#due to the way the ending doles out his fate | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lattaeyongs · 1 year ago

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the trojan horse (hrj)

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↳ pairing: huang renjun x reader

↳ word count: 19.6k

↳ genre: royalty!au, historical (late 1700s)!au, arranged marriage!au, heavy angst, fluff, smut

↳ summary: in which the boy you fall in love with isn’t who you think he is.

↳ warnings: character death, political unrest, violence, nudity, explicit sexual content (oral, penetration, switch!renjun, switch!reader, cum play), may contain historical inaccuracies

↳ a/n: influenced heavily by the events of the french revolution.

1791

Ominously, the large, mahogany doors of the Royal Court open. Two guards tightly grip the arms of a shadow, and as the three slowly approach the center of the room, you realize it is a middle-aged, disheveled, pitiful-looking man who wouldn’t put up much of a fight against the guards anyway.

Across a large table sit the Members of the Royal Court. They include some barons and earls, along with religious leaders. Your father, the King, sits at the center, looking especially royal in his brand-new purple robes, and you sit by his side, your fingers intertwined together neatly.

��Order!” Your father announces loudly to the Court. The barons and lords’ chatters die, and the room is silent.

“Name?” Asks the King.

“Kim Donghyun,” the man says. He is practically just skin and bones, and it makes you think about how you’ve never gone a day without having three exquisite meals.

You guiltily avoid his gaze; he doesn’t notice. His attention is toward the King. Due to the days of sitting in a dungeon in utter darkness waiting for his trial and sentencing, he has to blink a few times to get adjusted to the bright light in the Court.

“What is your crime?”

Kim Donghyun takes a deep breath. You observe him intently, and you notice how he is practically quaking in fear at being in front of the King. The only time a peasant like him would ever be graced with the presence of the King is when it is nothing good at all.

Being tried in front of the Royal Court constitutes as ‘nothing good at all.’

“Theft,” he says in a small voice. At his fear, the King looks at him in disdain. Kim Donghyun knows that his time is limited, and he won’t die without a shred of dignity.

He raises his voice. “I did it for my family.”

“Only describe the crime,” the King interjects.

“I work in the farming district. In an apple orchard. Instead of turning over all the apples I collected to the cart that takes it to distribution centers, I kept some hidden in my home.”

The King turns to look at the rest of the Court and discusses quietly, avoiding your gaze. You’re able to make out some words, such as ‘sin’ and ‘infestation of the poor,’ but you don’t interact. Of course, he ignores you, as if you don’t have an opinion. As the only woman on the Court, you were only there after you convinced (more like begged) your father. Deciding a man’s fate wasn’t apt work for a royal woman, whose responsibilities lie in producing a legitimate, male heir for the Kingdom after your father chooses your husband, who is the next in line to the throne – not you, who is your father’s own flesh blood and has a right to the throne. You told your father that Queen Elizabeth I more almost three hundred years ago took the throne of England and ruled through a golden age, dismantling your father’s claim that women weren’t fit to rule, but your father argued that was why England didn’t have a direct, legitimate heir, and why England fell into turmoil after Queen Elizabeth’s death in 1603.

“There is only one suitable punishment for thieves,” The King says in a sure, kingly voice. You gulp harshly. You knew the next words that would come out of his mouth, after sitting in the Royal Court’s proceedings, which all practically ended the same way, no matter how big or small the offense is. He doles out this punishment like it’s nothing. There used to be other punishments for thieves such as cutting off their hands, but the only places those punishments are described in history books.

“Death by The Dragon’s Fang!” Your father declares. Through the ornately decorated window, you see the chopping block where executions take place. The Dragon’s Fang, the family sword that has been an important symbol of Justice in your Kingdom, cuts cleanly across the neck of whoever has done the Kingdom of Ambrosia wrong. Sharpened every day by the Executioner, it never gives anything but a decisive end to someone’s life.

“Please,” the man pleads. The chains around his wrists rattle as he folds his hands together tightly in desperation. The two guards accompanying him hold him even tighter, creating small impressions on his skinny body, but your father gestures for them to let go of Kim Donghyun. He falls to his knees, tears forming at the rims of his eyes.

You’ve sat through hundreds of proceedings, and every single one of them rips a new hole in your heart.

“I never intended to steal,” he explains. “My family, we’re starving. Starving!” He screams in anguish. The guards come closer to him but do not hold him like they once did; desperate this man is, but not desperate enough to run.

“It’s no excuse,” the King says firmly.

“I had to do it. Come to the farming district yourself! We’re all suffering before dying of starvation and disease. Reeking dead bodies are everywhere and we have no medicine and no food! How are we supposed to live?”

At his anguished voice, you decide that you’re not going to let this be yet another proceeding that you will watch and do nothing about the result. After all, this is supposed to be your kingdom in the future, not your future husbands, even though it doesn’t seem like that.

“He’s right,” you say. Stunned gasps echo through the room. Not a single member of the Royal Court has second-guessed any of the King’s decisions. But you do not let that affect the firmness in your voice.

“How are the working class supposed to serve us if we cannot give them enough resources to live?” You spin it another way. You don’t truly mean what you say, only giving the situation in this light in order for your father to understand; he only understands when things affect him; the rest of the Court are the same way, almost medically unable to expand their cold, selfish hearts to show a little compassion.

“If we show mercy to this one man,” your father says patiently, “then others will start doing the same thing. We need to make an example of the misdeeds of this man, to prevent further law-breaking.” Your father knows of your compassion for others, an un-queenly trait that he thinks you will outgrow when you get a little more experience with royal affairs, the only reason why he let you take part in the proceedings of the Royal Court. Being that you’re only a child, twenty years old, you have not the same maturity as a seasoned King. But to you, it’s not just a phase.

Whatever happened to the great leaders of yesteryear who knew when to show compassion and when to rule with an iron fist? Your father’s ruthless punishments are what earned him the title of ‘The Mad King’ by the commoners, according to the King’s spies (aptly called his ‘Ears’) everywhere. It is even rumored that the Resistance, an organization whose goal is to destroy the royal family, is real. After hearing about the American Revolution and the Revolution in France, common people hold out hope for a democracy, where everyone’s voices are heard. The writings of Thomas Paine and John Locke started circulating in the Kingdom of Ambrosia and have stirred up more political unrest than what could be imagined.

Your father afterward made it his mission to find every copy of Common Sense and Two Treatises of Government and burn them, as well as execute anyone with a physical copy of those books. He could not have that sort of insolence from his subjects. However, that did nothing; the words were still in peoples’ minds, spreading to others orally, and who knows how many illegitimate copies there are, the words printed on cloth or in their minds? This made people want to get bootlegged copies even more. If the commoners had enough food on the table and compassionate leaders, then their cries for revolution are quieter. If the Gods chose you to be a ruler, then that means that the Gods see leadership potential in your lineage, and you should follow that.

“I’m not saying to spare Kim Donghyun any punishment,” you explain cooly with your hands in your lap in a lady-like fashion, just as your governess taught you when you were little. “There are other means of punishment which will get the point across.”

“Other means of punishment?” Your father echoes in a tone that makes you feel small. “Stealing is a sin and sins are punishable by death.”

“Can’t he get a whipping? I’m sure that he learned his lesson. He’s frightened to death and needs to feed his –”

“Quiet, girl!” The King declares. Instantly, you feel your father’s palm connect with your cheek, and a stinging sensation burns your skin. This immediately makes your tear ducts tingle with the need to let hot tears roll down your cheeks, but you will not let the Royal Court see you as a little girl being chastised by her father.

You are a young woman and one that is to be the future queen at that.

At the way you take a painful slap, Kim Donghyun meets your gaze with a resigned, yet thankful look at your efforts. He already knows that in a few short minutes, his blood will be pooling on the floor in the adjacent room.

“The Royal Court here rules that Kim Donghyun is sentenced to death by the Dragon’s Fang.” He bangs the gavel against the table loudly, glancing at you before locking gazes with Kim Donghyun. He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t scream. He knew he took a massive risk with those apples. He only wished that he stole more because the look of satisfaction when his wife and children ate was intoxicating.

The two guards grab Kim Donghyun’s elbows before escorting them out of the Royal Court and into the next room. The window gives a clear view of the large chopping block stained with dry, brown blood where Kim Donghyun is supposed to lean, his knees on the floor, his neck and the edge of the block lining up. Then, the Executioner takes the Dragon’s Fang and raises it above his head. He doesn’t close his eyes at the sight he is about to see, a ritual he has performed thousands of times, only asking the victim for any last words, as you can tell from seeing this proceeding many times. Kim Donghyun says something, but you are not sure what. Then, the Executioner swings the sword, and Kim Donghyun crumbles to the ground in two parts after a sickening crunch (that you’ve heard so many times, it echoes in your head).

You think you’re going to be sick.

Just like there were many court proceedings before the trial of Kim Donghyun, there are many afterward. The Resistance is growing larger, according to the King’s Ears, and is ready to plan something large. Normally, your father would not tolerate this insolence against the royal family. He would have liked to nip it in the bud and hang the bodies of all the rebels in front of the streets to make an example out of them, but the King is running into a huge problem: he is close to bankruptcy. He barely has enough resources to pay guards and mercenaries to protect the current palace, as well as cooks and maids and servants. He doesn’t have enough resources to pay for a large army and create a special task force to get rid of the rebels. After spending his money on clothes and shoes, brand new wings of the palace and concubines, he was spending money faster than he was receiving it.

Obviously, you knew that this was a serious problem, and it was information that select people had access to; Royal advisors were trying their best to make sure that this information was kept under a tight lid and wouldn’t find its way to the Resistance. Royal advisors suggested that the King find a source of needed materials without raising taxes yet again, and that’s where you come to play. Your father arranged for you to meet a suitor to set up a much-needed marriage alliance.

Today, you would be meeting the Prince of Neo, Huang Renjun. Neo is a small kingdom a few days journey from you by the sea, and they are known for their ample craftsman class who commission some of the finest weapons. They are also a source of skilled fighters, and they will be more likely to ship off their people and provide resources to Ambrosia if they have a suitable marriage alliance.

As much as you hated being auctioned off like an antique vase, it was something that couldn’t be helped as a royal woman. You only hope that this Huang Renjun isn’t like the other suitors you have met, who are snooty and stuck up, ruthless as if they are miniature versions of your father. More importantly, you wish that they won’t cast you aside, using you as a pawn to get their hands on the better prize, the Kingdom of Ambrosia, the largest kingdom in the area.

There’s already tension in the air when you are escorted by your mother and lady’s maids into the drawing room where you first lay eyes on Huang Renjun.

His raven-colored hair is neatly gelled and combed, and his skin is pale in contrast. He stands up politely at your presence, and you get a good look at his clothing: rich, exactly what you expect for a royal from another kingdom. He wears red robes with delicate, intricate yellow designs, and you suspect the material is velvet. He has white frills at his neck, and milky white socks that compliment the black shoes at his feet, which have a gold flower at the center of the foot to match the gold designs on his robes.

You’re thankful that the suitor you’re meeting is actually in the same age range as you, but it’s an additional bonus that he’s one of the most beautiful men you’ve met without even trying.

He is also observing you with the same tenacity as you do with him: You’re wearing a crown of pink flowers on your head, which matches the pink flowers on your sky-blue dress. Your skirt is large and trails at your behind, which shows your royal standing, and the sky-blue sleeves of your dress slowly become white lace as his eyes follow from your shoulders to your wrists. The sleeves of your dress are cone-like, and the edges are able to reach your knees.

For a few seconds, you meet Renjun’s gaze. His eyes are a beautiful dark brown, and they offer you a friendly look, which puts your heart at slight ease.

“Princess Y/N, this is Prince Renjun of Neo,” your mother introduces in a voice that makes it seem like she has known Prince Renjun for a long time (which she hasn’t).

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, your Highness,” Renjun says. His voice is absolutely magnificent, song-like, and dreamy. He steps forward and bends down on one knee, taking your right hand and kissing the back of it.

His lips feel warm against your skin.

There are a few other men by Renjun’s side. There are his personal guards, who came with him on the carriage ride from his castle to yours, and another man in fine clothing, someone you failed to notice due to your observant study of Huang Renjun.

“And this is the King of Neo,” your mother continues, gesturing. He bows down and takes the time to bend down and kiss your mother’s hand (which has her bubbling with pleasant words) and your hand, which you give a curt greeting. His black robe shuffles as he steps back, and you study Renjun side-by-side with his father.

“Pleased to meet you, Your Highnesses,” he says.

A few maids come in bearing silver trays piled with bite-sized sandwiches, in the shape of a pyramid. You and your mother take one, while Renjun and his father take one each, all four of you being overly courteous to the help in an effort to keep appearances.

“Your daughter looks like a lovely young lady, perfect for my Renjun,” the King of Neo comments, giving your mother a gracious smile. “So elegant and full of grace, she will make a fine queen and wife, Your Highness,” he addresses your mother.

“Thank you for your kind words,” Your mother responds back, her eyes crinkling as a part of her practiced genuine smile. “May I escort you to the King? He has some matters that he would like to discuss with you.”

“Of course, my good lady,” the King of Neo responds back courteously. Your mother leads the way out of the room, and a few maids look like they are going to follow her, to make sure that she is okay, but she only needs to give a flick of her wrist for them to disperse back into the drawing room. Now, you and Renjun are alone, except for the help, but they don’t count. You’re grateful that your mother has left you both alone because you absolutely hate being chaperoned during meets with suitors – it makes you more nervous having that extra company. That just shows how important this alliance is for the Kingdom that your mother understands your weakness and tries to put you on the best possible foot to make a good performance for Huang Renjun.

Performance. The word has the connotation relating it to a game, which is what this whole suitor business is.

“Please have a seat,” you say to Renjun, gesturing at the plush pink-and-green sofa that he abandoned when you entered the room. There is a small ottoman opposite of the sofa, and there is a glass table in between with the pyramid of sandwiches that the maid brought a few minutes ago. You’re ready to bring up something about the weather and other practiced lines you have prepared for occasions like this when something catches your eye on the table, a leather-bound book. It is a copy of The Oresteia by Aeschylus. You remember reading it back when you were still taught by a governess.

“Excellent choice,” you start off, gesturing to the volume on the table.

Renjun smiles at you, a pretty sight just as beautiful as his voice.

“Thank you. You have a wonderful library, larger than the one I have at home,” he says in awe. The library room is in the next room, and it is dark and paneled with fine wood; it would not be a good choice to meet a suitor, for it is a major turn-off if a woman is too well-educated, enough that she would love books more than making an heir for the family.

Personally, the library room is your favorite room in the house.

“You don’t have Oresteia in your library?”

“No,” Renjun says sheepishly. “It’s been on my list of books to read for a long time, but I just haven’t had the chance to get a copy with all the suitors my father forc–” Renjun suddenly stops, realizing who he is talking to. His face turns into a bright beet red, thinking that he has messed up more than he ever thought he could.

Your face doesn’t shrivel with offense the way Renjun thought it would. He met a royal woman once who after he said he didn’t like blueberry scones, escorted him out of her castle. Instead, he is greeted by a smile. You experienced the same feeling.

“It’s okay,” you say lightly. “I wasn’t exactly that happy to meet you too.” You’re glad that your mother isn’t chaperoning, or anyone in your Court is either because hearing those words from your mouth would earn you a slap across your face. ‘A lady isn’t supposed to tell someone what she thinks,’ you can hear your mother’s and governess’ voices ringing in your ears (they practically had the same voice… all high-class women had a high pitch, sultry yet innocent voice).

Renjun finds your words refreshing; this is the first time he’s met a royal who actually says what she thinks, and that sort of directness is what he craves in someone – he hates having to analyze every little word in a woman’s sentence in order to find out what she truly means.

“How far are you?” You ask.

“Not very,” Renjun sighs. “I wished you came later so I would have had more time to read.” You titter a little, and Renjun is glad that he is able to see a real, genuine smile from you.

“But Clytemnestra has just killed King Agamemnon and Cassandra.” You nod, remembering yourself all those years ago holding this same volume. You’re trying to think of something to say that will contribute to the conversation when Renjun’s voice becomes lower.

“Do you think he deserved it?”

Initially, you’re not sure if you should answer the question. On one hand, you do want to answer the question because you can’t believe that you have a suitor who wants to intelligently discuss literature with you, a complete dream that you can’t believe is happening in real life, but there is another part of you that wants to follow your mother’s advice she gave you a long time ago when it came to meeting suitors: to not let him know too much about your opinions too early.

“I apologize,” Renjun says hesitantly. He just broke all rules when it comes to meeting suitors. He is also not supposed to ask questions like these. Questions like “what are your favorite sweets?” or “what is your favorite city?” are more appropriate for someone you just met.

“You don’t have to,” you say more confidently. “I think I understand Clytemnestra’s fury. Imagine finding out that your daughter was sacrificed so that your husband can help his brother get his wife back. There’s a line that has to be drawn between your family and someone else’s family, and Agamemnon failed to do so. Menelaus had other allies from various kingdoms that could help him, and Agamemnon could help in other ways than sacrificing his eldest daughter to Artemis. But Iphigenia only had Agamemnon. She was his daughter. He was supposed to protect her. He wasn’t supposed to auction her off to her death. So he must pay with his life,” you explain rationally.

Renjun is pretty sure that you’re not only talking about Oresteia anymore. And he’s right. Maybe you feel a little like Iphigenia, but the free will that you are sacrificing is for the good of your kingdom and not someone else’s.

After your father overspent his money, even after charging ridiculously high tax rates and has no means to quell the Resistance by force.

The way you passionately discussed literature was endearing to Renjun. He didn’t want to be stuck with a bimbo for the rest of his life, who was only interested in parties and pleasure. You have substance.

The two of you continue to discuss other Ancient Greek literature since much of the literature includes myths that are implicitly referenced in other works that people in those days would have understood. The conversation is entertaining, and you freely give your opinion and Renjun does the same, and you appreciate the candidness more than anything in the world.

“I’m glad for one thing,” you say during the conversation.

Renjun raises an eyebrow.

“That the Greek Gods don’t meddle in our lives.”

Sometimes, just sitting around in the castle got boring – no, a lot of times, just sitting around in the castle got boring. You didn’t have much of a say in the Royal Court and you didn’t have much of a say in royal decision-making either, so you decided a few years ago that there would be something that you would have control over.

Every weekend, you went into the cities of your Kingdom and practiced healing with the royal healer. A maximum of four people knew about this, and you wanted to keep it that way because if your family found out about this arrangement, they would serve your head on a platter. But so far, no one unnecessary knew about this. The royal healer, the cart driver, and your head maid were the only people who knew. It was your way to give back to the kingdom since so many were dying of diseases or were injured and lamed forever, and these tragedies could be avoided if there was a better spread of healthcare across the kingdom.

Your head maid has clothes prepared for you, a maid’s outfit that you go into town wearing. With how the people feel about the royal family now that the Resistance is trying to spread their message, it was better if your deeds went unsaid; you didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention to yourself, or else the people in your care could get hurt.

So here you are, sitting in a prepared cart filled with medicine, along with the royal healer. The hot late-summer sun burns your shoulders as you sit, but you’re glad you’re only wearing a maid’s outfit and not the eight different skirts you have to wear all day as a royal; wearing all that clothing in this heat is the definition of hell on Earth.

Maybe you’re being dramatic when you say that because when you see the capital city, Ciel, it certainly looks like hell on Earth. A little part of you is glad that you’re safely tucked away in your castle in the countryside because you’re not sure you could ever bear calling what is now Ciel, home. Sick people decorate the well-trodden streets, orphaned children scour waste for food, wails of anguish fill the air as people cry over the dead, and the stench – oh, the stench! How pungent and repelling it is, you almost want to gag. Thankfully, you have a flower from the royal gardens tied to your wrist, and you harshly press the flower against your nose, breathing in the fresh scent.

But the saddest thing on the street is the people who are wholly unaffected by all the events happening. They are residents no doubt, with tattered, stained breeches that have probably never seen a wash, but the resigned look on their faces is what breaks your heart into a thousand more pieces. They accept that this is how life is going to be. These people are usually able to hide among the crowds of people, but to you they stick out like a sore thumb.

Speaking of people, there seems to be less than there was last week. Everything seems a tad quieter, and people don’t seem to be sporting angry, belligerent looks on their faces against the royals, just the resigned, sick, and anguished seem left.

But this doesn’t stop you from setting up shop. With the royal healer Doyoung, you both find an abandoned building – a building that you have kept under a different name using some royal funds you’re able to get out of your father’s hands – and set up medicines, table cloths, bandages, and other tools needed to properly heal the masses. After seeing your appearances, people start coming in. It was an unspoken thing with the people of Ciel, the most poverty-stricken people in your kingdom, living in shanty towns because the capital is where all the work is. It spread around to others that a healer and his assistant would come every week to try to relieve them. They didn’t know anything about the healer or the assistant, or why they only came once a week (many people have requested that you and Doyoung make your presence known more often), but you would simply sigh and shrug your shoulders, that you could only ever manage once a week. In your heart, you knew that your family wouldn’t notice you gone for at least six hours in a day, but if you tried six hours in two days, that’s asking for problems. Although, you never say that.

However, you and Doyoung have trained others in town who want to heal some basic hygiene and herbs that can be found around Ciel, such as poppy seeds for sleeping and ginseng for preventing inflammation of wounds (but sometimes a cure-all for desperate people). However, due to how populated Ciel is, it’s hard to find even find these plants since medicinal plants need care to grow. They aren’t like dandelions that can grow among the trash and ruin. Which is why you and Doyoung bring a decent stock of other plants from the royal medical gardens and teach others how to store them. But even still, basic training and plant stocks are not enough to keep people alive, and many times, you need a trained medical opinion or experience.

As some patients take rest on the blankets that are scattered in this makeshift hospital, other helpers (practically employees) come in as well.

The first to come is the brother-sister pair, Soobong and Sooyoung. They were always the most punctual, and they live for healing and helping others – with enough medical training, they were good enough to work at the castle.

“Good, you’re here,” Doyoung says brusquely. “More and more people are coming. Sooyoung, ask patients what their ailments are, and Soobong and Y/N, help me unload the stock.” Doyoung commands confidently.

Kim Doyoung had been at this for a long time, as you notice through his weathered, experienced face. He’s been doing this before you knew about it, and when you caught him, you told him that you would join him or you would tell the King, and he gladly took the former option. Doyoung himself grew up on the streets of Ciel, orphaned, but he met a man who helped him learn the art of healing, and he became a revered healer in Ciel before going to the castle. As much as he loved being generous, most of the people who came to him had no money but were only able to exchange favors. He gladly accepted favors – fresh honey, a wonderful story, a beautiful flower, but he also liked recieving a salary.

Still, it doesn’t seem like the streets of Ciel were angry with him for wanting to get paid for his skill; they were only thankful that he was generous enough to continue sharing it with them after all these years.

As Sooyoung socializes with the patients, she is courteous as she asks about their ailments. She can take fifty people’s troubles and tell you every single one – she just has that sort of memory. She would write down all the conditions if she knew how to read or write; only now have you taught her how to count, so that she can refer to each patient as ‘patient at blanket number x’ so it is a more efficient way of describing them.

You and Soobong along with Doyoung are going out to the cart and bringing in jars and wrapped packages of medicinal herbs, from marigold to milk thistle to goldenseal.

When the last of this week’s stock is brought in, Sooyoung approaches you and tells you what conditions people have today.

“The man at blanket thirty is suffering from diarrhea and his wife is very worried about him,” she reports, ending her interactions with all the patients. All of these conditions you’re too familiar with after years of healing. Diarrhea from eating contaminated meat. Cholera from drinking contaminated water. Itchy skin due to a poor personal hygiene regiment. Infection after a metal bucket scraped skin. Sleeplessness after the violent death of a loved one. All of these conditions, you were able to easily escape due to your high status. And you were the one with the best healthcare in the Kingdom after you rarely did anything. When was the last time you picked up a bucket? Or had itchy skin? You live such a good life that half the time, you didn’t need a healer.

But these people do. And they don’t have a healer.

You, Soobong, and Doyoung crush some marigold leaves for the man with the infection, valerian for the sleepless woman and others, handing the paste to Sooyoung who would administer the herbs to the patients. Thankfully, as more and more sick people came in, more and more help was arriving, including Na Jaemin.

He and a few others were bringing injured-looking people. You rushed to their sides, helping them out after abandoning the leaves you were crushing. Before Soobong could do anything, Doyoung ordered him to stay and that you and Jaemin were taking care of whatever needed taking care of.

“What happened?” You gasped, carrying the people to empty blankets. Jaemin follows you, carrying a heavy-looking older man.

“T-There was a riot,” Jaemin says breathlessly.

“A riot?” You echo dumbly. Jaemin nods.

“The Carcel,” he says as if he explained the whole story. At your confusion, though, he continues.

“There was a storming. Weapons were stolen, and the place was trashed before it started burning.” Your blood runs cold.

The Carcel has served as a fortress, armory, and political prison for as long as you can remember. Erected by your great-great-grandfather to protect the castle – the old castle that your family used to reside in before picking a different, more luxurious location in the countryside that gave plenty of room to expand; that castle burned in an earlier, angry riot. Now it looked eerie in the capital, and it was moderately reconstructed as an armory and a prison for prisoners that your father decided not to kill on the spot before his killing spree started.

Knowing this information, Ambrosia was teetering closer and closer to ruin. You gulp. You thought that if your father gave more freedoms to the people and modernized, there would be a higher chance that you would still be in power for generations to come, or at least… your lives. Now, that hope is all gone. People are angry, and they won’t stop until the Royal Family is gone for good. You know what that means. The people won’t rest until your heads are hacked off by the Dragon’s Fang.

“A-And these are,” you take a deep breath. “Insurrectionists?” You ask. No matter how much sympathy you had to the people of Ambrosia who have been wronged by the royal family, you still feel a chill crawl down your spine

You wonder how Soobong, Sooyoung, and Jaemin would react if they knew your true identity – or anyone in this room except Doyoung knew.

“Not all of them. Some of them were just caught in the crossfire.”

“What were you doing there?” You ask accusingly. You bite your lip in shame, hating how transparent you seem. Jaemin looks at you with a brow raised. For all he knew, you were just Y/N, a maid to a nobleman who knew Doyoung as a child on the streets of Ciel.

Immediately, you clear your throat. “It could have been dangerous. Are you hurt anywhere?” You ask with concern, taking his bare forearms in your hand to inspect. You furrow your brows at a fresh-looking mark, but it’s just a smudge of red dirt.

Jaemin smiles. “No. Clean as I’ll ever be.” He chuckled in a hearty way that put all your worries at rest. He continues. “And I was there because my cousin was there. I didn’t want him doing anything stupid, but he wouldn’t listen to me, so I went to watch him.” His expression hardens. “Where his stupidity took him,” he grunts, pointing to another boy carrying a younger boy, maybe fifteen years old, to a bed, with bleeding on his arms and his leg twisted.

“Jaemin!” A voice shouts. You and Jaemin whip your heads to see Doyoung, still crushing leaves into paste and squeezing the juice out of roots. “I need some help over here. Y/N, work with Sooyoung to get the ailments of the newcomers.”

“Yes, Doyoung,” you say and shuffle away. To Doyoung’s perceptive eye, he could see slight cuts on your fingers from all the crushing, and he couldn’t possibly return you home like that. So, he gave you a less taxing job. It was a shame though – you were one of his most skilled apprentices.

Sooyoung takes care of half of the newcomers while you take care of the other half. As you ask them what is ailing them and inspect their injuries, you can already see yourself writing a mental list of needed herbs: marigold, garlic, echinacea, aloe vera, poppy seeds. All of these were anti-inflammatory plants with poppy seeds bringing patients to sleep to help cure their wounds.

But there is a face, an unmistakable face attached to a body that is sitting on a blanket. Despite the contusions on his face and body, as well as his twisted leg at an odd angle, the boy sitting at blanket number thirty-seven is Huang Renjun, Prince of Neo.

As shock finds its way to settle into your face, so does suspicion. What was Huang Renjun doing in a rebellion against the King of Ambrosia?

Every part of your royal instincts tells you to tread carefully. If Huang Renjun is an enemy, then it’s best to keep that information to yourself so you can give yourself an advantage.

Before you can decide whether you should pretend you don’t know him or acknowledge his existence, Renjun speaks first.

“Y/N,” he says softly. You look around. Soobong, Jaemin, Sooyoung, and Doyoung all look preoccupied, and the others that you know are hurriedly applying salves to injured people or offering them edible medicine. You didn’t want to explain how you knew this stranger.

Renjun, like you, is dressed in a commoner’s clothes. He wears a casual set of commoner’s breeches and a faded, light-blue shirt. He has a brown hat next to him that smells oily and full of sweat, and his jet-black hair is disheveled, compared to when you met him. Renjun has been staying at the castle, and your father and his father are trying to strike a favorable deal when it comes to providing an army to quash the Resistance. During the past two days, from what you can hear behind the door, it is a long deal, with both men throwing numbers and getting others to write a contract of this agreement. Renjun has been sitting in the negotiations, to learn the art of negotiation, but you aren’t allowed to sit in. And when they aren’t negotiating, the three of them go hunting together, for your father to get to know the man that will marry his daughter and take over his kingdom. So, you haven’t seen the boy ever since you talked about Aeschylus and other Greek authors and myths together, only seeing him in passing at dinner, which you are almost always joined by the Huangs. Other invitees at dinner seem interested in this stranger, leaving almost no more time for you to know him.

At this moment, your chemistry is undeniable.

“What are you doing here?” You blurt out.

Renjun smiles in pain. “I’m injured obviously. But I could also ask the same for you.” He eyes you in your maid’s outfit.

“I mean, what were you doing at the Carcel?” You inquire. Butterflies erupt in your stomach. You see him reach for something, and you tense up. Your instinct thought it was a knife, a plan to kill the Princess of Ambrosia since he is the only one in this crowded room who knows your true identity.

The object Renjun was reaching for was his dirty messenger bag, and he struggles to open the latch. You take the bag and look inside. Paints, and a smeared painting of roses. You’re not sure if it’s red paint or blood.

“I was painting at the Square.” He says simply. The town square is still a bustling place, in viewing distance to the Carcel, cobblestoned and filled with a rose garden that is sometimes known as the envy of the land, the only place in Ciel that doesn’t look hopeless thanks to various people in the area who consider those roses a part of Ciel’s character. It’s the only greenspace in the center of Ciel, minus a small wooded place two blocks away where helpers gather poppy seeds and milk thistle.

“I was painting roses since it was the only time I could get away from everything,” Renjun starts. “But then I heard people screaming and there were people with weapons and then a stampede ensued.” Renjun shivers thinking about what happened in the past thirty minutes, and at this movement, his twisted leg twitches and he bites his lower lip to contain a scream.

You’re about to scurry off and get something for the pain, but Renjun grips your wrist tightly, an uneasy smile on his face.

“You didn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” you scoff.

“Enlighten me.”

You take a deep breath. “I’m here as a healer. I come every week with Doyoung.”

“And I can imagine that it’s not what you’re supposed to be doing?” Renjun asks, knowing what the obvious answer is.

You don’t answer him.

“Well, I was here doing what I wasn’t supposed to be doing.” He chuckles. “If my father found out I was painting, he would rip me in half.” Renjun wasn’t lying. The life of a royal was restricting, no matter if you were a man or a woman. For a man, hunting was seen as an appropriate, manly hobby, but painting isn’t.

“Apparently, painting is only for indecent people who ogle naked women and sleep with their muses.”

You almost want to gasp with how crass Renjun sounded. Renjun only laughs at your shocked expression before sucking in a breath due to his pain. With a wet cloth on a tray nearby, you dab the wounds on his arms, and Renjun’s face contorts at this gesture.

You hurry back to the shelves of herbs and grab some marigold paste and some thin, bandage cloths. Gently, you apply the salve on Renjun’s wounds and bandage them with a precision that you have been perfecting for a long time. Renjun only focuses on you as he tries to forget about the pain, admiring your expertise. It wasn’t every day that a royal knew a skill that didn’t include commanding others to do tasks for them.

Looking at his awkward leg, you make direct eye contact with Renjun.

“This is going to hurt a lot,” you say. Rushing to the counter at the front, you grab a stick and give it to Renjun. “Put this in your mouth,” you say in a commanding voice that Renjun doesn’t want to argue with.

Carefully, you hold the side of Renjun’s knee with one hand, and with the other hand, you yank his leg, locking it back into its correct place.

The twig in Renjun’s mouth snaps during the process.

“You were right,” Renjun says breathlessly.

“Say,” Renjun says after a while of watching you apply a salve of milk thistle on the cuts on his legs before bandaging them.

“I won’t tell your father that you were out here healing the poor, not once but weekly with Doyoung unless I get to paint you.” The request is shocking, and you look at Renjun, puzzled for a split second before you make an offer of your own, a smile on your face. If there’s anything a royal is good at, no matter a man or woman, it was negotiating.

“And I won’t tell your father that you were painting unless you come and help out with me here,” you counteroffer.

“An eye for an eye,” Renjun recalls, remembering how you passionately defended Queen Clytaenmestra for making King Agamemnon to pay for his life after leading his eldest daughter to her death. In this case, one favor each to keep you both doing what you loved doing.

“Yes. This knife cuts both ways,” At how solemn you both sound, you two look each other in the eye to seal the verbal contract that you have just created.

For once, your parents made a good match for you.

It’s another few days before you see Renjun again. It’s at dinner, but this time the air of tension, filled with encoded thoughts is gone, and both your father and the King of Neo look jubilant. That can only mean one thing: they both have reached a deal that they are both happy with. It’s surprising, given that at the end of such long deals, one side is unhappy in ‘giving in too much’ while the other believes that they have won a match.

Nonetheless, dinner is no less than fine. Renjun’s father sits at the end of one table with Renjun at a seat nearby, while your father is seated at the other end of the table, with your mother accompanying you. You sit in between your mother and Renjun, while on the other side, the King’s advisor is facing you directly. Joining you tonight are a couple of earls and marquis who your family has always been particularly close with, enough so to share such an important meal as tonight’s meal.

“We have some exciting news,” The King of Ambrosia says. You think everyone in the room already knows what the news is due to his expression, but that doesn’t stop him from sharing.

“King Huang and I have reached a suitable deal. They will provide a sum of armory and mercenaries to help us with our problems with rebels. Just in time after the incident at the Carcel. He has been so agreeable due to the arrangement that Princess Y/N and Prince Renjun have. Our grandchildren will be certainly powerful!” Your father cheers. You smile pleasantly and find Renjun’s face beside you, and he also stares at you with equal fondness. The others in the room are pleased that you two have gotten on well. Although they only know of one meeting between you two, no complaints have been made by either of you against the other. For the two of you, suitors are a touchy subject, and you both have a hard time getting along with others that you are arranged to marry, but this time, it seems like two kindred souls have met.

Your father’s prayers have been answered; Ambrosia won’t fall to ruin after his overspending. Of course, that doesn’t stop him from having lavish, excessive meals every night while the people of his kingdom are starving.

King Huang starts speaking. “The King and I have started talking about something to celebrate the upcoming marriage. We have discussed a tourney in Princess Y/N and Prince Renjun’s honor.”

Your mother claps gleefully, and the King’s advisor looks thoughtful. He hoped that Neo’s resources were in plenty, so he wouldn’t have to impose more taxes.

Your mother looks at you pointedly for you to make a response, but Renjun speaks first. “On behalf of myself and my betrothed, I thank you both for your generosity.” His voice is crisp, sincere yet formal. He looks at you with a smile. “I’m sure that we both are going to enjoy it.” You both know that if there’s anything that you’d enjoy, it would be a room full of books and paints.

The servants arrive with plates and plates of food, freshly and expertly cooked by the castle chef. You eat the creamed lobster, poached eggs, meat-stuffed bread, carrot purees, chocolate souffles, and wash it all down with red wine. The table is filled with content eating sounds, the clacking of forks against ornately designed china.

As the last plate is collected by a kitchen maid, music fills the nearby ballroom.

“A night like tonight should be celebrated with music!” Your father announces. The dinner party follows him and the King of Neo to the ballroom, where there is a live orchestra filled with the best musicians in Ambrosia. They play waltzing music, so the earls and dukes start dancing with their wives, and their children find people to dance with.

“May I have this dance?” Renjun is on one knee, his hand held out as he waits for you to accept his invitation. You scoff a little at how ‘noble’ he is acting, compared to the boy painting in secret and stating that he hated meeting suitors.

“Of course, my betrothed,” you say smoothly, taking the boy’s soft hand. He stands upright, and you look almost eye-level with him. He gingerly puts a hand to your waist and the other clasps your hand as he dances with you. You think that you probably learned to Walz around the same time you learned to walk, and the steps feel familiar as you follow the compound beat.

“One, two, three, one two three,” Renjun murmurs to himself. If you hadn’t been listening carefully enough, you wouldn’t have heard him count to himself. You only did so when you were a beginner of the walz, counting to make sure that your steps were correctly timed as your dance instructor danced with you.

You can’t help a giggle bubble up your throat.

“What’s that?” Renjun asks.

“What’s what?” You reply, feigning ignorance.

“I know you heard me.” Renjun confronts you.

“I’ve never heard anyone our age counting during the Walz.”

“What’s wrong with counting? I like to be precise.” Renjun challenges in that playful way that you can’t get enough of. You exhale.

“Only children count when they Walz.”

“Can I make a confession?” Renjun asks. His voice is quiet, and his lips are close to your ear, his breath hot and smelling of spices. At this moment, he looks absolutely ravishing.

He doesn’t wait for you to reply. “I only learned to Walz last week. Your mother taught me. She thought it was improper that I didn’t know how to dance with a lady.” That did sound like your mother. You take a second to see her dancing with your father in a perfect Walz, from years of hosting and attending events that are similar to this one.

You sigh, bringing your body closer to his and correcting any of his missteps. You loved the way that his body deliciously brushed against yours, and the way that his hand moved down your back, not entirely gentlemanly. You keep your voice quiet, closing some space between your faces. “She knows I don’t care about that.”

“Does she?” Renjun questions. You don’t answer. The royal breed wasn’t exactly the best listeners. There were a lot of ideas that your parents liked to push into your head, such that a woman should be the type devoted to her husband and her life’s work is creating an heir to the throne. And there is one thing for sure: women were supposed to be pure. They didn’t have sexual urges, they were subject to the will of their husbands.

You’re not going to pretend that thoughts wouldn’t enter your brain as Renjun’s length brushes your leg…

You and Renjun keep dancing for a few more minutes, but neither of you is really feeling the mood anymore. It’s always a surprise how the upper class can keep dancing and dancing and dancing.

“Does this dance ever end?” Renjun groans. No one seems to hear him, trapped in their own worlds.

“It does now,” you say. You stop dancing and gently yank Renjun’s arm. Without an eye on either of you, the dull Walz music becomes a distant memory as you both walk into the dark castle corridors. There are a few guards here and there, but you and Renjun walk up the stairs and stop midway through the staircase, on the flat piece of floor that proceeds another swivel staircase. A large window is on the wall, and you can see the moon, a small crescent.

There’s something so romantic about the dark, something that makes you want to unleash your inner feelings. Huang Renjun is thinking the same thing.

You can barely see each other’s faces as your lips meld into his. Renjun was different, and you wanted him, you think as you taste his lips from every possible angle, his nose bumping into yours. His hands feel intoxicating as his hands find your waist, his grip deceptively tight as if he never wanted to let go of a woman like you.

At the sound of echoing footsteps, you and Renjun jump away from each other and search for the source of the footsteps. It’s a few guards, and they make brief eye contact with you and then with Renjun.

You press a quick kiss on Renjun’s lips. It was the perfect time to stop. You haven’t given up your chastity just yet, your dress was still on! Now you would leave him wanting more. It was the strategy your mother gave you when you were meeting suitors, but you can find other ways to keep that statement relevant in your life.

“Until later, my sweet,” you lean in, murmuring those sultry words against his lips. You leave him standing by the large window as you find your way back to your chambers on the other side of the castle, becoming a smaller and smaller shadow in Renjun’s vision.

The next time you would visit the streets of Ciel is sooner than you think, for this week has gone by rather quickly. As per your agreement with Renjun, he would help you out in the makeshift apothecary with Doyoung if you kept his secret that he paints in his spare time. This week, the apothecary is not less active than it was last week since the spread of disease is rampant in these areas, so you’re glad that you’re able to bring some forced labor with you.

Renjun is also dressed in servants’ uniforms, getting it from your lady’s maid, who covertly got this from the washerwoman. However, before you got out of the cart bringing you, Renjun, and Doyoung into the city, you still felt like he had a ‘noble’ look to him. Finding some dirt on the ground, you take a handful and rub it on Renjun’s cheek.

“There,” you say, admiring your handiwork. “You look more like Y/N the maid’s friend.” Renjun just laughs a hearty, carefree laugh.

The story behind Renjun was easy to fabricate when you were explaining his presence to Soobong, Sooyoung, and Jaemin. He also worked at the same nobleman’s house that you did but as a server, and he wanted to find out what you were hiding when you disappeared one afternoon every week. You made him swear that he would never tell since you were supposed to be working, and after he promised he wouldn’t tell, you brought him here. Sooyoung looked a little suspicious after you told your story, and you felt like your heart was beating in your throat as you waited for her to say or do anything, that maybe she recognized him from the last week after the storming of the Carcel, but she doesn’t say anything. You were more than relieved.

She probably didn’t care anyway, given that your group needed more help than you could imagine. More healing apprentices showed up, mixing salves and administering medicines, but most of Ciel has been under strict curfew. After the storming, your father demanded that there be soldiers on the streets, prowling for any rebels, courtesy of the deal made with the King of Neo.

They were given the right to shoot if they even looked dissatisfied with how the people were behaving.

Although you were (somewhat) safely tucked inside the abandoned building that you have been paying to keep as a hospital for the sick of Ciel, you can still feel the tension outside, as if they are waves licking at the windows. People walk stiffly, their eyes darting before they say something, trash litters the ground, hastily-built huts and pieces of wood serve as many peoples’ homes as they inhabit the slums for their work.

Of course, only when there is dissent are the royals actually thinking of the people of Ciel.

Soldiers stand outside, backs straight, yet some squirm in their thick uniforms under the bright, hot sun. It’s not like they can do anything to an apothecary, so they stand, looking around. The thought of being watched makes you feel almost breathless, and you just hope you don’t look like royalty enough for them to notice. As your heart beats a little faster, you tightly wrap a bonnet you found around your head, focusing your vision only on the sick.

You show Renjun to the table where Doyoung is, and show him how to crush leaves and efficiently save all the healing juice, how to wrap a bandage, how to clean a wound, where to get some water to soak cloths, and where the stores of poppy seeds, milk thistle, and other anti-inflammatory herbs are. Those, you think, are the most important training to learn first.

Renjun watches as you talk to Sooyoung, the girl who chats with new arrivals and diagnoses their conditions. Then you grab herbs, bandages, and wet cloths and work around the room with the help of Jaemin, who is now administering medicine since Renjun is supposed to be crushing leaves and filling the water bucket.

If you haven’t noticed, life was getting harder at Ciel. Just as you were curing more sick people, more and more people were coming in, needing treatment. Not to mention that not everyone survives treatment; every week, you’re surrounded by death. On top of that, with the current instability in Ciel, Renjun was surprised that you were dead-set on coming with Doyoung because it wasn’t really your job to care. Sure, it wasn’t really Doyoung’s job to care either, but since he grew up in Ciel as an orphan, he always would feel the need to give back to his hometown. But you? You were the child of two royals, who had everything you could ever possibly need in the castle. But that wasn’t enough for you. You had to know that your subjects were okay, and if they weren’t, you wanted to do your part and help even if you have no say in most royal affairs.

Every day, he has more and more reasons to fall in love with you.

For a while, Renjun admires your work from afar, but he continues to work himself; just being surrounded by such productive people makes him want to be productive as well.

Finally, he’s able to get a moment alone with you.

“Why do you even care?” Renjun asks. You both are in a back room alone as you lead him to the borage supply to help cure a family’s fit of coughs.

“Why shouldn’t I?” You challenge. Renjun voices what he has been thinking while he observed you working yourself to the bone.

“Because you have everything you need in this life and in the next. What is a reason for doing this other than you’re probably the kindest person I’ve ever met in my whole life?”

You smile. “You know how our families were picked by God to rule? To conquer?”

“Of course.”

“There’s got to be a reason, right?” You question. “To give us such a high position in power over so many people.”

“He must have seen potential in our families. We need to live up to that.” You say simply.

“Have you ever told anyone your opinion?” Renjun asks quietly.

You snort a little before looking at your feet. “Once. To my father.” You turn your head to face Renjun, the smile widening on your face. “That was probably the hardest slap I’ve ever received.”

Renjun closes the space between you, and his face is so close that your noses are brushing. “Probably not as hard as the whipping I got after getting out of our palanquin to give a homeless man a few crackers in my pocket.”

“I guess we’re two soft-hearted people.” You giggle, finally closing the pesky gap between your lips. You pull away, letting your finger trace his lips. Renjun’s nostrils twitch at this feeling.

“We’re going to be different rulers when we get the throne, right?” You ask as you study his soft, pink lips that look deliciously kissable.

“Of course,” Renjun says after a long pause. “If there was a way to tell the people to wait for a little while longer…” Renjun trails off as he presses his forehead against yours. Immediately, he feels the dampness of your skin, how you’re sweating in this hot building, but he doesn’t care.

Renjun thinks he loves you now at this moment more than he ever thought he would even though your appearance is less than exemplary. But because it’s imperfect, it makes you feel more real.

“We’re going to give people more freedoms, like in other countries. We’ll share our resources better. And we can build schools to educate people and help them learn how to make the right decisions,” Renjun says. The word ‘we’ echoes in your brain. For the rest of your lives, Huang Renjun would be on your team, and together you would try to undo the oppression that your families have facilitated through generations.

“Would you rather be loved or be feared?” You ask Renjun as you absorb the warmth of his chest. It’s a pleasant sort of heat, not the heat that prikles your skin.

“I hate that question.” Renjun chuckles.

“Just answer it,” you pout.

“Fine.” Renjun sighs. “Feared.” You raise an eyebrow curiously.

“Why?”

“I only want to show love for my people. But I want my people to fear what will happen if they take advantage of me.”

“Interesting take,” you say softly. “You already know my answer. Love. I want to be loved by my people, no matter what.”

Renjun takes your cheeks into his hands as he stares into your beautiful eyes.

“Just be careful, my darling,” Renjun says. “You’re so trusting, too trusting for a royal.”

“Isn’t that what you love about me? That I’m different?” You ask playfully, poking his chest with your index finger.

Renjun doesn’t answer, only placing a kiss on your warm cheeks

You take Renjun’s hands and wrap them around your body so you can be held in his embrace. The future together seemed so sweet, but now, you need to focus on the present.

“Right, the borage,” you say, pulling away reluctantly.

If there was anything that your royal parents would disapprove of, it’s letting a man into a young maid’s bedroom, especially if she is unmarried.

But you’re not for one with the status quo, and as per the deal, you were going to let Renjun paint you. The only place that wasn’t crawling with servants and event planners trying to organize the tourney celebrating your’s and Renjun’s upcoming wedding that would be held on the royal grounds was your bedroom.

If there was anything you yourself would disapprove of is not keeping your word.

You’re sitting on the ottoman by the window of your bedroom, one leg over the other and your hands knit over your knee as you pose for Renjun’s painting. You’re wearing a long turquoise dress, one that doesn’t have a million underskirts. Renjun wanted you to wear a dress that was so undeniably you, and this turquoise gem was it. The soft blues complimented your pacifist nature, and it was incredibly simple too. It is one of those dresses where the top is laced up, creating a ‘v’ on your chest, and underneath, to keep you modest is a white under-dress. The sleeves are conical and long, which is one of your favorite styles. Your parents didn’t like this dress after you requested the seamstress to make it because it looked like something a working-class girl would wear, which after that, was the reason why you weren’t allowed to request dresses anymore and your mother would do that. You were only available at the dress fittings, which bored you beyond end.

It was just another way for your mother to silence you.

After some ten minutes of Renjun painting, you had a hard time remaining still, and that was when Renjun asked you to focus on something. You thoroughly focused your gaze on him, at his furrowed eyebrows at how he paints, dipping his brush in water, mixing new paints on his wooden palette. It’s as if the rest of the world is drowned out as he paints, and he exists only with you, his canvas, and his brushes. The way his eyes would drink in your appearance to replicate on the canvas made your heart rise to your throat; not so hidden in his eyes is his lust.

Renjun stops for a few moments. His fingers are at his chin as he looks pensive, looking between the canvas and you. His eyes are glazed, and his lips are pursed when he suddenly says something in a raw voice.

“Take off your clothes.”

“Excuse me?” You shoot back, stunned.

“You heard me.”

You’re not sure what’s happening in your chest, if your heart completely stopped beating or it’s beating so fast that you can’t even tell its keeping you alive.

You’re finally able to regain your composure when you say back wittily, “I guess you’re turning into the kind of painter that ogles naked women and sleeps with their muses.”

“I guess so,” Renjun smirks.

Your simple dress slips off your shoulders and falls to the ground when you unclasp the hook resting at the nape of your neck, and the following hooks that went down to your mid back. You’re left in your underdress, and your corset is beneath that.

“Beautiful,” Renjun murmurs. At the way you stop, reveling in his attention, Renjun chuckles. “Now take it off. All of it.” Renjun says. He watches how you untie your white underdress that is fastened by a thin bow on your waist, and he watches how the string comes undone, and the dress comes to your feet. You untie your corset in the same way and discard it carelessly to the side.

“I never liked that thing anyway.”

Renjun’s eyes travel down your body, to the way your waist is curved, beautiful with an hourglass shape and a cute paunch. He watches how the nubs of your breasts become hard at the way they are exposed too long, and to a man for the first time.

You sit back down on the ottoman. You think about re-creating the pose you were doing but think against it. As a caterpillar comes out of its cocoon to become a butterfly, you shed your cocoon of clothes and become this butterfly.

And you love how your nakedness weakens the man in front of you.

You reposition yourself on the ottoman, the expression on your face playful and carefree as you let your breasts hang on your chest shamelessly, plaching your arm between your narrowly-open legs to cover your womanhood. At the way your shoulder hunches, you create a cleavage on your chest.

It’s as if you’re Medusa, turning him into stone as he not-so-secretly ogles, the strokes of his brush against the canvas more sparse.

All of a sudden, you leap from the ottoman and saunter to Renjun, who stares up at you from his sitting position.

“You know you’re supposed to stand when you’re in the presence of royalty. That’s basic manners.” With a coy smile on your face, you swat his shoulder, your breasts jiggling and almost hitting his face.

“Y-yes Your Highness,” Renjun says, bashfully looking away. He stumbles as he stands, and you can see even through his thick breeches a large erection. You can’t stop yourself from giggling as you grab him. Your bed is barely a meter away from where Renjun is, and you grab his shoulders and push him backwards, forcing him under you on the bed.

You have both of his wrists in his hand as you animalistically kiss him, your womanhood searching for his manhood underneath his clothes. You can feel his rough stubble from his cheeks after maybe two days of not shaving, and it feels delicious, that you’re being touched, fucked by a real man. Renjun passionately enjoys your kiss, biting and sucking your lips as he pushes his tongue into your mouth. Your tongues war inside your mouth, sliding against each other in a slobbery way that is normally disgusting, but beautiful if it is done with the right person. You gasp as his tongue reaches further and further down your mouth, almost entering your throat. Your second of shock allows Renjun’s wrists to slip from your grip, and he places them on your naked side, squeezing the softer part of your body, his hands slowly climbing up and down your back until finally, he gives your rump a delicious squeeze. Panting, you finally find his hard dick under his clothes, and you hump him as hard as you can, moving your hips along Renjun’s body, shaking your bed.

“Slower, Your Highness. You don’t want to break the bed,” Renjun chuckles.

Renjun audibly moans at how you’re riding him, but slowly, the pleasure comes to an end. Renjun opens his eyes (that he didn’t realize was closed) to see you slide off of the bed, reaching from the side to pull off his breeches.

“You’re reading my mind,” he says. You’re able to pull his thick breeches and pull up his tucked-in shirt to find his cock hidden in his underclothes. You pull it down to Renjun’s mid-thigh, watching with excitement as his cock springs out, large and erected at how much your humping aroused him. You reach out and excite his member some more, moving the delicate skin up and down, squeezing his hard length.

Leaning forward, you decide that it is time to suck, and you wrap your lips around his cock. You move your head up and down his length, your lips following, shielding your teeth from coming in contact with his sensitive skin. Your tongue swirls around his member, creating obscure saliva designs, and you can hear Renjun above you, turning into puddy by the minute as you pleasure him.

Your mouth starts to fill with seed suddenly, and you gulp it down, tasting the sweet cherry pie that was for desert tonight in his cum. You close your eyes blissfully, and you don’t even realize that Renjun is sitting up. With a strength you didn’t even know he possessed, he pulls you up to his side, and he climbs on top of you.

He’s ready to take charge.

Renjun takes your lips into his mouth as he freely moves his hands on you as if he’s never going to touch you again. He hands travel from your cheeks to your jawbone, moving down to your collarbone and then your nice, plush breasts. He spends a few moments there, letting his hands massage the soft flesh, and you can feel moans leave your mouth. After a few moments, he focuses on your nipples, pinching them until you yelp. Then, his hands travel down your body, to your slightly paunchy stomach and your curvy sides. His hands wander to your throbbing womanhood, and his lips wander to the side of your neck.

You’re overcome with more pleasure than you think is possible.

“You’re so beautiful, like art.” Renjun murmurs as he pulls away from your neck, starting lovingly at your ruffled hair, at your smooth skin, at your bruising breasts and neck that will surely yield black and purple marks from tonight’s activities.

You smirk at him. “Then you should be looking, not touching.”

Renjun’s eyes glow at how you use your wit, how mischievous, how playful yet serious you can be. He’s lucky to consider a woman like you his betrothed.

“You’re the exception.”

Once those words slice the air, you feel Renjun’s fingers force themselves inside of you. About to scream, Renjun takes his other hand and places it over your mouth.

“You don’t want the world to hear how good you’re getting fucked, hmm?” Renjun asks in a soft voice. Your screams remain trapped between your lips and his palm as Renjun forces one, two, four fingers into your womanhood. Your legs are flailing, but Renjun’s position on top of you keeps him steady on your body.

Everything that comes out of your mouth is just a jumble, but you can hear yourself whimper and moan while saying “please.”

“You’re so well-mannered, Your Highness,” Renjun coos. “Oh, look,” Renjun notices. “Something came,”

You don’t realize the white-ish, clear-ish liquid that came out from how fucked you were getting until you look down.

As Renjun leans down for a taste, you suddenly close your legs. Renjun’s hands travel to your upper thighs, his knees on the ground since he hopped out of the bed.

“Please please let me taste it, Your Highness,” Renjun begs from underneath you. His eyes become larger, rounder, and you realize that the power has shifted to you. For you and for Renjun, you realize that you both don’t fully take control of the bed, but it comes in waves. As Renjun becomes more submissive, you can feel yourself inflate, becoming more dominant.

“Beg some more,” you command.

“Please please please,” Renjun says in a string, the word jumbling more and more as he repeats his desire. He nestles his chin between your thighs and looks up at you with wide, innocent-looking eyes.

It was these same eyes that watch you flail around as he inserted digit after digit of his right hand into your vagina. He’s a lion in sheep’s clothing, and you can already feel the little sheep start to suck the skin of your inner thighs, pressing loud smooches. You watch him graze your legs, his nose becoming covered with a dollop of his own saliva as he uses his mouth to convince you.

You don’t realize that you’re opening your legs to fully enjoy the pleasure that Renjun is giving you when you feel his head between your thighs, licking your vagina.

“Mmmhm” Renjun rumbles to himself, enjoying your sex. You can feel loud moans catch in your throat at how skillful his tongue, how sinful this pleasure feels. Renjun moves up your body, to your lower stomach, trailing your skin with your own cum until he finally meets your jawline. He presses more than ten loud smooches to that small piece of your body before surrendering his lips to yours, his mouth tasting like the cherry pie that you ate also that was present in your cum.

Renjun’s hands still linger by your pussy, taking your cum in his hands. You feel slightly ticklish at what he is tracing along your stomach, and you look down, only to see his name written on your skin in your cum.

“Mine,” Renjun says possessively, quickly taking your lips into his mouth. You bring Renjun closer to you, crushing him against your body because you want to become one so badly. You tangle your legs with Renjun’s, feeling his bare, naked member rub against your clit. Renjun decides to drive you crazy, rather than relieving you and your throbbing walls with his large dick, he decides to keep rubbing himself against you.

“Please, please go in, Your Highness,” you address your betrothed, properly. “I need you I need you,” you mumble to yourself.

“Have you got enough room for a future king?” Renjun asks coyly.

“Yes, Your Highness. King Renjun,” you reassure him.

With that, Renjun pounds his length into you, in and out, in and out repeatedly until you start feeling your head spin with delicious pleasure.

Yet at the same time, you feel adrenaline coursing through your veins. You feel like you could lift a mountain with how much energy Renjun’s dick puts inside of you. Renjun shakes a little, roaming his body along yours so that his penis could explore inside of your walls. You gasp at how good that feels, how your walls squeeze his member, craving for his seed that dried up after you gulped it down like a hungry child.

As your mind wanders, the whole world turning into background noise as Renjun’s dick pounds into you, you whimper at the pain, how Renjun is tearing at your hymen. Yet, you still feel pleasured at the sensation, satisfying Renjun’s manly needs, and your needs for new experiences.

You look down at your stomach, and maybe it’s your mind playing tricks on you, but you swear you see the outline of Renjun’s penis in your stomach as it roams around. You gasp and whine at how good the feeling is, how rough Renjun’s hands are while he grips your sides, and Renjun pulls out, his member dripping with his seed, arousal that coursed in him due to being inside of you. He pounds his length into you more and more as he looks into your eyes.

You feel as though you could be trapped in this moment forever, of just you and Renjun panting to a rhythm that only you two know, completely naked as Renjun puts a little more of himself in you, making you both into one person. You think that all your problems being a royal, the daughter of your father, the impending stress of taking your kingdom and enforcing a newer, freer, more modern rule that hasn’t been seen or heard before. Certainly your royal advisors would be against it, only interested in perpetuating the old ways.

Those problems feel elevated knowing that Renjun is by your side. Fucking your brains out every night.

Renjun heaves a breath as he finally pulls out of you completly for a second time, lying down next to you. His member is still seeping with cum, and with a mischevious glance, you climb on top of him, your nipples barely touching his chest with how you’re positioned on top of him. You grab his penis, pleasuring it for a little bit before squeezing out more cum from your betrothed. He moans at your touching, and you can feel him shifting his position so he can enjoy you on top of him more. Pulling yourself away slightly, you trace your name onto his skin.

“Mine,” you say with a cheeky grin, admiring your handiwork under the moonlight that filtered into your bedroom.

All of the animalistic urges are gone from you two, and you both are panting heavily at the activity of the last hour, staring into each others’ eyes, shocked that you both were capable of such passion. You bring your face a few centimeters away his chest and kiss his heart. Renjun coos at you, gently placing his lips on your jaw. He trails soft kisses along your collarbone until he kissing the soft flesh of your breasts. He sucks on the nubs of your breasts, this time he is the infant, and he places his head between your breasts.

“I suppose we were overenthusiastic about our jobs, and made a male heir too quickly,” Renjun murmurs between the mounds called your breasts. Your laugh only causes them to jiggle, causing Renjun to laugh too.

“We’ll find out if we were successful if I skip my period.”

“The birth date would certainly raise some eyebrows among the Royal Court,” Renjun chuckles.

“It would, but then I would remind them that their wives are waiting for them at home, waiting for them to finish their work in the castle and nothing else,” you have a cutely evil look on your face, and Renjun picks up what you try to hint.

There’s silence between you and Renjun. He pulls his face away from your breasts, and your faces are so close, you can feel the shadow of his nose on yours.

“I love you,” Renjun says quietly. “From our first conversation in the library, I’ve known you’re the one.” Renjun waits in anticipation for your answer. You trace the outline of his face with your index finger.

“I love you too. I’m glad that if I’m allied with anyone in this cold world, it’s you.”

Renjun sighs, and your faces slide against each other. Completely naked under the romantic silver moonlight that pools on your’s and Renjun’s flesh, you act as though cuddling with your beloved like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“I’ll never let you down.”

The day of the tourney has arrived. Your father and Renjun’s have spent the greater part of two months preparing for this tourney, providing your mother the funds to put it together. If there’s anything a royal woman loved is party planning, and a tourney is just in your mother’s wheelhouse.

All of your noble friends have been invited, dukes and earls, barons and other landlords that your family is on good terms with. They are said to bring their families, that this was one grand party.

You’re seated with your mother and father, and Renjun is by your side. The King of Neo would be arriving late today, discussing some terms of the agreement he and your father came up with to his weapons suppliers, and he would be joining you later.

Together, your family and Renjun are watching a fencing match between two men, but the stakes are raised higher in this match: the two competitors must fence on horses. Until one man is unhorsed, the match will continue.

You never understood the point of watching two men fight on horses, but it is something you’ve gotten used to attending hundreds of matches with your family. What was the point in all this when the kingdom needs help?

Sighing, you keep your thoughts to yourself. Renjun is sitting beside you with equal boredom, and you can tell that he probably has the same opinion as you. However, neither of you suggested leaving for some alone time because after all, this whole event was held in your name. Together, you would imitate the cheers of the other dukes and earls sitting with you, agreeing when they would talk about fencing strategy.

The man in a dark horse and slim, fitting steel armor is Jung Jaehyun, a knight that was trained in Ambrosia. His father was a lower baron, but his status increased the second that his son was accepted into the King’s Guard when you were just a little girl. With his helmet and his clean strokes to his opponent, you’re reminded of the girlish crush you had on him as he ingratiated himself with your father. However, he married the daughter of an earl and had a daughter that was a few years younger than you.

Normally, a man can be unhorsed by Jung Jaehyun in the matter of minutes, but his opponent is not giving up. The other man is someone you do not recognize after your years of attending tourneys and matches. He must be some new talent if he is able to be on the roster for the tourney and face of Jaehyun for this long.

From the others around you, this man’s name is Qian Kun, and he’s from a different kingdom (those around you are throwing around more names than you can keep up with). He’s on a white horse, wearing minimal armour and determination on his face. His name is whispered as if he’s a forbidden secret. If one thing’s for sure, he’s keeping the audience interested – even you and Renjun are focused.

Every thrust that Jaehyun throws, this Kun is able to block it, moving his body with a flexibility that you know for sure Jaehyun has. Jaehyun has brute force, from what you learned watching him, and he’s able to break down his opponents by being relentless. Most don’t have the skill to dodge.

After multiple dodges and audience gasps, Kun starts attacking in his own right. You think that Jaehyun took the phrase ‘the best defense is offense’ too seriously because he struggles to dodge Kun’s shots. He’s so used to being on the attack that he doesn’t know how to defend himself properly. Being a big fish in Ambrosia make his skill in taking a strong opponent weak.

It doesn’t take long for Kun to unhorse Jaehyun, and Jaehyun falls unceremoniously to the ground. The umpire calls it a match and races towards Kun, pulling his hand up in the air to signify to the audience that he really won. The audience is in shock before a few people start clapping, and then the rest. Kun gets a standing ovation from you and Renjun, and the others in the tourney follow in suit.

The winners of matches get to enjoy the fruits of their rigorous training. There’s a cash prize, and for a boy like Kun, who wears homemade-looking armour and has a tan on his face and neck from rough outdoor work, the cash prize is something that can alleviate his and his family’s pain.

Finally, you see Renjun’s father, the King of Neo, appear after all the hoopla that Qian Kun’s victory was for this torney. Another match would be taking place between two different knights or other sportsmen.

“What a match you missed!” Your father says to Renjun’s in a light tone.

There’s something different in the air with the King of Neo. All of a sudden, you feel as though the eyes of the world are around you. While you’re surrounded by a few of the nobles that your family is close with, the others are scattered around, and if you really think about it, the others sitting around you beside them are completely unfamiliar. They are people that Renjun’s father brought from Neo who are allegedly very close to his family, who would want to honor the marriage of their prince with the princess of Ambrosia.

The King of Neo nods, and then hands grab your father and mother, as well as your family friends. You feel the tight grasp of familiar hands on your forearms, and you look behind you, to see it’s Renjun.

His gaze isn’t recognizable. He only looks to his father, waiting for his instruction.

Your father is cursing, spitting, while your mother’s face is drained of all blood as she stares in horror around her.

“Renjun?” You ask, looking at your betrothed, hoping this was all some sort of game or mistake, but a part deep down in you knows that it’s not either.

“Where to, father?” Renjun asks, avoiding your gaze. His grip on you becomes tighter.

“Take them to the cellar.”

You feel almost stupid as the story is unfolded in front of you. Renjun and his father are the Resistance, and their identities have been cloaked well. Ambrosia, as the largest kingdom in the area, was vulnerable, and the people were struggling and starving. All the King of Neo had to do was inject the idea of revolution by distributing literature that cried for revolution, and educate people that life could be better than being a peasant. Declare independence from your ruler, like those in France and America few years before. That worked as a recruiting process, and made his organization stronger. It gave him ears everywhere and a wonderful plan to destroy Ambrosia and take the fertile land for himself.

The information that your family is almost bankrupt passed to the Resistance through maids that were seen and not heard, and Renjun’s father set up a match that your father could not refuse. It was a perfectly crafted offer that would make any normal man suspicious. You guess your father was just despirate to make his money problems go away.

So Renjun came, his father got what he wanted from your father, and now you were trapped in a cell, your castle sieged. Wooing you or no wooing you, your father would have forced you to marry Renjun, but in the time that you’ve been locked up, you concluded that Renjun enjoyed watching you fall for him.

Huang Renjun was one hell of a trojan horse. Always be wary if a deal is too good. And always be wary when someone is just too perfect.

You’ve never felt so stupid and childish before. Thinking that after the tourney, you would start seeing dressmakers who would taylor your wedding dress. Hire musicians, cooks, cleaners, and waiters. Tasting delicacies that will be present at the wedding meal. You thought that you were going to be with Renjun forever, but you now realize that forever was just a fantasy.

Instead, you were starving. Compared to the delicious, decadent three meals per day that you were used to seeing, the mysterious mush that gaolers presented you did not sit in your stomach well, and sometimes, your meal times were skipped. You never knew when your next meal came.

You guess you now understand the life of the poor people of Ciel.

One day, out of deliriousness and anguish, from the lack of sleep you were getting on the floor of a wine cellar, you threw your hot mush at the guard who opened the door to give you one of your meals. He hit you across the head and you fell over anticlimactically like a rag doll.

Furious at this insolence, the higher-ups of the Resistance decided to tortue you some more. Forcing your head into a bucket of ice cold water. Ripping open your skirt. Beating you with anything they had on them; once a gaoler beat you with a spoon. You’re chained to the floor as the door opens, and your new gaoler is in front of you.

It’s none other than Huang Renjun, the same way you met him but different. His hair is combed back, and he wears a warm overcoat, trousers, and long boots. He has a small book in his pocket. It’s Oresteia by Aeschylus. The weather has been getting colder in the few weeks you’ve been trapped under the castle that you’ve always called your home.

Renjun drops the plate in front of you. He can’t even bear to look at you.

“How are you enjoying Oresteia?” You challenge, venom in your voice. God, what you thought you would do after you saw Renjun on that fateful day at the tourney. You thought you would slap him and kick him and hurt him in the way that you have been hurting in the past few weeks.

Since you’re too weak to do any of that, you settle for some ‘dull’ conversation about a book, a book that brought you two together. How apt.

“It’s good.” Renjun says simply. He looks away. He doesn’t say anything more than that. Where is that spirit that impressed you when you first met? You wonder if that was a sham.

Renjun is about to leave when he stops himself. He turns around and faces you. You, out of all people, deserved an explanation. He shuts the thick door of your cell. He doesn’t face you as he clears his throat.

“You know, I didn’t want to do any of that.” He struggles to say any of this, to verbally disagree with his father. His father is the seed he came from. You are not his blood at all. Words made this whole fiasco more real.

“Really?” You ask, unimpressed. The dark circles under his eyes tell you that he needs your forgiveness so he can sleep at night.

“It went too far. Why couldn’t he just be happy with what he had?” Renjun grovels, not speaking to you in particular anymore.

“I want to speak with my father. Or my mother,” you command icily.

Renjun sits down. “They’re dead. Beheaded two days ago.” His voice is dry and cold. “My father went with them.”

You gulp. This information isn’t that shocking, yet you feel bile rise in your throat. You knew any news of your parents would mean death. They represent everything that the proletarians hated about the upper class. They would be the first to be kill. Yet still, knowing that the people who raised you, the people who you didn’t always agree with, were erased forever from this world makes your heart sink.

You don’t have any other siblings. You are now truely alone in this world.

But then the second part of the news sinks in your brain. You raise your brow. Renjun explains. He finally has someone he can process these events with.

“Once the other members of the Resistance found out that my father only gathered them so that he could take over, they killed him.” He choked. “Knowing that their cause was manufactured so that another king could rule them made him just as bad. I swore my fealty to the new Resistance in exchange for my life. The organization has decided on a new leader today. A man named Bang.”

“Just a few hours ago, five of your dearest earls were killed. The ones at the tourney. Bang and his cronies are scouring the records of anyone who was friendly with your family.”

You snort a little. Renjun looks at you, and he knows that he deserved it.

“Poetic justice, I guess,” you say, speaking about the deceased King of Neo. Renjun shrugged his shoulder. After a silence ensues between the two of you, Renjun gulps in a deep breath.

“You know, they want to kill you next. Who better than the offspring of the Mad King?” He asks rhetorically. You were prepared for this. It’s not like you were going to be held in a dungeon until the end of time. You were going to have to face the music for your father’s crimes against his people. It felt so unfair, but it couldn’t be helped.

“I’ve been postponing it. I tried to postpone your parents’ execution too.”

You didn’t even realize that you were holding your breath.

“Even after all of this, I still care about you.” Renjun says. His voice is small, as if he’s afraid of someone hearing his declaration of love. After all, there is still a guard posted outside these echoey cellar walls.

Who you thought was a sweet, sensitive, artistic man was one who was always under the thumb of someone else, be it his father or this Bang character.

“You’ll care about me until your new master calls,” you say derisively.

Renjun pursed his lips.

“I deserved that. But I want to be better for you.”

You bite your lower lip.

“How?”

Renjun’s lips are close to your ear; you can barely hear the words he’s saying.

“My men found a network of tunnels down here. One of the rocks on this wall is movable and will open a passage inside. I will give you a map. When you are done reading, eat it up, so there’s no paper trail.

“When I give you a lantern, you know that that is the time. I’ll give you a watch and a slip of paper about the time that there are the least guards watching the outside of this castle. I’ll distract anyone else. All you have to do is run. Got it?” Renjun asks.

You’re stunned. Immediately, you want to tell him that you’ve got it, but you’re now suspicious. After all, your family’s demise was being too trusting to the wrong people.

And Renjun has proven that he’s the wrong person.

“How do I know if I can trust you?” You ask.

“It’s the only choice you have. If you don’t escape using this plan and try to run off any other way, then you will be caught, tortured, and beheaded. The Resistance is scary business. You want my help. I’m their inside man. And I love you. I still do, even after all of this.”

You sigh. You could be fooled again. But it’s better than rotting in a wine cellar at the mercy of the Resistance, living every day hoping it’s not the day of your beheading. At least running gave you an iota of control that you lacked your whole life, as a royal or as a ragged prisoner.

And there’s something else. His eyes. His eyes were able to fool you once, but there is something truthful to it this time.

You don’t have to say anything for Renjun to understand your agreement.

The lantern comes only a few weeks later. Since Renjun came to you with a plan of escape, you’ve felt more lively, and Renjun notices that as your gaoler for a few weeks. Due to the “good behavior” that Renjun vouched, you were unchained once again in your cell.

Your first small step towards freedom.

Renjun is able to slip in a few delicacies that Bang and his cronies are eating upstairs in the dining room that you used to eat your whole life. One day an apple pie, another lamb stew with herbs. While you gobbled down that food – the only food you’re actually able to stomach – he would engage in a brief conversation with you; it was the only social interaction you’ve had since the Resistance took over and placed siege on the castle, yet he would only stay long enough that Bang would not grow suspicious of him.

Renjun handed you the map only a few days before the true escape, which was when you knew that the biggest moment of your life was coming. He wanted you to learn by heart the tunnels in the castle, enough so that you can reproduce the map in your head, and he didn’t want to give you the map too early in case you forgot. Obediently, you learned the map as best as you can, associating certain turns as if you were walking above ground in the castle that you were raised in. Once you were done, you ate the map, as Renjun said so no evidence would be left behind.

“180 degrees, vertical” was all he said. You knew what that meant; 6pm. You had no way of keeping time in your little, windowless cell, so Renjun gave you a pocket watch. It wasn’t just any pocket watch, but your fathers that he always kept in his breeches. Overwhelmed with emotion, you dismiss the man who is saving your life, and clutch the pocket watch.

A few minutes to six, you start palming the stone walls of the cellar, hoping to find the notch that will open a door that is your entrance to the secret passage. Your heart is in your throat as you claw the walls like a despirate animal, until finally you hit the right one. Using the minimal light and the small, hidable lantern that Renjun gave you, you trudge through the secret passage, remembering the map he gave you clearly, each step you take being another “dash” of your path on the map. You successfully navigate until you see a trapdoor. It requires a key for it to open, but you have a beautiful hairpin still in your hair from the day of the tourney. As you wiggle the pin into the lock, you take a deep sigh. This is a side exit that shouldn’t reveal your escape quite immediately.

Your heart is pounding restlessly as the open air touches your skin. The warm sun and fresh, cool air feel good against your skin, where in the past few weeks, you’ve been entombed in stale air. You gleefully inhale the scent of the garden’s orchids, which is wafting from the garden that is north of your estate.

You linger a little longer than you should. Renjun didn’t have to say it for you to know that this will be the last time you will see your beloved home ever again. Nothing will ever be the same again. You won’t be a high class woman (not that that mattered much to you anyway), you won’t have your excursions with Doyoung (what happened to him?), you won’t have your exquisite library anymore.

Your love for Renjun is a distant memory. Today, you will be leaving everything behind.

Your lingering turns to loitering when you feel a bright flash hit your face.

“The prisoner!” A guard shouts. He rushes towards you, and you are just quick enough to slip away into the large woods in your estate. You used to play here as a child, and you know the woods like its the back of your hand, and just as Renjun’s map promised, the areas you ran through were sparse of guards.

You can feel more footsteps thumping the ground as more and more men join the first man that noticed you loitering, and you feel nauseous. You can feel yourself screaming in your head that this is your one last shot, you can’t afford to mess up, and Renjun can’t even help you if you were caught.

Wading through the creek nearby with your bare feet, you run into a ditch, taking scrap leaves from the ground and covering yourself with the debris. You’re too out of breath to keep running anymore; the gruel has not been doing you any favors. You hide in a nearby ditch, clothing yourself in debris and the shadow.

“Sir, she went through the water,” you hear one man say.

“Then get into it!” Another man said, more likely the head of this security unit. “You all are a bunch of pussies, a little water doesn’t hurt anybody!”

You hear some reluctant groans as the men trudge through the creek, and you hear the shuffling of various feet at various positions, making it impossible to pinpoint where the noise is truly coming from.

You’ve never been more terrified in your life. You’re honestly not sure how you’ll react if one of the men on that security team find you. Will you scream? Will you cry? Will your heart break into two pieces knowing what lies in wait for you when you’re sent back to the Resistance? To another, worse cell burrowed deeper into the castle cellar than your previous cell? Tourtue would surely be a staple if you were caught. These are thoughts you want to filter out of your mind, but they seem to be infesting your thoughts.

“I don’t see her,” you hear one man say.

“I don’t either,” another man says. You feel slight relief coursing through your veins.

“What should we do, sir,” one man asks his superior.

He takes a deep breath. He shuffles through the woods, causing the anxiety and adrenaline to spike in your veins, and he takes a look around once more.

“Here’s what we will say,” you hear feet shuffling as the men get closer to their commander. “The girl died. She fell down that cliff over there,” he points to the cliff at the distance, the cliff that gives you a view of the Kingdom of Ambrosia. “We don’t mention what really happened here. Understood?” You can imagine that all the men are nodding.

As you hear the mens’ footsteps receding, you wait for ten minutes before your head peaks from the ditch. The sun has fallen, leaving the world pitch black.

Quietly, you shed off the debris from your pitiful dress as a snake sheds its skin.

Now begins your new life.

1802

You think you have seen the sun rise and set almost four thousand times since you escaped from the Resistance’s clutches. You haven’t seen or spoken to Renjun in the past eleven years, and he’s as good as dead. In the end, he righted his wrong, and you are not as bitter as you were when you were thrown into that cellar.

That night, you traveled tirelessly north from the woods of your estate, going somewhere you didn’t know yet. All you saw were woods and woods and woods. Maybe a racoon or two. Plenty of squirrels. You tried to talk to some, but that didn’t work very well. It was the loneliest period of your life.

Towns you considered settling in littered the landscape once you crossed Ambrosia’s boarder. Every day, you became a little less fearful that you were being searched for by the Resistance, and eventually, your quest for a new home came to an end after three months of searching. The peaceful little town you would be settling in was called Heaven’s Gate, called because of its high, rocky shores well above sea level.

From the newspapers, you observed the rise of the Resistance, with more and more bloodshed every day that Bang was in power. Eventually, he was beheaded, and the whole Resistance fell apart. From then, Democracy slowly rebuilt the area. In honor of its roots, the state that is your old home is now the Democratic State of Ambrosia.

The switch into democracy didn’t stop peoples’ fascination with the former royal family that was wiped out. There were public records of the death of your mother and father with images of their bodies and eyewitnesses of their death, but none of you. This lead many scholars to believe that you were still alive somewhere.

It’s a nicer alternative to the current narrative.

You smile at the few books and pamphlets you found in your new home’s library detailing the reasons why people think you are alive and where you are now. The common theory is that you boarded a ship to America as a stowaway, living your best life.

It occurred to you that if you walked a little longer, perhaps a few weeks, you could get to the coast and become the stowaway like the stories said and land yourself in America. That would truely be a fresh start. But to leave your homeland? Never.

The people of Heaven’s Gate were quite unassuming. Nobody asked many questions about your life before Heaven’s Gate. You took on a new identity, and the role as the town’s healer. At the ripe age of thirty-one, you have decided that Heaven’s Gate is your children and that you will repent for the sins of your father against his people.

You operate your healing out of your home, and thanks to healing a construction worker’s mother, you got an extension for your practice built for practically free. There is an entrance to your office from directly outside, a little waiting room, and an operating room for you to examine the sick. Definetly much better than your travelling medic act in Ciel.

As you sweep the floors of the operating room, you hear a knock on the door.

“Come in!” You shout.

In comes your apprentice Yoona, who has a strange man limping, leaning against her for support, his messenger bag dragging against the dirt.

“I found him by the creek. He’s already rubbed some marigold paste on his wound, but I wanted to see if you could do anything else with it.”

When you look at the man, it’s like you’ve seen him before. He’s around your age, wearing shabby, dirt-trodden clothes of someone who has begged for their whole life. He hasn’t looked like he’s showered in days, and he’s thin like a stick, but at the same time, he looks… content?

Nothing about this man made sense. Beggars didn’t know that marigold stops infections. Where could he have learned that? A friend? He looks like he’s been wandering alone for a long time.

Deciding not to much further thought into those observations, you notice how Yoona looks at you for a way to proceed.

“Right,” you say, hoping to hide how taken aback you are. “Any sickness? Headaches, sniffling, coughing?” You ask.

“None yet,” the man says grimly. “Although that bread looks very nice.” His gaze falls to the bread pan you have in the kitchen next door to your wing, fresh out of the oven. Despite how content this man looks, there’s a glint in his eye that betrays the hunger that gnaws at him, from days of starvation, running off of whatever he could find, most likely berries on the land. The man in front of you doesn’t emanate skill in hunting either, or else he would have a bow and arrow with him.

Out of pity, you take the bread from your kitchen and bring it into your operating room, letting Yoona shoulder the man into your extension. She lays him down on the bed, and nods out. She will be getting the standard items — water from the well, a few blankets, and spare clothes that you kept washed to give to anyone that came to you for medical help — sometimes, just being clean helps cure the illness more than medicine.

Once she leaves, it’s just you and this stranger. You curiously watch him as he gnaws on the bread, a look of relief in his eyes at not having to forage for this food. Something about this stranger though feels so familiar. But you don’t know how. Any associates of your family were wiped out during the violent period of the Resistance, so no one you love from your old life is left on this Earth.

Since the man already used your standard cure of marigold leaves, the only thing left for you to do is to rub a fresh coat, wrap a bandage around his wound, and hand him poppy seeds to put him to sleep faster since he has no signs of infection. Sleep is also an excellent cure.

When you hand him some poppy seeds, the man shakes his head. “I can take that in a little bit. Really I’m fine,” You look into this deep brown eyes, and the feeling of you knowing this man is gnawing at your brain. “Can you hand me my bag?” He asks. You look dubiously at him and to the poppy seeds still in your hands. “I promise I will take them.”

Knowing that you’re not going to breech this patient’s stubbornness, you grab his bag and place the poppy seeds into a small piece of cloth. The flap on top of the bag is pulled back, revealing a sketchbook and a small canvas. Memories, painful memories haunt your conscience of the boy who fooled you and then saved you.

Watching the man take his sketchbook, he opens to a page of roses. Immediately, the storming of the Carcel rushes back to you. At the way you’re watching the canvas peak out of the man’s messenger bag, he breaks the silence between you.

“I can show you what’s inside too.” He says. But you already have an idea what it is. Putting his sketchbook aside, the man pulls out the slightly dusty, smudged canvas.

It’s you. Naked. That fateful night.

“Huang Renjun?” You ask, finally able to find your voice.

The man smiles, confirming his identity. “I was beginning to think I would have to reintroduce myself.”

You’re completely flabbergasted. “W-What are you doing here?” You ask, your jaw practically dropping to the ground.

“Getting healed. Remember?” He points to his wounded leg.

“I know that,” You snort. “What I mean to say is how are you alive? Wouldn’t Bang have had your head since you let me escape? And then the ending of the Resistance. You were extremely high-profile. How did you avoid death all these years?”

Renjun stares into the distance, recounting his life in the past ten-ish years. “I wasn’t as high-profile as you’d think. I was the Resistance’s painter, painting portraits of high-profile Resistance members. And I was a gaoler. Something about my presence,” Renjun gestures.

Smiling, you agree. “You do have a power over people. Quite a comforting jailer.”

“I was close to the action, but was never really involved in it. I was more of a servant to Resistance members, if you will. And then the Resistance was overthrown. Any “close” members were taken into an interrogation center. I gave up everything I knew in exchange for a presidential pardon on War Crimes. That lead to the execution of Bang and his lackeys. Their over-the-table chatter led me to know about a little residence they have in Corsica where they went when things got too tough,” Renjun says ruefully.

You nodded, absorbing every part of this story.

“And then I heard rumors from old associates from my former kingdom. Neo is now a democracy. And then the papers. That you were alive somewhere. Deep down in my heart, I know you’re a fighter, you’re the strongest person that I know, and I just knew you couldn’t have died somewhere. I would have felt it.” Renjun places a fist against his heart.

“As I searched for you, I completed this canvas of you with the last of my expensive paints from my time with the Resistance. That’s how I felt so connected to you, so sure you were alive.” Renjun smiles at the painting, letting himself get lost in time.

He slowly moves his gaze from the painting that provided him condolence and guidance, his eyes glassy. “And here you are in front of me. Living your life. This is the life you always wanted, isn’t it? No royal chaos, no backstabbing and plotting. Just healing.”

You nod. “I’m happier in this little house in this nowhere town, paid mostly through favors and the peoples’ love of me,” you smile. “I’ve always wanted to be loved.”

“I remember,” Renjun says.

Your hand finds Renjun’s. You study the sight. With the dirt caked under Renjun’s fingernails and all the creases in your hands from the mashing and plucking of herbs from questionable places, you can hardly tell that you both experienced a royal life. Genuinely, it feels like it was a lifetime ago.

“There were times that I wanted to give up finding you, though. This is a big, wide world, and you could be anywhere. The rumors could have been right, and you could be on a boat to America, and I wouldn’t know better. My intuition could only tell me that you’re still alive.

“After seven years of being the Resistance’s little puppet, I was ready to find a purpose in my life again. As cliche as it might sound, my life had meaning when you were in it. Otherwise, I was always working for someone else, whether it was my father or Bong. This was the one thing I wanted to do in my lifetime.

“I had been wandering around for a while, visiting village after village, town after town, never staying too long. I wanted to settle down, but I was also attached to my mission to find you again. So I’d move on. Then your assistant found me. When I walked into this town, and then your house, it screamed of you. After all these years, I was finally sure of something.”

You’re silent for a long time after this monologue, processing every single word, racking your brain to say something, anything.

“The period of my life with you was the happiest. I wasn’t meant for the royal life, but having someone who felt the same way felt as though we were meant for each other. And then the Resistance happened. And then you saved me. You corrected one bad deed with one good deed. I don’t miss the old Ambrosia and my old life which is what made me able to forgive you after I escaped. I miss my parents sometimes, though. But if it wasn’t your family and the Resistance, it would have been something else — monarchies are growing out of style.” You chuckle.

Another silence between you two. You’re out of words to say to each other, enough of the small-talk. Without you realizing, you come closer to Renjun, closer and closer until your chests are pressed together, and you can smell Renjun’s breath. A thin layer of dirt and sweat cover his face, and you take your thumb to brush his cheek, making a visible mark on his face.

“I never thought I’d be in this moment with you, but the Universe is kind. I love you Y/N.” The fat tears falling from his eyes make tracks along his skin. You feel the stinging sensation of tears developing your eyes. You don’t realize how much you’ve suffered. Townspeople have tried to set you up with their sons, uncles, friends. But you’ve always rejected. At first it’s because you wanted to be a dedicated healer, and it would be difficult to do that with children. But now you know the real reason, and he’s standing in front of you.

Huang Renjun. He is the reason. Despite all that has happened, despite how he expedited the end of the Kingdom of Ambrosia, you loved him more than you ever realized. Enough that it seems like that love is about to burst. After all these years of being alone, you finally feel complete.

Grabbing Renjun’s cheeks, you pull him impossibly closer to you, letting your lips land on his and suck his dry, parched lips, but you don’t care. Renjun grabs your waist as he kisses you back.

Your breaths hitting each other’s noses, you finally pull away, your noses touching, as if your bodies can’t bear to be apart any longer.

You were finally going to have your happy ending.

tagging: @peachjaem00 @infnteen @zennymeow-blog @shwizhies

a/n (2): if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! as my longest fic yet, i've spent countless hours on this fic, and i'm glad to publish the final results. i hope you found this fic enjoyable, and let me know what you thought in the comments or in an ask :3

#of course the tags didnt work the first time #nct #renjun #huang renjun #nct angst #nct smut #nct fluff #renjun fluff #renjun scenarios #renjun angst #renjun imagines #nct imagines #nct dream scenarios #nct dream angst #nct dream fluff #nct dream smut #renjun smut

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patchwork-crow-writes · 1 year ago

Text

Thoughts on Kris x Ralsei, continued

(this is a continuation of my first post on this subject, creatively titled Thoughts on Kris x Ralsei. The parts all build upon each other, so it's best to read from the beginning. Here's a little TOC so you can get up to speed:

Part 1: And They Lived Happily Ever After Part 1.5: I Believe Your Choices DO Matter Part 2: A Pair of Star-Cross'd Lovers <- (You Are Here!) Part 2.5: In Another World, We Could Have Been (Just) Friends (Future parts to be added as they are written))

(Please be aware that this series will go over topics including coercion, non-consentual romance, and an observation pertaining to potential incestual undertones. If any of this makes you uncomfortable in any way, please proceed with caution. Thank you)

Part 2: A Pair of Star-Cross'd Lovers

Kris Dreemurr is doomed the instant the player assumes control of them.

If Undertale is a game about how your choices can affect the world, then Deltarune is about how sometimes, your choices mean absolutely nothing. Fate grinds on, irrespective of your wishes. Onward you march, towards your ultimate destiny.

This concept features heavilly in a lot of RPGs - the idea that the protagonist is the "chosen one" who will save the world, which due to the constrains of narrative and gaming, is what ends up happening 95% of the time. Much like the Knight and Princess dynamic I discussed in the previous part, this trope is so heavily ingrained in the gaming psyche that we do tend to accept it when it happens,as part and parcel of the RPG experience.

This very familiar setup is where Kris and Susie find themselves upon meeting Ralsei, who waxes lyrical about the very Non-Specific-and-Light-on-Any-Identifying-Details Legend. They are told that the balance of light and dark is being disrupted and a "terrible calamity (will) occur", are shown some apocalyptic imagery, three heroes who are identified by their race/species (and not their name - a detail which may become important later on), who will stop something nefariously dubbed the "Angel's Heaven". It is Prophecy 101, the most barebones framing for a quest you can imagine... but hey, the game needs a hook, doesn't it? Some grand stakes to get the ball rolling.

And so, the roles are doled out: Kris is the human, the unwavering leader; Susie is the no-nonsense contrarian who doesn't really care much for concepts of fate and determinism, and Ralsei is the exposition fairy, doing his best to keep his comrades on the path he has set out for them.

Ok, cool. But where does Kralsei fit into this? Well, in Part 1 and 1.5 of this series of posts, I brought up how Deltarune goes to great lengths to bring the idea of this pairing to prominence... but I didn't really talk about why the game is doing this. And the answer is, because it ties in with Deltarune's central theme of destiny and determinism. Or to put it another way:

Your Choices Don't Matter.

And here, you might protest. Because surely when the game says that, it's only refering to Kris's choices, right? We, as players, can choose from different dialogue options, we can choose to FIGHT or SPARE our adversaries. More fundamentally, we are the ones in control of Kris's movements and actions, while they are almost entirely powerless to fight our influence (note how I say almost - this will be important later).

But think for a moment about the choices we are given as players, and ask yourself - what meaningfully changes as a result of our actions? In Chapter 1, it doesn't matter whether we fight or spare anyone, they'll all return regardless in Chapter 2, with a single line of dialogue added as a handwave to explain why. And while Chapter 2 gives us a little more say in this - we can lose potential recruits to Castle Town by fighting rather than sparing, and they won't turn up in Ralsei's dark world at the end - the main points of the story do not meaningfully change to reflect this.

(there are, of course, things that we CAN do to change things in a pretty big way *coughSnowgravecough* but given that the means to achieve this are rather well-hidden, and it involves doing some very, VERY messed up things in pursuit of it, we can consider it an exception that proves the rule - technically your choices CAN have consequences, but those consequences are so horrific that you're probably better off not choosing in the first place.)

Okay, sure, you say. But this doesn't apply to the interpersonal relationships in Deltarune, now does it? If we don't want Kralsei to happen, then we simply don't choose any of the options that hint at it. That much must be in our power, surely?

To which I have one riposte: the Acid Tunnel of Love.

Brief overview of this sequence: Kris and Ralsei are tasked with "distracting" Queen while Susie and Berdly go to rescue Noelle. Literally on the next screen, the only way to proceed is across a giant river of acid, atop a swan pedallo, while soft carnival-style music plays in the background. Partway through, Ralsei has a heart-to-heart with Kris/the player, Rouxls Kaard does what he does best, and a photo may or may not be taken at the end.

You don't get to choose not to do this (unless you do that other thing which we're not discussing here). This just happens. And it's difficult to get away from the fact that this entire scenario is dripping with romantic undertones, especially when it's contrasted directly afterwards with Susie and Noelle's equally-romantically-charged Rescue and Ferris Wheel ride.

But then, perhaps it's a parody. A funny contrivance that sends up the absurdity of Kralsei by comparing it to a romantic pairing with actual weight, Suselle. But there are two problems with this; the first is that if we write off this scene as parody, then we must also do the same with the ferris wheel, because they both operate under the same logic - they're both based on a massive contrivance.

The second problem is that Ralsei doesn't seem to have got that memo. And no matter how you respond to his questions, the scene will end with his admiration for Kris strengthened. There is NO dialogue option you can select which will dissuade him from his feelings.

Exhibit A: calling Ralsei a lackey will have him cheerfully exclaim "Ooh, I've never been somebody's lackey before!" (because he's a darkner, that's literally what he was designed to be). Exhibit B: saying "It's strange" has Ralsei write off his question as, erm, "sarcasm". Which would perhaps be read as a rebuttal, except that his understanding of social situations is so minimal that he might genuinely believe he's committed a serious faux pas here, rather than interpret the response as a rejection. It also doesn't change his follow-up response, either. Exhibit C: Saying nothing when he says "it's good that you're you" has him laugh at how "Kris-like" not saying anything is, before saying that he "[likes] you-like things".

Cue Ralsei haters throwing their hands up in exasperation.

Contrast again with Susie and Noelle's scene. Here, too, we're presented with options to influence how things will happen. But the crucial difference is, we have absolutely zero sway over Susie, and she will always choose to say and do her own things. Here, too, we are powerless to intervene, but in a more direct way, whereas with Kralsei, even though we CAN choose an option, none of them make a difference to the scene or its outcome. This serves to show just how much agency Susie actually possesses, and is a stark contrast to Kris's severe lack of agency... as well as our own.

What does that mean, exactly? Well, consider this: Susie is free to make her own decisions, up to and including choosing NOT to pursue Noelle romantically. Kris, on the other hand, has no such freedom, and thus cannot choose to opt out of entering into a relationship with Ralsei. And, as I have alluded to a few times, neither can we, despite what our own feelings on the situation might be.

And thus we come to the title of this part - Kris and Ralsei are Star-Crossed. No reference to this line is made in Deltarune as of present, but it has numerous connotations which I believe are relevant to these two characters. Firstly, the idea that their connection is destined to occur - it's written in the stars, woven into the game's literal architecture. As such, there is nothing that anyone can do to stop it from happening - not Ralsei, who probably would be quite thrilled with it, not the player, who try as they might cannot influence it either way, and certainly not Kris, who is almost entirely unable to voice their own desires. We are each as powerless as each other in this instance.

Secondly, the idea that this destined relationship, no matter what form it might take, is doomed to end in tragedy. From the reaction to the various teas, we can infer that Kris is lukewarm on Ralsei at best (this may change as future chapters are released, but it's not exactly a ringing endorsement). And as time goes on, it becomes increasingly apparent that Ralsei is likely labouring under a false notion of who Kris actually is, and has fallen for the idea of Kris that he has conjured up in his own head, rather than the genuine article.

But the problem is more fundamental still, for if we understand the prophecy correctly, light and dark must be in balance - they cannot mix. That means no new dark fountains, which means that Ralsei can never manifest anywhere as a darkner once the events of the game are concluded. This would of course preclude any sort of interpersonal connection, romantic or otherwise. The best that could be hoped for in such a scenario is that Ralsei returns to whichever object he represents in the light world and Kris keeps him around as a memento.

This all assumes a great deal, of course - Kris's stance on Ralsei may well change, and for all we know Ralsei is more than likely very aware that we exist separately from Kris, as evidenced by his clandestine conversations with Kris while we see what Susie's up to. Additionally, it is entirely possible that Ralsei has instead fallen for US through Kris, which presents... additional complications. More on that later.

All of this leads us back to the central conceit of Deltarune: Our choices do not matter. Nothing we say, nothing we do, can change what is going to happen. We don't know exactly where this is going to go, whether they will fall into a full-on romance, or if they become something more akin to queerplatonic partners, or good friends, or something like siblings, or perhaps even mortal enemies. But one thing is for sure - Deltarune is going to continue cramming Kralsei down our throats, whether we like it or not.

...okay, think I best stop there for now. And look, I know I haven't really gone too much into the why of all this just yet. But patience - much of the past few essays have been establishing the groundwork - the what and the how, if you like. I'n Part 3, I'll attempt to go over what I believe the Narrative (i.e. the game) is trying to accomplish with Kralsei - what it's trying to say about games, stories, romance, and how we can be manipulated into endorsing a potentially problematic relationship, irrespective of the wishes of the vessel we control.

Thanks for reading!

#writing #essay #Deltarune #fan theory #Kris dreemurr #Ralsei #Kralsei #Krisei #kris x ralsei #destiny #Narrative #acid tunnel of love #your choices don't matter #Suselle mention #cw potential noncon #thoughts #thoughts and speculation

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ambiguouspuzuma · 9 months ago

Text

The Horologist

The HRS Azimuth was doomed on the eighteenth of August. It had lost its bearings early in the morning, at exactly a quarter past three, and thus began its sombre journey across the Styx - for all souls aboard were lost when it was finally found again. A ghost ship, run into a sheer cliff face as if on purpose; scuttled, like the crabs which now roamed freely across its decks.

Maritime calamities are rarely recorded with such precision. This is inevitable, despite the best efforts of their attendant historians, due to the way that wood decays, or salt preserves; meaning that whilst corpses may be examined, in order to determine a general time of death, there is no knowing how slow and drawn out the wait for it had been.

There are too many variables: one crew might have saved more rations, or doled them out more carefully, and hence postponed starvation for at least a few more tortured days. The end was set, but they could take their time in getting there. In this case, however, Arturo knew the moment of the struck ship's doom for certain. After all, he had planned it all out in advance.

Of course, it could be argued that the ship had been doomed all along - dead in the water from the moment that she left her berth, the crew's fate having been sealed long before that fateful night. If he had been pressed on that point, Arturo might have pointed to an evening some months hence, the minutes following a dinner which had been too rich for his tastes; digesting his own first taste of crab, but struggling to stomach his dining companions most of all.

"And have you ever worn a beard yourself?" asked Lord Gastan, seated to his right. He stroked his own forked number as he spoke, consciously or not, in a way that shed stray hairs across the tablecloth. Arturo moved his glass a few inches to the left.

"I am afraid not, my lord," he replied, without a question of his own. He saw that topic opening up like a chasm before them, a long-winded conversation about nothing of interest, and did his best to close it down. "I must confess that I have never seen the appeal."

"Ah, but perhaps you are right." Those taciturn tactics seemed not to have worked; Lord Gastan only nodded sagely, as if prompted into deeper thought. "They are such work to care for! The lotions, the oils, the constant tending - oh, like a Persian cat, or a pedigree Afghan hound!"

He bore the air of a man who had neglected to shave one morning and, rather than apologise for such slovenliness, decided to make it his entire personality. Such men always spoke of wearing their facial hair, an accessory to be consciously donned or discarded at will, rather than a disordered growth which freely sprouted from untended skin.

Arturo kept his bat straight. "I have never kept pets either, my lord."

"My God, man! Whatever do you do?"

That roused his attention. I work, Arturo wanted to say: both to sap more energy from the conversation, and to emphasise the difference between them. But he had to make the effort of civility. These Guild dinners were a chore, but they were all part of that work, an important investment in his career.

The city's Makers were often self-made men, but there was a limit to how far that path could take them. Even the greatest artificers could only make so many sales directly from their crooked shops, largely surrounded by competitors and peers. To truly reach their potential, they required a degree of patronage - investment in the latest apparatus, commissions, introductions, renown - and that meant being patronised from time to time.

The Guild arranged these dinners so that those two worlds could meet, to mutual gain; playing matchmaker between aristocrats and artificers, between money-men and, well, matchmakers. The likes of Lord Gastan could invest in Arturo's work - purchasing a stake in the future, anxious not to be left in the past. They would make a tidy profit, increasing their wealth and forestalling that irrelevance, whilst helping him up to the first rung of a ladder they had never had to climb themselves.

"I am a horologist," he replied instead. "A crafter of pillars and plates, balances and barrels, caps and cases. A maker of fusees and escapements. A cutter of wheels, a painter of dials, an engraver, a piercer, a finisher. That is what I do, and that is what I am."

"Ah... very good." After bearing with his babbling for three courses, Arturo was pleased to leave Lord Gastan lost for words. "And these, ah, escapements..."

"I make watches and clocks."

"Right. Yes. Such valuable work! Why, I myself was saying just the other day - to none other than the Admiral, you understand - that we have such a wealth of talent in the city, we really must be able to solve the issues his chaps have been having in the fleet."

"Issues?" For the first time, in over eighty minutes - according to Arturo's watch, which was never wrong - their conversation threatened to become interesting.

"Oh, yes! The search for new chronometers, of course - just as vital as the hunt for new uncharted lands, to hear the Admiral tell it, and of course crucial to their success. The current batch of instruments are just not up to snuff, and his office has decreed a new Trials to muster up some alternatives."

"They need... clocks?" The colonial machine had always seemed, well, imperious. Arturo couldn't think of it running on clockwork, let alone struggling to do so.

"Something to do with co-ordinates, as I understand it," Lord Gastan said. "Mariners have no way of telling longitude at sea, and there have been some terrible disasters as a result. I always thought they used the stars, but apparently they're not up to anything but latitude."

He stroked those luxurious moustaches when thinking, as if hoping to turn the conversation back to his subject of choice. Arturo resented them, knowing just what a luxury they were: he had answered honestly about his lack of facial foliage, but it was not a matter of never having seen the appeal, rather needing to retain his appeal to others.

As a newcomer in this city, he'd had to appear clean and clean-shaven at all times in order to be invited to Guild dinners in the first place. Arturo was a watchmaker by birth, but an Armestadter by trade. Upon arrival, he'd made it his vocation to steep himself in the city's stereotypes and culture: first to earn his residence, and then to earn a living. Flowing locks might be accepted on imported cats and hounds, but the city's great and good would only brush shoulders with a certain kind of immigrant.

He wore his curls cropped-close, his brown cheeks bare, and a simple, pressed white shirt - always tailoring his personality to match, keeping within the box they'd made for men like him. People wanted to do business with young Arturo, the neat and tidy islander whose impeccable service always came with a bow and a smile. He'd had to dispense with his traditional dress, his long, braided hair, and his pride most of all. They would not take him as he'd come, independent and free, so he'd suffered in subservience - and found pride in his work instead.

"Disasters?" That had his attention, even more than the talk of keeping time.

"Without a bearing, ships can be lost. Have been, in fact - and more than a few. Small wonder that the Admiral is making this a priority."

"Of course." The gears in his own mind were still turning. "Do you mind explaining how it works? I have a professional interest, you see."

"Well, from what I was able to grasp - and I am far from an expert, you understand - if a clock is set at its home port, and well-maintained, the navigator can simply check the time wherever he is and compare the two. The difference is his longitude: the number of degrees east or west."

"How would he know the local time?"

"Why, by observing the heavens!" Lord Gastan spoke as if it was obvious, the numbers plastered across the sky. "Again, I am hardly a mariner myself, but I gather that this is what sextants and such are for."

He talked as a man who often gathered, but rarely sowed. Lord Gastan was not the type to work the field himself. Arturo doubted he'd ever held a sextant, or any other tool more complex than the oyster fork he waved to make his point. It was his liberty to talk about such things as matters-of-fact, another man's life's work distilled into an anecdote, enjoying the fruits of a knowledge he had never had to earn.

Arturo eyed his shabby, ill-fitting clothes with contempt. Not for the style - having grown up on hand-me-downs himself, he had no right nor inclination to prejudge a book by its jacket - but that he was able to carry it off, due to the vest of privilege worn underneath. A chainmail forged from silver spoons. How much had he saved for his Guild dinner clothes, fretting each time over starching them enough? All when Lord Gastan could roll into this grand hall as if it was his drawing room. The nouveau riche could afford to dress well, but only old money could afford not to.

"That does sound useful." Arturo was an expert in the detail of his craft, but he hadn't considered such far-reaching applications. "But we have perfectly well-functioning clocks. I work on them every day. Forgive me, but I fail to see the problem."

"Well, this is your profession, not mine." Lord Gastan didn't try to hide his exhaustion with this line of questioning, but Arturo let the sigh go without comment. He was glad to be the bore for a moment. "But it is all to do with the pendulum. A reliable timekeeper on land, yes, but it simply cannot abide life at sea. The temperature, motion, corrosion, friction, lubrication..."

"I see." Arturo smiled. The pendulum. He would simply have to make a clock without its central part. "Well, I could certainly take a stab at that."

"If you wish to add your name, any and all attempt are welcome," Lord Gastan said, both magnanimous and patronising. "The two-hundred arum reward has attracted many young hopefuls. Of course, only the Masters have succeeded at a Trials before."

"Of course," Arturo echoed. He was not a capital letters Master, nor had much prospect of becoming one, though it was not for want of skill. In its lower case, he had achieved mastery within months of arrival; after years to hone consistency, he now produced a masterpiece every other week. But ability was not enough. Even Armestadt, that great beacon of talent, was far from a meritocracy.

The rank could only be bestowed by invitation from the Guild, and the Guild was comprised of Masters. They had grown old and rich on the backs of imported genius, young minds to be apprenticed and bound to their brands, shackled to their workshops with a distant promise of inheritance. They saw no reason to end that careful balance; the gate they kept barely ajar, so that they alone could mete out the proceeds of their work. They had no reason to promote him from inferior to equal; from underdog to competitor.

Arturo had forged his own path, but it had been a narrow, winding one, and it could only take him so far. He was a man who preferred his own company, to be left to - and with - his own devices, but he needed these dinners, the charity of patrons, in place of a Master to serve and suckle from. Then there was the prospect of these Trials: two-hundred arums would fund his work for months, or reduce his reliance on sponsors like Lord Gastan. For an independent Maker, it was a tempting reward all its own. But Arturo had another prize set in his sights, and it was worth far more to him than gold.

After dinner he retired to his workshop, the place where he'd strived to retire so many of his competitors. Arturo had never lacked for motivation, but now he was charged with a new focus: Lord Gaston had sold him the vision of a clock that could go anywhere in the world, and still dance to his beat with perfect rhythm. At least, Arturo thought, he had a project worthy of his talent. After years toiling in the shadows of the greats, this would be his masterpiece.

Armestadt was the city of the future. There were others with more prestige, certainly, more intellectual pedigree - and the Guild might have chosen the university towns of Tornfut and Roelm to seed its roots, if it had wanted thirsty minds and bright ideas, or the market capital of Hasanbout, if it was in need of golden arums most of all, raw materials and hefty coffers to buy them.

But it had settled here. Not for knowledge of the past, or the riches of the present, but the promise of the future. Armestadt was a city of Makers, most of all. Its bustling streets were crowded with all manner of artisans who had dedicated lives to their particular professions: polymaths who expounded genius with their hands rather than words, alchemists who created things from iron worth far more than their weight in gold.

It was Makers who crafted the specific, delicate pieces required for the advancement of Science - lenses for refracting light, intricate pulley mechanisms - and thus kept the wheels of progress moving on. Since his arrival in this foreign land, it was all Arturo had ever wanted to be. He had been powerless, impoverished, and knew that he could never gain the wealth or power lords like Gastan had been born with. But he could have knowledge, and talent, and graft. As a Maker, he could make himself their equal.

His workshop was nestled in the crook between Candlewick Lane and Creechurch Street, a thin building whose bulging bow windows gave the impression of being squeezed by its neighbours. It was an expensive part of town, with space at a premium, but convenient for his clients and potential benefactors. A twenty-minute walk from the Guildhall, if he made good time - and Arturo always did.

It was also his temple. He did most of his work in a narrow room, cluttered with all sorts of contraptions, half-finished, half-begun. It was a house of clockwork faces ticking in step, as Arturo did himself: he heard the music of the passing time, and knew how to play it on almost any instrument. His lungs breathed with the second hand, his heart beat with the pendulum.

Or not. He would have to find another way.

It wouldn't be the first attempt. There had been experiments with springs, for pocket-watches and carriage-clocks, but so far they'd lacked the precision of his more traditional work. Portable clocks were a novelty - some found them for short-term use, but they lacked the perfect accuracy Arturo had always craved. Still, if the Admiralty demanded it, he would have to see what he could do. He had long laboured at perfection; now he set his sights higher still.

It could be said that the HRS Azimuth was doomed that night: the moment the crew's fate was sealed behind glass, wound up and set to run. But their end might have been foretold even earlier, on another ship, bringing Arturo to their shores - or perhaps on the ships of the past, heading to conquer the land where he'd been born. He was the fruit of those seeds; the reaper their ancestors had sowed. The enemy who'd grown here in their midst. The cuckoo who now emerged from amongst his clocks.

Armistadt was the city of the future, as all of its local nobles loved to boast. Unfortunately for them, Arturo hailed from one of the nations of the past. His homeland was a once-mighty kingdom, brought low by the greed of its own rulers, and dragged lower by the greed of their new ones: imperialists who'd arrived to trade their sovereignty for a handful of magic beans, trinkets such as those he now made for their approval. When one man can be bribed to sell his kingdom, even the likes of Lord Gastan were rich enough to buy a crown.

Conquest had been a matter of business. They'd taken over the local mines, replaced their textiles, all industries now run from Hasanbout, native owners paid off for a fraction of their worth. With no opportunity at home, Arturo's peers had fled the sinking ship: their best minds flocked to Tornfut and Roelm, to learn how to supplant their mother tongue, to memorise the approved version of history. So it was that the ship continued to sink, with no-one left who knew how to right it again.

Arturo had arrived in Armestadt no better, but with little other choice: there were no Makers at home, no patrons, no Guild. If he wanted to master his craft, as he so sorely did, he would have to do it here. Armestadt was the city of the future, and it drew it in from miles around, leaving other places with little future left. This city was oft described as a melting pot, but Arturo had worked with furnaces, and knew that raw materials rarely arrived willingly. They were wheeled in as tributes to the flames; a sacrifice to something greater than themselves.

All four cities were a distortion that sat low across the landscape, a drain that drank in a hemisphere. Armestadt drew in talent as Hasanbout did cobalt, gold and iron ore, as Tornfut and Roelm did raw intelligence, and they all thrived like ticks upon their host. But such asset stripping was not without its costs. Trading routes were slung like grappling hooks across a vast and hostile continent, harpoons buried in the belly of a great whale, forgetting that roads run in two direction - and, once hitched, could be boarded from the other side. They exported resentment, and imported revenge.

Arturo made for an unassuming architect of destruction, stooped over his workbench: bow spectacles perched upon his nose, bow window allowing in the first glimpse of dawn to filter through. He worked delicately, as if wiring the clock to explode - his nimble touch dictating hands more graceful still, its calamity calibrated to the minute and minutest detail. He'd always taken care over his work, but this device might be his only chance to call an empire's time of death. Moreso than ever, he had to make it count.

Time was of the essence, with the Trials so soon. He worked around the clock, and then again, tinkering with every aspect to perfection, and then adding his imperfection back in. The trap would need to be intricate, to avoid detection by the judges, or those who oversaw the final installation. But nobody saw him now. The political philosophers loved to ask who watched the watchman, whilst the watchmaker entirely slipped their lofty gaze.

Arturo toiled for sleepless nights and restless days, counting down the seconds, one lined face above another. Time danced for him, allowing him to fit a month's work in a week, and he aged a year in exchange. But all that sacrifice was worth it. When the day of the Trials arrived, the device was finally ready: a carriage clock to fit a ship, more and less accurate than any that had come before. Arturo had cut his teeth on grandfather clocks, and now he'd created a clock worthy of his unborn grandchildren. Time had danced for him, and he'd plucked this dial straight out of the next century.

As promised, the Trials were flush with Masters. Arturo knew most of them by reputation, or past encounters, all of them disappointing. Lord Gastan had also shown up for the big event, along with some other high-rolling patrons of the Guild, as had the top brass of the admiralty. It was as if his whole world had been condescend into the docks for the day - or at least the ceiling that had always kept it contained. These were the limits of his present, and the pathway to his future.

As a late entry, and the lowest in seniority, Arturo's was the last scheduled attempt. He liked it that way. He was able to sit back and watch the so-called Masters expose each others' flaws, failing and falling one-by-one, before he took to the floor and exposed them all again. He needn't have worried so much before; or perhaps his fears had been well-placed, and driven him to resolve each and every one. Either way, there were no worries on the day. It all went like clockwork.

Going last, and coming first, meant that his coronation was easily lined up. Arturo stood clear as the most successful applicant, and there could be no doubt that his work had improved on all those who had come before. The device had worked just as intended; meaning that it worked well, for now, and didn't reveal the secret at its heart. Many of the Masters hadn't stayed past their own failed attempts, and Arturo thought it was the shame the whole Guild couldn't see his coronation - but it was sweet enough to be crowned by none other than the Admiral himself.

"I must congratulate you," he said, clasping his arm with a presumptuous hand. "Master...?"

"Arturo," he said, not bothering to make the correction. There was no stolen valour there. The rank was a formality he'd more than earnt in practice. "I am new to the Guild, but rising fast."

"As I see." The Admiral had seen what little he had permitted, but was the sort of man who liked to feel in charge. "Yours was an unexpected entry, as I understand, but the admiralty is fortunate that you decided to compete. You have your people's gratitude."

Arturo did not doubt it; though he suspected the Admiral was mistaken as to whom his people were. He was grateful now for the onerous Guild dinners, all of the practice with the likes of Lord Gastan, which had been rehearsal for this main event. He smiled and nodded, nodded and smiled. He was a metalworker, amongst everything else, and he knew how to manipulate the highest brass.

"It is my honour to serve," he said; a poor facsimile of patriotism, his mouth dry in the salt air. He was a far better liar with his hands. It was fortunate that these men heard only what they wanted to hear. "The fortune is all mine. But I have to thank Lord Gastan for his patronage. It was he who inspired me to stand before you here today."

He waved to his beloved patron, who seized this invitation to come and stand there with them. Lord Gastan had derived such pride from his previous conversation with the Admiral - none other, you understand - and Arturo knew he wouldn't resist a chance to bask in this reflected glory.

"Well, I can't quite take all of the credit," he said, as one who still felt tempted to give it a try. "But yes, it was my suggestion, I confess. I have always believed in the promise of Arturo here, and thought that this might be just the project for his keen and brilliant young mind."

Lord Gastan was hubris as always, but Arturo did not begrudge him the idea. It was true that, had they never spoken, he might well not be here today. He had planted the seeds of this ambition: the device, the Trials, the Admiralty's hour of need. There had been much about dogs and moustaches besides, but Arturo supposed that not everything the man said could be waffle. What was it they said about broken clocks?

"In fact," he said, "His Lordship deserves to enjoy the fruits of his inspiration. I have other commissions which keep me here, alas, rather than accompany my device on its grand voyage, but please, let him set sail in my place. If there is bounty, let him claim a share of it, in compensation for his generous patronage. If there is glory, doubly so."

"On uncharted seas? At my time of life?" Lord Gastan was as full of bluster as the dockside wind. "Oh, come now. In my youth, perhaps; but my seafaring days are long since past. I leave such adventures to the courage of younger men."

The Admiral coughed, perhaps to indicate that the pair were of an age; Arturo took the opening. "Oh but my lord, surely you do not doubt that the Admiral can keep you safe and secure? On his own flagship, no less? I am but a humble Makers, but surely our fleet are the power upon any waters they so choose to sail. Can you really question that?"

"I cannot," he conceded, although his eyes said otherwise.

"It won't be as frightful as it seems," the Admiral moved to assure him. "Ours is only an expeditionary voyage: to see and then return, with no drawn out engagements. We are simply to observe the unobserved; wonders never seen before by civilised man. I can offer you every comfort. Of course, it goes without saying that you can share my personal quarters."

Lord Gastan brightened at that prospect; a captive audience for his tedium. "You honour me, Lord Admiral."

"The honour will be mine, I am sure, to have such an esteemed guest upon our maiden voyage."

Arturo let them carry on the dance. He had learnt some of the steps, some of the words, across his early Guild dinners, but only aristocrats truly had the gift of it: like the food served, the language of diplomacy was too rich for an artificer's palate, and sickening in any but the merest quantities. Only those born to wealth, having been raised on its receiving end, actually had the stomach to enjoy it.

If Lord Gastan suspected a trap, he no longer shied away. He might recognise Arturo's insincerity, but think his motive plain: favour, patronage, influence with the Guild. He would be accustomed to such flattery, after all: the efforts of ambitious Makers to curry favour with whatever they had to offer as a bribe, compliments and complimentary mechanisms. All bare-faced manipulation, but all in good taste. He had courted such courtship himself, in attending Guild events. It he did not enjoy it, he would not have been there.

Arturo smothered the inner protests of his own anaemic pride. Against all odds, he had acquired two champions of the highest rank; with their support, should he continue, he would surely now make Master within the year. With a foot in that door, his path would be cleared for the next decade: to greater recognition, arums more than he could need, commissions to the greatest in the land. But he was himself a champion to others, from before he had arrived at these docks, and his first duty was to them.

At 3:15 on 18 August, the crew of the HRS Azimuth could feel that something was wrong.

They knew no fear upon these waters. Theirs was the flagship of the expeditionary fleet, the apex of the admiralty's ambition, the quill which would better divide the globe from Hasanbout. With sister ships to starboard and port, fore and aft, they'd set a course over the edges of the map, afraid of no peril or piracy that might assail them. They were the cutting edge that pierced the veil of ignorance: the Masters had crafted a sharper deadrise for speed, more powerful cannon for strength. Every plank of their ship was state-of-the-art.

Of course, that was where they were undone. Arturo's art had served a different state, a different muse. Following the successful Trials, he had been commission to outfit the whole fleet with his perfected chronometers, each set to the same exact time. He decked them out and cabined them in, a device wherever one might fit, and the Admiral was pleased to stand upon the future's gleaming prow: a line of shining clockwork galleons, a dozen cogs filled with a thousand gears and pinions.

It was a fortnight out to sea before the fear made itself known to them. For some, having grown used to the rhythm over the past weeks, it was simply a silence they couldn't place: a hole in the air, a lacuna in the melody of lashing surf and ocean gales. Amongst the music of the far side of the world, they'd been soothed by the ticking of a shell held to their ears, a clockwork conch that held the sound of home.

Some officers, with devices in their quarters, their every hour, minute and second tolled away, had found themselves attuned to that metronome: their breathing subconsciously aligned, their heartbeat keeping pace. It had become a crutch, taken for granted, until it fell out from underneath them; at 3.15 they found themselves stumbling, awoken gasping from their sleep without knowing why, before their assorted organs remembered how they'd functioned before.

For the navigators, it was an even graver problem. The night shift were already a skeleton crew, and they didn't notice when their bearings disappeared: the clocks simply stopped, frozen at a quarter past, and it was several minutes before they realised it had been a few. They tried to keep track, but there was no hope of counting on their own. From that point on, their hours were already numbered.

The next bearing was wrong. Days of ocean in every direction, not a glimpse of land in sight. As ever, Arturo had timed it to perfection. Stripped of its ability to navigate, the ship had been forsaken on the open sea: at the mercy of the winds and the tides and the twinkling mockery of the stars above, tracing a map that none on board had ever learnt to read. Such was the price of progress. Each advance in understanding covered over its own foundations.

Arturo knew all about that. Armestadt was the city of the future, and it built atop whatever past it came across, diverse cultures buried underneath its steel grey perfection. The progress of this expedition had a price that he had deemed too great to pay - and so he buried them instead. There were no bells to toll their death, nor the salvation of the lands which would go unrobbed, unmolested by the hunger of their endless tomorrow. The sand in the hourglass simply ran out, as the HRS Azimuth was quietly lost to time.

#writing #short story #writeblr #creative writing #original writing

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29pageshomestuckeveryday · 2 years ago

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Homestuck, page 3,093

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Author commentary: Later, Terezi somewhat literally does fall prey to her own wild cherry apeshit apocalypse, when she goes on a harrowing Faygo bender. But let's not soil a perfectly good and interesting metaphysical discussion between two good characters by mentioning the names of certain bad juggalo characters. Then Dave calls out her Two-Face shtick. In the Hivebent book I pointed out most trolls have certain powers or themes that were directly ripped from other figures of pop culture, in particular characters from the superhero genre. Most of the time it's something incredibly on the nose. For example, Sollux's eyebeams are unmistakably Cyclops, Nepeta's claws are unmistakably Wolverine. Terezi has a funny combo of Daredevil (blind, red-eyed, lawyer vigilante), and Two-Face, the coin-flipping madman nemesis of Batman. Both characters are directly involved with the brutal dispensation of justice, one from a heroic angle, the other villainous. Two-Face was a once-upstanding district attorney who went off the deep end after his facial half-disfigurement and started doling out "justice" according to the whims of his coin, which was very similar in design to the one shown above. These ideas seem like a straight rip from those characters, but usually I tried to put a sort of unique spin on those elements that would make them more suitable to the themes of the character. One consistent theme with Terezi using her coin to determine the fate of others is that both forks in the road usually lead to the same grim consequences, since as she likes to say, "luck doesn't actually matter." (See the end of the above conversation.) The first time is during Lemonsnout's trial, when she maniacally and disingenuously ignores the flip result due to being "blind," thus revealing the execution verdict was always a fixed outcome. There's a similar outcome here, where the coin flip just creates two parallel Dave timelines, and both converge into this one macabre outcome, leaving Dave with a choice that isn't even a real choice. And finally, all this coin stuff culminates in the way Terezi ends up bringing Vriska to justice, which is also presented as a choice that isn't really a choice—and for Terezi, it's the toughest non-choice of all.

#gif #pesterlog

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nikibogwater · 2 years ago

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Niki Thoughtdumps about Claude in Three Hopes:

Claude’s arc in Three Hopes is a perfect inverse of who he became in Three Houses. Rather than growing into a thoughtful and benevolent leader who achieves everything he set out to do, Claude’s journey in Three Hopes is, ironically enough, a story about losing hope. And the catalyst for it is the execution of Prince Shahid. Which, if I really think about it, is the only way you could break a guy like Claude.

Right out of the gate, Three Hopes Claude is shown to be anxious and uncertain about his standing as the leader of the Alliance. He acts confidant and self-assured because he knows how dangerous it is to show any weakness at this time, especially considering the fact that he’s already on thin ice due to his Almyran heritage. But despite all of this pressure and anxiety, he’s still trying to achieve his goals of a new and better Fódlan with as little bloodshed as possible.

But then comes the fight with Prince Shahid.

Claude being forced to kill his brother is a major turning point in his character for Three Hopes. Prior to the battle with Shahid, Claude still sounded a lot like his Three Houses self--maybe a little more vulnerable, but still hopeful and idealistic, with a sincere desire to save every life possible. Killing his brother was a severe blow to his ideals. For all his dreams of saving and protecting people, he can’t do anything to save Shahid--and worse still, ending Shahid’s life is his responsibility. He risks appearing weak as a leader if he doesn’t do it himself. Claude is essentially forced to uphold the tradition of war and intolerance that he has so desperately wanted to dismantle, because despite all his hopes and efforts, he couldn’t get through to Shahid.

I think it’s extremely telling that the chapter after this reveals a massive shift in Claude’s priorities. He’s stopped placing infinite value on every given life, stopped trying to be a savior. Instead, he looks out only for his own best interests, prioritizing the safety of his own people above all others. He no longer seems quite as concerned with the fate of Fódlan at large. Rather, he dedicates himself to ensuring, through any means possible, that his lands and people will be kept free and safe. It felt very....eerie to me, to hear Claude say that his new goal was to kill Rhea and dismantle the entire Central Church. While Three Houses Claude was always rightfully critical of the Central Church and fought for reform, he was never this blatantly antagonistic towards the Archbishop. In Three Hopes though, Claude gives Rhea the same treatment he had to dole out to his brother. And it makes sense, if you think about it from his perspective. What’s the point in reaching out and trying to understand, trying to make connections and working together to fix what’s broken, if he’s just going to be shot down for it?

What’s the point of hoping for something better when this is the reality you live in? A reality where peace cannot be bought with anything less than bloodshed, a reality where love and good intentions are wasted on those who refuse to hear you out.

It’s a really sad story, and one that left me feeling very conflicted. But it’s a well-told one all the same. And I don’t think they could have told this story as effectively if it had happened to anyone other than Claude von Riegan.

#fire emblem #fire emblem warriors: three hopes #few:3h #few:3h spoilers #claude von riegan #niki rambles #the author in me is going YES. GOOD WRITING. EXCELLENT USE OF TRAGEDY TO BREAK DOWN A CHARACTER #but the fangirl in me is going NOOOO MY POOR BABY BOI LEAVE HIM ALONE!!!!

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fallout-fallen-knight · 4 years ago

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Meet My OCs masterpost!

It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these and I’ve gotten a lot of new followers and several new OCs in that time. Enough now that I should probably put them under a read more. OCs are divided up by main setting that they fall under - even though all my Fallout content takes place in its own ‘verse (distinct from the canon Fallout verse in that there are horses, among other differences), the various coasts tend to be pretty separate. Without further ado:

Fallen Knight

Fallen Knight is a longform fic that is currently and irregularly updating. It takes place in the Commonwealth in 2287-2289, featuring a mix of canon characters (often modified to my own convenience) and OCs. It can be found here.

Christopher Farris, aka the Fallen Knight (Lone Wanderer)

[image ID: a drawing of Christopher Farris by @scarecrow-forest. He is a white, blond man wearing a baseball cap, a green shirt, and a long tan vest. He is holding a baseball bat and has a pip-boy on his arm. End ID]

Christopher is my lone wanderer that I ported to Fallout 4. He is (currently) a Brotherhood of Steel Knight alongside Paladin Danse. He is the main character of Fallout: Fallen Knight. He has a strong moral compass and idolizes the knightly ideas of protecting the weak and confronting the strong. Content for him on my blog can be found at #fallen knight.

Kristine Finch, Minuteman General

[image ID: a screenshot from Fallout 4 of Kristine Finch. She is a light-skinned woman in a blue shirt and tan jacket, with a cowboy-like hat. She is standing in front of a ramshackle wooden building with a neon sign that says “Minuteman HQ”. End ID]

Kristine is my Minuteman OC and the General of the Minutemen. Under her leadership, they have worked to make the commonwealth safer by uniting various settlements to exchange resources and provide mutual defense. She has also published the Minuteman Guide To Commonwealth Travel, also known as the Blue Book, a handy pamphlet for settlers and traders making their way across the Commonwealth. Content for her can be found at #one if by land.

Thomas “The Trigger” Calvani

[image ID: a screenshot from Fallout 4 of Thomas Calvani. He is a white, brown-haired man in road leathers with various leather armor layered over it. He wears a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses and a green bandana covering his face. He is standing in front of power armor with flames painted on it. End ID]

Thomas Calvani is a ne’er-do-well from the Atom Cats who has somehow managed to continuously fall upwards, somehow culminating with him as the Overboss of the Nuka World raiders after trying to go to Nuka World with MacCready and Cait. Content for him can be found at #tales from the commonwealth.

Greetings from Appalachia

Hector Sanchez (Reclaimer)

[image ID: a Vault Tec ID card from Fallout 76. It belongs to Hector Sanchez, a latine man with brown hair, a Vault 76 jumpsuit, and a van dyke beard. He is smiling and giving a thumbs up to the camera. End ID]

Hector Sanchez is an amateur cryptid hunter from Vault 76. Raised in the vault on his mother’s stories of cryptids before the war, he left the vault with his best friend Hazel in search of cryptids to find. Content for him can be found at #greetings from appalachia.

Fallout: Brave New World

Brave New World is a collection of various OCs who end up in the Mojave wasteland at the same time, in around 2289 or so. While no unifying narrative yet exists, I am planning some ficlets/short form fic around these OCs.

Ace (Courier 6)

[image ID: a screenshot from Fallout: New Vegas of Ace. He is a latine man with an eyepatch, a black cowboy hat, and a black leather coat over blue jeans, with several belts and bandoliers. He is standing in front of Dinky the Dinosaur and pointing a gun off screen. End ID]

Ace is my courier, and a member of the Great Khans. Still a teenager when Bitter Springs happened, he was separated from the rest of the Khans and spent his remaining teenage years doing odd jobs around the Mojave and avoiding the encroaching NCR, culminating in a fateful job for the Mojave Express. He now finds himself down one eye, hunting the Mojave for Benny and the platinum chip. Content for him can be found at #ace in the hole.

Sophia Mobius

[image ID: a screenshot of Fallout: New Vegas of Sophia Mobius. She is a white woman with white hair and round, cat-eye glasses. She is wearing a red labcoat and has the holorifle strapped to her back. End ID]

Sophia is a Followers medic turned disciple of Doctor Mobius after a chance encounter with a crashed satellite sent her to the Big MT. She later traveled to the Sierra Madre casino with Arcade and Veronica to hunt down and stop Father Elijah. She is now working with the Veronica and Christine to convince Brotherhood members to leave, smuggling out technology if possible, to assist the Followers of the Apocalypse. Content for her can be found at #followers of mobius

Martin Goldberg aka the Silver Canary (Reclaimer)

[image ID: a drawing of Martin Goldberg and Emmerane Black, aka the Silver Canary and Coal Black, by @rotarydials. Martin is a dark skinned man with silver hair and a beard. He is dressed in the Silver Shroud’s outfit - a black and gray trenchcoat and fedora with a silver scarf. He carries a submachine gun, which he is pointing off camera. Emmerane is a white woman with short black hair. She has black goggles and a black cloak over a white shirt and red vest. She is doing air-guitar motions. They both have pip-boys. End ID]

Martin Goldberg, known better as the Silver Canary, was a pre-war vigilante and the inspiration for the Silver Shroud. As a staunch anti-fascist and anti-capitalist, he had several encounters with the movers and shakers of American industry, notably Robert House, whose suite Martin broke into while he was visiting a West Virginia plant. Upon learning about Vault-Tec’s plans for Vault 76, he broke into Vault Tec University, changing the list of vault residents to a list of random West Virginia citizens, as well as himself.

While in the Vault, Emmerane Black, a moody young woman born in the vault, declared herself his nemesis. When they left the vault in 2102, he learned of this, and instead decided to take her under his wing, forcibly adopting the young supervillain. Though they clashed often at first, they quickly found they had more in common than they realized, and soon teamed up to take on certain targets - most notably the Brotherhood of Steel.

At some point in the following years, both Martin and Emmerane ghoulified, and in the late 2200s, Martin traveled west, to find his old nemesis, Robert House. He now haunts the areas around Vegas, a mysterious spectre doling out justice to the wicked. Content for Martin and Emmerane can be found at #the silver canary and coal black. Emmerane belongs to @corsairesix

Caroline Keene, Ranger of the Wastes

[image ID: a screenshot from HeroForge of a black ghoul woman with short braids. She is wearing a cowboy hat, long duster, cowboy boots, and a shirt and pants that are all brown with tan accents. She has a revolver and a knife strapped to her hip and a repeater on her back. She is offering a hammered tin cup to the “camera”. End ID]

Caroline Keene was a park ranger in a firewatch tower in Monongahela National Forest when the bombs fell. After a few days of quiet introspection, her and some of her fellow rangers agreed to make their way to the nearest town to find survivors, slowly making their way to Flatwoods and then Morgantown to join the Responders.

After helping the Responders stabilize Appalachia in the wake of the Great War and faction infighting that followed, Caroline traveled west, continuing to help out those in need as he crossed the country that had once been America. During this time, she began to ghoulify; though initially and understandably distraught, a community of ghouls in what was once Texas helped her to accept her condition. Upon arriving in the Mojave, she found that her reputation as the “Ranger of the Wastes” preceded her, and she was recruited by the desert rangers, though she left again when they were incorporated with the NCR. Now, she has settled in the Mojave, starting a brahmin and bighorner ranch with her partners, and helping shelter, teach, and raise lost and disaffected youth in the Mojave. Content for her can be found at #ranger of the wastes

The King of the Road (Chosen One)

[image ID: a screenshot of Heroforge of a dark skinned ghoul in a black suit. He has a red tie and a red cape, and is wearing round glasses and an opulent crown. He carries a spear and has a holstered revolver on his hip. Near his feet is a pile of coins and a gray cat, ready to pounce. End ID]

The King of the Road was once the Chosen One of Arroyo, but became disatisfied with the duties of ruling and the pressures of being the tribe’s chosen one. In 2244, he left Arroyo, wandering New California as a drifter. He abanoned his name and title, choosing instead to take the name of the King of the Road as his renown as a drifter grew. He ghoulified due to his exposure to radiation over the years, but took to the change rather well. He continued to travel the roads of New California, eventually finding his way to the Mojave wasteland as the NCR did. Content for him can be found at #king of the road (when I make it).

Angelia King

[image ID: a Heroforge mini of a white woman seated on a white horse. She is wearing a tan jacket over a brown chest piece, chaps, and tan cowboy boots. She has a red bandana around her neck and several belts around her waist, one of which holds a holstered pistol. Her left eye is covered by an eyepatch and there is dark makeup around both of her eyes. She has short dyed blonde and red hair that is shaved on one side. She is brandishing a rifle towards the camera and there is a sawed-off shotgun on her back. End ID]

Angelina King, the leader of the Nightstalkers, a gang in the Mojave in 2289. When Ace drives the NCR out of the Mojave, she at first believes that she will be allowed to operate with relative impunity; however, when the NCR supply trains stop coming from the west (no longer needing to fight a war that has been lost), she starts hitting caravans first and then larger settlements, carving her way across the Mojave towards New Vegas. Content for her can be found at #the nightstalkers strike again.

Other OCs

Hannah Alton

[image ID: a screenshot from Heroforge of a white woman wearing a forest green cloak. She has a brown cloth wrapped around her chest and blue jeans on. She has a quiver of crossbow bolts on her hip and is holding a crossbow. She has red hair and several piercings. End ID]

Hannah Alton is my PC for our Fallout: New Orleans campaign run by and using the PBTA hack Powered by the Nuclear Apocalypse made by @corsairesix. Hannah is a “raider” from a gang called the Robbin’ Hoods, a gang dedicated to stealing from New Orleans’ ghoul aristocrats and redistributing their wealth to the town they’re based in. Content for her can e found on #fallout New Orleans and #powered by the nuclear apocalypse

#queue #fallen knight #one if by land #tales from the commonwealth #greetings from appalachia #ace in the hole #followers of mobius #the silver canary and coal black #ranger of the wastes #king of the road #fallout new orleans #powered by the nuclear apocalypse #the nightstalkers strike again

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theonetheycallhannah · 4 years ago

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The Treatment of Captain Syverson-Chapter Six: Sensory Integration 2

Pairing: Captain “Sy” Syverson x OFC (Shane Benton)

Summary: It’s a fine night for a walk by the water with a handsome vet holding your hand. I think that says it all.

Behind on your sessions? Want more from the author? Click Me

Word Count: Almost 1.9k (a bit shorter, hopefully y’all don’t mind by the end!)

Warnings: Basically still fluff, but also some saucy morsels near the end…not full on smut, though, so don’t get too excited. We aren’t there yet, my little lovelies. Soon, though…soon.

Author’s Note: As I said before, this date totally got away from me, nearing a whopping 6k in total. Thanks again for all the love. And in other news, I told a couple of my PT friends about this story, and one of them agreed to be my official technical consultant on the project for future chapters and even if I wanna flesh it out, modify it to include strictly “original” characters, and eventually take it to a publisher! I sent what I’ve done so far to her just before I started drafting this post, so hopefully she’ll have good insight for me! She said it was about time someone wrote a story like that! Lol! (She reads a lot, so I guess people really don’t think of PTs as the heroines of love stories. Sad, really! Most of the ones I know are lovely and loving people!) The other was just instantly excited and can’t wait to read it.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.

Tags:

@onlyhenrys

@cavillryarchive

@summersong69

@titty-teetee

@bloodyinspiredfuck

@agniavateira

@oddsnendsfanfics

@omgkatinka

@thisismysecretthirstblog

@misslaland

@speakerforthedead0@tumblnewby

@suavechops

Hope I’m not forgetting anyone! If you want to be notified when I post a new chapter or work, I’ll be happy to add you to my tag list! Stricken blogs are getting personal messages from me when a new chapter is uploaded because Tumblr’s faulty tagging system will not stand in the way of me delivering what the people want!(?) lol! (Although...their lackadaisical notification system might...sorry for that. I have no control. lol!)

The lake was fairly near her clinic, not two blocks away. He wasn't wrong about her feeling up to a walk when the time came. She was looking forward to the fresh night air near the lake. It was a deep-seated part of who she was to love the water.

He'd pulled into the small, empty gravel lot at the head of the paved walking trail. It was well dark since it had just turned 10:00, and the moonlight danced off the water, calm, but with a faint shimmer from the light breeze. The stars danced, winking at them as if they knew the romance that surged between the couple was burgeoning right here below them.

"Now, last time I walked this trail, I'll warn you…I got approached by a gang. And they were…pretty vicious. I had to resort to some guerilla tactics that I'm not too proud of to fend 'em off."

"Oh no!" she wasn't aware of any gang crime in their fairly peaceful city! "What kind of gang?"

"A goose gang." He looked at her gravely. Before they both burst out laughing in hysterics.

"I thought you were serious!" she wiped tears carefully from her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I was! They are stupid territorial! I had several of them tryin'a bite at my legs at once. It was quite the ordeal, I assure you!" he said, serious, but still laughing.

"Well, you'll save me if the Ya-Gooz-ah descend on us tonight, wont you?" she teased, clutching at his arm in mock fright at the thought of a band of Yakuza Geese being an actual thing, but thinking it was a great way to keep him touching her.

"As long as you stay real close to me, sunshine. I'll protect you from the devil himself." He kissed her on the top of the head, sealing the promise and warming her from the point of contact all the way to her toes.

As they traipsed along the pavement path, they talked about everything and nothing, the gentle night wind a whisper against their skin, which had been made slightly dewy from the walk and the humidity. They had made two laps around the small body of water when they came back around to one of several benches placed at intervals on the trail running its perimeter. Without breaking their conversation, she pointed to the nearest one, indicating her desire to sit, which he understood and lead them there.

“See, the problem I have with sports at that level, especially football is the harm I’ve witnessed it do to a kid’s body. We’ve treated athletes in high school and as early as 7th and 8th grade that the coaches are completely obsessed with getting them out on the field or court again. These kids are taking more impact than their bodies are ready for. They can’t miss a game, or even practice for therapy even if they’re just riding pine. And the parents are so laser focused on that potential college scholarship for that sport that they can’t see that if their child doesn’t get better, no scout is gonna want to dole out a free ride. Not to a broken-down athlete. Did you feel that kind of pressure when you were playing football? Because I don’t remember it at my school.” She went off a on bit of a tangent because she’d just been told by Heather before she left that her torn meniscus, Jason couldn’t get in for several weeks because of his practice and game schedule limiting his availability.

“I mean, I felt pressure, I guess, but not outside of practice or the games. I’d hurt my knee my junior year early, same one we been workin’ on, and they just had me sit out a few weeks and work with a PT, but I don’t remember it being a problem to miss out on anything related to football if it was because of my health.” He sat down next to her on the fiberglass bench, which was molded to have the look of fine blonde wood, and put his arm around her shoulder. No pretense of the reach, no awkwardly sitting for a while beforehand, just continuing to touch her as he had been their whole walk.

She leaned into his shoulder, comfortably, as if they’d done this a thousand times and this wasn’t their first date. And continued their discussion.

“What has gotten into people these days? It’s like they’re not satisfied with anything. Nothing is ever enough for a single person on this good earth!” She sighed, frustrated by the neediness of people that seemed to come with her own job and projecting that on to the world…not that there wasn’t at least a measure of truth in it.

“Personally speaking, I think you’re wrong.”

“You don’t think that the world is full of dissatisfied Karens?” She laughed.

“Oh I do. But it’s not every person. You’re sitting next to one very content man right here.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” He confirmed.

“Was it the steak, or the lobster mac?” She’d be fantasizing about them both until the next time they went there. Yeah, she was already thinking about “next time” and “they.” She was in trouble.

“Not to knock either, but I’m a hun’ert percent sure it was the company.” He pressed a kiss to her temple.

She smiled, nuzzling into him, feeling the downy softness of his shirt again and smelling his intoxicating cologne. She suddenly remembered a promise from their session.

“Oh, hey. I was gonna have a response for you…to your 'question' from earlier.” She said, mischief burning in her eyes. She kneeled up on the bench and turned his face to hers, brushing a hand against his impossibly soft beard before descending slowly in for a kiss.

It started sweet, a few languid, full pecks, then she parted her lips barely enough for her tongue to venture out to explore his full mouth. They were met after several attempts with a reciprocal openness from him. She dared, then to search him with her tongue. It was simply browsing now. Feeling no rush to complete its quest. Only a sense of the need for due diligence. She was surprised at the flavor she'd encountered. She hadn't seen him pop a mint, and she hadn't left his side all evening. He was sly. It was a sweet and strong taste. Wintergreen on steroids, with the mildest hint of vanilla. She wanted more. Of the flavor. Of him.

She let her tongue find his, knowing what would happen, somehow, even though they had never kissed like this before. Never when it wasn't rushed and needing to be…PG. Here in the dark of night, with no one but the celestial bodies as witnesses, they didn't have to worry about her job, or the public. The judgement of the outsider's gaze.

She knew, by instinct alone, that this would spark him into more than latent participation. And that's exactly why she did it. As previously stated, she was definitely an intentional beast when the occasion called and mood struck.

He did as she'd expected, his own tongue waking, beginning a playful dance with hers, exploring her mouth with more urgency and desire, pulling a ragged gasp from her lungs. She broke away to give some attention to his neck. She held him by the base of his head, thumb playfully brushing into his thick facial hair. A breathy moan that sounded very much like her name escaped his lips. This was the reaction she had been dying to get from him for so long. A surrendering bliss that only came from this kind of personal, intimate, and one-one connection. She'd gotten hints of it when she'd helped him stretch, when she heard those stifled groans he felt at the good hurt she brought him with her expert touch.

She bit his earlobe, and sealed her fate. He growled and pulled her up to his lap in an immodest straddle. Not that she cared in the empty dark. He seemed to need her lips back on his, desperate to find a purchase that would never present itself. The paradox of a kiss.

His hands roved over the back of her from neck to behind, very much favoring the latter. It was an odd sensation. Most of her experience with ass-grabbing had been less than pleasant. Either dirty old men had touched her without consent, or boyfriends had done essentially the same thing as a show of their dominance over her, also without her strictest consent. The way Sy held her was tender, exploratory, and…she couldn't help but think the word loving. "Love" wasn't a word they were ready to even bring up. But she thought he was showing it in his feather touch and hungry kiss.

The breeze was cool, and felt extra cold where she seemed to be warmest. Her position had her…very exposed to the elements, covered only by the fine layers of her underwear at some angles. She was suddenly very aware that they were on a precipice here. If they carried on much longer like this, she wasn't going to want to stop. She already didn't. And she was just out of practice enough to be unsure of where her point of no return was. Dammit. She broke away, in agony from it.

"Sy, I…I think …you should take me back." she stuttered.

"Okay." he pulled her back in for another kiss, pretending to misinterpret,which she indulged a moment but quickly escaped.

"No, sweetie." she chuckled. "You know what I mean."

"Or…I could bring you home with me." It was only a suggestion, but there was a plea in his eyes that pulled at her guts. He wanted her. And she wanted him. With every single cell in her body, she wanted every singe cell of his. But she truly felt that taking things slowly was the best option given the complexities of their situation.

"You don't know how badly I want to accept that invite, Sy." she rested her forehead on his. They were both breathless.

"It's just two little letters, sunshine. O. K. Easy as granny's peach pie."

"I'm terrible at pie crust." they laughed.

"Let's go." he said, helping her off his lap, and preparing to stand, but sitting back down immediately.

"What's wrong?" she asked, concerned. "Is it the knee? Did I hurt it?" she was already mad at herself, and at him a bit, if this indiscretion had caused him a setback…how ironic it would be!

"Nope, knee's great. Dandy."

"Did you get lightheaded?"

"No, but uhh…it's definitely SOME sort of blood flow issue. Gonna need a minute." he explained without explaining with a sheepish expression on his face…it hit her like a speeding bus.

"Ope." she looked to his lap without thinking, and immediately averted to the water again, as she sat beside him, hands clasped over the seat of the bench. His hand found hers, and covered it, asking to hold it, and getting its way.

"I had…the best time tonight, Shane." he told her, staring at the opposite bank where the maple, oak, and sycamore trees swayed to the tune of the gentle night's breeze.

"So did I, Sy."

"You free tomorrow?" he asked, hopefully.

"You tell me!" she replied…hopefully.

Up Next: Chapter Seven: Non-Productive Time

#netflix sand castle #sand castle #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill x ofc #captain syverson #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson x ofc #sigh for sy #is that a new tag i started? idk maybe...lets use it. teehee!

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concentratedbitterness · 3 years ago

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The Partnership

Hell: Late Neolithic Period

They’re laughing at her. This is the thought that echoes in the demon’s mind as she makes her way down the halls of Hell’s infamous Manufacturing Department. She is somebody now–freshly promoted just over every other shitstain in the Pit, perhaps, but rank is rank all the same–and by all rights these dungeon trolls should be groveling at her feet as they do for the other procurement personnel. Except that they do not fall to their knees, no, they slap them with laughter. She cannot blame them. They all know why she is here.

Nybbas has thrust her atop a burning hill of shit and bade her build a kingdom from the ashes while the flames still rage. It is a fools’ errand, and one he means for her to fail. Her superior has set her up only to take the fall for him. Given the insurmountable task, that is precisely what the entire Monarchia expects will happen–Quotas missed, contracts lost, and someone’s head must inevitably go on the chopping block–but Mara refuses to accept her likely fate without a fight. She always has felt some masochistic drive to find a silver lining, after all, and what sparkles through the coals is the large swath of Nybbas’ territory that she now, technically, controls. Mismanaged and neglected for countless millennia, it is a veritable desert of overgrown crossroads and yet…perhaps, with enough hard work and a healthy dose of ingenuity, there is a sliver of a chance.

But she cannot do it alone, she knows this. To hold fast to even the faintest hope she requires a lieutenant; a partner to watch her back, guard her meager territory, and facilitate her contracts. Given her circumstances, however, it is not a promising proposition–she has already been turned down by every capable soldier this side of the Pit. Hence, she has ventured here, to the racks, vying for some freshly carved scrap of a damned soul that is ignorant enough of the ways of Hell to sign their own death warrant. Most demons churned from the bowels of the Pit are quickly claimed for the legions of far more powerful commanders than she, but maybe she will stumble at last upon a stroke of luck. She’s about due for some.

“You there,” She says to the first torturer in the row as she draws to a halt, gaze settling upon his blade as he draws it down the belly of some poor fuck on his rack. “–Where do they keep the unclaimed? I…” Her words trail off, and suddenly Mara feels as small and lost as she must surely look.

Not often someone gets lost around the racks. Technically, no one much comes down here unless they’re strung up. It truly is a terrible place to be. That’s the point of it, after all. To one who has survived the Pit, of course, it feels half like home, but demons are made to be most comfortable in discomfort.

The old demon is up to his sleeves in metaphysical blood when he hears the voice behind him. Not that he appears bothered; he finishes his slice, blade tinged in red. “Y’don’t want them,” he says, attention on his work. “They’re all paranoid. Sadistic. More like hellhounds than competent soldiers.” The thing on the rack splutters and pleas. The noise is interrupting his conversation, so he sinks his blade into its lungs. Now, all it does is hiss, and he turns to look at Mara. “I’d know,” he adds. “I made them that way.”

The younger demon nods, swallowing thickly. She took her turn here years ago, just like the rest, forced to toil in the Pit after what remained of the human blight on her soul had been cut away. A distant past, perhaps, but it is not something easily forgotten. Leaving the racks behind had seemed a step up at the time, though servitude under Nybbas is not altogether incomparable. She was not made to be a soldier or a torturer–not in the sense that this demon was. Some were simply meant for sales. Hell is nothing if not a grand machine, and every cog has their part to play.

Her eyes settle not upon the poor, decrepit soul writhing in agony on the rack, but rather on the creature attached to the hand doling it out with such practiced ease that he almost seems bored. He’s old. Ancient, if the power wafting off of his true form is any indication–easily a relic from a time when Hell was not so crowded as it is now. Most of the demons who are old enough to remember such times sit comfortably atop the hierarchy–leaders; respected and feared–and yet this one seems content to do the same dirty work as the fresh grunts. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” Mara admits, and then his words play again in her mind.

“–You made them that way?” The crossroads demon echoes absently, gaze shifting back to the thing wheezing and hissing on the rack. There is not exactly a standard protocol where torture in Hell is concerned–suffering is suffering and each soul requires a unique touch to divest it of human weakness–but in the end the goal of the Manufacturing Department is to produce as many viable demons from the souls procured as possible. “It seems a waste of raw material…”

And suddenly, something occurs to her. A spark, but it is enough.

“…A waste of your talent.” She looks up at the other demon–really looks at him–and she can see it as clearly as the discontentment written on a human soul come to call at the crossroads. He may be overqualified tenfold, but he is directionless; passing time waiting for something that will never find him here in the wretched squalor of the Pit.

It is as futile a notion as reaching for the stars, but she reminds herself that even if they remain firmly swirling through the Heavens one will get a nice view, a good stretch, and perhaps even a low-hanging apple for the effort. “I…I have a proposition for you,” She ventures, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of her lips, “How do you feel about a challenge?”

He smirks, and Mara wonders if it’s not the first time someone so low in the hierarchy has dared so much as to speak to him, let alone offer him a proposition. “A challenge?” he says, throwing her words back at her with a mocking note. “Ain’t that a little above your paygrade?”

“Isn’t carving duty a little below yours?” Mara retorts without missing a beat. In truth, he is not wrong. It is practically unheard of for someone like her to have ever been promoted to command in the first place–she’s certain the other demon knows as well as she does that it is only a technical mantle, so that when the Monarchia rains down punishment for Nybbas’ failure he will have her to offer up as a scapegoat. Still, rank is rank, and as long as she’s got a slippery grip on this rung there is still half a chance to hold fast…perhaps one day to climb. Let go, and she will be lucky not to find herself strapped to one of these racks again. It is nothing if not tremendous motivation to succeed.

The old one rips the innards out of the thing on the racks, tosses them to the ground with a wet slap. The soul’s eyes go cold and blind and that’s his cue; he steps away. After all, breaking things is easy. Taking things to the very brink of collapse and then pulling away right before they shattered…that required a little more finesse. Task complete, he turns all of his attention to the demon in front of him now. “You’re Nybbas’s bitch, right?” No need to mince words down here. “I like your grit, but you don’t got anything to offer me.”

She takes a small step back as a tangle of entrails drops unceremoniously to the floor, blood and ichor splattering her toes. The gore does not perturb her, but she will need to shed this host before venturing back to the sales floor lest Nybbas’ hounds catch the scent of fresh meat upon her. It is of little consequence–the younger demon has never possessed one long enough to grow attached; that is a custom reserved for those who have achieved success.

“Best you not let Nybbas hear you call me that,” She warns, “–He will take the comparison as an insult to his dogs.” This is not news to any demon who knows of her superior or his two ferocious hellhounds. There is a flicker of defeat in her eyes when the older demon seems to turn her down, but there is too much riding on this chance and she wills it away quickly. “That was not a ‘no’,” She points out hopefully, clearly not ready to give up. “It is true, I haven’t much to offer. Yet. But I will. If you help me, I will. In the meantime, it costs you nothing to step away from this…” She waves a hand absently at the mutilated soul, “…The Damned will still be here. How many eons have you stood tethered to these same racks; trying to find some new way to hack on these same tired souls? If you pledge service to me I will have leave to take you Topside; to the mortal realm…to a territory that has not known what it is to fear a demon in over a thousand years. Yours could be the face in their nightmares. I won’t lie to you, the work will be long and grueling, but you are not afraid to get your hands dirty, are you?” Her gaze flicks to the bloodsoaked hands in question, “Take a chance on me, that is all I ask. Let me show you what I can do. You have nothing to lose if I fail, but if I succeed you have everything to gain. We are not so different, you and I. We have nowhere to go but up.”

“Topside, huh?”

Clearly, she has his attention. “Topside,” She confirms with a nod. Short of a formal summons, the only way a Pit demon goes Topside is in the service of a salesman.

Mara can feel him sizing her up, deciding perhaps whether or not to devour her on the spot. She has no doubt that he could. He glances away, considers it for only a second, and then he finally says, casually, “Alright. I’ll pledge five years Topside to you. Then we’ll reconsider.”

Her eyes go wide when the old demon nonchalantly pledges five years to her. He’s teasing me, she thinks at first, but then it becomes obvious that he’s serious and it is all she can do to stand there dumbly before him. And then, before she even realizes it, she’s laughing. Five years is not much, but for her conundrum it is ironically more than necessary. “We only have three,” she tells him, any trace of amusement quickly fading.

Three years to turn around a territory that has not been quota compliant for centuries. The demon steps over the pile of entrails at her feet, poking a finger at the other demon’s chest as she peers up at him, “I make you this promise–It will not be easy; you are going to work harder than you have ever worked, we will struggle, we will not rest, and I don’t care if I have to suck every cock in the territory to do it, I am going to get the contracts I need…and in three years time you will stand by my side as I throw a sales report in Nybbas’ face that will make his head spin. I will not fail, I swear it. I won’t forget who helped me do it. And you–” She doesn’t even know his name, “–You will not regret taking a chance on me.” She rolls up onto her toes to press a chaste kiss to the old demon’s lips, sealing their business contract. “Get your things. We have so much work to do.”

#[muse tag :: mara]#[file :: drabble]#[file :: headcanon]#[relationship tag :: lucius]

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justasparkwritings · 4 years ago

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Codename Cupid: Chapter 3

Previous: Love at First Algorithm

Pairing: Kim Seokjin X OFC

Genre: Light Angst, Secret AgentAU, AgentAU, Light College AU

Rating: PG13

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: None

Summary: Kim Seokjin and Lee Euna are flirting the line between classmates and crushing, will he return her feelings?

Daddy’s Favorite & the First Date

Fall, Junior Year

Lee Euna is the youngest heiress to Lee Enterprises, one of the largest conglomerates in the history of economics. Heralded as one of the leading forces in banking and stock trades, it has banks all over the world catering to the highest cliental, princes and princesses, kings and queens all lined up to put their worth, jewels and all, in the vaults of Lee. Their smaller subsidiaries managed the trading of stocks, networking in millions of dollars for various clients who inhabited a lesser tier of society but strived to reach the upper echelon. Generational wealth, for the Lee’s and their clients, made their work heavily guarded and secretive. Getting hired by them was near impossible, and once you were in, death was the only way out.

It was a misconception that Euna had little to live up to, as her parents favorite and owner of the highest IQ out of her four siblings, she was set to become CEO, while her siblings were relegated to chairman of the board, and heads of philanthropy. The titles suited her siblings fine. Dae-Seong loved bossing around the members of the board, encouraging frivolity and billable hours while scheduling grueling development that often-bored members to tears. He ruled with an iron fist, what he said went, that is unless the CEO had a differing opinion, and then, both out of spite and seniority, Dae-Seong fell in line with what their father wanted. Dae-Seong didn’t care for the familial atmosphere their father had run Lee Enterprises with, and favored a cold regimented environment that was almost impossible to work in. Dae-Seong always said that the best blooms came from the hardest earth. Whether or not that was proven, he didn’t care, at LeeEnterprises, he would make it so.

Jun-Seo and Kwan-Min loved running the philanthropy branch of the Enterprise. They, like their father and mother, adored a good party and held several charity balls each year. Together, they raised hundreds of millions for a variety of causes that Euna barely paid attention to. The food was always exquisite, the drinks plentiful, the glimmer of the party always outshining the family feud that erupted hours before guests showed up, and the scandals that would be whispered about the morning after. Though the scandals never tarnished the reputations of Jun-Seo and Kwan-Min, they certainly provided a necessary indulgence to all the attendees.

Kwan-Min, the second oldest, was thrilled with her role in Lee Enterprises. She and Jun-Seo were heralded as visionaries, doling out millions of dollars every year to causes that ranged from climate justice to underfunded schools, and cancer research. They were responsible for funding some of the most progressive movements, as well as backing lobbyists for liberal, bordering on socialist, legislation. They dedicated an afternoon a week, usually Thursdays, to spend their time scouring the internet for new charities to donate money to. This was the heart of their jobs, finding niche organizations that were struggling, food pantries in rural towns or women’s shelters in battered parts of the city, that sustained their other work and lessened the blow of the billions in their bank accounts.

It was hard to be known as a large corporation benefiting from tax breaks while subsequently funding social movements. The family never discussed the dichotomy of their predicament, instead choosing to let their actions speak for themselves.

Anyone could donate thousands to St. Jude.

Only the Lee’s could donate a hundred million.

While Kwan-Min found satisfaction in donating to negligible organizations, Jun-Seo found bliss in hounding friends and acquaintances for money. A natural salesman, he strived on the pressure he created for himself. Nothing was ever good enough, or enough period. He was always wanting more. More money to give away, more money to spend on vacations and lavish trips, more alcohol, more clothes, everything in excess. His work, and Kwan-Min’s, was regularly overlooked by both their parents, Dae-Seong and Euna. The good they did was always outshined by the amount that Euna and Dae-Seong pulled into the business, the new dignitaries transferring their funds, the latest piece of the Queen’s jewelry put into one of their vaults. They’d always played the role of second fiddle, and as years went by, no matter their accomplishments, they were never held in the same esteem as Euna and god forbid, Dae-Seong.

If Jun-Seo and Kwan-Min were relegated to the B-Team, Euna was first off the bench for the A-Team. Every Lee child attended college, but none went to the most elite universities with the most widely renowned business program, with guarantees to intern anywhere they wanted, except Euna. Her older siblings watched as she rose through the ranks, mastering the cello, classic ballet and calculus by the time she was thirteen. They watched, with pride and in horror, as she crunched numbers in her spare time, pirouetted across the most elegant stages and slung her bow delicately against the strings of her hand made instrument. It was clear from an early age that Euna was the best of the four of them.

In fits of anger, Dae-Seong would chide that their parents had hit it out of the park with him and kept trying until they got another diamond. If fate had been on their side, Euna would’ve been second, and if the gods really favored them, she would’ve been a boy. He routinely failed to acknowledge his other siblings, whom he owed a great deal of gratitude. It was their work that kept the paparazzi and critics at bay, their work that allowed him to go on benders and run his corporate torture seminars. Their good PR paid for his mistakes, with change left over.

Dae-Seong specialized in breeding discontent, of taunting his siblings, bullying them, forcing them against each other. Euna had recognized this side of him from the time she could identify his actions weren’t full of love, but malintent. The announcement that she would train to be the next CEO had sent Dae into a blind rage, which he quickly turned into a bender in the most elusive clubs. They didn’t hear from him for a week, and when he returned, their father had lashed out at him before sending Dae to a ‘conference’ for a month. The siblings knew what had happened. The belt had come off the wall, and Dae, though grown, had succumbed to his father. Dae was sent to a ‘conference’ every two years or so, when his behavior and attitude became so unkempt that Mr. & Mrs. Lee felt they had no other option than sending him away for a month to sleep, reset, relax and most importantly, detox.

There was something so pathetic about Dae-Seong’s ability to break bad and as punishment, spend a month being massaged and covered in salt scrubs.

Euna was relieved when her parents let her move away for university and elated when Mr. & Mrs. Lee took it one step further and sent her, each summer, to work at various branches of Lee Enterprises. A summer in Seoul, a winter break in London, summer in Manhattan, another winter in London, a stop in the UAE, followed by tours of the Cayman Islands and a summer in Rio. Euna was grateful for her time away from her family and absorbed everything she was learning. She didn’t just have to prove Dae-Seong wrong, she had to prove her parents right, show that her genius wasn’t due in part to her rookie status, that her prowess and instincts weren’t dismissible as beginners’ luck.

Spending winter and summer breaks at various branches, Euna let her work speak for her. She learned how to manipulate to make a sale, how to aggregate data in order to create an accurate projection of stock trades, to look at holdings of dignitaries and suggest how they could diversify their portfolios. The more she worked, the better she became. The harder she worked, the easier it was to pretend she didn’t know anything. Euna was in for the long haul, and that meant manipulating her persona to mystify and baffle the masses. A woman in power was a threat, and she would be damned if she let the company and the world take that from her.

She had watched Kwan-Min and their mother being dehumanized in the media, in board meetings, at the hands of her father and Dae-Seong. When they gave too much of themselves, the world readily ate it up, devouring them whole. As a girl, Euna watched Kwan-Min change from intelligent and driven to flirty and ditzy. She watched her sister, who she idolized in secret, disappear into the mold their father had crafted. Euna wondered how long it would be before she had to adapt a highly manicured image? A version of herself in complete juxtaposition of her ingrained personality?

It was this turmoil, this paradox, that threw Seokjin after their first meeting. She was nothing like he’d read or seen in their years at university or in the news. Though he hadn’t paid much attention to her and would admit he knew nothing about her besides the obvious, he was constantly being surprised.

“Did you check the latest model and run the analysis?” Euna asked on a Thursday some weeks into their project.

“Yeah, and it looks like, if Dr. Cho opens the market next class period, we’re going to see a major boom,” Seokjin answered. He’d been working on looking at Euna more, particularly when she spoke to him, and she found it all the more endearing.

“How major?” She asked.

“Multi-millionaires by end of week,” Seokjin informed her.

“Good, what’s going to ruin it?” Euna set her pen down and stared at Seokjin. His lips were pouted, bangs sweeping in front of his glasses. He was beautiful.

“If some major political event happens in the next four days, or if something happens in China,”

“Ah, China,” Euna said rolling her eyes. “Always have to look out for the Chinese.”

“The American market is fairly stable, but it’s the US,”

“So, hold your breath and pray it’ll be okay?” Euna chuckled, a sound Seokjin had never heard. He laughed in response. “You have a great laugh.”

“Oh, thank you,” Jin looked back at his computer. “You know, we’ll only have to monitor the project for a few more weeks.”

“Seokjin, are you trying to tell me you’ll miss me?” Euna inquired.

“Maybe, maybe I’m trying to ask if you want to hang out, maybe get a drink or coffee outside of work hours,” Seokjin shrugged, his blasé attitude ignited something within Euna. For the months they had been working together, she’d tried and failed to get him to ask her out. His disinterest in her, in anything about her, drove her crazy. He didn’t ask questions, he didn’t inquire about work or god forbid her family, or other classes she was taking, even her friends. She could have anything in the world, and yet, this man, out of reach.

“I’d like that,” She responded.

“Cool, how about coffee, this Sunday?” Jin suggested.

“I can’t Sunday, family obligations,” Euna cursed her family for what felt like the millionth time.

“Tuesday, instead of working,” Jin compromised.

“Will the numbers wait?” Euna was partially joking, which Seokjin caught immediately.

“They’re fictional numbers,” Jin reminded her.

“It’s a date,” Euna replied.

Next: Codename The First Heartbreak

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smallest-turtle · 4 years ago

Note

Piety, Control, Perception for all 4 characters!

Sorry we had some TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES with getting this post out the door.

asks still open for this prompt list

PIETY : How does religion affect your character’s lifestyle? CONTROL : What is your character’s view of fate/destiny? PERCEPTION : Does your character think in the short-term/on impulse, or do they think about the long-term future?

Deidre Hunt

Piety: After becoming Hydaelyn’s chosen weapon Deidre pretty much lost her faith in the 12, and no longer does anything notable regarding the practice. However, due to being from the Twelveswood and being a White Mage, she still has regard for the Elementals. Before she joined the Scions and the reality of the situation set in her Patron was Oschon, the moon she was born under. As she grew up she got more desperate to escape home and travel, with adventuring not really her Ideal but more so the only option she could imagine. When she was 16 her father found the bag she had stashed away, and they had a fight. In the aftermath she tattooed Oschon’s symbol on each of her inner ankles, permanent prayers to broaden her horizons.

Control: Deidre believes in fate and destiny as constructs of Hydaelyn; as the Mothercrystal influencing the trajectory of her life and her major landing points. This is especially prominent after they go through Emet’s recreation of the Final Days, and Zenos points out they are going through it together, just as before. (They being him, Deidre, Haurchefant, Caelen, and Ryne.) The fact that the sundered versions of Cassandra and those who supported her in her search for another solution are all together again? Deidre refuses to believe it’s a coincidence.

Perception: Deidre has always had to think in the long term for the sake of others. Planning for the sake of others is how she tends to go. Even when she does make ‘selfish’ decisions, they either go into the long term or she makes sure not to leave things undone; for example planning to go to the conjurers guild before getting into any real adventuring, or waiting until Ultima was destroyed and Thancred had been saved to make her (unsuccessful) break away from the Scions. Even decisions that seem impulsive (remaining a cat in Il Mheg for a bit instead of Immediately seeking help) are actually thought out, though a few aren’t really (Hello DRK class). She thinks for the long term, and she plans for it, especially when the long term is going to go badly.

Caelen Hunt

Piety: Like his sister he has a regard for the Elementals, but other than some sailor superstitions he’s picked up in Limsa he’s not exactly a faithfully religious person. He’s not one for prayer, but he is still culturally raised in the Eorzean faith. It’s unlikely that they had a church where they grew up, but I HC that there are a lot of folk songs depicting the Twelve and their stories that they were raised with, and that he could still play if asked.

Control: Caelen didn’t put much stock into fate or destiny until Deidre pointed out what I put into her paragraph for this question. He doesn’t really think of anything as what someone is Meant to do, you either do it or you don’t, and that’s that. They’re choices. He ran away to Limsa to become a sailor, but was turned away because he was 12, and joined the rogue’s guild for a time instead. He doesn’t think it’s fate or destiny that he decided to go back to Carvallain when he’d gotten older just because it ended up with him reconnecting with his sister, they could have easily remained oblivious to one another. He could have never been involved in any of her life after he ran away. He likes life better the way it is, but he thinks of things as one decision away from ending up totally different, and that’s not really fate.

Perception: Caelen is generally more impulsive. He is good for short term solutions, which is why he works well with Alphinaud, who thinks like Deidre. His impulsive (less planned out) decisions far outweigh his long term decisions. This is a boy who, due to a nightmare about Deidre being killed by a dragon, snuck into Ishgard to check on her. No thought to where he was going to stay after that, or what he’d do if he got caught. He also decides to part with the Krakens in Hingashi so that he can help the party come to an agreement with the Confederacy, when they need to. How? Well he’ll figure it out when it happens. His ability to long term plan is based specifically around the subject of farming, which helps the Crystarium a fair bit, but that’s kind of where it ends lol.

B’sahla Pahsh

Piety: B’sahla is a Seeker, dedicated to Azeyma. She prays at sunrise and looks to the goddess for guidance on her path, believing that Azeyma nudges her in the directions of people she can help bring justice to. She does not believe she doles out divine justice on behalf of the goddess however, mostly that she is guided to people she is capable of helping. A lot of opening level side quests in Thanalan are good examples of this sort of work.

Control: The idea of fate an destiny makes B’sahla particularly upset due to the circumstances that led to her being an adventurer and thus joining the Scions. The thought that the slow dying out of her tribe from territorial disputes with the U, Amaljan raids, and the plummeting amount of resources in the Sagolii due to Dalamud and the following Calamity, was all fate just to put her in the correct life position to become the Warrior of Light, is just too cruel for her to bear.

Perception: B’sahla also thinks on the long term, but more emotionally than tactically. The decision that best showcases this is when she discovers her pregnancy after the attack on the waking sands. She keeps it a secret, which is a long term decision rather than a short term one, because with her health history she does not expect to remain so, and she wishes to avoid the extended grief that would come from the Scions also expecting and then loosing with her. When B’valia is not only born but also survives, she quickly plans the long term for that, by naming Haurchefant as B’valia’s Warden and second guardian, were anything to happen to her in battle.

Philomena de Arboraux

Piety: Another Gridanian White Mage. Though Nophica and Halone are bitter rivals, Philomena and her brother would probably pay tribute to both goddesses, due to their split heritage between their Ishgardian mother and Gridanian father. Being a healer, Philomena would most likely favor Nophica, though as a member of the Warrior of Light’s regular party a prayer to the war goddess wouldn’t hurt. She also has faith in the Mothercrystal’s protection, but does not have a habit of praying to Hydaelyn until the scions start being called to the First.

Control: She doesn’t exactly believe in fate as much as she believes herself to be guided by Hydaelyn, which she does not perceive negatively. Following that guidance was her decision, not Hydaelyn’s. The Goddess may have put it into motion so that the members of the FC came to be in the correct places, or she may have chosen those with the Echo because they were in the correct places. Of course, none of them can be sure. Philomena thinks it best not to dwell on it too much. They’re all choosing to save people anyway, why make a fuss about how you got here?

Perception: Philomena isn’t a huge planner, something I’m realizing is a bit of a funny parallel between her and Caelen because they’re both OCs that I have end up in a relationship with Alphinaud (Different Universes, Philomena is B’sahla’s continuity alone). She tends to see what pieces she has at her disposal, and arrange them all as situations arise, rather than plan for situations ahead of time. Sort of like collecting materials and then making a project, rather than buying materials with a project in mind.

I’m sorry this took four days to answer, Anon, I hope you see it.

#Anonymous #ffxiv ocs #ffxiv #ffxiv wol #deidre hunt #caelen hunt #B'sahla pahsh #philomena de Arboraux #my post #writing #character meme #ask meme #ask #text

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spc4eva · 4 years ago

Text

Morning Wind: Hooked on a Feeling

Say hello to our awkward Jakonan bounty hunter! I really wanted to give insight into her brain and the fact that her 'reservation' and 'mysteriousness' is because she's lowkey panicking in silence beneath her mask. Ironically, people just assume she's stoic like Mando, when in truth she's a bundle of anxiety.

Also yes, Hooked on a Feeling by Blue Swede is now canon and she was totally singing it in her ship.

Just a few fun tidbits about her: Asa is a middle child, she's 30, and I imagined her faceclaim being Adeline Rudolph.

Word Count: 5,173

Rating: T (violence/cursing)

Crossposted on AO3 & Fanfic.net

Docking on Nevarro was always a process. Not because there was a tower to report to or it was exceptionally difficult to find a spot on the 'tarmac', which consisted of a flat sandy dune, windswept and dotted with the sulfuric ash of the juxtaposed lava plains. Rather, mentally Asakaze found her lashes fluttering in irritation as she came back to this dry, arid, shitty planet. After a decade of making her rounds, she'd grown rather cynical and bored with her tactic for survival. Groaning, she rubbed her face in the cockpit, glowering through the tinted observation shield as she knew leaving her starship entitled getting in all of her armor and putting the kriffing mempo on. Had she not been wanted by the Empire for years, she might've taken it off, but there were still loyalists who would be able to pick her apart from other Jakonans.

Asakaze Shand was a traitor to the Empire, supplying them with bodies for years before renouncing her alliance and allegiance to the emperor. Originally, she had done it for her people, convinced that they could weather through the onslaught since the Empire was at war with the Rebel Alliance. Her anticipation was slapped right off her face and her entire clan was massacred, her escape nothing short of a miracle and only due to her abilities with her Chi. Despite the loss, House Shand was well known across the galaxy for less savory reasons and she took full advantage of their notorious reputation.

Exhaustion was the best way to explain how Asa felt, a deep bone weary existence that was the same day in and day out. Find the quarry, bring them in, get paid in credits, fuel up the ship, begin the rounds once again. What else was she to do? Even if the Empire was officially defeated, Asakaze was disgraced, no one was waiting for the Shand Shogun to return after she'd led their clan to ruin.

I was a girl. Why did they expect me to know what to do? I was barely 20.

Rattling around her, the Ryu had seen better days and without constant maintenance, routine checkups, and a mechanic's knowledgeable hand Asa was on a countdown from when the starship would kick the bucket. Pinching between her brows she didn't bother stifling her sigh as she slapped the radio on the dash, beginning her Nevarro routine. To the Guild, Ronin was an enigma beside the Mandalorian. Honestly, she didn't know how the fuck she'd managed that. Beneath her mempo, Asa was the epitome was anxiety and awkwardness. What others perceived as calm, poised reservation was actually Asa not having any idea what to say, quietly simmering behind her mask as she wanted to do nothing more than shrink into nothingness.

Voices chanting began to filter through the radio, repeating the word simultaneously before a voice broke through with a wry wistfulness. Asa rose from her seat, robes fluttering around her as she darted to the side, throwing her arms out in a futile attempt to pump herself up.

"I can't stop this feeling

Deep inside of me-"

Dropping from the cockpit, down to the hull of the ship, Asa belted the song, all but screaming it as she grabbed her armor and began forcing it on. Her eyes leered at the cryo chamber during the guitar rift, pointing toward the ceiling as the horns blared between the lyrics, almost as if she were conducting it herself. Spinning around to a nonexistent audience, Asa cocked a smile and winked - at the wall, but in her head it was a fan. In her dreamscape, Asa had been a performer and singer - reality wasn't quite as fun. Asa dressed whilst the song continued, the final lines corresponding with the mempo being set in place, her own mellow voice replaced with the oni-setting on her modulator, intentionally deep and scathing.

Frowning when the song actually ended, Asa's shoulders sagged in her kimono, and she grumbled to herself, trotting to the controls beside the dock of her ship. Despite the attempt to put a little pep in her step, this hellish repetition was all that was keeping her clinging to sanity as she spun around on a carousel that never ended, constantly having her leer out at the same faces, despite the years that had passed. Asa didn't even know when she would be ready to finally step off the carousel, but supposed her Chi would eventually guide her in the right direction, just as her father had claimed. Thus far, her Chi had done nothing but fail her. This resulted in a deep-seated cynicism in the woman. For all her abilities, they hadn't once saved her.

Asa had the worst fucking luck.

Currently, her life was testament to that - a Shogun turned bounty hunter who had to hide her face despite the fall of the Empire. Any solace she had was on the Ryu in the brief lulls between planets.

Opening the port, hands cocked on her hips, Asa let out a long sigh which did not properly register through the modulator on her mask. Although it filtered the atmosphere, she could feel the heat radiating off her skin beneath the loose kimono sleeves, the sulfur was infectious like a plague. Her entire ship reeked of it, the rotten egg stench permeating from all her attire, even the hilt of her katana. Yet another of the listless charms of Nevarro. Sauntering her way to the cantina, humming the song to herself, she untucked her arm from her kimono sleeve and levied it on the inside of the fold as she lazily trotted back into town.

Eyes traced her crimson form, wary and skittish. The irony. Beneath the folds of fabric was a lean woman, but a woman nonetheless. Her sandals gave her another few inches, giving her the appearance of being close to 5'10", a seemingly average height. In tandem with her armor hidden beneath her robes, she appeared much broader than she actually was. Sure, Asa had muscle and was a honed mercenary, but she wasn't thick or imposing. The walk was a big part of it and Asa moved with a lazy nonchalance. By this point, most people strayed clear of her path. Even when she'd first come to Nevarro, anyone who glimpsed her mempo was eager to flee before her. Originally, she'd found this amusing, but now she was growing rather sick of it. After years of it, watching people scatter like leaves in the wind was harrowing and lonely.

The cantina was a dusty hovel, filled to the brim with untrustworthy scum that Asa had come to consider acquaintances. Despite the fact they'd trade her in for a good sum of credits, they all had stories which she collected and transcribed to kanji. Poetry could be found in even the worst settings and as a Jakonan, songs and lore had never fled her heart. Her fingers itched to play her flute for an audience, but she didn't trust anyone enough to remove her mempo. Given that it had been a decade, Asa had resigned herself to accepting her fate alone. In hyperspace, only the stars listened to the song of the shakuhachi.

Grimacing beneath her mask, she noticed that Karga was exceptionally thrilled that afternoon. Usually, the only thing that made him excited was money and prospects that earned him better commission. His dark eyes brightened at the sight of her - or Ronin. Given the number of years they'd known one another, she'd established a baseline for quarries she would and wouldn't take. Imperial remnants were a no-go as were bounties that he'd doled to the Mandalorian. Given that she still owed Mando a debt, she was not keen on digging the hole further. Additionally, Asa had declined many high paying bounties when her Chi screamed in opposition. Karga poked at her, stating that 'Mando will take them' as if there was a deeper rivalry between them when there wasn't. Asa respected the Mandalorian and wanted nothing to do with him. Honestly, Mandalorians were bad news and she regretted owing a debt, but that was the way of the Bushido.

"Ronin!" Karga greeted animatedly, slapping the table that he habited since their original meeting. Asa wished it was raining now, she loved the petrichor and humidity in comparison to the heat that leeched all moisture from her, despite the folds of her kimono making an attempt to covet it. "How was your hunt?"

He didn't actually care as long as it was successful. "Ready for offload," she retorted, glancing around the sparsely populated common house. Honestly, this was one of the few rare times she'd noticed that it was this empty.

"Are you staying around for some sabacc?" Karga chatted idly, thumbing the breast pocket on his robes, eliciting her attention. Eyes tracing, she noticed the outline of a rectangle, perhaps metal, but she couldn't say.

"Depends. What do you have available?"

Her heart was humming with a caustic rhythm, searing with each thrum as she stood, unable to hear the meaningless words the Guild Master was gracing her with. Instead, the hairs on her arms raised and she drew a shuddering breath, an invisible force laying against her shoulder blades and chest, stealing the air from her chest and threatening to strangle her. Something was coming. Given the disconcerting method in which her Chi screamed, she was not willing to stick around to see what it was.

Karga had pushed a few fobs in front of him, mentioning something about the Guild lolling into an even pace and the pucks would only pace decently rather than the typical rate. Given how uncomfortable Asa was with her Chi smothering her, she swiped them up without listening to where she might have to go. "Deliver my credits to my ship. I'll wait for the offload," she instructed sternly, interrupting yet another of the man's infamous tangents as he brimmed with excitement.

"Happy hunting, Ronin!"

Now that was strange. Pausing halfway through the cantina, Asa craned her neck to glance back at the humming man. Karga had his moods, but very rarely had he ever been so earnest in his wish for 'happy hunting'. He was practical, not fanciful. Today must have been a spectacular day for him to be wishing her a successful hunt. Such chimerical encouragement was never needed for someone like Asa. She turned in her fobs within the allotted time frame and had never required 'luck' in order to do this. Given how foul her luck was, Asa was glad she was capable of acquiring her quarries. Most weren't talented in fighting and her upbringing had been in both academia and warfare. Jakon prized itself on being a civilization prepared for any challenge, be that battle in scholarly, artistic, or war pursuits.

Rather than thank him, Asa ducked her head and ignored him. Not because she was partial to being rude, but between the disquiet of her Chi and the oddity of Karga trying to imbibe luck in her favor, Asa was frowning beneath her mempo.

Usually, she might wait until the cryo slabs were unloaded, but the trembling cacophony of Chi propelled her legs out. No way in the galaxy she was sticking around while her body screeched in dismay. Rather, she carved the familiar path across Nevarro City, the only settlement on this awful planet, and her cursed prison stuck in a distorted ground hog's day rendition of hell, constantly on repeat. A headache seared in the back of her head, which she couldn't abate by touching her brow with the mempo on. Growling, her strides lengthened and she made haste back toward the Ryu.

"Ronin!" A vaguely familiar modulated voice entreated her, a rich baritone tainted by the metallic ring of the mechanics in his helmet. She had only heard it a few rare times and never in length, as the pair barely had reason to exchange conversation. Truthfully, Asa was somewhat terrified of the Mandalorian. He was a mountain of steel, only a few inches taller than her when she was in full regal, but he wasn't playing at what she had for nigh on a decade. He was the ruthless bounty hunter who'd take any quarry in, whereas she had restrictions. He was an absolute murder machine. And he was standing just a few paces behind her.

Thanking the God-beasts for her mempo, she swallowed hard and craned her neck to glance back at him, skin paling. The glare of the sunlight caught on his new armor, entirely of beskar, imbibing the unpainted silver steel with a bright reflective glow. Had her mempo not been translating the light through a filter, she might have been momentarily dazzled by the man, who was now a stunning suit of Mandalorian pride.

"Your debt."

Asa's heart skipped a beat as she gazed out from beneath the rim of her rice-hat. Even if she was disgraced, she still upheld the values of a samurai, just as her father had raised her to do. A life without any guidance was not a life at all, but simply an existence as a ghost. Despite the lucrative business that Asa now found herself in, she'd always followed her tenets. Repaying debts was one of those, recalling the snarling visage of the Wampa as it threatened to bear down on her with massive, clawed paws - to rip her limb from limb, crack her bones to drink the marrow, and feed on her flesh. Asa was about to commit seppuku to escape the pain of that demise when the Mandalorian's pulse rifle boomed so loud that she thought the entire cavern was going to collapse.

Asa had been about to die, but the only tell from that day was the ragged scar down her right armor where the Wampa's claws had snatched at her.

"I require payment."

Of all the fucking times.

Her Chi had relaxed, the eye of the storm giving her a momentary reprieve from the mystery that had upset her originally. The war drumming of her heart quieted and she stared toward the abysmal T visor of her counterpart. Two years had passed since she offered the life debt and now he was coming to collect. There was no way that Asa could refuse, even if that meant going against what her Chi was urging. A debt was a debt and could be collected when and wherever. Asa could not set the terms.

"Very well," she finally offered, her voice quiet, her vocoder transitioning her own mellow voice and making it grit like sand beneath a boot. "What do you require of me?"

"Assistance," he retorted curtly, but betrayed nothing farther. "You are not fond of the Empire?"

Not fond? The Empire that had taken her father, her people, and subsequently ravaged her home? "That's a good way to phrase it," she snorted, modulator crackling at the edges of her wry laugh, the shrugging of her shoulders more indicative of the chuckle than the noise.

"There are remnants here. They have something I want."

An arched brow was poised at no one, as her mask didn't move with the expressions her own haggard face made. Rather, she let the laziness slip into her posture as she leaned back and tapped her thumb on the pommel of her sword, tinkling the charms. "A debt may be paid in any way you see fit," she started, eyes raking over the line of the man's shoulders trying to glean more intention. "However, this seems to fall short of a life for a life." Alternatively, she would still owe him if it were as simple as killing a few Imperials. Hell, she would have done that for free.

"The Guild might have a few words with us after."

Ah. Well, now that made more sense. This mission, even for any of the other hunters who greatly disliked the Empire, would not stake their livelihood on helping Mando. Especially since many of them loathed him. Asa still had enough wits to be afraid of him and what he was capable of, but exhaled deeply enough that he caught her sigh this time. "A debt must be paid," she relinquished, wondering if her life would always chance chapter by chapter, decade by decade. Somehow, as she just passed 30, she had a feeling her body was going to begin rejecting change. Maybe it was time to get out of the bounty hunting business.

He nodded, swiftly spinning on his heel to do an about face, leaving for Asa to follow. Daylight still shining down on the city, locals milled about and stayed clear of the leery pair. A throng of distance was set between them, an invisible buffer of at least six feet maintained more by Asa than Mando. Cutting a corner into a narrow, shadowed alleyway, she was forced to close some of the space, half wondering if Mando was going to just kill her here and dump his last bit of competition out of Nevarro into one of the neighboring waste bins.

He could have done that on Hoth and he didn't, Asa reminded herself, grip still tight on her katana as she followed me into the belly of Nevarro City. With the sun dipping on the horizon, the light couldn't claw its way in between the tightly packed walls and doors. A cloak of shadows played between the walls, dancing mutely on the back of the Mandalorian's grey bucket. His cloak obscured the rest of his shiny retinue, dashed by the pulse rifle that was most certainly taller than her.

The Mandalorian was not a huge man, not in height. Being just a few paces behind him, Asa spent more time observing him than she had cared in the past, worried that he would notice her staring despite the anonymity of her mempo. He was seemingly average, his boots and helmet adding an additional inch or two, shoulders broadened by his armor just as her own made her look impressive. This was no illusion, as hers was, for the Mandalorian's armor accentuated his vitals and protected them, the beskar layers thin in comparison to hers. Despite the added padding, the Mandalorian was broad, lean as a whip, and didn't require another head of height to strike fear into any who glanced over at the impassive, nebulous T visor.

Coming to the end of the alley, Mando paused and glance both ways like a child about to cross a busy street. Warily, he continued after taking a right. Asa had never bothered coming into the city, not this deep, and she expected if her mempo wasn't filtering the air she would be able to smell the metallic reek around her. From parts to trash, inner Nevarro City was a rotting cesspool and they didn't pass so much as a soul on their secretive mission - which aside from killing Imps and acquiring something, she had no idea what it entailed.

He bent over a dumpster of scrap and Asa dared to move within a pace of him, glancing down to where his visor was set. Within was an eggshaped container, the white paint chipped and flaked, lid open. If she had to guess, she'd say it was a repulsor lift of a sort, but it was tiny and akin to a bassinet. A soft song played from the dumpster, eliciting enough of her attention that she bent down past him to touch it. Gloved fingers met durasteel and the music hitched, a gentle clarinet weeping in her ears. Chi. She knew it, as anyone with Chi had a song of their own. Otherwise, the only time she heard Chi in the form of music was during great strife or occasion, like the day that the Empire had attacked her people, the maddening roar of their death march vibrating in her brain.

"Come," Mando ordered, snapping away from the discarded pram and for a fleeting moment, she thought she noticed his shoulders sag as he released a belly deep sigh.

They scaled a building in the dull sunset light, the blue sky being chased by cotton candy pink and coral orange, turning the puffs of cloud into candy. Despite all that Nevarro lacked, there were redeeming moments - probably because she couldn't smell the sulfur, but the sky had always been a fixation amidst the obsidian and ozone.

Mando had his rifle propped against his shoulder, laying prone as she daydreamed and got away with it since he couldn't see the misty expression on her face. A solemn tap to the side of his helmet and he was listening to a conversation she couldn't hear, glaring down the infrared scope as Asa wondered what the cottony candy clouds tasted like. It had been absolutely forever since she'd had sweets like back on Jakon. She missed the red bean paste fillings and the true taste of green matcha instead of the cheap imitations she usually got her hands on.

He drew the rifle back, his thumb having been subconsciously tracing circles against the barrel as he listened on. A strange quirk that Asa noted; an odd little bit of comfort the man tried to instill in himself as they worked on recon.

With their feet back on the ashen soil of the street, they approached a dark teal door which was streaked with lines of grimy rust. The roads were never truly quiet, the din of the busier sectors a dull hum like a hive of busy worker bees who just weren't occupying this sector of the combs.

"Wait here," he directed, gesturing to the alley flanking the door.

Asa leaned against the wall, hearing the sharp rap of his fist plunking against the door, before a click and whizzing was accented by the crunch and crackle of frayed mechanical equipment. Stomping back in her direction, Mando tossed the droid's retinue on the ground and grabbed his weapon, tilting his helmet in an unimpressed manner at her candor. With the gust of an invisible wind, her muscles let out a wistful bellow and she stood up straight, reaching down toward her obi as the premonition of battle whispered delicately in her ears.

"Check the perimeter," icy fingers raked down her back like the claws of the Wampa, the poorly modulated voices of stormtroopers causing a seething rage that laid dormant for so long to come bubbling to the surface, chasing away the unpleasant chill with searing wrath. Asa did not wait for Mando to make the first move, her body moving on its own accord as the curve of her blade left the ornate sheathe.

Mando was more interested in placing a detonator than dealing with the pair of stormtroopers that had come out to scout the source of the original noise. Her approach was covered by the boom of the bomb, the browned armor of the Imps akin to weathered parchment as they turned tail and sprinted back into the building.

She was the wind through the mountains and trees, flowing as gently as a brook but could possess the ferocity of a raging river, and she was swift like flame, crackling down to embers until she was stoked with fuel. Now, she had plenty of fuel, sliding up behind the troopers who were distracted by the flashing lights, electricity guttering to just the dull winking of the emergency lighting, as many synapses and circuits had been fried in the explosion. None noticed the flap of a crimson kimono, nor the nonexistent click of her sandals as Amagumo arched, the bolts of lightning rippling gold in the flashes of sputtering light.

Katanas were made for slashing, not puncturing. Wielding one correctly took years of practice, being keenly aware of the perfect manner to arch the curve of the steel in order to achieve maximum rending capacity. Asa had always been more inclined toward the blade versus her siblings. Haku had preferred blasters. Kit with a sniper rifle. The ancient blade of their people was a symbol and tradition and rarely utilized in battle except for those who were blessed with strong Chi, like the Jedi. Otherwise, the piece of metal was useless unless utilized in close quarters.

The first figure slumped, plastoid parting like butter beneath a heated blade. Unlike a lightsaber, Tamahagane did not cauterize, and blood spurted in a macabre fountain as the neck and head slowly slid off as the body finally crumpled to its knees. Rounding on her, the second trooper raised his rifle in defense, gasping as Amagumo savagely bit into his blaster and severed it in half. With a crescent flourish, the tip of the curved blade slipped up and drove into the gorget of the trooper, Amagumo drinking its fill as the Imperial soldier gurgled and choked on his own blood, crimson basking the blade in a hellish curtain as it slowly dripped down toward the hilt.

Mando was in the hole that he had blasted, watching her fight as she withdrew her sword and wiped the blood of her enemies off on the bottom of her robes. Wearing red meant that her foes could not see the blood, be that her own or that of her enemies. By this point, Asa was so accustomed to the gore laden displays and paintings she created that the garnet pools that she stepped through had little effect on her.

A flanking door opened and Mando's helmet whipped, an arm snapping out with such precision and swiftness that Asa barely had the time to blink before the room grew hot with the light of his blaster and the trooper flopped to the floor in a plastic heap. Of course, she had known that the Mandalorian was good, but aside from their encounter on Hoth she had never seen him in action. Just the speed such a broad man moved in set her teeth on end, wondering if she would have been able to dodge or parry the hipfire had he rounded on her. Kriff, just thinking about it made her skin pallid and a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck.

Listing through the dull grey, medicinal halls of the building, Mando took the lead, as she was here as support and had no true idea what the 'thing' he wanted was. A haunting song played in her ears, which she tried to swat away like annoying gnats, but the clarinet's vibrato grew louder, but not in a good way. Instead, the melody quavered as if the musician was taking constant, trembling breaths with the inability to fill their diaphragm properly. Cool dissonant melodies, minor thirds and tritones, there was no musicality - just noise. Something was very wrong with the person who the song belonged to.

Mando knelt just on the other side of a doorway, lifting his vambrace, and shooting his whipcord launcher. Jetting out like a javelin, the forked tongue on the end hooked into the edge of a trooper's rear chestplate, the Mandalorian utilizing the leverage of his kneeling position to jerk the soldier down, retracting the grappling hook as the trooper slid back, disoriented and right into the vibro-blade waiting in the Mandalorian's other hand.

Without even glancing in her direction, Mando dropped the body and continued prowling forward. Asa paused just to glance down, grimacing at the precision of the kill. Despite being freaked out by it, she found herself highly impressed with how streamline the man's kills were. He didn't dally or take solace in what he did, rather he just pummeled through with honed experience.

She was a few paces behind him when he shot open a door, fire returned and actually finding purchase as his shoulder jerked back after his pauldron caught the brunt of the attack. While the trooper had been reacting in self-defense and in light of a Mandalorian being inside his station of duty, she knew Mando was pissed. He shot the soldier square in the chest before glaring at the spectacled doctor who tittered nervously in the corner.

If seeing a Mandalorian breaking into his lab wasn't intimidating enough, the hellish lowlight glare on her own mask made him even fainter, gripping the side of the gurney he flanked as she stared. What was this? She raked her eyes over the uniform the doctor was wearing, clearly of an Imperial officer, his hand flying out as Mando turned the barrel of his handgun toward him.

Asa couldn't hear the conversation between them, her head slowly turning as the clarinet's pitiful solo warbled in her ears. Her legs carried her on their own accord, hat tilting downward as she gazed at the source of the song. Not an adult, but a tiny green child that was unconscious and strapped into a whizzing medical machine. "Ā ko-" oh, child - she whispered, reaching to smooth over the fronds of fuzzy white hair on top of a wrinkled brow. Despite the youth, she knew that this being was much older than appearances betrayed.

"Don't touch it," Mando snapped at her, forcing her hand back as he pried the machine off the baby.

"It's a baby," Asa retorted defensively, whipping her mask up toward him to challenge the Mandalorian for the first time. "You do not know what it is."

"And you have a better idea?" he growled, leveling his blaster toward her abdomen, daring her to do any more than what had been agreed upon.

"Hai, I do, Mandalorian," Asa hissed back, but there was no time for them to argue, her Chi kicked her heart rate, plunging what had been a steady pace to a shockingly dormant state. Pupils blowing beneath her mempo she cocked her head. "We don't have time for this. More are coming."

Mando grunted his agreement and turned his blaster away from her.

"Protect the ko, I will take the lead," Asa knew that the only place they'd be able to go next was the space-port where their paths would diverge and they'd leave Nevarro for good. Still, when she glanced at the little bundle of canvas, she knew deep in her heart that she could not leave the baby with the Mandalorian in good conscious. Her father had once told her that her Chi would guide her and now she stood beside a child with such strong abilities that she'd heard his song from across the city.

Thumb tracing the ribbons on Amagumo, her free hand brushed her obi where a few other weapons were stashed. A metallic cylinder was inconspicuously tucked beside her shoto, a weapon that she'd not touched since she had acquired the title of Shogun. This was not the weapon of a samurai, but as her Chi bellowed in her chest, she knew it might be time to wield it finally. Amagumo had served her well, but her time as a samurai was coming to an end.

The child needed her.

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