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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months ago

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In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 6: Bloodstone]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Only 1 chapter left!!! 💎

You must not have heard him correctly. Down by the bow, third-class passengers are still laughing as they kick pieces of ice back and forth. Children who have been shaken awake are giggling as they dash around in their worn, patched coats. On the Promenade Deck, tycoons and aristocrats are flagging down stewards to fetch them fresh drinks. There is no more humming of the ship’s engines, although no one else seems to have noticed; they have quit and will never work again. In a few hours, they will be resting on the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean. It’s just barely April 15th, and half the passengers aboard won’t live to see the sunrise.

Kill Daemon??

You’ve never even hit anybody, not unless they struck you first. “I can’t kill someone.”

“Yes you can,” Aegon insists. His tone is urgent; there isn’t much time left. “And you won’t have to do it alone. Like I said, I’ll help you.”

A drop in your stomach, a chill down your spine, wide-eyed primal fear like a prey animal’s. “Even if I wanted to, Daemon can’t be killed.”

“He’s not a monster. He’s just a man. He has blood and organs just like we do. I promise you, if we cut him he’ll bleed.”

“He’ll hurt me,” you whimper. “He’ll know what I’m trying to do and he’ll break my neck or push me overboard. You don’t know him, he’s…he’s…he’s relentless, he’s cunning—”

“We can have what we want,” Aegon says, grabbing your face with his hands, fingertips callused from years of playing viola on streets, in pubs, in small rented rooms, on the decks of ships. “We can leave Titanic together. We can stay with my family for a while in New York, and then we’ll go back to Ireland so you can be with yours, and when my father dies we’ll spend half the year in England and the other half with your parents, and you’ll get to keep Draco, and Daemon will never touch you again. You’ll be free, Petra. And you deserve that. But no one is going to give it to you. You have to fight for it.”

Is it possible? Is it really? You imagine having breakfast with your parents in Lough Cutra Castle, the table full: you, Aegon, Draco, Fern, everyone smiling over plates of fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, and white pudding, cups of tea breathing steam into the cool morning air. Are you willing to fight for that? Are you willing to murder? At last you say: “Daemon isn’t the only problem.”

“Who else?” Aegon asks, demanding, impatient, though his hands are gentle. “Rhaenyra? And the old woman, right? Draco’s governess. Dagmar.”

“And Daemon’s bodyguard Edward Rushton, we call him Rush. He carries a pistol.”

“Okay.” Aegon nods, his eyes distant, his thoughts whirling like Titanic’s colossal propellers once did and never will again. You know he’s devising a plan. We only have an hour or two.

“Aegon…I have to get Draco into a lifeboat first.”

“Right.” He kisses you, a quick brush across your cheek like a dusting of snow, and you think: I can’t lose him. “Over a thousand passengers are going to die tonight. Let’s make sure four of them are people who deserve it.” Then he takes your hand and together you descend the steps to B-Deck.

~~~~~~~~~~

Scarlet fever is named for the distinctive rash that marks its victims, tiny red dots like blood blisters, so itchy they are soon scratched raw, raised bumps of braille in the shape of ominous omens, corporal constellations of bad stars. Dagmar was reminded of them the first time she ever saw bloodstone, a dark green crystal freckled with red, a pendant that Dameon sent her from across the world where he was opening a new mine in Australia.

Valentin was the first one to get sick. He was the youngest, the only boy, and while perhaps mothers are not supposed to have favorites Dagmar knew in her bones that she did. She held him—three years old, white-blonde hair, loud and wild—as he grew quiet and weak and hot with fever, and then he was gone. After Valentin was Juni, and then Karin, and then Mikele, and finally Gunnar, a lumberman who worked hard and never complained, not even when he was dying of kidney failure. Dagmar was once a woman with four children and a husband, but then she was no one, untethered to the earth, unmoored from everything that had been, and people left adrift in the ocean are likely to drown and spend eternity in the crushing, sunless abyss.

She wandered for a while, too old to fathom a new life, too young to simply wait to die herself, and of course suicide is a sin. To keep from starving she took jobs as a governess; the only thing Dagmar knew how to do was raise children, and she was good at it. With each new household she found herself searching for Valentin’s eyes and hair and spirit, for a child that could make her believe he was alive again. But none of the temperate, blue-blooded little boys or girls of England—where Dagmar had fled to escape the memories of her homeland—came close to filling his footsteps, his handprints, the hemorrhaging puncture wound he left in her chest.

Then one brutally cold winter, Dagmar was referred to the 8th Duke of Beaufort Baelon Targaryen, deep in mourning for his wife Alyssa who had recently perished in childbirth and at a loss to handle his two sons. Viserys, the heir, was already eight years old and too set in his ways to ever see Dagmar as a mother. But Daemon, only four—so much like Val, Dagmar had thought as she lifted him from the floor—was sad and needy and vicious, furious at the world for stealing his mother from him, and this was something Dagmar could understand. She became his new mother. He became her reason for living.

Daemon grew up, as all children do if they are not preserved forever in youth by untimely deaths, and Dagmar drifted away to other castles and mansions, other families, other attempts to silence the ghosts that rattled doors and windows as she slept. But no one could replace Daemon, and each time she received a letter or a gift from him—photographs from his mining expeditions, bracelets and hair combs, taxidermied foreign beasts—Dagmar would write him a thank you note and always include the same postscript: Daemon my dear, my brave rogue prince, it would be the greatest joy of my life to one day help look after your own child. And at last, when Draco was born he summoned her, and little Valentin was alive once again.

Now unlike Daemon, Draco did have a mother, but she was young and easily managed, inexperienced with babies, eager to please her husband. Daemon was so sage and charismatic and renowned, and she faded into his shadow until all her colors were gone and she was black and white like a photograph, never knowing what to do or say, staring inanely from doorways. This was just fine as far as Dagmar was concerned. She could pretend that Daemon’s wife was dead like poor Alyssa Targaryen.

Here on Titanic, the baffling shockwave yanked Draco out of his dreams. He’s crying, soft disoriented whines, and Dagmar soothes him and reads him The Little Mermaid and tells Fern—also awakened by the shudder and now pacing restlessly around the staterooms—to make some tea. Just as Draco is finally dozing off again, there is a loud knock at the front door. Dagmar brings Draco out into the sitting room, leading him by one of his tiny pawlike hands, to find Fern speaking to a steward who will not come inside any farther than the doorway, as if he is in a hurry. Fern, puzzled, is clutching the white lifebelts he has given her.

The steward is explaining: “I’m sure it’s just a precaution, ma��am—”

“It’s not a precaution,” Daemon’s wife says as she sweeps into the room, and for some reason there is a man with her, a blonde man in a black wool coat. Immediately, Dagmar’s blood turns to dark viscid poison. What is she doing? Why can’t she disappear? “Thank you,” Daemon’s wife tells the steward briskly. “I’m sure you have other rooms to visit. You should be on your way.”

The steward is evidently too busy to be offended. He retreats into the hallway and vanishes, and the strange blonde man shuts the door behind him. Dagmar scrutinizes the intruder, and he glares back at her with eyes like deep water, a murky melancholy blue. He’s the same man she saw on the Boat Deck, the one who reminded her so much of Viserys when he was young, that solemn, grieving boy she could not coax into loving her.

Why can’t Daemon’s wife just die? Why should she live when so many have been lost? Why would God judge her more worthy than Valentin, Juni, Karin, Mikele, Gunnar?

“What’s going on?” Fern asks Daemon’s wife, her voice reedy and timid.

Instead of an answer, there is a question in return: “Is anyone else here?”

“No,” Fern says, perplexed. “Why? What’s happened?”

Daemon’s wife holds out an empty hand, not to Fern but to Draco, who Dagmar is still grasping with bony fingers gnarled by arthritis. She says: “Draco, please come with me.”

“Why?” he asks, but he has already taken a step towards her, tiny bare feet. Dagmar does not surrender him. She will not, she cannot. He stops when his arm is fully extended and then looks back to his governess, his surrogate mother, his pale eyes full of doubt.

“We have to go somewhere,” Daemon’s wife says. She is still reaching for him. “Draco, please. I need you to listen to me, we don’t have much time.”

“No,” Dagmar sneers. “You don’t know how to take care of him. You never have.”

“Can I go?” Draco asks softly, and Dagmar pretends she has not heard him.

“Draco,” Daemon’s brainless young wife pleads. Her eyes flick up to Dagmar’s, and there is a moment of terrible understanding between them, as if they are mirror images: neither can try to force him without driving him into the embrace of the other. He is not a child who is easily tamed; he is a wolf, he is a dragon.

“Dagmar?” Draco says, peering up at her, and he’s asking for permission but in another minute he might be stomping his feet and screeching loud enough for the entire hallway to hear.

Dagmar glances at the lifebelts Fern is gripping tightly. What’s wrong with the ship? Is it sinking? But no, Dagmar cannot believe this. Titanic is unsinkable; everybody in the world knows that. She tells the boy: “She’ll take you away from me. She’ll steal you. But she won’t keep you safe and warm and happy like I would.”

“I’m your mother,” Daemon’s wife tells Draco, and now her voice is choked and there are tears glittering in her desperate eyes. The blonde man looks at her like he would carry the weight of her anguish if he could, every last pound. Who is he? Why is he here? “I know it might not feel that way sometimes, but I am. And I love you more than anything. I would never hurt you. I’m trying to protect you. Draco, I need you to come with me right now.”

And horribly, unthinkably, he yanks his little hand out of Dagmar’s. She claws for him and he spins around to face her. “No!” Draco shouts. “I decide! Me! Not you!” She is stunned into silence. She watches him careen across the sitting room, and Daemon’s wife scoops him up as if he belongs to her. She holds him for a while, a minute or more, before she sets him down on the floor and quickly helps Draco get his socks and shoes on. The boy does not complain. Then she lifts him again and—with what appears to be great effort—passes him to Fern, who while bewildered accepts this task, now carrying both the boy and the lifebelts. Daemon’s wife grabs all the coats hanging from the coat rack and piles them into Fern’s already full arms.

“Fern, take him upstairs to the Boat Deck. Get to a lifeboat, do not wait. They will be launching them soon if they haven’t started already.”

“Lifeboats?” Fern repeats, blinking, stymied.

“Yes,” Daemon’s wife says, and she and the maid share a long, silent, meaningful look. Draco gazes worriedly around the room, gnawing on his fingernails. The blonde man watches Dagmar, his expression severe, hateful.

Fern asks: “How much time until Titanic…?”

“An hour or two. You won’t be in the lifeboat for long, a ship called Carpathia is en route. But she’s not close enough.”

“Oh,” the maid exhales numbly. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…”

“Stay with Draco. Don’t leave him for a second. Get into a lifeboat, keep him warm, wait for Carpathia. I’ll follow you as soon as I can, but…there are some things I have to do first.”

“Like what, ma’am? What could be so important? You shouldn’t wait either.”

Instead of answering, she says, low like a dire warning: “If you happen to see them, do not speak to Daemon, Rhaenyra, or Rush. Don’t tell them what’s going on.”

“Yes ma’am,” Fern replies quietly, and nods like she suddenly understands. She takes Draco and hurries out of the room. Now Dagmar is alone with them: Daemon’s idiotic little girl of a wife, her inexplicable companion.

“This ship can’t sink,” Dagmar says; but is the floor tilting? She has only just noticed it.

“Of course it can,” Daemon’s wife counters. “Any ship can. I kept telling everyone how terrified I was of the voyage and you all treated me like I was insane. But I was right. I wasn’t a coward and I wasn’t stupid. And you can’t make me believe that I am anymore.”

Dagmar is about to reply—something cutting, something cruel—but then her steely Scandinavian eyes snag on the stranger and all at once it hits her like a man’s knuckles. She gasps, shocked, ferocious. Aegon. Viserys’ son. A villain, a traitor, an unworthy beneficiary of a grand inheritance. “I know who you are. How the hell did you get here?”

The man grins menacingly. “Fortune brought me a ticket. Best luck I’ve ever had.”

Dagmar screams, hoping he will hear her: “Daemon?!”

Aegon lunges, catches her around her long thin waist, wrestles her towards the door to the private promenade deck. Dagmar isn’t strong, but she is fierce; she scratches at his eyes and bites his hands when they try to smother her howls. They stumble together through the doorway and out onto the pine planks, knocking over lightweight wicker furniture. When her teeth close around Aegon’s fingers, Dagmar tastes blood like warm copper.

“A window!” Aegon is telling Daemon’s wife, but she’s already there after slamming the door to the sitting room shut, franticly turning the hand crank under the nearest window. The glass opens, and freezing night air pours in.

They’re trying to kill me, Dagmar realizes. They’re going to throw me overboard.

She jabs a bony elbow into Aegon’s throat, and he collapses to the deck, wheezing and helpless.

“Daemon!” Dagmar shrieks again. If he hears me, he’ll save me. My savior, my son. “Help!”

But it’s his wife who arrives instead. She collides with Dagmar, strikes her with two open palms, shoves her through the window. Dagmar’s hipbone cracks against the windowsill, a dry brittle snap, and then she tumbles out into the darkness.

Her last thought as she sees the stars—before she hits the frigid water and is knocked unconscious, then dragged under by the merciless weight of gravity—is that if they were red they would look like the dots on the skin of a child with scarlet fever, like the crimson flecks in a bloodstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my God, I…we…” You stare down into the black waves that swallowed her so effortlessly, a flash of her long silver hair as it came undone and then nothing. “She’s gone. She’s really gone. We killed her. We’re murderers.”

In reply, Aegon coughs and gasps for air, still crawling around on the deck. You run to him and help him stand up.

“Thanks,” he croaks.

“Are you alright? What can I do?”

“I’ll be fine,” he rasps. “Just need a minute.”

You look down to see blood dripping from his fingers, thick beads of crimson like teardrop-shaped rubies, like oil paint. You ache for him, you feel his pain as if it is your own. “Your hands, Aegon, your hands…”

“I’m okay,” Aegon assures you, smiling. “The bitch chewed me up, but I’ll live.”

“I want to save your paintings,” you say. “We can’t let them go down with the ship. We’ll take them to the Boat Deck and give Fern your portfolio, make sure she and Draco get safely into a lifeboat, and then…then we’ll…” We’ll finish what must be done. We’ll free you and me and Draco.

Aegon is nodding as he rubs his throat, already bruising. “Any idea where Rush might be? The guy with the gun?”

Before you can answer, you both hear it: the sound of a door swinging open and heavy footsteps inside.

~~~~~~~~~~

He likes that Daemon calls him Rush. It’s better than Eddie, which is who he was when he was a boy being kicked and backhanded by his stepfather, and laughed at by the other kids at school for not having shoes to wear. Now he is someone brand new, and that boy Eddie could be a character in a book or a song, vaguely familiar but not real.

Daemon has never hit Rush, never even threatened him. He has never stolen his laborers’ promised wages or cornered maids to violate them, impregnate them, ruin their lives. He goes into the mines he opens and periodically travels the world to inspect, descending into clouds of dust and chipping gemstones from the walls with his own tools. He is kind to his son Draco. He is brave, he is brilliant, he knows how to have a drink with working men and captivate them with his stories. Rush would do anything for Daemon, who saved him from a life of obscure, powerless poverty. He would overlook any number of sins.

Rush gusts into the bedroom and sets about gathering up valuables and stuffing them into a suitcase: business correspondence, jewelry, sketches of designs, bundles of cash from the safe. Daemon will regret having to leave the taxidermied tiger head, but it’s simply too large and heavy to bring with them. Rush hasn’t located Daemon and Rhaenyra yet, but this isn’t so unusual; they are always sneaking around, evading being found purely for the sake of it, the deception, the thrill, ravaging each other in ever more inventive places. God knows where they were when Titanic struck the iceberg, or if they are aware of the impending sinking. Rush is not panicking yet; there’s still time, though perhaps not too much of it. With each passing minute, the ship lists further towards the starboard side. He is just about to get Daemon’s dagger from the writing desk when he hears the door open to the private promenade deck. Rush turns to see Lady Targaryen peeking in from the threshold, pale blue dress, white coat.

He has never felt any loyalty to her. She is a thoughtless, mollycoddled girl, raised in a castle with parents who loved her, and what would she know of what the world was like for everyone else? Daemon only roughed her up when she deserved it, when there was no other way to make her listen, and never too badly: no split bones, no scars. In Rush’s opinion, it was just enough to give her a taste of adversity.

He sighs. “Well, unless you plan on drowning or freezing to death tonight, you might as well follow me up to the Boat Deck. I’m just here to collect some things. They’re only putting women and children in the lifeboats now, but I’m sure first-class men won’t be far behind.”

She says nothing, only watches him from the doorway. The old witch Dagmar isn’t here; she must have already taken the boy to the highest level of the ship, where affluent passengers are waiting impatiently and still in denial that Titanic will soon disappear beneath the waves, asking stewards to fetch them drinks and cigars, calling out song requests to the string quartet.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen Daemon or Rhaenyra, I assume?”

“I thought they were with you.”

“No,” Rush says, smirking. “I seem to have lost track of them. They’re not in either of their staterooms. But don’t fear. Daemon is more than capable of looking after himself. He’ll turn up soon enough.” Perhaps I missed them up on the Boat Deck; it was crowded, it was chaos. Perhaps Daemon is already helping Rhaenyra into a lifeboat, his large rough hands steadying hers as she steps inside. He would save her first.

“I’ll help you pack the valuables,” Lady Targaryen says suddenly, and starts towards Daemon’s writing desk.

“Just keep out of the way,” Rush snaps; and then he sees something and stops dead.

A painter’s easel has slid halfway out from beneath the bed as the floor tilts. This is a peculiar enough item, but the paper clipped to it is stranger. The image is of Lady Targaryen, that is certain, but she isn’t alone; there is a man with her, and while nothing is shown below the collarbones, the activity in which they are partaking is unmistakable.

If she’s found a lover, Daemon really will kill her this time.

Rush gapes at the painting for several long seconds and then looks up at Lady Targaryen. “What the fuck is that?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your hand hovers on the handle of the desk drawer. You can’t open it and take the dagger while Rush is watching. You know that beneath his coat he wears a shoulder holster containing a Colt 1911. Even with a blade, you are outmatched.

Aegon appears in the doorway to the private deck with a wicker chair. He hurls it at Rush as hard as he can, and as Rush curses and fumbles for his pistol, you seize Daemon’s dagger from the drawer and plunge it into Rush’s back, once, twice, three times, many more. You can’t help but scream as you stab him, because it’s horrible beyond description: the resistance of gristle, the muffled popping of organs, kidneys or a liver or a spleen, and Rush is groaning and contorting, dark blood spilling across the slanting floor. Aegon struggles with him for the gun, ultimately wrenching it out of Rush’s weakening, shaking hands. He’s dying, and while you harbor no affection for him and never have, you remember the children your parents lost. Life is not something to take carelessly. It is already so fragile, and each death creates mourners like heads springing from a hydra.

Over a thousand people will die tonight. Is that really possible?

Rush has stopped moving. You are kneeling with the gold hilt of the dagger in your fist. The gemstones are splattered with blood: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire.

“Here,” Aegon says, trying to give you the pistol.

You recoil. “I don’t know how to use that.”

He laughs, a half-hysterical little cackle. There is a smudge of Rush’s blood across his cheek like a stain of lipstick. “I don’t either!”

“Keep the gun. I trust you.” You turn to the easel that has slid out from beneath the ruffled bed skirt—once white, now speckled with red—and realize that stray blooddrops have been flung across the painting, dots of red turning tacky on the thin layer of oil paint. “I ruined it,” you say, soft and mournful.

“No,” Aegon disagrees, smiling. “You just added some more color.”

You use the bedsheets to wipe the worst of the blood off your hands and the dagger. Then you pull Aegon’s leather portfolio out from underneath the bed, open it, and store the new painting safely inside. In the meantime, Aegon rolls Rush’s body into the closet and entombs him in a heap of gowns you’ll never wear again. You stand, pick up the dagger, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the oval-shaped mirror…and instead of looking away, you stay there for a while. The woman in the glass—like silver, like moonlight—has frightened eyes but a glinting blade as well. There are massive maroon splotches on the belly of your ice-blue dress; you button your coat to conceal them. Through the open door to the private deck, frigid night air floods in like the seawater slowly filling Titanic.

What does water that cold feel like? Like knives, like fangs? A thousand people will soon find out.

“Ready?” Aegon asks. He puts the pistol in the pocket of his stolen black coat.

“Almost.” You find your handbag from yesterday, green to match the emerald-colored dress you wore before Aegon painted you, before he uncovered you like a rare gemstone. Within is Aegon’s small aluminum lighter; you tuck the dagger inside as well. You yank out a handkerchief and clean the blood from Aegon’s cheek with it, then peer down at his swollen, bloodied fingers and knuckles, ravaged by Dagmar’s bitemarks. They are trembling. “Are your hands—?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he whispers, pulling you in and kissing you, touching your face and your hair, his lips warm and soft in a haze of copper-scented glacial air. Would you do this again for him? For Draco, for yourself? Yes. I’d do it a hundred times. “We’re halfway done.”

Up on the Boat Deck, people are finally realizing that the ship is in mortal peril. First-class women, shimmering in their gowns and their jewels, are being hastily loaded into lifeboats along with their maids and their children. You spot Fern in one vessel; she is wearing two coats herself, and has bundled Draco in at least four from what you can tell. She holds him on her lap, and Draco is uncharacteristically hushed, compliant, fearful, gawping with startled blue eyes beneath disorderly white-blonde hair. They are seated beside Benjamin Guggenheim’s elegant French mistress, Léontine Aubart. Ben himself is striding back and forth on the deck with a number of companions, all in pristine black suits and puffing on pipes or cigars, assisting the weeping women as they flee to the lifeboats.

“We are prepared to go down as gentlemen!” Ben is trumpeting. Nearby, a string quartet is playing not an Irish song that you have known since childhood but the mellow, merry, please-don’t-panic melody of Samson and Delilah by Camille Saint-Saëns.

“I guess my viola is long gone, huh?” Aegon tells you. “Oh well. I hope the fish enjoy it.”

Ben Guggenheim continues: “Let it be known for all time that we stayed until the end to save the lives of the innocent, our beloved women and children, and that they survived because of us. Our bodies may fail, but our Christian good deeds will last eternally.”

“Hear hear!” other men are shouting drunkenly, raising glasses of brandy. Stewards and officers cast them brief, rather impatient glances. You wonder if any of the aforementioned gentlemen have considered the women and children of the third class, many of whom must have already predeceased them as they were drowned below deck, ignoble, invisible.

You think for the first time: Are they going to let Aegon into a lifeboat?

“Mam!” Draco shouts when he sees you, reaching out with both arms. You sprint to where he is still secured in Fern’s lap and lean over the side of the lifeboat, clasping his cold little hands and kissing the top of his head. Then you give Aegon’s portfolio to Fern.

“Take this with you. Try to make sure it doesn’t get wet.”

“Are you climbing in now, ma’am?” Fern asks hopefully. “There’s room for one more if we squeeze together.” Her eyes dart to Aegon. “Perhaps two.”

“I can’t,” you reply. “Not quite yet. But I’ll be back soon.”

“No, you have to come with us,” Draco says. The ship’s officers are signaling for the vessel to be lowered into the water. You spy other familiar faces aboard: young pregnant Madeleine Astor, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown. Being a first-class passenger will save her life tonight.

“I’ll get in another boat. I promise.”

“No,” Draco says, and now he’s sobbing. He can’t understand the scale of it, but he knows something is terribly wrong. “Mam, we can’t leave without you. There’s room in the boat. Please get in. Please.” And you think: Maybe he does need me after all. Maybe he always did.

“You can go with them,” Aegon murmurs through your hair. “I’ll finish this. I’ll take care of Daemon and Rhaenyra.”

But he might need your help…and you cannot leave him here alone to freeze or drown or be murdered when Daemon discovers his lethal intentions. “You’re safe,” you tell Draco, one last touch of your palm to his hair, one last reassuring smile you hope isn’t a lie. “Stay with Fern. I’ll be in another lifeboat and I’ll see you again when this is over.”

“No, no, no!” Draco cries, still grasping futilely for you; but the lifeboat is lurching down towards the water and he is soon beyond your reach. High above, a flare explodes in the inky night sky, gleaming silver rain to tell any passing ships that Titanic is doomed. The North Atlantic is like black glass, smooth and reflective. Distant constellations are mirrored there, and you remember a passage from a book you gifted Daemon for your second anniversary when you still believed he might one day love you, an ancient tale from India about the beauty of the ocean: Its huge white waves looked like clouds; its gems looked like stars; its crystals looked like the moon; and its long bright serpents bearing gems in their hoods looked like comets, and thus the whole sea looked like the sky.

“Lady Targaryen,” Ben Guggenheim says as he marches over. He is swaying like he might be drunk. If he is, you can’t blame him. The truth is cold, and poison is warm: alcohol, smoke, a lover’s hands, a gush of blood. “Do you require any assistance, my darling?”

“No, thank you,” you reply swiftly before he can inquire further, and Aegon’s arm circles your waist as you hurry towards the entrance of the Grand Staircase together. You clutch your green handbag close to your chest. Where are Daemon and Rhaenyra? When will this be over?

From back by the lifeboats you can hear Ben Guggenheim shouting: “Tell my wife and daughters in New York that I love them! Tell them that I died a hero, and that I shall see them again when one day we are reunited in heaven…pray for my soul…tell the newspapers of our courage tonight…”

You and Aegon escape into the very top level of the Grand Staircase, the dome of glass and wrought iron above, the English oak wood steps winding below. As you enter, a frenzied crowd passes you on their way out to the Boat Deck: shipbuilder Thomas Andrews, J. Bruce Ismay, a number of others. And then, just as you and Aegon are beginning your descent, you see her on the landing below, frozen in place where she gapes up at you from beside the clock. Soon its ticking will fall silent forever. It will live on only in the memories of the survivors.

Rhaenyra is alone on the staircase. She is wearing a red and black gown and a white lifebelt; she is on her way to evacuate the sinking ship. You have intercepted her not a moment too soon. But she is not looking at you. Her Targaryen-blue eyes are fixed on Aegon, incredulous. It is the first time she has truly noticed him since she came aboard, and she remembers his face from photographs, from portraits, from awkward, frosty visits when they were both children.

“Aegon?” she says. “What are you doing here?”

In response, he removes the pistol from his coat pocket. Rhaenyra screams and bolts down the staircase, Aegon right behind her, flying like a phantom, like a shadow in his stolen black wool coat.

You try to follow, but they are faster. You slip on the steps, one of your blue shoes clattering away as you grip the banister to keep from falling. You reclaim your shoe where the staircase meets A-Deck; outside the illustrious Promenade Deck encircles the perimeter of the ship. You steady yourself against the bronze cherub statue as you slide your shoe back on, then resume the chase…but you don’t know where Aegon and Rhaenyra have gone.

Farther down the Grand Staircase? Out onto the Promenade Deck? Into the maze of hallways?

You try to listen for them, but the turmoil outside is growing louder. You hear a gunshot, but you cannot tell from which direction; the sound reverberates through the steel of the ship and melds with the chorus of failing machinery: groaning joints, snapping beams, steam vented from the massive funnels. You pause in the doorway that leads out to the Promenade Deck, black freezing air drawn into your heaving lungs.

Which way?

Now there are footsteps on the Grand Staircase coming up from B-Deck. You race back to the bronze cherub, but it is not Aegon or Rhaenyra who meets you there. It is Daemon, appearing on the landing like a fogbank or a thunderstorm, black suit, glinting deep-set eyes, towering over you; and once again you are a seventeen-year-old girl climbing into the marriage bed with him and hoping he’ll like you, once again you feel yourself to be entirely at his mercy, in terror of him, in awe of him.

Daemon grabs you by your coat and pushes you against the bronze cherub statue, its edges prodding at your spine. You yelp and he chuckles, and he asks, so casually he must know nothing about Aegon or his pursuit of Rhaenyra like a hound after a fox: “And what are your plans for this evening, dear? Dinner and dancing? Or perhaps a nice brisk swim? Good for one’s health, I hear.”

You can’t find your words. Your fingers that grasp your handbag are numb and useless. Daemon is inside you again, not your body this time but your mind, snipping threads and dissolving mirages. How did I ever believe I could kill him?

Slowly, Daemon’s grin dies. He releases you, and then for some reason—a trick?? a trap??—offers you his empty hand. “Come on,” he says, as if relenting. “I’ll help you get to a lifeboat.”

You stare up at him, and the shock must show on your face, the disbelief, the cautious wonder.

“I can’t take you away from Draco,” Daemon says, answering a question you don’t need to ask. He owns all of you; you have no secrets. “He’s so young. And I know what it’s like to lose a mother.”

Draco, you think with abrupt glass-sharp clarity. I’m doing this for him, and Aegon, and me.

You don’t take Daemon’s hand. Instead, you open your handbag and rip out the dagger. You slash at Daemon’s throat, and you almost cut him deep enough, a fraction of an inch from the carotid or the jugular or the windpipe. But Daemon pulls away at the last second and you only wound him, scarlet rivulets spilling down his neck and staining the white shirt beneath his suit jacket, melting rubies, hard soulless gemstones in the sockets of his eyes.

Daemon throws you down the staircase and you hit the oak steps hard, bruising, twisting, rolling, the thoughts jolted out of your skull. The dagger is knocked from your hand and is lost. You fumble blindly for it where you are sprawled on the next landing, halfway to B-Deck. Your vision is blurred by stars like those in the mirror image on the North Atlantic Ocean.

But I need the dagger, I need it, I need it, I can’t kill him without it.

And as you lift your head you see Daemon coming down to meet you, a gemcutter here to break you over and over again, until there is nothing left but glimmering dust, until you have never existed at all.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon x y/n #aegon x you

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vintagerpg · 3 months ago

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So, the very first product to bear the Forgotten Realms logo was Douglas Niles’ novel Darkwalker on Moonshae (1987), but that book was not conceived as about the Forgotten Realms at all. Instead it reflected with Niles’ own world or one under development at TSR’s UK division (or some combination of the two); the half-finished novel was stranded when TSR UK was shuttered.

Meanwhile, Greenwood’s Moonshae Isles was this remote, rather sleepy archipelago (it sounds sort of like a combination of Harn and Earthsea, which I must say is rather appealing). It was deemed too large and too empty for the public-facing campaign setting, so it was removed and replaced with Nile’s Celtic-themed realm. I don’t know if it is amusing or aggravating or what, but Greenwood always avoided bringing in obvious real-world cultures into his home Realms, so it is fairly ironic that the first major TSR addition was the plopping of a British-shaped island onto the map.

The book is almost entirely lore. History, geography, sociology, important people, groups, factions and so on. Very little in terms of mechanics. I honestly can’t quite say why I feel like this one is more usable as a game sourcebook than FR1, but I feel like it is, even with less attribute block and zero explicit adventure hooks.

Couple other interesting things. First, this is the second generic world that Niles created that wound up bolted onto the Realms. The first was the Bloodstone Lands. And, he also bolted someone else onto the Moonshaes — Aaron Allston’s Korinn Archipelago is here, making N4: Treasure Hunt a retroactive Forgotten Realms adventure.

Tim Hildebrandt cover art, which I find somewhat surprising. I think this is one of maybe three contributions to the visual history of D&D. It’s quite tranquil. Interiors by the great George Barr. I am really unused to this idea of having really good illustrations in a FR sourcebook. That is definitely something that dropped off in the ’90s.

#roleplaying game #tabletop rpg #d&d #rpg #dungeons & dragons #ttrpg #Forgotten Realms #Moonshae

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sweetbonniebel · 6 months ago

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Jaes's hen jēdar

God's of the sky

Thirteen

Daemon x reader

Summary: Aegon turns sixteen, Rhaenyra arrives at bloodstone.

Masterlist <-previous , next->

123 AC

You caressed your slightly firm tummy as you stared at your reflection. Your thin linen gown allowed you to see your body. You sighed and turned around arriving at your desk. Various papers, inks. scrolls laid scattered on the piece of wood. A single candle illuminated the side of your face as you went over the books.

The island’s income is getting better with every month. Merchants now know that they will not be attacked by rouge pirates or scavengers. Trade boomed, the ports grew like mushrooms after rain.

But for your husband it was not enough. Well with seven children and five grown dragons things were not steep. The castle was still being built, chambers, dungeons, cellars all the works were added. Daemon demanded a castle as grand as the Red Keep but more fortified. You then questioned your brother.

“Why do we need such a large castle? There is only a handful of us. We do not hold court even.”

“We are Targaryens we deserve nothing but the best.” He simply answered. You chuckled at his words, but he was honest in his determination. The castle grew each month, builders, masons, artists were employed.

“What are you reminiscing about?” Daemon asked entering your private chambers. “You were not abed in our chambers.”

“I had to go over the spending and income.” You answered pointing to the heavy tome in front of you.

“You can do that all later, or at all.” He mused walking behind you. He placed a kiss at the nape of your neck, leaning over the chair. You leaned into his touch sighing quietly. “You should be resting.”

“I am fine, Daemon. ‘Tis not the first time I am doing this.” You swatted away his worries.

“Many women in my life fell to childbirth. My aunts, my mother and Laena. I simply do not wish to see you in pain.”

“While I thank you for your worries, husband. I am perfectly capable of caring for myself. I have before, I shall do it now.” You answered beginning to scribble with a quill. “You should have faith in me, Daemon.”

“I have nothing but faith, but childbirth is not something you or anyone else can control.”

“Hmm.” You agreed and rolled your shoulders.

“How is she?” He questioned after a moment of silence. His large, warm palm pressed against your flat but slightly firm tummy. That indicated life.

“She’s fine. Makes me feel tired and nauseous but she’s fine.”

“How will we name her?”

“I haven’t thought about it, have you?”

“…I have.”

“And? What did you come up with?”

“Perhaps Alyssa after my mother, or Gael after your mother.”

“I do not like naming my children after other people, Baelon of course being the exception.”

“Why is that?” He questioned curiously.

“I think that… names posses a certain power. Our names affect us, they add to our personality. What happened when you name a child after a man who was brutally murdered or a woman who turned insane. It just it seems weird to me. Especially the name Aegon.”

“Aegon? What’s wrong with that.”

“I believe the conqueror’s names are cursed, but more so the name Aegon.”

“Why?”

“Aegon the first is the patriarch of our house. He launched us into greatness, without him we still would be on dragon stone. No future Aegon will ever amount to his greatness, they cannot. No matter how hard they try. And each Aegon gets a worse faith than the last."

"How is that?"

"Aegon, Aenys's son was slain by Balerion. He was hated by the realm. Jaehaerys's and Alysanne's Aegon died in the cradle, your brother Aegon also died in the cradle."

"And what about this Aegon?" Daemon questioned.

"He is the son that Viserys so desired, only to throw him away after his birth, focusing only on Rhaenyra. Hated by his mother for being a reminder of the youth that was stripped from her. I want him to be happy, but I know his life will be filled with hardships."

Daemon nodded and silence fell between the two of you. You continued to scribe in the books as your husband watched you work.

"You never told me what happen in Dorne." The rogue prince said breaking the silence. You sighed and put the quill away.

"Because it would be treason." You simply answered.

"Treason? Now you piqued my interest, do pray tell."

"The man that poisoned Darren was hired by a man that served in the red keep. He said he was wearing green, the Queen's colours. The servant girl that delivered the poison is from some village near Old Town. I went to the maester's chambers, herbs used for making essence of Nightshade laid scattered through the shelves."

"You do not suggest it is that green's snake doing?" Daemon muttered. "But why? She's as pious as one can be. I think it is against her religion to kill a child."

"Isn't it obvious?" You questioned raising and eyebrow at him "She attacked my eldest son, as I have taken her eldest away from her. It is revenge."

"Otto would never allow it. I hate the cunt be he is clever."

"But you forget that Alicent is Queen, higher than the hand. Perhaps a fe years ago she wouldn't even take a breath if her father told her so. But now, she's a woman, a Queen and an anchor for the faith. She has loyal supporters."

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

"...I don't know, attacking her would be stupid. Demanding justice, stupid. She would just deny and accuse us of treason, we have to bide our time and gather more evidence."

"I'll see to it."

You nodded and watched your husband leave. You released the breath you were holding. What if Alicent truly meant to kill your son, will she stop after the first attempt or continue. Are any of your children safe?

You heard the door open once more.

"I will join you soon, Daemon." You muttered focusing on the heavy tome in front of you.

"Is it true?" You immediately raised your gaze to find Aegon standing before you. Fists balled up in anger. "Is my mother responsible for what happened to Darren."

"Aegon-" You stood up and took a careful step towards him.

"Tell me!" He raised his voice, you sighed and crossed your arms over your chest.

"I believe so..." A beat of silence passed.

"I have to go back." He stated suddenly.

"What?" You stalked towards him, you took his cheeks into your palms.

"She won't stop trying to hurt your family as long as I'm with here, and not with her."

"You are my family Aegon." You reasoned

"It's my fault Darren is hurt."

"That's nonsense, sweet boy. You are not responsible for your parent's actions. No child is."

"But I'm not a child am I? I'm a man now, I cannot hide behind your skirts hoping you'll fix my messes." Aegon lamented.

"Aegon, this is not your fault." You mused caressing his wavy hair.

"I have to go, I'll send a letter to my mother saying that I'll return to King's Landing." He stated "When they come for my name day celebration I'll return with them."

"You'll always have a place in my home, Aegon."

"I- thank you." He stiffly said and left your chambers.

...

Aegon stalked the halls searching for the familiar path that led him to Darren's room. He stopped at the foot of the door, his hand raised to knock. But he decided to enter unannounced.

The dark haired teen laid motionlessly in his bed. A duvet covered half his body. Aegon sat at the food of the bed, he sighed deeply and placed his head in his hands.

Darren stirred startling the Targaryen prince.

"Aegon?" Darren groggily asked seeing the familiar silhouette. "What are you doing here?"

"I- " He tried to form the words but nothing left his lips. Instead tears begun to pool in the corner of his violet eyes.

"Aegon what's wrong." Darren threw the covers off his body and sat next to Aegon, shoulders touching.

"I'm going back." The older boy finally said.

"Back where?" Oblivious, the Martell Prince asked.

"To King's Landing."

"What?" He breathlessly said. "No... No you promised you'll stay with me."

"You think I don't want to?" Aegon raised his voice and stared at the Dornish Prince before him, tears cascaded down his pale cheeks. "But it's my fault you're like this."

"How is my poisoning your fault?"

"It's my mothers doing."

"So it's not your fault then." Aegon widened his eyes.

"You're not mad at me?"

"Why would I be mad at you? Sure I'm mad I almost died but it's not because of you."

"Alicent won't stop trying to hurt you, or your siblings until I come back."

"And who said that?"

"It's obvious, Darren. She's mad that I was "taken" from her, so she's trying to get revenge on your mother by hurting you."

Darren chuckled, falling backwards onto the bed. Aegon joined him, his silver curls forming a halo. Darren found Aegon's hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

"I don't want to go, Darren." Aegon cried staring at the ceiling, tapestries of myths displayed in front of him.

"I know." The boy mused caressing, the olders palm with his thumb.

"But I have to, for your safety."

"Hmm." Darren sighed turning to stare at Aegon's profile.

"Why are you staring at me?"

"I don't know when will be the next time I'll get to see you like this. I want to memorise your face." Aegon blushed slightly. "Will you be okay?"

Aegon turned to stare at Darren's dark eyes.

"I'll have Sunfyre, I'll be fine."

"If you wish you'll always have a place at my court." Darren proposed.

"Your mother said the same thing."

"I am like my mother aren't I?"

"It's a good thing, you're courageous, caring and clever. y/n raised you well."

"She raised you as well, that means you're also good. A bit quiet but smart, brave like a dragon and handsome too." Darren teased, Aegon pushed him slightly as the younger laughed.

…

“Raise the chandelier higher.” You ordered standing in the middle of the ball room. The preparations for Aegon’s name day were hard to organize. The whole court along with other nobles will arrive any day now.

“Your highness which cloth should be placed over the tables.” You stared at the three different types of cloth the servant was holding. You pointed to the one of your choosing.

“I see you’re hard at work.” Daemon entered the hall. He placed a kiss to your lips and caressed your growing belly.

“Hmm.” You hummed and turned to coordinate to preparations. “I cannot wait to entertain all those nobles I hated as a child.”

“If you need me to cut out their tongues, just call me.”

“No matter how pleasing that sound I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.” You chuckled.

“The offer still stands if you wish.”

You heard dragon roars outside the castle. The familiar high pitched clicking of Syrax put a smile on your face. At least Rhaenyra will be here to accompany you.

“It seems we have guests.” Daemon said hearing the same.

“Yes, let’s go to the pit. Talya!” You shouted searching for the maid in charge of your children.

“Yes, your highness?”

“Please gather the children.” The maid dressed in a white hair covering bowed and scurried off. “I’ll go find Darren.”

Daemon nodded and went his way, you departed to climb the many stairs leading to the part of the castle that contained chambers.

You entered Darren’s chambers quickly and quietly. To your surprise you found Aegon in bed with him, the two sleeping. You sighed deeply and sat at the corner of the bed. Is this why they were so awkward with each other? But they seem at peace now.

You placed a hand on Darren’s shoulder and shook him gently. He awoke and yawned.

“Hello mother.” He simply said and continued to doze off. Aegon on the other hand shot up from the bed.

“Uh, a-aunt.” Aegon muttered covering his eyes with his hands.

“Good morrow Aegon.” You smiled and stood up walking over to the heavy wardrobe and pulling out garments for your eldest son. “Get up you two, freshen up and dress. Rhaenyra will be arriving soon.”

“I- Y-You’re not mad?” Aegon whispered. Darren stirred and sat up.

“Mad? Why would I be mad?” You questioned throwing Darren’s clothes at him, he mumbled a thank you mother and went to dress. Aegon stared in surprise at Darren.

“Well I-… Um I and Darren?” He stumbled over his words.

“Oh that? I suspected for quite some time." You admitted, Aegon paled. "Now get up and get dressed, guests will be arriving soon."

The two scurried away preparing for the welcome feast and a week of celebration.

You walked through the halls, various sculptures, tapestries and paintings hung from the walls. Torches illuminated and heated the cold stoney walls. Handmaidens, servants, cooks, butchers and others stalked through the castle, preparing chambers, food and cleaning the whole premises. You sighed and rubbed your belly.

Baela and Rhaena along with Nymor and the nursemaids that held your younglings were already awaiting your presence. The only left was Daemon, Darren and Aegon.

You brushed a loose strand of short hair from Baela’s cheek. She huffed at the pestering.

“Do I have to wear this?” She pointed to the teal dress with myrish lace and ruffles.

“Only for a short time, Baela. Then you can change into whatever you like.” You mused and walked over to Rhaena. She wore a soft pink gown with gold trimmings. Her long hair was half up and half down, a slight blush covered her cheeks.

“You look spledning, Rhaena.” You nodded at her, her twin snickered.

“It’s all for Luke no doubt.” She chuckled, Rhaena opened her mouth and then closed it, spewing a weak shut up.

“Do not pick on your sister.” Daemon approached and scolded the elder girl. Baela sunk in her position and nodded begrudgingly.

The gates opened to reveal three sets of carriages. The horses neigh and stomped their hooves. The knights riding ahead halted.

“Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, the heir to the iron throne!” One of her banner men shouted. The small family begun to pour out of the stuffy carriage.

Rhaenyra sighed in relief as she glanced at the castle, her three sons followed suit and stood next to her.

The whole courtyard bowed before the princess of the realm, the heir quickly walked towards the gates.

“Princess, what an honor it is for you to grace us with your presence.” You bowed, a smirk played on your lips. Rhaenyra scoffed and motioned with her hand for you to stand. “It is good to see you.” You engulfed Rhaenyra in your arms, the younger woman returned the gesture.

“Rhaenyra.” Daemon approached taking her ringed hand and placing a kiss on her palm.

“Uncle.” She responded, her eyes fell towards your children. “And how have you all grown.”

You chuckled and took the heir by her arm “Come I am sure you are tired from your journey.”

…

“I have heard of what happened to Darren.” Rhaenyra said once you were comfortable in the sanctity of her chambers. “Terrible.”

“Yes… but he’s fine now.” You agreed.

“Are you not going to seek justice?”

“What do you propose I do? Fly to King’s Landing and demand the execution of the Queen?” You rubbed your temple “Time will come.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Rhaenyra sighed and reached for an empty goblet. She poured herself the sweet Dornish wine and took a sip.

“Now, what is this urgent business you had to tell me of?” You questioned.

“My father has proposed me a seat on the council.” She said.

“As hand?”

“As regent…I suppose it is your doing.” The Violet eyed woman mused. She took a seat next to you.

“Partially.” You admitted “Your father is sick, he does not sit the throne. Why would his hand rule in his steed when he has an appointed heir.”

“I am grateful for what you’ve done, but I’m not going to.” Her words shocked you, your eyes widened as you took in her features.

“Why?” Your voice came out a bit harsh, startling Rhaenyra.

“I do not wish to spend another moment in that vipers den, along with her. And my sons do not want to either.”

“You cannot be such a fool Rhae.” You demanded. “An opportunity of power is laid on a silver platter and you cast it aside over a squabble?”

“It is not a squabble-“ Rhaenyra protested but you silenced her.

“Whatever happened between you and Alicent was years ago. You are the heir but that does not do much. Viserys has a son and there are lords who will petition for him to be King instead of you. You must prevent this in the earliest stage of development .”

“And becoming regent will do that?” She questioned her brows furrowed.

“Of course! You’ll hold more power than the hand, you will show the realm you’re its rightful Queen. And when Viserys dies you will be there to inherit the crown.”

The realms delight sighed and sunk into her seat.

“After all these years of hoping for a son and failing he noticed me and named me heir. Defying custom and tradition. But now when he do gets a son he casts him aside. Fate is a funny thing isn’t it?”

You hummed agreeing.

“I wanted to visit you and introduce you to a person I hold dear to my heart.” Rhaenyra said after a moment of silence.

“Is he here?” You questioned knowing who she was speaking of. She nodded. “And what is your plan? Will you marry him? Name him Prince consort?”

“I do not know. Not now anyway.” She admitted “He makes me feel loved and appreciated. He likes the boys and is a good father figure to them.”

“But he’s Essosi.” You finished for her. “He has Valyrian blood, maybe it could be a pretext.”

“Maybe.”

…

<-previous , next->

Taglist:

@nessjo

@deltamoon666

@whoisviolett

#aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #alicent hightower #house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #viserys targaryen #daemon x reader #daemon targeryan #rhaenyra targeryan

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another-lost-mc · 2 months ago

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➤ Courtship, Bonding and Bond Sickness

Content: A collection of world building headcanons involving demonic courtship in the Devildom and bond mates in the Celestial Realm.

Warnings: Mentions of generalized violence and typical demon-like behaviour. References to grief/depression and other mental health issues when referencing bond sickness.

COURTSHIP

A formal process of pursuing another demon for romantic purposes, courtships are a long-lasting tradition in the Devildom. Many of the customs and practices used in ancient times have gradually been phased out or replaced with less deadly variations to make Devildom social customs more palatable for the other realms.

Demonic courtship is meant to symbolize a demon's usefulness, such as their skills in combat and ability to provide a comforting home for their mate and potential family. The focus is on proving their personal strength (physical or magical) and resourcefulness rather than social status or wealth.

Some of the common courtship traditions practiced today may include:

A piece of jewelry forged with a bloodstone (a type of Devildom gem infused with the suitor's blood). This is typically given near the end of the courtship, similar to a human engagement piece. Mated demons usually wear a set of matching bloodstone jewelry that symbolizes their successful courtship as well.

A Devildom dance between the suitor and their prospective mate(s). This may be replaced with another social/artistic gift such as a song, poem, or artwork.

A meal prepared by a suitor and shared with their prospective mate. Serving their intended inappropriate foods could be seen as a grave insult and put the courtship in jeopardy.

A bouquet of Devildom flowers that should compliment their mate(s), utilizing the language of demonic flowers and plants to their advantage. Similar to food offerings, poorly planned or researched flower gifts have the potential to cause offense.

Optional customs that are seen as antiquated and not part of standard courtship practice in modern times:

Obtaining a trophy from a rare/nightmarish Devildom beast, slain and/or harvested by their own hand.

Offering one or part of their horn(s) that can be worn as jewelry or make into an art piece. This is most common among Devildom royalty.

Outdated or outlawed practices:

Weapons or jewelry gathered from slain enemies in battle (presumed angels). The trade or sale of angelic heirlooms is still possible through the black market, but due to the lack of recent conflict with the Celestial Realm, these items have become scarce.

Procuring a soul stone, a magical trinket infused with part of a human soul. It is more beautiful than useful and is normally displayed in the home as a decorative accessory. Due to obvious reasons, hunting human souls specifically for this purpose is now forbidden.

BONDING

Even though romantic/sexual relationships are technically allowed in the Celestial Realm, there is no recognized process to enter a formal courtship or marriage the way demons or humans do. However, angels can become bond mates with other angels. This bond is usually created over time by angels that share an extremely close familial, platonic, or romantic connection. It is something forged from within, the result of reciprocal affection and genuine emotion. Many angels form bonds to each other and don't even realize it.

(Some angels are uncomfortable with the idea of bond mates or forming attachments that may rival their commitment to the Celestial Realm or Father. For the longest time, it was considered a taboo topic in polite conversation despite angels having very little control over the process once those feelings already exist for someone else.)

Angels that are bonded feel a natural pull to each other and are driven by instincts that may only resonate on a subconscious level. Similar to their Devildom counterparts, these instincts drive them to demonstrate their thoughtfulness and loyalty through various gifts or acts of service throughout their lives:

Eating meals together and cooking for each other.

Using their talents to make gifts: poems or artwork, flowers, music and dancing, or cooking/baking.

Creating matching (custom) jewelry or clothing that can be worn with their regular attire.

Sharing a bed or room, when most angels have their own living quarters and sleep alone.

Bonding tropes are commonly referenced in Celestial literature in lighthearted stories of love and friendship. In the human world, angels publishing their work changed the language slightly to fit human ideas of love and fantasy, adopting the term soulmates and similar clichés as part of their story-telling.

BOND SICKNESS

Another popular trope in Celestial literature, bond sickness is a fictional illness suffered by two or more angels whose subconscious connection has been damaged. The cause of this varies wildly from prolonged physical distance/forced separation to severe trauma or death.

The symptoms that manifest because of this ailment vary from mild to severe. Conflicting symptoms makes it even more challenging to identify whether bond sickness exists. In the most popular tragic stories and poems, some of the many side effects include:

Intense bouts of sadness or anger

Increased or decreased appetite

Insomnia or oversleeping

Physical weakness and fatigue

Mood swings, mental instability and psychosis

Violent tempers and increased aggression

Increased risk of corruption (by the demonic)

According to stories with bond sickness, there is no obvious cure or treatment; it is simply a matter of bearing the pain and hoping time helps heal those hidden wounds. In some stories, the bond is restored after a dramatic turn of events. Another classic twist in Celestial literature portrays one angel in a broken bond who eventually recovers while the other does not. Influence from the human world has led to writers in the Celestial Realm to use terms such as star-crossed lovers when publishing stories with this theme as many of them have tragic endings.

The complex soul magic of bonding is still somewhat controversial and its true impacts are unknown. Bond sickness is mostly disregarded as the stuff of fairy tales with little evidence that it truly exists at all.

Angels that have exhibited symptoms of undiagnosed bond sickness may include: Michael, Lucifer and his siblings, Simeon, Raphael, Belial, Azazel, Metatron and Habuhiah. Their symptoms were merely brushed off as grief/depression following a sudden, tragic loss, or the after-effects of being cast out of the Celestial Realm and becoming a demon.

Read More: Obey Me World Building Masterlist

#thanks to meg and daisy who helped me flesh this out #jes.world building

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rizzrack · 9 months ago

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Do you feel it? Yes. I feel it.

He nodded to himself continually as his stream of affirmations carried him on. Rizzrack had been on this journey for days, restlessly driven by a force he fully submitted to. He traveled the roads both day and night. Sleep could not reach him as visions from the future buzzed in his mind. What lay ahead of him? New challenges? New adversaries? Would there be more trees? His longstanding fear of arboreal giants no longer gripped him like before, its foundation now shifted by a new understanding. Like himself, trees were nothing more than tools to be manipulated by greater forces. They were all passive creators of their own fates. No longer was his soul burdened by the need to fulfill his own selfish desires. It was no longer for himself. It was for a greater Being. A truly universal purpose!

And to fulfill that purpose, he needed to retrieve his bloodstone.

Gaining ever increasing clarity of the bigger picture, Rizzrack chuckled to himself, once again recognizing irony. His identity and purpose was once an inescapable prison. He was cursed with a self-imposed sentence that stretched ever longer the more he served his time. Only by accepting his place did he finally find freedom. He no longer looked out from behind bars. He looked in and down with contempt at a world corrupted against him by the very force that tried to destroy him.

Finally, one early morning, the landscape became familiar. Rizzrack paused for the first time since his journey began and surveyed the area. The moment he stood still, his legs and knees trembled uncontrollably and exhaustion was mistaken for excitement. He recognized the fields as well as the barn far off into the distance. He was close!

….

Although it was morning for those beyond the city limits, it was enough to be just outside the gates to see nothing but oncoming night. One would have to have to take a longer walk down the road if they wanted to leave the sphere of influence. That was what one of the guards did for his short break, conveniently extending it by a degree or two of time.

" 'Bout time you came back, Garner. Thought you got lost. Now's your turn to do the checks so I can get a stretch in." The queue became two traders shorter and the working guard took his chance to stand up while Garner took his place. He leaned and twisted as far as the thick leather armor he wore would allow, and when he was finished, he yawned and leaned back upon the wooden beam that was part of their makeshift 'office'.

The line dwindled away, and soon there was nothing to do but wait until the more travelers came (or their shift ended).

"Gods…" Garner groaned. He pushed his chair back and kicked his feet up onto the wooden table that served as their desk. "Tell me Cruis…" his head rolled back and mouth hung open as he stared boredly at his post buddy. "… Why haven't we got promoted yet?

Cruis was hardly faring better than Garner, practically slumping down the support as he tried to pretend he was keeping alert. "Huhm? Well…" He yawned and straightened up only to resume his lazy leaning. "We haven't cuz we're not kiss asses to the commander. Not like that bastard Marron."

Garner scoffed. "If I was in charge of watch I wouldn't be making my guys do this dumb shit. Increased vigilance for what? Why? Because of that secret lab shit? It's over, it's gone, what else is there to do but clean up the mess?"

"And why do we get the shittiest shift?"

"Yeah, why DO we get the shittiest shift?"

"Maybe it's 'cause of the bakery."

"Huh?"

"Maybe they thought we were slacking off."

"If it's my goddamn break I have every right to grab a roll! That's not slacking off, brother!"

"I bet Marron saw and snitched on us. I hate that guy."

"If he ever becomes my boss I'm done with this place." Seeing a new wave of comers aproaching, Garner groaned and dropped his feet down. This shift couldn't be over fast enough.

Sigh. …. "Purpose of visit?" …. "And your length of stay?" …. "Have a good evening. As always."

The guard logged another entry down. As he was midway through, a noticeable murmuring began to rise from the queue. Intending to finish the last details, he couldn't resist looking up when the discontent became more apparent. It was only then that Cruis finally spoke up behind him.

"'Xcuse me, sir? Sir! There's a line! We don't expedite here!" Garner sat up, his look of confusion quickly changed to a brow-furrowed look of disapproval. He then leaned forward, having to lift slightly from his seat if he were to see what seemed to be a keen, a small-keen to be more precise, beyond just his eyes.

"Sir, you need to wait your turn. The line is back there."

"Turn? For?" Rizzrack glanced to the side and his eyes met with a line of displeasured glares. "Oh I'm not here for… whatever that is. I'm just here to get in."

Cruis stood more attentively now. Was this the end of boredom? Was he going to get his chance to bodyslam a beligerant shorty? He then saw Garner look back his way with a face that said 'you seeing this?'.

"Sir, that is The Line to Get In."

"Well that wasn't there before. Are you telling me I have to pay?"

"No, I'm telling you that-"

Suddenly a (small) handful of gold coins were dropped onto the table. "Here. This should cover my entry fee MANY times over." Rizzrack stood up on his toes and reached an arm over the table to sort the coins in a row. Nine pieces of gold. Both of the guards were momentarily stunned. Garner glanced up at the line knowing very well just how this looked to the disgruntled spectators.

"No. Bribes." He placed a hand on top of the coins and slid them halfway back across the table towards Rizzrack who proceeded to swipe them back towards the guard.

"Look! I just need to get in, okay?" Rizzrack barked. "Right now. I don't need to stand in a line!" Suddenly his eye brows lifted as he remembered something. "Do you know who I am? I know the Warden!"

Cruis frowned. That was quite a bold claim to make. If he was telling the truth and they gave him a hard time, well that would just mean they'll get a hard time too. "Just let him go through." He leaned in further towards Garner to add: "He can be someone else's problem. At worst he's just crazy. I mean look at him."

Garner glanced down at the jittering small-keen. It was more than apparent he hadn't sleep in days. "Okay. Go." He hissed through his teeth. Rizzrack's demeanor switched from irritation to sudden gleefulness.

"THANK you! Now wasn't that simple? I'll put in a good word for your cooperation!" The small-keen chirped as he practically skipped his way into the city.

The guard's eyes rolled . With his pen he quickly pretended to log an entry. This didn't stop a few of those waiting in light from voicing their anger. "Alright. Next." He didn't get paid enough to care.

A place like Weeping Rose should have served to be a constant reminder to Rizzrack of the suffering he's inflicted. It should have, but it didn't. It wasn't because Rizzrack forgot. He remembered, but those memories belonged to the old Rizzrack. He was a new Rizzrack. The Radiant's Rizzrack. A Hero. No looking back. Only forward. ONWARD!

Rizzrack traveled through the city that was once a maze to him. It still was, but now he knew exactly where he was going. He FELT it. Not even the crowds of the markets could stop him as he deftly weaved on through. He knew he was almost there, he just had to-

Rizzrack stopped, finding himself at an intersection. He knew where he was. He know where the lab was. He knew where his bloodstone was. Yet he was being told to go somewhere else? Not towards the shop?

He stood as motionless as he could. Everything within him pointed him to turn down another path. But his mind felt otherwise. Perhaps this urge had changed. Perhaps it was the old him within? The corrupted force. The FEAR. Yes, the fear of returning to the lab. No, he REFUSED to let it get the better of him! Resisting his urge to turn, he continued on down the alley.

Time had passed since the discovery of the lab, enough so that damaged structures could be secured and the rubble of the ground cleared away so that a proper baricade could be erected around the hole. Rizzrack stood nearby, glancing up at the front of the stall at a sign that brought attention to the hidden just within:

Cheap! Reposessed. Previously keen-owned workshop space for sale. Stipulation: Basement space under Quorum control. No Access.

An idea struck him. What if he could own the shop? He could make great use of it! Reeaaaaally put the bloodstone to use with a NEW. SAWSUIT. YES. He excitedly entered the stall and ran towards the back space. He reached for the door but found that it was unfortunately locked. Dammit. Who did he need to get ahold of? He stepped back out to glance back at the sign. There was no other information, save for that singular mention. "Whelp!" He clapped his hands together. "Time to find the Quorum!"

And he did just that, realizing now that feeling was right all along. His new inner guidance would never fail him!

The taps of heeled shoes echoed down the hall. She didn't like how she could be heard coming. Today was the wrong day for these heels. But how was she to know she'd have such an urgent message to deliver? The young woman was nervous but she refused to falter. She stepped with haste to the Warden's office. She hoped he was there. If not, she would have to wait. No notes could be left. No papers, no scrolls, not even a strip of parchment…

She abruptly stopped and took a few steps back. She nearly passed his door. She quietly sighed and straightened her skirt and brushed a loose strand of hair her face. She then gave to firm knocks. … She debated giving a second, louder knock. As she raised her hand she heard a response from within. There was some relief knowing that this would be a mercifully quick encounter. She never liked having to leave her desk duties.

"Good evening, Warden, sir." She began. "I'm Korierre from City Hall. I'm sending a message on behalf of the Quorum. Permission to enter?"

@nortromthesilencer

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