want me to do it for you?”

You giggled when Illumi´s dark eyes shot back to your face. He had been zoning out for a while, probably lulled in by the soothing patterns on his face. For a second he just stared at you.

At you or at his mother, who had been wearing her hair down, then. Her beautiful locks of hair were black as night, just as his. His mother´s fussing had made him feel important, cared for.

“You do it.”

There was no force between his words. They came out slowly, eyes trained on your face as you smiled. Wordlessly you took a fluffy white washcloth and dipped it into a bowl with warm water.

“Close your eyes.”

You gently took a hold of his chin, just so much so that it would stay in place, as you began cleaning off the product. Illumi´s skin felt different now. Smoother, but dry.

“Next up is exfoliating!”

With far more fun that you´d imagined, you started rubbing the gel peeling into his skin. You had seen an instruction in a youtube tutorial earlier that day. When your thumbs brushed over his cheekbones in a circular pattern, Illumi let his eyes slip shut. You kept working gently on his face, eradicating non-existent little bumps and imperfections on his perfect glass skin. It was probably owed to his perfect diet and frequent intake of water... sometimes you were so jealous of that wonderful bastard.

Meanwhile Illumi thought about the pattern you used for the massage. Half a circle...

´Illumi. Keep up!´

His father had drawn the same pattern on the mat with his bare foot when he drew it back. Illumi hadn´t known then, that he´d done it to gain force and use it to punch his son square in the jaw.

`If you can´t evade my fist, how will you defend yourself against an enemy who attacks from the front? Illumi, they won´t have mercy like me. That is your first lesson.´

It had been the first time his father had openly punched him. Illumi had trembled in pain, holding his cheek with his tiny hand while trying to swallow his sobs.

`I trusted you, papa. I never thought... I never thought you would hurt me.´

Illumi´s eyes shot back open. His hands were gripping both your wrists, thumbs pressing into your palms and tilting them back.

A little gasp escaped Illumi´s mouth. His ears still rang with the blow of his father´s fist. Only after the noise had subsided did he notice.

In the same second he released you immediately. His heart beat wildly in his chest, spurring him on to fight, even though there was no actual danger. Even though you had never done anything to hurt him.

Your hands, they were so gentle, so soothing. They had brought him nothing but joy. There was no doubt in his mind that you were harmless.

“I should leave.”

He didn´t want to see your face, he couldn´t. After all, he had brought you damage. A flaw in a perfect system. Even though Illumi couldn´t decide if the flaw was his self-control or letting you close in the first place.

You went after him, grabbing onto his sleeve in the doorway.

“Illumi, listen to me.”

He didn´t move a muscle. He should go back home. His father would fix him. That was if he could forget you.

“I know it wasn´t the best idea to sit in front of you and repeatedly touch your face while you´re feeling vulnerable. I know you. I know have those patterns.”

Why did you have to say these words? They cut right into his soul with how true you were. It was unbearable yet Illumi couldn´t bring himself to walk away. Why couldn´t he just leave?

“Illumi...I want to walk through them together with you and for us to create new ones. New patterns, new memories, new routines.”

Why had he let a civilian come into his life? The needle he´d grabbed on instinct in his other hand when he´d grabbed you had almost come in contact with your skin. But you hadn´t even noticed.

“Don´t be a fool. I hurt you. It´s like father said. He let me live my own life, knowing I´d make a mistake and realize that there is only one way.”

Slowly, you walked around until you faced him.

“Illumi. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, the black-haired man raised his gaze. His eyes looked wet with frustration.

“You aren´t flawed. You´ve been put in a system where being perfect is unachievable. But look.”

You outstretched your hands, palms up. Upon further inspection, there were no bruises. No marks. Not even a red tint from where he had grabbed your wrists.

“You never hurt me, Illumi. Your grip was so gentle, somehow you must´ve known it was me. You see? There is no flaw.”

You beamed up at him.

“For me, you´re perfect. I love you, Illumi. I wouldn´t want you any other way.”

There was no flaw... he hadn't actually hurt you. Illumi's initial frustration started dripping down his cheeks.

For a long time, he wouldn´t let go.

With the utmost care he wrapped you in a hug, burrowing his face against your hair.

"Thank you. For letting me stay."

[reformedkingsmanagent]

A Werewolf in Vizima — Part 4

A/N: I know, surprise, surprise! I don’t know how much more of this I’ll be writing, but every time I tell myself to try to wrap it up, I create another thread to be addressed. I’m sorry!

[PART 1]     [PART 2]     [PART 3]

Geralt’s vision swam but he was still intently focused on the trail. Moving quickly through the spaces between the trees, avoiding all the small obstacles that normally would’ve already caught a foot or an ankle, he continued in his pursuit of what he now was sure was a werewolf. 

He didn’t know the circumstances of the curse, and didn’t care to know them. Someone travelling to the densely populated city to carry out gruesome attacks wasn’t interested in keeping themselves off the radar. There was true fear in the man’s eyes where he laid in the street. If his monster was killing for pleasure, it was only a matter of time before someone else was attacked. 

Geralt couldn’t prevent his thoughts from drifting over to you. What if it was you lying there in a pile of viscera? He just as quickly pushed it out of his mind. This was his job. He killed monsters. And his company was the last someone like you should keep. He would leave Vizima soon enough. Best not to let you get attached.

Follow your own advice.

A sound ahead distracted him from his thoughts.

Zeroing in on the source, he saw the unmistakable form of a werewolf walking on through the trees. Just a bit further out there was a small house, simply crafted and largely unadorned except for the large smear of blood across the door. Imagining all sorts of violence, Geralt reached back for the hilt of his silver sword, quietly pulling it free. 

In a moment, it would be over. Opting for a quick encounter, Geralt lightened his steps even further, hoping to maintain the element of surprise. Nearing the creature, he prepared a long, downward swing across its back. Before he could bring the blade down, the werewolf, catching his scent, whipped around and reached out for Geralt, dagger-like claws pushing in where his armor was thinnest, right at his side where there was a break in the leather. The creature snarled loudly, lifting Geralt slightly off his feet.

“Witcher,” the unnaturally deep voice spoke. “I knew you’d come for me.”

Geralt felt searing heat where his skin was punctured, each movement creating a new flash of pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a moment to steady his breathing as the werewolf tightened his grip. 

“Suppose now they’ll have to send for another.”

The mocking tone did nothing but sharpen Geralt’s focus. Spotting an easy opening, he took his opportunity to push the long blade into the creature’s heart, following it down to the ground as he watched it die. It took a moment longer for the grip at his side to release, and he pulled the claws away to inspect the wounds. 

Deep, but not too deep, he’d need to get patched up once he returned to Vizima.

Still, he thought again of you and the fool’s errand he’d sent you on. Why on earth did he ever think it was a reasonable request?

He used his sword to cleave the creature’s head from his shoulders, having loaned you his preferred knife, and carried it with him as he ran back to the city walls.

***

Moving the last bowl of moldy soup to the side, you were finally able to try the handle, sighing upon realizing it was locked.

“Is there a key?” Johanna whispered through the crack in the door.

You shook your head as you glanced around her door, though she couldn’t see you. Feeling more than a little useless as you stared at the handle, you tried to think of where a key would be kept. Likely only the matron had such a thing, and she was asleep in her quarters. 

Before you could completely give up, a loud creak sounded from below, as if the main door had been pushed open. Panic rising, you moved back against the wall just beside the stairs, pressing yourself against it as if whoever was walking up the stairs wouldn’t see you the moment they turned down the hall.

Heavy footsteps, mostly muted, slowly climbed the stairs. There was nowhere for you to go. You shouldn’t have come here, you knew it was a terrible idea from the moment you set off up the street. And now here you stood, about to be caught, Johanna no safer—

“Geralt?!” you whispered, eyes taking in the windswept hair, the slight bit of dirt on his cheek, the blood dripping onto the wooden floor as he turned the corner. 

“Do you have it?” he asked, his voice cautiously quiet. His eyes darted to the end of the hall, also checking for the matron. You were still stuck on his wound.

“You’re bleeding—”

Despite your concern, he pulled the paper free of your hand. Before he could inspect it, a quiet voice sounded from behind the door.

“Don’t leave me here.”

Geralt shot a look at you before moving closer to the door, stepping around all the dishes you’d moved out of the way. 

Before you could explain that the door was locked, he braced his feet and shoved his weight into the door, hand on the handle to prevent the door from swinging inward.

He glanced again down the hall before opening the door further and revealing a very weak, very pale Johanna. 

“Thank you,” she muttered before falling over the threshold. Geralt quickly passed the parchment back to you before reaching down to pick Johanna up. You wanted to talk to her, you had so many questions prepared for just this moment, but the sound of a lock turning further down the hall had Geralt stepping around dishes on his way down the steps. You darted down the stairs after him.

Before you could open the main door, Geralt nodded towards a dark shape resting on the edge of the formerly-bare counter. “Can you get that for me?”

You picked it up before really looking at it, a choice you immediately regretted as you locked eyes with a monstrous creature. It took everything in you not to scream at the sight. “Geralt, this is a—”

“Let’s go.”

He held open the door for you, the creak of the door the last thing either of you were worried about as you opened your bag and set the severed head inside, promising to throw every single thing inside away at the first opportunity.

“You know, I’m not going to ask you why you need that,” you muttered as the two of you walked briskly up the street. It was mostly empty now that the sun had gone down. 

“Do you live with anyone?”

“Excuse me?” You looked up to see he was already watching you. You jumped slightly but continued forward, sighing. “Yeah, I live alone. It’s best if we go this way.”

You led Geralt through the narrow side-streets until you reached the outside of your small, modest residence. It was just temporary, it’s what you told Milla and anyone else who asked. There were too many things happening for you to worry about the state of your lodgings at the moment. Once the adrenaline wore off, you’d surely be going around and tidying up what you could.

You climbed the steps outside to your second-floor rooms you were currently renting at a pittance most likely because the widow downstairs felt bad for you, if you were being honest with yourself. It wasn’t much, a bedroom, a thankfully large bathing room, something not at all common but not something you were ready to complain about, and a general area for cooking.

You unlocked the door and moved inside, holding it open wide so Geralt could come in, Johanna in his arms. He walked across the room and into your bedroom, and laid Johanna in your bed. You closed the door and set your bloody bag down on the floor beside it.

It was dark, but before you could move to try to light a lamp, he muttered a word and the lamp you were reaching for crackled to life. The room was immediately cast in an amber glow, enough light to see by. 

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” you finally asked. Johanna looked unconscious, or near it, nothing like the friend you’d known for years.

He was quiet for a moment too long, just standing in the doorway. The silence was overwhelming. You averted your gaze from the fur sticking out of your bag and let your eyes travel up his legs and back, all the way up to his silver hair, half of it up in a bun, the other half loose and probably hopelessly knotted.

“That’s a neat trick,” you commented, glancing at the lamp on the table.

He turned his head slightly to address you, his eyes roaming over the walls, the floor, the furniture of your room, not that it was much to look at. “It’s useful,” he agreed.

He eventually stepped back out of your room, pulling the door closed behind him. He relieved himself of the weight of his sword, setting it on your table before turning to face you. Your eyes fell to his wound, still slowly bleeding into his clothes. 

“You need to have that looked at,” you suggested, taking a step forward. Instead of responding, he pulled at the ties along his shoulder and lifted the damaged leather armor up over his head, setting it on the nearby bare table. The thin whte material underneath it was almost completely stained crimson. As he pulled that away, you could see the puncture marks at his side, deep and dark red. The skin around them that wasn’t covered in blood was bright pink, his body doing its best to try to repair him.

You allowed yourself a few seconds to scan over the rest of his torso, his shoulders, noticing other scars, wondering just how dangerous his job really was. Despite how bad his wounds looked, he didn’t seem to be affected or concerned.

“I-I have a bathing tub.” You spoke up without thinking about it, your nerves immediately getting in the way of coherent sentences. “I mean, if you need to…”

He looked up at you, his expression curious. “Do you mind?”

All you could do was shake your head. He peeked into the open door where the tub waited, probably a bit small for someone like him, but he didn’t seem to care.

He reached up for the medallion around his neck and undid the clasp, taking the wolf symbol in his hand before holding it out to you. “Look after this for me?”

You held your hands open under his. He gently lowered the chain down into your palms before pressing the round piece of metal into your hand. 

“Thank you.”

You nodded, eyes unwillingly locked on his amber ones, unable to move or step away. You could feel the heat coming off of his skin, realizing much too late just how close he was. There was a subtle magnetism to him, something you couldn’t help. You felt drawn in, and he seemed to notice, though he wasn’t doing anything to avoid it.

Your nerves won out, forcing you to look away and take a step back. You pushed the encounter out of your head as quickly as possible and didn’t look up until the door shut. You were left in silence, standing just outside the bathroom door, staring down at the medallion in your hand. It was heavy, significant, like it was holding some sort of mystical energy, though you were probably just making that part up.

You finally sat down at the table, keeping the medallion in your hand as you stared at the magically conjured flame in the lamp, feeling exhaustion creep over you. Just for a moment, you promised, setting your head down on the uneven wooden table. 

Just for a moment.

[gorjee-art]

Advice

This is just a short story I’ve made for classes and whatnot, but I ended up liking it as a story so, for good practice and a lil bit of fun, I give you this. Hope you like it! Feedback is appreciated! 

Through twisting and turning hallways of a castle, echoed a voice of a giggling woman, as a light beams through the darkened tunnels, shining like a heavenly gateway. Inside was a royal bath, bubbles floated everywhere in the room with a ceiling revealing the night sky, lit by hundreds of warm candle lights dancing on the marble walls decorated with potions and bottles meant for cleansing, with a heated pool in the center, bubbling with suds. A slim woman with fair skin and hair made of a twilight sky swirling with pink and purples shimmering with starlight, cupped a handful of the foam as set her palms near her pink lips and blew to make the foam break apart into a cloud of bubbles to make it all float back in the skies above her. She giggled once again, seemingly amused with floating spheres above her, legs splashing in the warm waters, happy like a child to be observing what was above her. As she gazed, she lost herself in thought and had an idea to spin herself a tale.

“At last, the Sandman sets his stage, the scene framed with curves and twists of shimmering gold. Upon the rooftops, his foot placed on the tops of chimneys like a marble statue, the moon shining down on his porcelain skin, a spotlight made for the star, in a galaxy of his own childish mind.”  

Her tone was almost as though she was entertaining an audience, her voice dancing with energy and whimsy, with her hands playing along with setting a scene; her body spoke more than her voice for what she told.

“A mischievous creature, his aura demanding attention for those who saw him in their dreams, staring with eyes filled with curiosity and whimsy for he meets them with his own maddened gaze, a Cheshire in their wonderlands, painting his own twisted versions of fairytale and myth. For the fools that dare come closer to the man encrusted with gold, would lose their minds as he once did. For the King of Dreams never liked the concept of order, but would rather prefer the beauty that is chaos, and as a man that starved affection and attention, with an innocent smile, he’d display his work with pride, with the feeble mind of humanity that couldn’t bear to look away. His subjects would forever be in his imagination, keeping him company as they slept their days away. Henceforth, he was known by his name, for they took his title as “The Sandman”, he kept his audience, that cherished the thought of Willing Madness and welcomed them with open arms, with a promise of tea, sweets, and tales told by bold men and a man of his word, many have awoken happily. For each morning, the curtain will close, leaving the King of Dreams to sit alone in his throne…”

She finished, her hands laid on her chest and bowing her head with her eyes shut closed as if to end a scene.

“Ahem,” Her purple eyes shot open to focus upon a young lady, clasped hands hiding away her blacked claws posed in the center of a golden Victorian dress, her face bitter as her frown revealed orange tusks. The pair locked eyes, the lady’s own amber stained spheres met of those belonging to a goddess.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, Gorjina.”

Her voice was filled with grace and patience but a hint of strictness and a respect for her ancestor. That seemed to please to whom was “Gorjina Star Nebula”.

“Not at all, dear.” She said with a smile “What is it you need? Or, would you rather join me for a bath, you look…tense.” She eyed the maiden with a cunning grin, making it well known to her that she was teasing the girl’s stress ”Every girl needs a spa day these days, especially you, Norma.”

Norma rolled her eyes at the remark and raised a brow,

“I’m not interested, I just-“ she paused, a moment of silence to chase her train of thought. Her expression faded from an annoyed sneer to a look of worry but quickly shook it off to set back to a tone of professionalism “I just need some advice.”

Gorjina stared and questioned her moment of silence. Concerned, she waited to hear her darling descendant’s woes, raising her hand and fluttered it as if to say, ‘go on’. Norma neared closer to the pool her eyes jutting away from side to side.

“Be honest…” Her voice softened “ do you… consider me as an awful person? Are you haunting my mind as a punishment?”

The final word was said with hesitation, as if it was a truth never meant to be revealed, with guilty eyes she struggled to look Gorjina face to face. However, the goddess stared back with shock,

“She couldn’t have, she wouldn’t, she couldn’t be this…moronic” she thought to herself.

With eyes wide and jaw agape, she laughed a wicked laugh, it was so loud that it screamed up to the heavens above, Norma quickly shut her ears closed and her face crinkled with anger and fury, black smoke spilling out from her gritting teeth.

“What’s so funny? Why are you laughing?” Norma spat with clear insult.

“You are merely pathetic! Not a monster! If you so consider your misdeeds as sin, then I would be Lucifer himself! You haven’t killed, stole, lied in front of a crying child, do you even HEAR yourself?” Gorjina continued to giggle, gasping for breaths of air as she fanned her weeping tears away

“A punishment? A PUNISHMENT? How low do you think of me Norma? I would be insulted and turn you into a useless doll if wasn’t so funny. Please, you’re only but a serpent living in the caves on top of a pile of gold you so greedily keep to yourself, yet you never bother anyone and they don’t bother you. How could you be horrendous, Norma? Please, I’d ADORE to hear how your mind would come up with this idiocy.”

Norma continued to sneer and growl at the woman who lived in her mind, with anger blinding her judgement.

“Then why does no one come over? Why is everyone that surrounds me takes a good look at me and runs away in a couple of seconds, look at me Gorjina I’m a freak! They’ve hurt me! I’m nothing but a parasite amounting to NOTHING!” As the outburst ends Norma heaves for breath as the smoke subsides, with a few tears sliding down her cheeks.

“What is… my purpose? Who am I? What’s the point in anything? Was I really meant to be an artist? Does my life have meaning?“ “Slow down, dear.” She lets out a sigh, letting the tips of her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose as she processed the questions given,  “Your purpose is achieving your goals and making yourself happier and more fulfilled as a person. You are Norma Kit; you decide what is the point. You’ve already gone this far, why stop doing what you love? And everyone has some meaning and impact on the Earth so long as you’re not some parasite more useless than the ground you’ve walked on, by which you’re not. What’s gotten into you? These are idiotic sentiments; they have no use for you.” She hissed.

Norma sighed, with a look of defeat she buried her face in her palms. With a flick of a wrist Gorjina fashioned her a couch before Norma could sit down. Gorjina with a feeling of pity, swam across to her broken apprentice to make sure that she is comforted. She rested her arms on the edges of the pool and looked up at her.

“That’s it, let it all out…” Gorjina said in a soft whisper, with a snap, her own sorcery made fictional “servants” come to life, made with odd shapes and colors they had no identity besides being what Gorjina meant for them to be. One pet Norma’s caramel hair to soothe her woes the other released the bow that kept her hair in a bun and tidied it up.

“You should cease your little habit of hiding away what makes you human, you could burst one day.”

“I know.” Norma said admittedly.

“Then why continue dear? I’m tired of reminding you that you are my flesh and blood, yes you may be strong, but you are also fragile, I’m here to aid my family and these choices you make in life are…”

Gorjina bit back her tongue and re thought her choice of wording

“…silly. Why close the doors of which are in front of you?”

“I don’t know.”

Feeling slight disappointment for her descendant, she sighed, rolled her eyes and asked a simple question.

“Why are you really here, Norma?”

“I just wanted to be sure, I suppose. It’s been getting to me again. It bothers me that these thoughts come around so…often. I needed just, an answer I can be sure is true.”

“It’s normal, darling. Humanity is known to push themselves and question life to do remarkable things. However, these questions about yourself will grant you these thoughts, and it has simple answers. So stop it before you waste anymore of my time.” She said with a huff and a raised nose, as she turned her back to Norma, sinking into the bubbling water submerging her body. The servants disappeared with her, fading into colorful bits of shimmering smoke, as Norma realized this, she fell on to her knees to call for her.

“Wait, wait, wait! No, you get back here! At least tell me how I stop it!”

Gorjina stopped for a moment, and looked up at her young apprentice, raising her hand so her chin may rest on it, and with no amusement she asked:

“-And what do I get in return for this favor?”

Norma thought for a moment and reached for her ears, removing two pearl earrings and set them in the palm of her cupped hands. “Here, you can have them. Just fix me.”

Gorjee stared at what she put in place, chuckling to herself, “I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer.”

“What?! But these are real pearls! Don’t bail out on this!”

“Oh, I know they are, and they are quite lovely,” She raised her hands from the water to shut Norma’s cupped hands, “but you need to keep them.”

“I’m…confused.”

“You need to keep those that simply cannot have a price. That should end your troubled thoughts. Look how you gave them away with no thought, no love for these lovely treasures. So desperate to let someone fix you, when the answer was right in front of you.” After a bit of thought Gorjina raised a brow and chuckled. “Besides, dear. I’m an artist.” With a quick flick of a wrist and a sudden puff of smoke, she was covered in encrusted jewels, pearls, gems, and treasures alike. “I can make my own, don’t you know…?”

“But- But you- I.”

Gorjina quickly hushed Norma, “To put this simply, you focus on those that don’t desire your presence, and you get hurt by it. So you hide away to a place that you believe no one will ever harm you, when your mind is your worst enemy. Thus, I stay here and you’re not alone, and many of us would be delighted to help you with your journey of life, and I’m afraid you don’t have much time as you think you do. You’re fragile, stop making these gray hairs for yourself.”

Norma looked at her earrings and looked back at Gorjina with a smile and an eased expression, as Gorjina looked back all the same. Displaying a love only a mother can have for their child.

“Now shoo, I’ve done enough for you.” As Gorjina turned away and exited her bath, quickly covering herself in robes of silk, both looked up to see the moon starting to set and the sun rising with birds beginning to chirp their own songs.

“It’s time to wake up, dear. It’s going to be a beautiful morning” she chuckled, and snapped her fingers.

Suddenly, Norma was in a modern room, laying on her bed and staring up at the ceiling. No dress except for a t-shirt and hair a ratty mess she groggily, turned her head to look at her clock for it to be 10:34 am.

“Not so bad.” She thought to herself,  with a few stretches and popping bones she sat on the edge of her bed to face her window. A beautiful day, as Gorjina had predicted…

“Meh.” she said with a gruff and closed the curtains and buried her face on the pillow with a smile.

“You’re an absolute disgrace, you understand that right?” her head echoed.

“Mm…you love me.”

The voice sighed and chuckled “You at least understood something, Norma.”

[loquaciousquark]

4th Solace. I’ve just realized I’ve missed the worst of the summer heat thanks to the Arishok’s oversized toothpick. If I’m being honest, not a bad trade

Odd thing happened today. Gamlen was here visiting again--which, that has been odd enough, for all that I've been glad to see him (even if his concern throughout my whole recovery has been markedly acidic). We were in the library, three layers deep into Bodahn’s date buns, when all of a sudden Orana knocked and announced Lady Audrey and her son, Stinton Forrester, were here to visit. They live about seven estates down the way with the extravagantly bitter Lord Willem Forrester and his unkinder mother, and I don’t think we’ve ever spoken to each other in our lives.

Anyway, in they came. She was in purple silk and he had a suit with puffier sleeves than my entire wardrobe; Gamlen was in his workcloth shirt with the seam I mended in pink thread two years ago, and I had a grease stain on my pants the shape of Antiva from that time we stumbled into the raider tripwires in Darktown.

I will say the shower of crumbs as I stood to greet them was remarkable, as was Toby’s alacrity in removing them from the carpet. After that scintillating beginning, though, I wasn’t sure what to do, so we ended up perching on the chairs and staring at each other for a good bit. Eventually someone ventured a remark on the weather and someone else responded in kind, and then we were making the small insipid talk I’ve heard at every one of Mother’s parties, and even Gamlen restricted himself to quiet snorts and rolled eyes instead of his usual biting commentary.

To be honest, that worried me more than anything else. Lady Audrey was never a great friend of Mother’s so far as I knew, but for the solicitousness of her concern over my injuries I might have thought she and Mother were the closest sisters in Thedas. Endless questions about my comfort, my recovery, endless advice on salves and creams to reduce scarring. Stinton just sat there and stared at me. I don’t think he said ten words.

They stayed just long enough to make the room thoroughly uncomfortable, then sailed out in a silk cloud. Stinton smiled at me when Orana came to walk them out. I’d forgotten two of his bottom teeth are turned sideways.

I haven’t the faintest idea what just happened.

Later

Gamlen says Stinton intends to court me. I say Gamlen needs to stop drinking the moonshine Jo Mallen makes with goose dung.

11th Solace. Steaming hot. Suppose I haven’t missed the summer after all

Stinton’s been back to visit twice. As have Orwen, Pelarie, Derrick, Braeden, Sage, and every single one of their mothers.

Shit.

19th Solace. Stormed hard but cleared up by midmorning. Everything marvelously dank, just like it should be

They’ve set the ceremony to make me the city’s champion for the last day of Solace. Stinton’s hinted three times he’d like to arrive on my arm. Or--me on his, as I suspect he’d prefer. He’s stopped coming with his mother. I wish he’d stop coming at all. He has the most abominable habit of saying my name every few words, as if he wants me to be absolutely certain I have his full attention. Feels more like he’s trying to piss dominance over a prize bitch.

No one’s called me that name since Mother died, and even then it was only when I’d been caught making trouble. It’s not for you, you pompous prick.

23rd Solace. Hot again. Foundry smoke’s been drifting over all day. Wish the smell would be kind enough to blow elsewhere, tired of nightmarish memories

Pelarie Ashbridge is entirely too shy to be caught up in this mess. She barely comes up to my shoulder for all that she’s over twenty, and no matter how her maid dresses her in cashmere and taffeta she still seems like a girl forced too far too soon. The only time I’ve ever really seen her smile was when I told her about the time Carver and I stole a sackful of unripe pears from Barlin and were sick for three days afterwards. Of course, that only lasted until her mother The Most Dour Woman In Thedas pinched out a smile and said something about how all children must learn to be ladies eventually, and Pelarie’s smile fell off her face like an anchor’d been tied to it.

Joke’s on her, though. I was nineteen when we did it.

(She certainly didn’t care for my pointing that out, especially given my glee in the doing. Pelarie smiled again, though, so I suppose it was worth the spite.)

Flames, but I wish these idiots would stop using their children as leverage. For all Mother’s faults, she never once tried to sell me for profit.

27th Solace. If I imagine hard enough, I can almost convince myself the city’s beginning to cool

If the hand is shakier than usual, it’s because I’m laughing hard enough I can barely breathe.

We came home--Andraste’s glorious girdle! I’ve got to get through the setup before the punchline, but the delay might very well kill me. We were out on the Coast today for Aveline, rooting out some smugglers who’ve been peddling qunari detritus at a tidy profit. First real fight since the Arishok--did fairly well, all things considered! Mana’s still a trifle weak, so some of the firestorms were more like fire trickles, but the battle ended with them dead and me with only a cracked shin, so all in all a resounding victory so far as I’m concerned.

Invited everyone over to celebrate, naturally, but Sebastian was already pushing late for Chantry services and Aveline had dinner plans with Donnic, so in the end it was just Fenris and me walking back to Hightown together.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned this, but I told him about these fool visits at Wicked Grace last week. He hadn’t laughed like I’d thought, just gone...quiet, I suppose, is the best word for it. Frowned at his cards for three hands and lost every coin he came with, then excused himself early. I hadn’t meant to go after him--Maker knows his running wouldn’t thank me for the chase--but I saw him fiddling with that damned red band on his way out and knew right where his mind had gone.

Caught up to him right outside the door. It was cool for Solace, I remember, because his northern arms had gone to gooseflesh in the chill, and he’d actually shivered when I’d touched his shoulder to turn him. Wouldn’t meet my eyes, either, for all he stayed put, and it wasn’t until I reached down and tucked my fingers around his wrist (the wrapped one) that he came back to a little life.

I don’t remember exactly what I said. More than I should have--I’m fairly certain I offered to start hanging paint buckets above doors at his druthers--but it only garnered the slightest smile until I stepped a hair too near and he moved just a bit too close and--all at once--I had nothing to say.

All this time, and that was all it took. The slightest lean in instead of away, and my heart leapt so high in my throat I could hardly breathe.

I told him I wasn’t going anywhere.

I didn’t say anything else. I didn’t know what else to say, but he looked up when I said it, and that uncertain smile shifted into something a little deeper, and then he closed his eyes and his forehead came up against mine for just a moment or two, just long enough for a breath that took a thousand years with it on the exhale.

He left after that, and I didn’t try to keep him.

Funny, I don’t feel like finishing this now. I’ll come back to it another time.

Later.

All right. I’m three shots of Antivan liquor and most of a rotisserie chicken in, so let’s get on with this.

We came home from the Coast, is the short of it. It was easy enough between us after that conversation so I wasn’t thinking about much, just enjoying the walk, and then we came in and who should be sitting in one of those overtall embroidered chairs in my library but Lord Stinton Fucking Forrester in orange and ivory silk and slashed sleeves.

His face. Oh, Maker and his Bride, I’m crying at the thought of it. That pristine little suit, and in we come covered in blood and mud and sand with Fenris picking sinew out of his cuirass. I might as well have struck him upside the head with a frying pan.

Gaping isn’t a strong enough word. I started laughing the moment I saw him--couldn’t help it, too absurd--and managed to struggle through an introduction while shaking bone bits out of my hair. Stinton barely got out a stuttering hello, looking at me the whole time like I was quite alien, but Fenris--Fenris! that insufferable magnificent ass! gave such a deliberate flourish of his sword before sheathing it and setting the whole massive thing one-handed against the wall. Then he gave Stinton the most Tevinter half-bow that managed to signify more disrespect than a formal Kirkwall snubbing ever could, and I had to bite down on my tongue to check the giddiness.

Even that would have been enough. But then Orana--and Maker bless every bone in her body, for I think she dislikes Stinton as much as I do--came in with a bowl and a handful of rags the way she always does when we come home covered in gore, and kept a gloriously bland smile on her face the whole time we wiped off the worst of the blood. She even asked how many we’d killed this afternoon (which she hardly ever does), and pretended it was a perfectly normal thing when Fenris answered her with “sixteen.”

It was possibly the most Tevinter-esque conversation they’ve ever had in front of me, and my heart’s still singing for it.

Anyway. This continued on in the same vein for several minutes, Stinton looking nervously between the two of us, until there was an unfortunate lull, whereupon Stinton took it upon himself to ask how long Fenris had been serving in my household.

Oh, journal, but I bristled. Fenris hardly seemed concerned--resigned only, which I hated just as much--but I kept my temper enough to inform him quite frostily that he was a dear friend and had been so for years, and I had been honored to fight in his company today.

Which was all true, though I haven’t the faintest idea who was more surprised between the two of them.

Stinton didn’t stay much longer after that. He looked as though he still wanted to speak to me privately, but the Void would have to tear open my library before I’d ask Fenris to leave it for Stinton’s sake, and he left within a few minutes of Orana carrying away the bloodied bowl. I wasn’t sorry to see him go.

Then it was just Fenris and me left, and a silence that ought to have been awkward but wasn’t. Instead it was just comfortable, the both of us tired after the fight and that fool and willing to forget them as fast as we could.

I asked him if he’d come with me to the ceremony. As a friend, if he wanted, but I said I’d like to have him there.

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then he said no, which didn’t surprise me, but he looked sorry to say it, which did. He said he’d make a poor showing in dented, stained armor and he hadn’t time to get new things. I said I wouldn’t care in the least--it was him I wanted there, not his clothes--which made him laugh even if it didn’t change his mind. He said it would be a bad idea to draw attention to himself given both Danarius and the fact that he’s still squatting in that rotting mansion.

I couldn’t argue with that. So. He left, and I’m left to Varric and Sebastian as my only acceptable escorts. Not that I don’t--but--well. I knew it was a long shot.

Well. Nothing to be done about it now. It was still a wonderful thing to see Stinton slinking out like the weasel he is.

29th Solace. The day before my doom is fittingly dreary

Felt bad all morning over mocking Stinton to his face yesterday. Sent a note to him this afternoon asking him to come by for a few minutes so I could apologize.

He accepted it, ungraciously as it was given, which made me feel even worse--right up until the point where he told me he’d be happy to continue his attentions towards me only if:

a) I stop “trouncing about with Kirkwall unsavories”

b) I tone down my use of magic--so difficult to overlook when I keep throwing it in people’s faces

c) I dismiss the elf from my service (not certain if he means Fenris or Orana, though given his sneer I suspect the former)

d) I stop permitting Lady Ashbridge to bring Pelarie to visit, and Orwen and Braeden and the rest, no matter how gentle Pelarie is when her mother’s not crushing her under her heel.

I’m not often stunned speechless, and I’m pleased to say this was no exception. I’ve forgotten exactly what I said, but I know at one point I used the phrase “barbaric bollocking boor” and was fairly pleased with myself. His face turned all sorts of colors but ended a mottled red, and when I was finished he turned and walked right out the door without waiting for Orana.

Burned that bridge right to the ground, I suppose. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

30th Solace. Cold. Grey. Blustery. Pfeh

Orana has been at me for hours with more perfumes and salts than a magister’s bathhouse.

Just put me in the damned dress and let me go. No one who likes me will be there except Aveline anyway, and she’s seen me naked and covered in mud. That was one memorable trip up Sundermount, I’ll tell you that.

She’s coming with a fistful of gold pins for my hair. Maker save me

Later

The carriage is at the door; I can hear its squeaking wheels and Sebastian’s just come in the foyer. I can hear his voice from here. I asked Orana if I could pretend to be dead and she said she didn’t think the ruse would take. Damn her

Snuck the journal in my useless clutch. Serves her right. I’m drowning in poorly-scented sweat and Stinton keeps sneering at me across the floor. Pelarie’s here, though, and I’m determined to dance with her at least once to get her mother off her back. Sebastian’s been a darling to take my temper and he looks marvelous in russet and white and gold. Plus he knows the dances, which makes me look a good deal better. He’s dancing with the oldest Allencourt girl now. I foisted him off to spare him from me awhile--she’s sweet, if a bit dim, and guaranteed not to snap when he offers her a canapé.

Music’s changing again. How much longer?

Ceremony’s done but I can’t leave yet. Snuck off to some fainting room and locked the door--Cullen of the templary curls offered to escort me to get some cooler air but I said I’d rather avoid any surreptitious branding, which I think genuinely shocked him. Meredith didn’t seem to hear for all she’s been staring at me all evening, so I suppose I should count myself lucky and shut my mouth.

Aveline’s here. She’s in uniform, but it might as well be a golden gown for how adoringly Donnic’s watching her. Lucky thing.

Too many people altogether, all looking at me. Orsino, Meredith, Cullen, Elthina--even Bran showed up and brought me a champagne flute. I asked if it was poisoned. He looked at me sourly and said if he’d meant to poison me, he’d have done it when I was still the vagabond refugee fumbling with a wineglass in the Viscount’s office. 

People keep knocking. Told them to go away but I guess I can’t have fainted then

Sebastian says I can leave in half an hour. The Champion of Kirkwall gets an iron circlet and a medal and a piece of paper in the mail. The medal’s in the clutch, but there’s not much to do for this damned circlet. My forehead’s going to be dented for weeks

Later

It’s almost three in the morning, but I’m finally home. The candle’s nearly out so I’ll keep this brief as I can, but--

Fenris came.

It was just for a few minutes, so quick I might have blinked and missed it. I’d stepped out for the last time--the Viscount’s gardens back right up to the great hall, and there was a wonderful shrubbery thing in a great brown pot that hid me marvelously in the shadows, even with the crimson satin. Only this time I stepped out and--there was someone already behind it.

I will say I repressed the scream admirably. I can’t say I didn’t stumble back with the most ignominious trip into the gravel I’ve ever had, except the shadow reached out and caught me.

Maker. I even write besotted.

Knew him as soon as I felt his hand. Knew the calluses well enough, certainly, but the lyrium I’d recognize blind and deaf and dying. He stood me on my feet, and I looked at him, and...

Sometimes, in Lothering, Bethany and I would go out to the creek that ran behind our fields. There was a wild hydrangea bush there, taller than the two of us together, and in the last days of spring we’d find the little buds and Bethany would coax them with her magic to see if she could get them to bloom. She was much better than I was at it--I tended to get impatient and wither them instead--and most of the time they’d only open a bit, only slivers of brilliant purple peeping out between waxy green sheaths.

Sometimes, though--sometimes, if everything was perfect--she’d thread her magic into the leaves and I could see it take, could see the leaves growing and greening and beginning to furl away, and the bud would swell and swell and swell until all at once the bloom would burst open--in perfect silence--and a glorious purple blossom larger than my head sat in her curled fingers.

They were beautiful. And I...

That happened in my heart, when I saw him. Silent and sudden and beautiful and overwhelming, and there was no going back after it opened.

He wasn’t in his armor. He’d found a dress tunic--Tevinter in style, high-collared, but with long sleeves that gathered snug at his wrists, and black trousers that fit him beautifully, and I’d never felt so near crying from gladness in my life. I don’t know where he found them. I don’t care.

He said he couldn’t stay, that the guards would only ignore so much, even well on their way to drunk, but he misliked the idea that his fear of Danarius might control him even now. He said he knew I needed no protection from fools (like Stinton, implied), but if I needed refuge from their mothers...

I shouldn’t have hugged him, but I did, and I don’t regret it. He held me back, so he couldn’t have hated it that much.

I told him he was the best thing I’d ever seen. He told me I was beautiful, and he didn’t let go of me until I’d pulled away first.

Lady Everlyn came out only a few seconds later with Braeden at her heels, so there wasn’t much more to the moment, but he was still watching me when I stepped away to keep him hidden. I told him he’d be standing up with me next time, not hiding behind a bush. He said, “Hm,” but he was smiling when he did.

The candle’s long out and I’ve been writing by magelight for twenty minutes. I’d better stop before Orana ties me down with my own bedsheets.

(I’m determined there will be a next time. If nothing else, I need to see him in those trousers in proper light, not in the shadow of a shrubbery.)

(He came for no other reason than I wished him to and he’s kind, even if he doesn’t want anyone to know. If he’s trying to make me forget him, he’s gone the wrong way about it.)

(My face is so flushed the damned iron circlet feels like ice.)

(He said I was beautiful.)