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[im-a-wonderling]

Lowly Soldier ~ a continuation of Sorrows Can Swim

Ugh, I have such a soft spot for Prince, and I hope y'all do too. Any and all lynch mobs formed will go towards Guard’s residence and not mine, d'you hear me? 😂

Word count: 2.7k

Sorrows Can Swim masterlist

-

A WEEK BEFORE THE WEDDING

In the dead of night, the towering shelves cast long shadows that danced and hid from the light of the few, flickering candles resting in front of Prince on his desk. In this dim lighting, if one tilted their head and relaxed their eyes, they might mistake the library ladder at Prince’s left for a monster. 

But no, the monster stood not to Prince’s left, but directly in front of him, shifting in the way only guilty men did. 

“I know about your relations with Princess.” Prince didn’t bother glancing around the library or lowering his voice. 

Guard didn’t move, but Prince could’ve sworn he paled slightly. “Your Highness, I don’t know–”

“Spare me the act of innocence.” Prince took a deep breath, reining in his anger like an unbroken stallion. 

The soldier wisely went silent, leaving the two men to stare at each other for a few moments.

“How long do I have to pack my bags then?” Guard asked, his chin held far too high for the situation. 

Prince considered it. It would be so easy to simply send him away. Prince wouldn’t have to go so far as to remove him from the King’s service. Guard could be reassigned to a different fort. Perhaps somewhere south where the high temperatures and heavy rays of sun would cause Guard to sweat like a pig and burn like a roast. The image of Guard in full uniform, wiping at his dripping and sunburnt forehead brought Prince such satisfaction.

Then came the image of Princess’s face when she learned Guard had been sent away. 

He sighed, dismissing the image. “You must act swiftly if the two of you are to avoid scandal.”

Confusion colored Guard’s face. “Sir?”

“You must–” Prince’s voice failed him, and he chided it. “You must…marry Princess.”

The soldier gaped at Prince, clearly questioning what he’d just heard. “Your Highness?”

“I won’t repeat myself,” Prince said frigidly. It’d been hard enough to say it in the first place. 

Guard stood perfectly still for a while, and Prince impatiently waited for the soldier to get his wits back so they could continue this conversation. 

“But…ho-how?” Guard stammered. “She is royalty, and I am but a lowly soldier!”

A lowly soldier, Prince scorned in his head. Guard rose through the ranks faster than most, and he caught the attention of far more than Princess, even if Princess was the only one Prince really cared about. 

“We must be crafty.” Prince took a deep breath, sitting down, the plush red velvet sinking underneath him. “I can’t simply promote you, it would look too suspicious. We will organize a way for you to receive an increase in rank. It will–”

Guard started frantically shaking his head, making Prince stop and narrow his eyes. Why was Guard protesting? He got to marry and become honorary royalty. He wouldn’t be king, not while Princess’s older brothers still drew breath, but the rank of a prince was nothing to sneer at. 

Perhaps he was simply having a hard time wrapping his mind around it.

“It will take some time, of course,” Prince continued, “which brings its own risk, but if we’re going to do this–”

“But a marriage between us would be improper!” Guard interrupted. 

Prince fixed him with a cold, hard stare. “And the impropriety didn’t cross your mind before you stole her virtue?”

“I did not steal her virtue!” Guard snapped. “She’s the one who–”

“I would recommend,” Prince interrupted calmly, “that you don’t waste my time by finishing that sentence.”

Guard shut his mouth, looking quite taken aback as he eyed Prince. 

Prince sighed. “It doesn’t matter how things progressed.” The words tasted like vinegar in his mouth, but he pushed on. “What matters is what we must do to protect everyone in this situation, and we will get started at once.” 

Guard blinked, bringing a hand to nervously fiddle with the chainmail of his soldier's uniform. 

This is it, Prince thought. This is the moment when Guard complies, and we plot for the wedding that will soon follow, a wedding I forced Guard into, a wedding Princess isn’t expecting, and a wedding that will break my heart. It would require all of Prince’s strength to sit through, and it would cost him all his self-respect, but he would do it.

For Princess, he would do it. 

But instead of hearing words of agreement, Prince saw a sudden, dangerous gleam in Guard’s eyes. “I’m sorry, You Highness, but I cannot do that.”

Prince simply stared, trying to process what he’d just heard. Was Guard disobeying a direct order? Perhaps he hadn’t understood that Prince’s statement was a command in the first place. “All due respect, this is not a request, Guard.”

Guard’s gleam didn’t dim. “All due respect, sir, but you cannot force me to marry her.” His voice was remarkably calm, as if they were discussing the weather and not the fate of a woman. 

For a moment, Prince couldn’t form any words. He could only stare at Guard, wondering how the man could be so cavalier and care so little about Princess’s reputation?

He wanted to toss Guard out the library window, but that wouldn’t save Princess.

Prince clenched onto his self-control, imposingly rising to his feet instead of rushing at Guard in fury. “Do you realize who you are speaking to?” He stepped closer to Guard, holding his posture as tightly as he held his fists. “I am your prince. I can demote you so that you are guarding a kitchen for the rest of your days. I can have you branded as a traitor and exiled. I can have you flung in the dungeon, facing execution in a week.” Prince raised his chin. “It all makes no difference to me.”

The threat in his tone would make most men concede by prostrating themselves in front of him. 

“If this kingdom finds out that the Tunican princess had affairs with a lowly soldier, the gossip will spread like wildfire,” Guard said slowly. “And if the Tunician King finds out, it will be war.” 

“You would create war for your own country?” Prince seethed.

Guard spread his hands. “This may be the country of my birth, but that doesn’t mean it’s the country of my life.” He pointed at Prince. “That’s your position.”

Prince gaped at Guard.

Had Guard gone mad? All the authority rested with Prince, and yet Guard acted as though he possessed the upper hand!

What pure selfishness.

What audacity.

Prince slammed his hands into the desk, making the candles shake and drip wax down onto the polished wood. “You dare threaten me with war?” 

Guard smiled back at Prince. “Do you know what Princess told me last night?”

Prince froze, sensing the wave of pain about to crash over him, an upper hand that was about to be gained. “That is neither here nor–”

Guard stepped closer to Prince, baring his teeth like a child who hadn’t quite mastered the art of the smile. “She told me she loved me.” 

A groan of pain nearly ripped through Prince’s throat as the knot of pain coiled tightly in his chest. He blindly fell back onto his chair, trying to relearn how to breathe under the weight of this information. 

She…she loved Guard? Truly? It wasn’t merely some youthful dalliance or fleeting fancy?

Prince looked back to Guard with a sharp inhale, realizing too late that he’d given away too much with his silence. 

“You love her.” The triumph in Guard’s voice set Prince’s teeth on edge. “You can’t bear to see her in pain, or you would’ve sent me away instead of trying to get me to marry her. If you banished me or imprisoned me, it would only hurt her, and you can’t bear to do that.”

There was no point in denying it. Unlike Guard, Prince was a man strong enough to admit to the truth. So Prince glowered at Guard. “I’m warning you–”

“No, Your Highness.” Guard smirked. “I’m warning you, unless you promise me that you won’t mention this conversation to anyone, I’ll tell the Tunician King about our affair myself.” The satisfied smile widened. “See what happens to your precious princess then.”

“You are a snake,” Prince fumed.

Guard’s only reply was to grin. 

“Fine!” Prince burst out. “I promise, now get out of my sight!”

Guard wisely didn’t reply. He simply slipped out the library door, likely off to go sleep soundly in his bed.

Now what? Prince thought desperately.

Princess was not the first royal to be in this compromising situation, but the world would see her as damaged goods if they found out. It didn’t matter if it was a year from now when the truth got out, she would be seen as damaged goods, and whatever husband she possessed would turn his back on her, for no self-respecting husband wouldn’t care if his wife dallied with a soldier. Except for Lord perhaps, but Prince couldn’t subject Princess to marriage with him. His breath smelled fouler than the stables, and he was old enough to be her grandfather. 

Whoever married Princess would have to know beforehand.

But who would ever marry her with that knowledge? And even if they didn’t care, Prince would be breaking his promise to Guard, and who knew what the soldier would do?

Prince sat at the desk, his hopes dwindling by the second.

If only status and dignity didn’t matter so much. If only the world could see Princess for her sweetness or even her beauty, and value her for those things instead of whatever station she possessed.

Alas, it seemed the only one who saw Princess’s sweetness and beauty was Prince and Guard, and Guard wouldn’t marry her.

Prince sat bolt upright.

Was that…?

Could it be…?

Prince lifted his hand to his hair. 

Was that really the solution? Marrying Princess himself?

The idea which would normally make his heart soar instead made his stomach turn over. 

He couldn’t marry her, not like this. Not as a last resort to stave off scandal and potentially war. Princess deserved better than that. Everybody deserved more than that. 

Prince leaned forward, resting his forehead on the desk. There had to be another way, a way where Guard wouldn’t win without Prince losing so badly. 

But there wasn’t. No other desperate solution in his mind was feasible in the amount of time they had left. 

Prince let out a breath. 

He couldn’t count on Princess to understand. He loved her, but she could be naive. No, Prince would conduct this himself, and it started with talking to his father. 

God help him.

A MONTH LATER

“Well, this is a sorry sight!”

Forever a light sleeper, Prince started from his horizontal position on the couch. He blinked blearily around at his study, trying to find the source of the words. For a wild moment, in the delirium of having one foot in the real world and the other in the land of dreams, he wondered if his desk had spoken to him.

Then Prince’s eyes fell on Brother, standing in the open doorway with folded arms. 

Prince glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “It’s six o’clock in the morning,” he grumbled, rubbing the drowsiness from his eyes. 

“Yes, and you’re sleeping on a couch in your study alone instead of in your bed with your wife.”

Prince didn’t bother to answer the question asked by his younger brother’s tone. Yes, he didn’t sleep in their bedchamber anymore, but that didn’t mean he had to explain himself, certainly not to Brother, who had yet to be married. 

Brother swept towards Prince’s desk, ignoring the neatly ordered papers as he jumped up to take a seat on top of them. “Your wife says she hasn’t seen you for days. Is there a declaration of war I don’t know about?”

Prince almost bit back, not appreciating the dig. Yes, Prince had assumed the Tunican party had nefarious intent, and yes, it turned out to be a company of soldiers containing Princess’s dowry. But in Prince’s opinion, it was better to be overly cautious than taken unawares.

Getting to his feet, Prince shoved at his brother. “Get off your porcine behind.”

“It’s a royal behind to you.” Brother hopped off the desk to recline lazily on the sofa on which Prince had just woken from. 

“If you’re in the mood to pry,” Prince said bluntly, “go down to the launderers to hear the gossip. I’m busy.”

Brother sat forward, the usual merriment gone from his face. “Why are you avoiding Princess?”

Prince grit his teeth. He’d promised himself that he would only return to the scene of Princess’s encounter with Guard when he was sure he could control his temper. 

As of yet, his temper hadn’t dissipated. 

So he avoided it altogether—which meant he avoided her altogether. 

“What happened?” Brother asked, dropping his voice even though they were the only two in the room. “Did the two of you have a fight?”

Prince shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”

“If you can’t tell your own brother, who can you tell?” 

“I won’t be telling anyone anything.”

“Maybe not, but that only makes it worse for you.”

Prince wanted to scream at his brother, beg and plead with his brother to stop prying, but it would only make clearer the gravity of the secrets he held. 

“You’re married,” Brother said 

“Believe me, I’m painfully aware of that!” Prince snapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, trying to reel in the slip in his temper. 

“You need to get to know your new wife,” Brother insisted. 

“I know my wife!” Prince growled at his brother. A heavy silence fell while he once again tried to get his temper under control. “I know that she loves to spend her entire mornings sleeping. I know that her favorite flowers are white roses. I know that she has a birthmark on the side of her neck. I know that she hates boiled eggs and always wants her eggs fried.”

I know the name of the lowly soldier she loves.

Prince sat heavily on his chair, sagging against the armrests like he’d gone boneless. “I’m not ‘getting to know’ my wife because I don’t need to.” He swallowed. “It’s her that doesn’t want to know me.” 

“You think your wife doesn’t care for you,” Brother said, as if it were some grand realization, the truth behind what kept Prince awake at night. 

Prince bowed his head, wishing that that was all it was.

“You have to give her time,” Brother said gently. “She came here as an effort to strengthen kingdom ties, not to gain a husband.”

The great ache in Prince’s chest threatened to swallow him whole. 

He knew he’d practically forced himself onto Princess. That’s how she saw it, and it’s how Prince’s kingdom saw it. They saw him as a man who took what he wanted. But how could this ever be what he wanted? To be married to a woman who belonged in his dreams and yet loved someone else? To know that she wanted nothing more than to spend her time with Guard? 

He heaved a large sigh. “I will give her that time.” 

Brother didn’t say anything more, and Prince didn’t want him to. He didn’t want any more of his brother’s pity nor his brother’s advice. He wanted Guard gone, and he wanted Princess’s heart intact when Guard left. 

Impossible. 

“Leave me be,” Prince said wearily.

Brother hesitated a moment and then got to his feet and walked towards the door. He paused before opening it. “Why would she marry you if she didn’t see something in you?” With that, Brother left. 

Prince knew the question was rhetorical. He knew it was meant to make him believe in the chance that his wife could love him. But all it did was remind him of the answers he couldn’t share. 

At this point, Prince was fairly certain those answers would die with him, and the only way anyone would ever know was if they opened his chest to see the words carved into his heart.

-

Part 4

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

Tag list:

@writing-on-the-wahl @thepenultimateword @elf-kid2 @thinkwrite5 @tobeornottobeateacher @brekker-by-brekkerr @girl-of-the-sea-and-stars

[writing-on-the-wahl]

Dai Discovers Part 1: Happy Dai

A/N: Hi hi friends! Just a couple important things to know going in: First, this series is about Dai, a half mage/half Dragon who’s been hibernating for a LONG time and has just woken up in the modern world.😇 Second, the wolves and mages in the region are on the brink of war.😈

(For more on my version of Dragons, see this world building post)

Vincent: 

I frowned as I crossed out an entire paragraph of text from the document I’d been editing for hours, wishing the Elders hadn’t felt the need to insert their opinions into my negotiations with the mages. 

Now not only were they insisting we uphold the ancient tradition that a treaty was only credible if accompanied by a marriage between the two sides, they wanted to include all of the wolves’ ancient marriage traditions as well. I’d agree to marry under the light of the full moon, but there was no way I would be wearing a four foot tall headpiece. 

I just wanted our people to stop fighting each other. Why did everyone have to make it so complicated? 

I glanced longingly at the slit of night sky visible through the crack in the heavy hotel curtains, but there was no time for even a quick jaunt in the moonlight. 

Tomorrow morning the leaders of all the mages and wolves in the region would gather for the official opening of the peace summit, the meeting where I would see for the first time the mage who’d agreed to marry me to seal the treaty between our people.

My future wife had arrived at the hotel mere hours ago. Simon and Tori had seen her enter with her brother, Lord Jasper, but she’d been bundled in so many hooded layers the only description they’d been able to give was “average height and reeked of gold.” 

Sighing, I turned back to the long list of potential stipulations for the treaty. The next one was a heavy paragraph outlining how the mages must provide a volunteer to live with and perform spells at our bidding. I rolled my eyes and reached for my pen. The mages made their livelihood by providing their magical services for a fee, why would any of them ever agree to offer them for free?

I was crossing out the ridiculous stipulation when the door to the hotel room beeped open. 

I stayed bent over the thick document, making a note in the margins.  “What is it, Daman?” 

“We think she ran, sir.” 

My head shot up. “How do you know?” 

The quiet blond shifted uncomfortably. “Well, sir, we’ve been keeping an eye on their hallway like you ordered and, well, the shower is still on.” 

I raised a brow. “And?’ 

“It’s just well, we heard it turn on at seven.” 

I checked my watch. 

9:17

I ran a hand through my hair. “You think she climbed out the bathroom window, 13 stories up?” 

Daman shrugged. “They did say she was half Dragon.” That didn’t mean she had wings. 

Did she truly consider a 13 story drop less terrifying than me? Was it this marriage of alliance or the treaty itself that she was more opposed to? I closed my eyes at the thought of this treaty failing, and was assaulted by the vivid memory of acrid smoke and ash-filled air. The charred remnants of Aiza’s house crumbling around me. 

I refused to let one mage’s trepidation destroy everything I’d been working for. I would not let my people fall to this senseless violence. I was halfway to the elevator before I made the conscious decision to move. Daman trailed behind me. 

“And the other mages?” I pressed. Surely they hadn’t all fled. 

“None of the other mages were brave enough to book rooms in the same hotel as us,” Daman reminded me. “They’re all across the street. So we didn’t have to worry about being caught spying.” Daman added, and I recalled that the mage lord had been surprisingly unconcerned about staying alone a mere elevator ride away from a company of wolves. 

Samuel met us as the elevator opened on the 13th floor, the scowl on his face carrying into his gruff words. “It’s still running.” 

I led the way to room 1307. The doors were placed farther apart on this floor—luxury suites. We passed 1310, and even with the thick walls, it was easy for my sharpened sense of hearing to pick up the dialogue of the movie playing in the room. In 1309 a mother hushed a fussing baby, the sound rising over the low snores of a second child. 

The front desk had offered to upgrade my party to this VIP floor at no charge, but I was content with our double set of rooms on the second floor. I liked knowing I could jump off the balcony if I needed a quick exit.

Slowing to a stop outside another identical polished dark wood door, I cocked my head to the side and listened. 

But no voices came from 1307. 

Just the constant white noise of the running shower, and the faintest traces of background music. Like a TV left on at its lowest volume. 

My fist connected with the door a little too loudly, my tapping foot continuing the impatient beat as I waited for the door to swing open. A long moment passed. 

I knocked again, louder. 

No response. 

It was strange. Worrying. Lord Jasper should have been in the room as well. He’d been less than thrilled to offer up his sister as a sacrificial lamb, and tension coiled within me at the thought of him secreting her away. 

“No one left the room?” I confirmed as I pounded my fist against the door once more. 

Daman shook his head. “We’ve had eyes on it all night.” 

It had been easy with no other mages around to catch us spying. I’d been secretly pleased when I learned they’d be staying somewhere else, though in truth, Lord Jasper had looked nearly happy when the other mages had announced their intention to stay in the sister hotel across the road. His reaction baffled me at the time, because it hinted at either a misplaced willingness to trust his enemies or an over exaggerated confidence in his power. Neither of which matched my initial impression of the leader of the mages. 

In our interactions thus far, the mage lord had appeared to be level-headed and optimistic. Which hinted at ulterior reasons for wanting to be separate from the others. 

At the moment, I didn't much care what his motives were, I just wanted him to answer the door. 

They were both gone? If so, there would definitely be no peace treaty. 

What if he’d planned to sneak his sister out? Perhaps that was why he’d chosen to stay in this hotel. It could have been his plan all along. 

Hot anger flared in my chest and I rammed my shoulder into the door. Wood splintered and metal bent as the door flew open at the force of the blow. Across the room, Lord Jasper bolted to his feet, pulling his large headphones down around his neck. The peaceful--yet loud--instrumentals of the Planet Earth theme song filled the room in sharp contrast to the tension hanging in the air. 

A quick touch to the headphones and the music cut off abruptly. 

The typically cheerful mage eyed me, and I wondered what sort of picture I made-- standing uninvited in his hotel room, my two best warriors hovering in the cracked door frame behind me. 

“Vincent.” His eyes flitted to the bathroom door, opposite his position in front of the couch. His fingers twitched but his voice was steady as he ignored our violent entry. “Our meeting is set for nine in the morning.” 

It was a gracious statement, a way to let me back down without losing face. There was a small noise from the bathroom, and the shower cut off. 

“Jasper?” The warm, gentle voice resonated through the door. 

The mage’s eyes bobbed between the door and the imposing wolves. “Yes?” 

“I heard voices. Do we have visitors?” The words were tinted with the timbre of a language too old for names. 

“I-No. They were just leaving?” He shot a questioning glance my way. 

I remained where I stood, confused but pleasantly surprised at the excitement in her words. Up until this moment, my future wife had been an impersonal figurehead to stand at my side and ensure peace between our people. I hadn’t allowed myself the luxury of hoping for anything more than that. Now I lingered in the calm left behind the warm voice, strangely impatient to meet its owner. 

Though if any of the elders were here they’d be yapping about breaches in tradition and not seeing my betrothed until the official introductions. 

Jasper’s shoulders stiffened and he kept his eyes on me as he reluctantly called to his sister, “Would you like to greet them?” 

“Yes!” 

The enthusiastic answer made Jasper sigh. 

“One minute! Don’t let them leave!!” 

I had been so distracted by the rich timbre and heavy accent of the girl behind the door I’d forgotten the reason for my impulsive entry. 

She was obviously still here. I should have taken the exit Jasper offered. But it was too late to back down, and a part of me was glad of the opportunity to meet she-of-the-beautiful-voice. 

I eyed the broken doorway regretfully. Not the first impression I’d wanted to make. 

Jasper let out another sigh. “Allow me.” 

I caught his careful wording as clattering sounded from behind the bathroom door, reminding me she could hear just as much as us. 

I dipped my head in gratitude and stepped to the side as the mage carefully crossed through the kitchen and approached the doorway. His hands flew through the air, blue light illuminating his fingers in a soft glow as he made the intricate mage symbols and then ran his finger along the cracked door and splintered frame. A moment later, Jasper closed the perfect door. 

He’d barely done so when the bathroom door whipped open and a cloud of steam filled the room. Daman let out a cough and Samuel fanned the air in front of his face, trying to clear his field of vision. 

“Ohhh sorry, sorry!” The steam vanished just as quickly as it had come, leaving behind the Lady Daiiryn Rensalus, my future wife. 

If someone had asked me to pick Lord Jasper’s Dragon half-sister out of a hundred people, she would have been my last guess. 

It wasn’t just that she looked nothing like her brother. While he was golden haired and tan, her hair was several shades lighter; her skin several shades darker. 

Jasper the Mage Lord looked a dozen times more like a fierce Dragon of legend. His features were sharp and eyes cunning. Her features were soft, eyes wide and bright, hair a mass of damp waves that messily framed her round face. 

Her hands had fallen back to her sides after completing whatever spell she’d cast to dissipate the steam, and I was briefly distracted by the too-long sleeves of the oversized pink pajama shirt completely enveloping her fingers, along with the matching bottoms that were rolled up and bunched around her ankles. They looked like the type of soft but cheap material you’d find in a superstore, though I couldn’t imagine how Lord Jasper had managed to get her size that utterly wrong. 

She looked about as dangerous as a fluffy white kitten, but I had no doubt her claws would be just as sharp. 

“Hello!” Her voice was rich, and her face filled with genuine delight. I’d just broken into their hotel room under the assumption she’d run away from our arranged marriage in terror, and she was looking at me like I’d just bought her a puppy. 

Lord Jasper crossed quickly to her side. “Gentleman, allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Daiiryn Ren--” 

Her quick elbow to the side had Lord Jasper doubled over, clutching his ribs. “Dai!” She stepped forward, roughly shoving her hair out of her face before extending her hand to me. “I’m Dai.” 

I stared at her hand, then glanced back at Lord Jasper, who had recovered enough to straighten. When he’d been reluctant to involve his sister, I’d assumed she was a timid, fragile thing, and that, perhaps, he was ashamed of her. 

“I thought you said people now shake hands rather than bowing…” She’d followed my gaze to her brother, and she was glaring at him with as much force as a kitten gazing at a laser beam that was just out of reach. 

“They do?” Lord Jasper’s breaths were still coming in pained wheezes, and I made a mental note to avoid the Lady Kitten’s deadly elbows. Lord Jasper seemed torn between glaring at his sister for the elbow and staring at me like I was an imbecile for not shaking her hand. 

I jumped forward, catching Lady Daiiryn’s still outstretched hand in mine.  “Forgive me, my lady, I was too distracted by your beauty to obey proper social customs.” 

WHAT. IN THE WORLD. DID I. JUST SAY. 

Then to make matters worse, I brought her fingers to my lips and kissed them. 

All the dignity and pride I carried as leader of the largest wolf territory on the continent vanished faster than the steam from the shower, and I was struck with the desire to find a nice dark hole to go die in. 

Behind me, Daman smothered a cough, and the lady in question’s eyebrows rose until they disappeared into her hair. She slowly withdrew her hand from mine. Her hands both rose to cover her mouth. 

“Oh that was nearly quite perfect!” She whirled to face Lord Jasper. “Jaz, did you teach him that?” 

Jaz shot me a look before smiling at his sister. “No. I imagine he simply wanted to make you feel more at home.” 

“It was quite like something Lord Midan once said to me, do you recall? At the ba--” She trailed off, turning back to me. I wondered if all the spinning was making her dizzy. 

“Forgive me, I didn’t give you a chance to introduce yourselves!” 

A deep feeling of dread welled up at the possibility her friendliness was only because she did not know who I was. 

But then she leaned to the side and offered the wolves behind me a tiny wave. “If you’re Lord Vincent’s men, I should know you.” Her bright smile turned on me. Lord Vincent, would you be so kind as to introduce me to your companions?” 

I stared at her for a moment as relief washed away the panicked adrenaline, too grateful she knew who I was to explain that I wasn’t really a ‘lord’ of anything. 

Lady Daiiryn blinked expectantly up at me, and I jolted out of my thoughts enough to answer her question. “Yes. My companions.” I cleared my throat and gestured to my two best fighters. “This is Samuel and Daman.” 

I froze in place as the Lady Kitten stepped around me, her arm brushing mine in the narrow entry as she warmly shook hands with my bewildered men. “Lord Daman, Lord Samuel, what a pleasure to meet you.” 

From a tactical standpoint, the move was a dangerous one. Placing herself in the middle of potential enemies while cutting herself off from her brother. Yet the cheerful Dragon didn’t seem to notice. Her brother, however, stood stiffly, hands flexed at his sides, as though preparing to cast a spell. 

The tension in the room ratcheted up a thousand degrees as the small Dragon placed herself in the midst of the wolves. I stepped sideways, turning so I had a clear view of both siblings. 

The sister froze, her hand still clasped in Daman’s, finally sensing the building tension in the room. 

“Ohsa.” The word came out a voiceless breath on a sigh, the verbal equivalent of a heavy eye roll. Without turning from Daman, whose hand she released after giving it a little pat, Lady Daiiryn--Dai-- continued,  “Jasper, brother dear, If they came here to kill us, they would have tried already.” 

Samuel raised a hand to cover his snort of surprise while Lord Jasper meaningfully eyed the newly fixed door frame. “Just being cautious, sister dear.” 

Dai finally turned around, a tiny smirk on her pink lips. “I believe the word you're looking for is ‘overprotective.’”

Lord Jasper shook his head. “It is well within my rights, little sister.” 

She snorted, though her eyes danced with amusement. “Perhaps I should be the one being cautious then, little brother.” 

“I’m at least three hands taller than you.” 

“And I’m at least three years older than you.” 

Daman, Samuel, and I watched the exchange, our heads bobbing back and forth like spectators at a tennis match. 

“Well, they will just have to forgive me for being overprotective of my only remaining family member.” Jasper met my gaze as he said it. 

Dai shook her head and shifted so she faced me, though it was her brother she addressed. “If you’re done with the not-subtle threats, perhaps we can get to why my betrothed is here tonight instead of in the morning?” 

Ah. 

Jasper, Samuel and Daman all scrambled to speak at once. 

“He mixed up the time?” 

“--was too excited to meet you?”

“--needed to borrow some milk?”

Every head in the room turned to look at Daman as he trailed off. 

Somehow his excuse made Jasper and Samuel’s seem absurd as well. 

One pale eyebrow rose, though the pink lips beneath it were quirked up in poorly concealed amusement. “And does one typically break down the door to borrow milk?” 

Of course I hadn't been lucky enough to have the shower block out the sound of our crashing entrance to her Dragon’s hearing.

“I thought you’d run away.” 

The admission spilled from my mouth and I jammed my lips shut. I hadn’t meant to say it that bluntly. 

“Why?” She looked bewildered. But not, to my relief, offended.

“The shower was on.” 

“Yes?” Her brows drew together, an adorable pucker between them.

“For two hours.” Samuel cut in. 

Her eyes lightened. “I know! And the water was hot the whole time!” Her oversized sleeves slipped down to her elbows as she held up wrinkled fingers for display. “They look like prunes!” 

I looked up from her in time to see Daman and Samuel exchange a glance behind her back. 

“It’s just--” I made my voice gentle, suddenly afraid to hurt this enthusiastic ball of energy. “People usually don’t shower for hours at a time.” 

“Oh?” She looked utterly baffled at that, and I found myself scrambling for an explanation that wouldn’t cast judgment on her bathing habits- which were definitely none of my business. 

“We thought you turned it on to mask the sound of you leaving.” As I spoke, I realized I was admitting we’d been spying on them, but neither sibling looked surprised. 

“Oh!” The sound was brighter. A flash of intelligence sparked in her eyes, but there was no malice as she cheerfully accepted my explanation.  “No, I’m still here!” 

She smiled widely, as though she was happy to be here, happy to be marrying me, rather angry or dismayed at being woken from years of hibernation and forced to accept the hand of a stranger--an enemy--to stop a war she wasn’t a part of. 

The air filled with silence after her proclamation. Before I could think of a way to express my relief that she was, well, the way she was, her head cocked to the side. I recognized the motion, and now that I was paying attention, I could hear a set of footsteps making their way down the hall, so I wasn’t surprised by the ratatat-tat at the door. 

Lord Jasper jumped forward with a tense look at his sister. “I’ll get it.” His pinched expression showed more concern than it had when we’d broken down his door, and I subtly shifted my jacket to make it easier to draw my weapon. 

The smell of teriyaki chicken and sauteed vegetables wafted into the room as Lord Jasper opened the door and accepted two large bags of takeout from a gangly delivery boy. 

Dai stepped up to my side as I straightened my jacket. The mirth dancing in her eyes told me she hadn't missed the movement. “Would you like to eat with us?” 

                                          ____

Special thanks to @im-a-wonderling for all her amazing insights and edits! Love you seester! 

Taglist: 

UM do I need a separate taglist for fantasci? Maybeeee?!? Haha comment/reblog with your requests to be added to my fantasci taglist. 

[writing-on-the-wahl]

Ahhh I was SO EXCITED when I saw you posted this and then I was SO ANGRY when it ended JUST TEAR OUT MY HEART WHY DONT YOU 😩😭 10/10

how much do I need to bribe you for the next part👀 (also can I be on your taglist??)

Terms of Surrender Part 6

Synopsis: The queen of a doomed city makes the deal her husband refused to make with the conquering warlord outside her city's gates

Part one Here

Part five here:

CW: violence, mentions of blood

A few weeks passed by. The air started to thicken, the summer heat starting to roll in like a fog. The Queen became intensely grateful that propriety no longer dictated the heavy, cloying dresses befitting her former rank. The linen shifts and simple braid kept her cool enough; some days she didn’t even bother changing out of her nightgown, throwing on her lightest housecoat when the Warlord visited.

Such improper dress did nothing to phase him; he responded in kind, showing up some evenings in flowy linen pants and short sleeved shirts. In fact, the heat did not seem to phase him at all. The sun loved him, darkening his tawny skin until it glowed sepia in the setting rays. His hair shone like a raven’s wing.

In the growing humidity it had started to curl and the Queen found her gaze catching on his fingers when he ran his hand through it, wondering how soft his hair might feel. It was one of many distractions and they left her win-loss record in chess in shambles.

“Does something trouble you?” the Warlord asked as he tipped over her king. “You have played rather abysmally as of late. Each of my victories are becoming more and more embarrassing.”

How can she explain that the sight of his bare forearms as he reaches across the board, the elegant grip of his calloused fingers, the errant curl that sticks out above his right ear, is  driving her faintly mad?

“It is the heat,” she said instead. “I don’t see how you remain so unbothered by it.”

He smiled. “This is nothing. It gets much hotter back home.” Then his brow furrowed. “Are you uncomfortable? Is there anything you need?”

“I am the most comfortable prisoner in the world,” she said with a smile and a shake of her head.

“So you say. But I have a feeling you would not tell me if you weren’t.”

The Queen laughed at this. “Are you worried you’re a bad host to a prisoner of war? Everything I have is more than anyone in my position deserves or receives. It’s absurd that you should worry so much for my sake.”

He opened his mouth to retort and then closed it with a pensive look. “You’re right. Yet I seem to worry anyway.”

The warlord’s brow furrowed, as if this thought bothered him. She could only guess at the possible discomfiture at feeling guilty over a necessary imprisonment, the price paid for owning what he took. A potential weakness.

She would not want him to dwell on it, for multiple reasons.

“Do you miss home?” she asked.

He pondered over a rook. “Sometimes. Home is so entwined with my father and his rule that it hasn’t felt like mine. I’ve always been drawn to this place, though, and not just because none of my ancestors managed to successfully capture it before me. It’s a beautiful city, with much to envy. I visited once as a child and could never stop dreaming of it.”

“You came here?” she asked, surprised. “When?”

“I was but a boy — perhaps nine or ten years old. I came with my father and grandfather.”

He is not so much older than her that she wouldn’t remember this. But the past remains vague in her memory. She vaguely recalls such a visit, the peculiarity and anxiety around it, as his country and hers did not often have cordial visits after so much history of war.

“I must have met you but I don’t remember,” she said softly.

The corner of his mouth lifted up. “I didn’t either at first, but I do now. We met only once, at the first dinner. You were very shy and I didn’t speak your language so well then.  Your father sent you and your mother away for the rest of my trip. I think we made him nervous.”

The memory began to crystallize in her mind. She could recall a dark-eyed boy in strange clothes sitting across from her.

“Did I . . .help you ask for more water?” she says slowly, trying to grab hold of the memory before it slipped through her fingers again.

“Yes, And a smaller knife.”

She gasped. “I remember that. That was you?”

 It changed things, somehow: that he could have been a familiar face that night in his tent. That he recognized her even now. That she knew him before war had changed him.

“Is that why I’m . . . here?” she asked.

“You’re here for a number of reasons,” he replied. “But I can’t . . .discount that memory as a factor. You have not changed much from the kindness that I remember.”

“It was not kindness so much as common decency,” she pointed out, uncomfortable with the flattery.

He gave her another smile, this one tinged with sorrow. “You are not common. Not in my experience.”

More and more often the Warlord brought her matters of state to gather her advice on. He kept the specifics vague; she often did not know who he was dealing with. But she informed him of past decisions her father and husband had made, how they affected commerce and politics, the successes and failures that she could predict. It flattered her that he valued her insight so much; it also gave her hope that such value would become a guarantee to continue living.

Each morning her fears diminished. She found peace and contentment in the quiet monotony of her days. With no husband to monitor, no divided court to appease, no ever-shifting responsibilities, no appearances to keep up, the Queen experienced true happiness for the first time in her life.

Perhaps that was why she failed to notice the new face among her guards that day, or the way he slipped in her rooms after the maid delivering dinner stepped out.

“Come, my lady. We have little time,” he said, stepping close.

The queen blinked, uncomprehending.  “What?”

“The Warlord is on his way to join you. We must leave before he gets here.”

He took her wrist and tugs her towards the door to her bedroom. She resisted, planting her feet, her other hand gripping the back of the chair.

“Who are you? Where would you take me?”

Anger flashed in his eyes. “I’ve been sent by a friend of your husband and we are running out of time. Would you stay in this captivity until he executes you? Or would you have your freedom and take your country back?”

Her freedom. She could almost laugh in his face. What freedom could be found in becoming someone else’s pawn for the throne yet again?

The guard did not wait for her to answer. He gripped her roughly and dragged her across the room. She allowed him to take her as far as the door between her room and the Warlord’s before she threw her entire weight backwards, hard enough to send her tumbling to the ground and breaking his grip.

She scrambled to her feet and dashed back towards the sitting room, but the guard was both stronger and faster than her. His hands closed around the back of her dress and yanked her backwards, the neckline choking her. In an instant he had her pinned against the wall, wrists twisted behind her back, knife at her throat. The blade nicked the skin of her neck.

“You have sat in a gilded cage while your peers have suffered and foreign filth taints our home. You may be content with that, but they are not. I am taking you to the resistance by force or by choice, but I am taking you nonetheless.”

His bruising grip did not lessen as he led her through the Warlord’s chambers, out of the servant door and into an empty hallway. The queen debated fighting again, but she knew these halls more than him. It would do better to wait for a better opportunity to slip away.

That hope dashed to pieces when the guard pulled her into a scullery filled with at least six other men. She could run from one man, but not all six.

“Watch her,” the guard warned as he locked the door behind them. “She has sold her kingdom out for a pretty cage. She will run at the first opportunity to return to it.”

The hopeful expressions of the men disintegrated into something ugly and resentful. They surrounded her on all sides as they led her into the back kitchen gardens. By now the late evening sun had slipped behind the castle walls, keeping the gardens in rapidly growing darkness.

With every step her hope of escape died a little more. The list of men who were both honorable and counted among her husband’s friends was short and full of the deceased. The thought of being turned against the one man who had never seen her as a tool made her sick, and the thought of marrying another power hungry fool made her want to draw blood.

“I think you have something of mine.”

The sound of the Warlord’s voice, soft and quiet, stopped everyone in their tracks. The sounds of swords yanked from their scabbards followed quickly after. Out of the shadows the Warlord stepped forward, almost as if they had borne him.

“She was never yours, you filthy, sand-stained mongrel,” growled the guard who took her, shoving her behind him. “And we will not let your heathen ways taint her any further.”

The Warlord’s eyes flickered to hers. Even in the fading light the coldness of his gaze froze her to the spot.

“Do you feel tainted, my lady?” he asked mildly.

She wanted to scream her denial all the way up to God. She wanted to fight and shove her way to him. But the look in his eyes dried up every word before it could escape.

It was a look of death and ruin.

Countless stories of the Warlord’s terrifying, blood thirsty ways circulated viciously during the war. None of it could compare to seeing it in person. Despite the odds, the dying light, the Warlord cut down each man with brutal, excruciating efficiency. And when they all lay on the ground, he stuck his sword through each of their heads through the eye.

It was over in a matter of seconds. The Warlord stared at her, blood in his hair, dripping down his neck, soaking the front of his shirt and none of it his, and terror quite unlike anything she had never known seized her.

“Explain,” he said.

Fear had stolen her words. She couldn’t piece them together, couldn’t stop shaking.

He took a step forward and she stumbled backwards. Blood coated the blade of his sword.

“I will not ask you again,” he said. His voice shook with barely repressed rage.

“I — I didn’t go willingly,” she said hoarsely. “He came in with — with dinner. He said he was with a friend of my h-husband. He took me. I - I didn’t know how to get away.”

Her voice broke on the last word. And the cold fury of his gaze shattered into heartbreak.

“You are a fool for thinking I would believe that,” he said sadly. “But I am a bigger fool for wanting to.”

He did not take her to the dungeons himself. After his men appeared to collect her, he did not spare her another glance.

Taglist:

@cesspitoflove@aprilraine@talesofurbania1@sarcasticlittlebook @hasel-anne @weaverofbrokenthreads @prismaticpizza @tantive404

[watercolorfreckles]

Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

I understand if you don’t want to!!❤️

Hello! This has been sittin in my inbox for many months during my huge writing rut, sorry about that! I know you also gave this prompt to @the-modern-typewriter and she's been making an incredible series with it on patreon! I changed some things around because I don't want to in any way attempt some sad copy of her interpretation, but I was still inspired by the prompt itself, so I've taken some fairly big liberties to avoid any significant similarities! Hope that's okay! Also, please manage your expectations, I do not compare to the magic that is TMT's writing 😆

TW: Brief depictions of body horror. Violence.

The power blew out in sections. The lights dissolved sector by sector with a sickening whine and click–one by one–in approach.

The commotion ripped Eloise from the fictional world she was lost in, aged page corners still pinched beneath her thumb. Her spirited storytelling abruptly died behind her teeth.

Somewhere in the distance, one person shouted. Two.

Her gaze flicked behind them to the door isolating herself and the bound supervillain from the other sectors of the Maximum Security Prison for Powered Individuals or, as everyone called it, The Max. Seeing nothing but black beyond the bullet-proof glass, her attention snapped forward again to the supervillain imprisoned across from her. 

Was this the start of some elaborate escape plan on his part? Why did it have to happen on a day that she was stuck fulfilling her community service hours instead of being something she could safely gawk at in the newspaper from a distance in a few days? Her stomach did a nauseated flip. 

“What are you doing?” she blurted, voice quivering only a little. Her fingers tightened around her book.

The villain made a show of looking pointedly at his restraints. Wrists strung taut and chained to either wall, he shrugged an innocent shoulder at her as if to say “clearly, nothing.” He was perched on the edge of his bed like a bird, tilting his head with a matching sort of probing curiosity. 

For all the chaos outside of the room, Artisan had not a hair out of place. He appeared perfectly unconcerned, though as thoroughly trapped as ever: ankles shackled, arms stretched uselessly apart from each other. The power-dampening collar wrapped around his neck still blipped a faint red light, indicating it was active. 

The prisoners were rioting. Surely they couldn’t get too far? Containing the most dangerous of powered individuals was, after all, the express purpose of the facility…

The lights above them flickered, dipping the room in and out of inky darkness before settling into a dimly lit haze. Eloise’s breath stalled. The imposing dark felt like a threat, as if the lights could keep the monsters at bay. It only made a little sense, in the way that a child feels safe from the monsters under their bed as long as their nightlight is plugged in.

Except that these monsters were real. The most dangerous in the country. And she was currently feet away from the monster that made even other monsters run.

He hadn’t seemed so bad in the time that she’d known him. Quiet, impassive, yet twisting her gut with pity any time she eyed his barbaric restraints. The least she could do–while crossing off her hours–was to read the supervillain a story every few days. She couldn’t change his fate. Couldn’t make him more comfortable. What she could do was rattle off, sheepishly, about fictional worlds and impactful characters in literature and the way that a well-crafted story could transport you somewhere better.

A crash, gunshots, a scream. Tension racketed through Eloise’s shoulders. More shouts chased thundering footsteps.

Things were going very, very, wrong. And she was very much out of her depth.

Eloise jolted as something struck the door, her special-edition copy of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein falling to the ground and skidding away.

Finally, the lights cut out. With it, every noticeable piece of tech died. All of the energy felt sucked out of the room as if vacuumed. The camera’s blinking light disappeared. Alarms that should have been wailing cut silent. Speakers, keypads, and security systems, all dead. The secondary generator hadn’t sprung to life yet. That meant that this was more than a simple power outage. This was a calculated revolt.

 Eloise’s mind raced through a list of everything else that must have been failing. Coms. Sedative gas. Shock collars. Layers and layers of security locks…

Power dampeners.

Panic clamped vice-like and suffocating around her throat. Artisan’s collar was no longer blinking. 

She froze in the eerie silence of the cell, afraid of shattering the fragile calm. Her heart thumped, rabid, against her ribs.

Chains rattled and clinked to the floor.

Eloise bolted blindly for the door, smacking her palm against the DNA scanner while frantically swiping her “Volunteer Staff” badge through the card reader. When neither miraculously came to life, she resorted to banging on the door.

“Let me out, let me out! Guard!”

The door could only be opened by one person inside the cell and one outside simultaneously unlocking the security checkpoints. Even if the power were on, if the guard on the other side was gone…

The emergency floodlights kicked on, bathing the building in startling fluorescence. Eloise flinched, briefly stunned.

Hands grabbed her firmly from behind, yanking her backward.

Eloise yelped. “No, please–!”

The spot that she had been standing in exploded, steel door and concrete chunks collapsing into the room in a barrage of shrapnel. Something–no, someone–landed, bones crunching, at her feet. The guard who had last been standing on the opposite side of the door lay motionless. His blood puddled the floor, staining the soles of her Converse sneakers.

A horrified sound choked in Eloise’s throat.

Another supervillain strode in, eyes alight with hatred and something more–power. His lip curled, waving a mocking hand–engulfed in green energy–at the guard’s corpse. “God. I’ve wanted to do that for far too long. That one always got on my nerves.”

Artisan looked unimpressed. “You’re making a mess in my cell.”

Eloise’s breath caught. Hearing the supervillain’s voice was jarring. Artisan rarely spoke. Not that any of the other staff had ever actually attempted conversation with him… But even in news clips and YouTube videos, he carried himself with the kind of self-assured quiet of someone who had absolutely nothing to prove. His lethal efficiency did more for his reputation than any words could.

The other man was a villain named William Frenzy, a telekinetic with a gleeful taste for violence.

Faced with Artisan’s startling calm, Frenzy… paused. Faltering on a tight rope he had moments before been strolling across. 

“Yes, well. It won’t have to be your cell much longer, will it? They can’t stop all of us.” He smirked at the dead body on the floor. “Some of them can’t even stop one of us.”

Eloise shrank back toward the corner nearest the door, agonizingly slow, willing the ugly shadows from the artificial lighting to swallow her up while the supers focused on each other. She was the kind of person that people tended not to notice; a background character in the perimeter of a story that the protagonist would meet once and never spare a thought again. She wished, then, that invisibility really was her superpower.

Artisan said nothing, his steely gaze fixed upon Frenzy.

Frenzy floundered beneath the scrutiny. The smugness buffered on his face. Finally, he huffed, crossing his arms. “I made you a nice and easy door out. You’re welcome.” He flicked a hand toward the gaping hole in the wall.

Eloise inched further toward it.

Artisan tutted, and while it wasn’t aimed at her, it shot a cold thrill up her spine. She froze, briefly, before continuing her tantalizing escape. She listened to Artisan speak again. 

“I did not need anything from you. I’ll be getting out regardless. You on the other hand…” 

Eloise stared as Frenzy’s skin shrank taut against his bones, the frame of him creaking and groaning like an old tree in the wind. The air choked out of him, fingers grabbing at his jaw as it stretched open too wide. The corners of his lips tore, slitting his mouth into a gaping maw.

The faintest of smiles graced Artisan's lips as he continued, soft as ever. “Say sorry.”

Eloise didn’t wait to see the carnage through, slipping out into the hall and running.

The other sectors were washed in the same sterile glow as Artisan’s cell was, blue-tinged and horrible, like the lights in a dentist's office. She kept to the edge of things as best she could, clinging to the walls and dark corners.

There was brawling in every sector—guards with weapons drawn mowed to the ground by the creatures they had wardened for so long. A villain fell as shots rang out. Another grabbed the guard from behind, cracking his skull against their knee. 

The smell of blood stung Eloise’s nostrils. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe.

She turned to flee down another hall, but two fighting inmates crashed into the doorway in front of her.

Eloise squealed, jerking backward into the belly of the room's chaos.

Don't notice me, don't notice me, don't notice me.

Everyone was so occupied by their chosen prey, maybe she could fade into the background. Maybe she could–

Her heel caught on something and she tumbled, gracelessly, to the floor. It took her several moments to register the lake of blood seeping warm and sticky into her clothing. 

Terror blurred her brain in a white flash bang.

Disappear, disappear, disappear…

“Mm. What do we have here?”

Eloise couldn’t bring herself to lift her head. She clamped her eyes shut, another child’s illusion of protection. 

The villain opposite her chuckled. He ripped her volunteer badge off of its clip against her chest. Her eyes snapped open again. She recognized him as a ringleader among superpowered thieves. They called him Volt.

“Volunteer, eh? A pretty thing like you should know better than to willingly set foot in a prison full of men with nothing left to lose. It’s been a long sentence, darling. I could make excellent use of your volunteer services. Get up.”

Numbly, ears full of static, Eloise shook her head.

Volt frowned, electricity jumping to life in his palms. “No?” He reached for her, hand nearing her throat.

“Keep your hands to yourself or I will remove them.” 

Artisan’s voice was calm. His eyes were not.

The room quieted.

Spatters of red decorated Artisan’s prison uniform. A few drops dotted his face and he brushed them away with his knuckles, smearing the crimson across his cheek. Almost lazily, he popped his neck and stretched his shoulders, no doubt sore from the strain his restraints kept him in.

The villain across from Eloise paused, sparks still dancing across his fingertips. He regarded Artisan with the same wary caution as Frenzy had.

Before he'd been… Before Artisan had…

Eloise swallowed back the nausea climbing her throat.

Finally, Volt’s hand lowered. “She's yours?”

“She's hers. Step away.”

The man hesitated a moment too long. Artisan didn't offer a second warning. 

As if puppeted, the man's fingers raised to gauge at his own eyes. He screamed, the faint evidence of Artisan’s power shimmering over him. He clawed, next, at the skin on his face, peeling it back like wet wallpaper. 

As promised, his wrists crunched and bent, wrenching all on their own at impossible angles.

Eloise covered her ears, unable to bear the screaming. She felt sick.

“Stop,” she whispered finally. “Please.”

It did. The man collapsed into a sobbing, bloodied heap.

When Eloise managed to look at Artisan, she startled to find his attention fixed on her.

They stared at each other for a stretch of silence that itched. She imagined being forced to choke on her own lungs, or her skull constricting in on itself until it squashed her brain into pulp. For being so bold as to run, he might snap her legs and reaffix them the wrong direction, or splinter her bones to poke, grotesque, out of her skin. They always did say that his victims were his personal works of art, bodies twisted into shells of monsters.

He crooked a finger, beckoning her.

The edges of her vision swooped fuzzy and vertiginous. She rose onto wobbly knees and pushed herself to her feet. When she swayed, Artisan caught her elbow, slipping an arm around her waist to lead her forward.

He did not look back at the others, with complete confidence that no one would challenge him.

No one did.

Eloise was barely aware of taking one step after another. When they arrived back in the villain’s cell, the bodies of Frenzy and the dead guard, thankfully, were gone, though the floor was streaked with the drag lines of their blood.

She wrenched her gaze away.

Artisan’s hand moved further down her arm to her wrist, gesturing that she sit on his bed. When she shifted to do so, his grip tightened, tugging her to a stop. She frozen and tried to read his face. 

His dark brows were furrowed, suspicious eyes flicking from hers down to her hand.

He pulled down her sleeve and held her wrist up between them, revealing the power-blocking cuff clamped around it. His head cocked. He waited.

Eloise swallowed. ���I’m not a super. I mean- not a super-super. Just a…..no one.”

“A no-one who volunteers at The Max? With a power-dampener?”

“They’re terms of my probation,” she blurted. “A thousand hours of community service here and a power-inhibitor for a year. I think they put me here to threaten me with where I could end up if I continue on like… Um…”

“Me.”

“A villain,” she clarified, as if that was better. 

Her gaze flitted from the fingers wrapped around her wrist and up to the villain’s face again. The harsh lighting haloed him, dimly silhouetting his face. He looked haunting. He looked lovely. A beautiful house, old and creaking, wrapped in ghosts like a bride’s veil and left to rot. 

“What did you do?”

“I…” Eloise felt very small. “I lied about being powered on my documents. So that they wouldn’t put me on the registry. When they found me out, I tried to run away.”

Artisan’s scrutiny burned her cheeks. He let go of her wrist.

“...What can you do?”

“Nothing special,” she said, cradling her wrist–wholly uninjured as it was–in her other hand. “It doesn’t even work most of the time. My power is sort of…blending in. Going unnoticed. When it’s working, I could stand in a the White House and people’s attention would glide over me as if I belonged there. Not quite invisible, but… It just tricks your brain into not thinking twice.”

Artisan’s eyes narrowed.

Eloise flinched back a step, stumbling back over her fallen book onto the bed. She stared at him.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Some of the tension eased from her shoulders, but she still waited for the catch. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of them? Trying to escape?”

The villain considered her for a long moment. He sat down beside her, and the hard cot creaked beneath his weight. “Mm. That’s just it. No one inside the prison could have blown the power-dampeners. They require someone with powers to turn them off or on, and the security is impenetrable. My team has tried. Besides, if this was a simple power outage, the inhibitors would still be on. But they’re not. This was premeditated–and no one imprisoned here could have done it. No one on the outside could have done it. So. Process of elimination. Who’s left?”

That was the most Eloise had ever heard Artisan speak, and she could only sit and listen intently–As he had when she’d read him stories. Her brain whirred in a jumbled jigsaw of puzzle pieces. 

“It… It could only be an inside job.” She wet her lips. “The heroes- The higher-ups- They want the prisoners to break out so that they can kill them. A clean massacre. Justified under the law. The world’s most dangerous criminals could never be allowed to escape…”

Artisan smiled and it swirled something in her insides. “A convenient way to get rid of all of the pesky criminals clogging up the system. I’d bet anything that there are 50 snipers surrounding the building, waiting to slaughter anyone who steps foot outside.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Artisan agreed, his smile easing into something softer; something with less feral teeth.

“Thank you for helping me,” Eloise whispered. “What do we do now?”

Artisan hummed. He bent down and swept up her book, dropping it into her lap. He laid back against his pillow and crossed his arms behind his head. The bloodspots on his skin and clothes glittered in the lowlight. 

“Keep reading. I want to know how it ends.”

Part 2

[thepenultimateword]

Prompt #241

“Welcome, what can I get for you to—”

Customer interrupted the barista with a gently raised hand. “I heard you make…other things here?”

Barista cocked their head, confusion painted across their entire face. “Other things?”

“N-not coffee. Like…” they lowered their voice into a whisper. “…stronger? In the…heart area?” They burned as they said it. Did they get the wrong place? Or was there more than one barista? They were an idiot. They shouldn’t have—“

“Oooh, you want a Lavender Bliss.”

“What? No? Maybe? I…I..”

The Barista slid a new menu into their hand, palm-sized completely different from the one posted on the wall. “Why don’t you give that a quick look?”

They winked.

Customer heart beat almost painfully against their ribs; for several second they barely understood the items they skimmed. Eventually their eyes fixed on a picture of cloudy purple drink that took up most of the top right corner of the page. Among the couple lines of description the words “love”, “permanent”, and “instantaneous” stood out most.

Oh. So they did need a Lavender Bliss.

[raineandsky]

#116

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

As of yesterday, the worst pain the prince had experienced was when he accidentally nicked his finger with his father’s sword three years ago.

Today, that has been replaced with the red-hot agony of a bear trap snapping shut on his leg.

It wasn’t meant to go like this. Get to the city borders and disappear into the wilderness—that was the plan. It’d seemed such a good plan too, from the comfort of his bedroom. Easy.

Yet here he is, thrown to the floor by merciless, metal teeth. It’s more blood than he’s ever seen in his life. He’s starting to feel faint, though whether that’s the sight of his own mangled leg or the pain jolting through him at the slightest move is unclear.

Darkness is throwing a blanket over the sky. Forcing the trap open has proven fruitless, dragging himself back to the road impossible. Every fibre of him, down to his very soul, is crying to rest, to ease the pain, to just have stayed in his ivory tower prison like he always had.

Something yellow—a light!—ripples through the trees. The prince thinks, for a rather depressing moment, that heaven might be approaching, and the warden has arrived to drag him into death. It would explain why he can’t feel his hands.

“Huh,” says the warden, “that ain’t an animal.”

The light is blinding now, the person behind it haloed invisibly in its spray. The prince can see them turn, kind of, to a figure next to them.

“Well, no.” A gruff laugh. “That’s very much a human person.”

The light lowers slightly, enough to get a glimpse at the people hiding in its shadow. Oh—not the warden. A common woman, in fact, her and an equally common man, staring down at him with varying amounts of surprise and annoyance.

“Hm,” the woman says again, thoughtful. “Looks expensive. D’ya think we’d get much for him?”

The prince’s stomach does some acrobatic somersault that almost makes him throw up. He tries to move, crawl away, anything, but the trap sinks its teeth into his flesh even more, like it's trying to stop him escaping. A cry falls from his mouth, some incoherent mix of terror and agony.

One of them says something, but he can’t hear it. He can’t hear anything; blood rushes in his ears—it’s a miracle he has any left to do such—his breathing hard and laced with irrepressible noises of his own suffering. 

Another laugh as the man steps forward and back into hearing range. “We should probably make sure he ain’t from one of those places that’ll lob our heads off for the crime of looking at ‘im first.”

“He looks like one of ‘em, don’t he?” The woman steps too close. The prince scrambles without thinking, and gets the treat of the teeth gnawing harder into his leg. “Let’s get ‘im home, at least. Get the trap, Skat, and I’ll get the bag ready for it.”

“Skat?” The name rolls off his tongue so easily. Both of the commoners stare at him like they’re startled he can speak at all. “You– you were in the royal guard. I recognise your name.”

The man’s stare has turned to a hard glare in an instant. “Where’d you get that from?”

The prince attempts a smile, but the burning pain ripping through him makes it difficult. “You were one of the top knights in your guild. I– I came down, sometimes, to watch you practise. My father adored you. I adored you.”

“You’re the boy prince?” It comes out almost immediately. A connection made. A recognition. The prince could laugh with relief if he weren’t already crying. He nods quickly. “Wh–What’re you doing out here?”

The woman snorts behind him. “Sounds like a fat sack of cash,” she mumbles.

The man ignores her. “Don’t answer that; it doesn’t matter. Let’s get you inside and cleaned up, huh?”

“Are you serious?” The woman scoffs as the man sets his gaze on the bear trap. “We’ve stumbled across our biggest catch yet, and we’re just throwing it away? We could be absolutely minted off him and you want me to just send him on his merry way?”

“Well, Gvette,” the man says flatly, “do you really think anyone’s gonna wanna buy something that looks like it’s been dragged through ten inches of mud?”

That gives her enough pause for Skat to don a smug grin and shoot a quick wink to the prince. “Open the trap, will ya?” he adds.

It isn’t gentle. The woman—Gvette, the prince assumes—rips the trap open and lets its barbed teeth tear through any part of his skin they haven’t already. Skat holds him, almost vice-like, as he squirms and cries against Gvette's heartless freeing of his leg. He can’t help but bury his face into the man’s shoulder when Gvette first wrenches it apart.

Skat grabs his hands to try and help up to his feet. The prince shivers at nothing. “Am—” His voice catches when he puts a little too much weight on his leg. “Am I dead?”

“Well, I ain’t one for talkin’ to spirits,” Skat says brightly, “so I’d assume not.”

“I can’t feel my hands.”

There’s a pause that’s a little too thick. “You’re cold, kiddo. You’ve been lying in an inch of wet mud.”

Gvette takes the prince’s arm, rather reluctantly, as Skat pulls a blanket from his bag. He swings it open and onto the prince’s shoulders in one easy move. “A’ight,” he says as he ushers Gvette away to retake his spot at this side. “Let’s get you warmed up and into some new clothes, maybe.”

So we can get you home hangs unsaid in the air. That, or so we can see how much people are willing to pay for you.

Neither of those are an option.

They might want his leg healed before they try anything. That would give him time, and it’d certainly give him a means of escape.

The prince clings to the old knight, with no other choice, and prays that the man’s warmth to him is true.

(next part)

[writing-on-the-wahl]

Eeeeeek yes this is amazing:) so excited to be a part of this community and make even more amazing friends 😇

I like to dabble in urban fantasy and more traditional fantasy so you can be on the lookout for both of those from me!

@thepenultimateword I love the tag suggestions!! Let’s do this 🥳🥳

#Fantasci Tumblr!

(This is me @feline17ff/ @heroes-villains-side-blog, @fantasci-side-blog is my new sideblog)

Results are in!

You have been invited to #fantasci tumblr community on Tumblr!

The new hashtag for creators and consumers of speculative fiction.

This could be anything from pirates in mech suits to fairies trying to survive a zombie apocalypse.

Let your imagination run wild!

If you're more interested in superheroes and supervillains, #heroes and villains and #hero x villain would be more relevant.

Of course, sometimes there can be overlap, so feel free to use a combination of tags.

Next, we need to decide on the exact tags for specific subgenres. This can come out organically over time as more creators and consumers interact, or we can begin to work on some form of standardization if anyone has ideas.

"Fantasy squad" from that thread @thepenultimateword @writing-on-the-wahl @watercolorfreckles @amethystpath-writes @snowshower @puddleslimewrites @muses-of-the-mind @surplus-of-sarcasm

People I think would be interested

@tratieisdabest @writey-unicorn for mythological retellings!

@stuck-in-this-mortal-form for Slavic and Celtic folklore!-inspired stuff!

@just-a-space-rabbit for space rabbit lore and your OC's space adventures!

@callmemeg for my second knight story if I ever think of a plot or characters!

@world-of-fire-and-flight coz you're a fantasy writer!

@raineandsky because you wrote that knight story once!

@inamindfarfaraway for Phantom Knight Afterlife Club, unless it's more heroes and villains idk

@eahravinqueen @the-lavender-creator friendship tag!

@the-likeable-wizard-mack idk you but your blog turned up while I was researching possible tags, and your content seems like it would fit :)

@chaoticgoodthief Dragons?

No pressure ofc! Ttyl!

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

Prompt from @unboundprompts: "The door never led to the same place twice."

Nothing is ever really lost

(Tw: quick mention of death, illness and war)

The door never leads to the same place twice.

You don’t know where it comes from. It’s just there.

Sometimes, it materializes out of thin air in your room, and won’t go until you open it.

The first time, when you were much younger, it was made of white porcelain and just big enough to let you pass. You were scared of course, but curiosity got the better of you, and you went to the other side.

You have a clear memory of that day. What a happy travel this time! It'd led you to a quiet beach, at dawn. You’d taken out your shoes and let the sea go to your ankles, watching the sun rise, listening to the waves, and oh how you’d missed that sound. When people had started coming in, notably a couple wearing weird clothes and short haircuts, you’d come towards them, your naked feet running on the sand, and told them excitedly where you were coming from. They'd smiled, thinking you were a charming little liar, but they’d invited you under their beach umbrella. You’d spent the day talking, eating sandwiches full of fish paste, and exchanging stories. You didn’t speak the same language, but somehow you understood each other. At the end of the day, you'd waved goodbye to them, and you'd come home.

The door had disappeared right after, gently fading into nothing, but it'd come back.

You’re okay with that.

You are used to it by now. Eventually, it turns up again, and when you’re ready, you go through.

It never looks the same way. The porcelain from the first time has become wood or metal, and sometimes it’s made of things even stranger, that you can barely describe. Either way, it’s always warm to the touch. It brings you into strange little villages where you see cottages with roofs and beds made of straw. You visit towns full of half-timbered buildings, built on hills, nested on a plain or around a large river. Sometimes you see huge megalopolis with shining bridges and steel blue skyscrapers.

At first, you just wandered through. Since you can’t control the destination though, and you’re pretty sure you can never go back in the same place, you’re now prepared. Each time you step in, you bring a bag full of notebooks and boxes and a camera picture. You interview each inhabitant who wants to. They’re not deep questions: what tools they use to make their food, what they like to do, how hard their work is, how they feel about their families, and so on. You collect meaningless trinkets, pocket change, leaves, and seeds. You take pictures of everything. The constructions, the people, the food on their table, the bugs sleeping on plants, the night sky – everything.

Strangely, you’re never scared. You’d never dare to be so bold in your original world. The deep feeling that this is not your world keeps you strong. No matter how many times you’ve crossed the threshold, it never feels quite real. It's like a dream, and you've left your fears behind. You can do whatever you want, talk and behave however you want, and nobody can punish you for that. You’ve discovered that if you call it during your travel, the door comes in front of you. Home is always close and no one can follow you there. People have tried, but the knob refuses to work for anyone else but you. You’re safe.

When you’re back, you organize your findings in your shelves. Your room begins to look like a crow’s nest, full of shiny things.

You’re okay with that.

However, not all travels are pleasant. Sometimes, villages are full of starving people with eyes too big and too shiny. You meet young men and women whose bodies are full of spots, their limbs smelling like rotten flesh already. Children about to be hanged for stealing apples. Soldiers killing inhabitants in summer clothes. And sometimes, there are only ruins, where all you can hear is crying.

The first time, you thought you were in hell. The door was huge and ebony that day. You don’t want to remember what you saw behind, but you do. Someone died in your arms that time. Once you were back, running away and sobbing, you’ve thrown yourself into your bed and did not touch the door for months. It waited and you hated it. You hated everything in the world, including yourself. Your eyes were closed tight not to see anything.

You can’t keep the memories out of your brain, though. You can’t help but feel guilty. It’s not like you could bring anyone with you, but still. There must be something you can do. After some time, you prepare another bag. This one is full of things you’ve already collected. The next time you meet another devastated city, you clench your teeth and go through. You share seeds to grow food. You leave behind machines plans that were used to heal or to help build houses again.

When you're done, you tell stories. You’re full of them now. The families and their kids who don’t know about tomorrow hear about the people you’ve met, their hopes and their desires. You tell about the shining skyscrapers and the bugs, the way the sun shone on the hills and the roofs of cities, how warm and light was the breeze the day you saw the ocean, and so many things you forgot.

And then, when there’s nothing left to share, you go home. The door will bring you far, far away next time, because the only thing you know for sure is that it never leads to the same place twice.

Of course, if you asked the people from the other worlds, they would tell you another story. They’d say that the door only leads to one place, where a witch lives. They’d tell you about how she walks the earth through time and space. Some pretend she’s a bringer of apocalypse, always there in troubled times, taunting poor souls, speaking of blessings they couldn’t get. Some pretend it’s a beneficent fairy, always there with little helps and little comforts.

It doesn’t matter much to you. You know that all your life, there will be the door.

And you’re okay with that.

*

Back to Fantasy Masterlist

[cee-grice]

✨ hi!! welcome to my domain ✨

about me

my name's Cee, I use she/they pronouns, and I'm from Lithuania :) I write almost exclusively fantasy, often together with romance. Besides writing, I like to draw, so I may post some art later down the line, too. I'm trying to use tumblr more to mingle with the writing community on here, so I'm always on the lookout for more writer friends!! I also really like tag games, so feel free to tag me in any!!

my works

WHEN WHITE CROWS CRY - an adult queer romantic fantasy set in a secondary world. It features a hard science-based magic system, an academical community as the ruling class, magical afflictions with no (legal) cure, and is primarily character-driven. It has themes of mental deterioration, bodily autonomy, death and grieving, the grey morality of science. For an actual summary of the story and more details, check out the links below: WIP intro Characters intros Worldbuilding Writing Art Writeblr intro General WIP tag

let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist :)

[world-of-fire-and-flight]

Playing some more catch up for Fantasy Indies December today, but on the bright side, I'm nearly done with my holiday reading and I finally hemmed the curtains in my office🎉

Anyway, back to Fantasy Indies:

Day 26: Side Characters in my WIP

I'm still coming up with side character names for BPM and fleshing them out, so here's who I have so far as part of Lottie's team😎

Day 27: Underrated Book Recs

For underrated book recs, I will ALWAYS rec THE PRINCESS BRIDE and GREEN HEART as two of my favorite books but also I'm surprised that I don't see HIS FAIR ASSASSIN trilogy around more🤔

Day 28: Is your MC organized?

And as far as being organized goes, Lottie has it together, especially compared to Nyla and Xander😅 Love my HEIRS mcs, but they're not organized😂

[morganwriteblr]

Daily Excerpt Challenge: Day Three

I thought about taking an excerpt from a different WIP today but....Nope. It ended up being from The Legend of Corroneau's Landing once more! You can read more about this WIP in a brand new intro post >>here!!<<

Catch up with previous excerpts here: Day 1 & Day 2.

Today's excerpt features a description of our Great Beast--the titular Corroneau--from the perspective of one of the other characters, Tseren Ekesoun.

The beast that was now laying in the grasses just a few miles north of them was so gargantuan in size that even from a distance the forager could see the colours of almost every scale that covered it. Scales in varying shades of green, some so dark that they almost looked black, shimmered in the light of the sun. Large spikes of black and dark browns that looked like trees ran down the centre of His spine and onto His long and thick tail that He had tucked along the length of His body and underneath one of His large and leathery wings. He looked like one of the many forest covered mountains found far to the east of their homeland. He looked as glorious and as magnificently beautiful in the flesh as they had always imagined Him to be from the stories that as a young child they had begged their grandmother, who had been one of the principle priests of His temple in Shoussau, to tell them over and over again until they could repeat them word for word. And even though it has now been some years since they had last recalled those stories and the verses that accompanied them, and even longer since they had considered a life other than one spent in worship and servitude to Him, they still remembered Him. They slowly pushed themselves up from where they had been curled into the ground and sat on their knees. Their heart, no longer trying to escape, returned to its rightful place behind their breast and settled into a rhythm as steady as the breeze around them. They no longer felt cold, and the chill had also faded from their bones. For every second they looked upon The Great Winged One, they felt calmer and more at ease than they had ever felt before. This new land that they had moved to with their husband finally began to feel more like home, and it was all because of Him. The Dragon called Corroneau was here with them now, and they felt as though their life had purpose once more. The life they thought they had left behind in Rotesh had come to find them, and they knew that would not leave it—or Him—again.

Taglist: @metanoiamorii (ask to be added!)

[im-a-wonderling]

Once A Heart Is Given ~ a continuation of Sorrows Can Swim

It's definitely true that art mimics life. Thanks to certain life events, I'm feeling remarkably similar to Prince, so...I guess inspiration is my silver lining?

Warnings: none

Word count: 2.2k

Sorrows Can Swim masterlist

-

Prince was tired of meetings. He was tired of people needing him. And he was tired of this life he called his own. 

The council, fully composed of men greyer than rainclouds and wrinklier than raisins, sat at the big table. They never looked at him with anything less than expectancy, waiting for him to listen and make the big decisions that came with his duty. 

“We’ll send funds to the village, but discreetly,” Prince decided, hating that he had to be subtle with his support at the risk of offending the nobility, but unwilling to let his people flounder. 

The men leaned in towards each other, debating his decision with those calculating eyes and lowly spoken words. Prince waited for them to raise a complaint meant for his ears, but the murmuring eventually died. “Are we settled?” he asked the room at large. The men didn’t speak, to agree or disagree, which was a telltale sign they felt they were doing him a great service in humoring him. 

Prince ached for a kind word from them, but that was like waiting for fairies to come, pointless and even if it happened, only a luxury. 

“Is that all for today?” he asked the council, concealing his weariness the best he could. 

The head councilman bowed. “Yes, sire, that’s all for the day.”

“Then I will see everyone tomorrow.” The council all got up from their chairs, bowed as one, and filed out of the room, talking amongst themselves again. 

They have each other, Prince lamented. I have no one. 

Prince’s shoulders slumped as he rubbed his eyes against the harsh, bright afternoon sun streaming into the room. He got up, turning to grab a fistful of the curtain, intending to close it and shut away the light. 

But then he caught sight of the garden below and the beauty running amongst the hedges. 

Princess.

Her long, unbound hair streamed behind her, her fists pumping as she ran. She reached the fountain and spun, the pale purple fabric of her dress billowing around her as she spun a full circle and a half, allowing her to face the castle once again. Her radiant smile was aimed at the ladies that were catching up to her. 

What would it feel like to have that smile aimed at him?

Her mouth opened, and even through the glass, his ears caught her merry laughter. His heart swelled, and a pained croak fell from his lips. 

He couldn’t contain it, the way he felt for her. He ached to hear her laugh again, but with the way his heart seemed to grow every time he heard it, it might grow too big for his chest if she did. He felt as if a piece of her was inside him, like she was interwoven in his being, and in the piece’s mighty effort to return to her, it nearly dragged him with it. He considered it a minor miracle that it wasn’t her name he said every time he opened his mouth. He couldn’t imagine what the council would think of him if that were the case. 

Princess tagged one of the ladies and ran away, shrieking from the excitement of the game. 

A sigh left him, and he allowed his forehead to rest against the glass, his eyes following her every movement. He knew he needed to look away, if not out of respect then for his own sanity. He needed to banish her from his mind or he would spend forever watching her from this window. If Princess were to look up through the window, she would catch sight of the fond smile toying at her husband’s mouth. But Princess kicked off her shoes, oblivious to her spectator as she lifted her skirts and ran. 

And he couldn’t look away.

He’d spent most of his life either looking at or looking for her. 

Every summer since Prince turned ten and Princess turned eight, she’d spent in this castle. Prince could still remember the first day she’d arrived in a blue carriage with golden accents, the Tunican colors. Nursemaid had all but wrestled Prince into his best clothes. As they stood outside the castle, watching the carriage appear in the distance, Nursemaid lightly smacked Prince’s hand every time he reached up to scratch the itchy collar. When the carriage came to a stop and a footman opened the door, Prince expected a bratty, snooty girl to step out.

A snooty girl indeed was who took the footman’s waiting hand. Once she was out of the carriage, she stood on the ground, blinking out at all the people standing in the castle courtyard waiting for her. Prince had started to groan, not looking forward to the bowing and scraping that was about to occur. 

But before anything of the kind happened, the girl took off like a shot, running not towards the people or back into the carriage, but off to the side, towards the royal orchard. 

The footman, clearly used to this behavior, ran after her, calling her name, and a few other servants joined in the chase, including Nursemaid.

But Prince looked back at the carriage to see two dainty blue shoes, laying discarded in the dust of the path from where Princess had kicked them off. 

Never in his life had Prince known chaos like the day Princess sprinted through the courtyard and into his life. And nothing else in his life had he wished for since. 

“Sire?” 

Prince jerked away from the window, blinking as his eyes tried to adjust to the darkness of the room that had been too bright moments before. “Yes?” 

“I have done as you ask.” 

Finally, Prince’s eyes adjusted to see Maid standing in the doorway, looking a bit confused. “I’m listening.” He tried to arrange himself in a very thoughtful, serious position.

Maid swept into a deep curtsey. “Sire, she said she has no need for jewelry or clothes, sire, nor stationary or books.” 

Prince frowned. His sneaky attempts once again failed to find out what Princess wanted for her birthday—which was two days away. It would be her first birthday in Prince’s kingdom, her first birthday as his wife. He wanted her to enjoy it, and he was getting desperate. 

“What about a horse?” he asked desperately.

Maid shook her head. “She has a prize mare already, sire.”

Prince pursed his lips, deep in thought. 

With their lives similarly decadent, what riches could he offer her? The only thing he could give with value other than monetary was his heart, and he’d given it to her already. She didn’t want it, he knew that, and if it were humanly possible, he would’ve taken it back long ago. Prince wasn’t even sure that a heart could be taken back once it was given. 

“But if I may?”

Prince looked up at Maid, her fingers anxiously smoothing down her skirt, betraying her unease when her face didn’t. “Yes?” he said.

“She mentioned that she wants to go see Queen’s Veil Falls.” 

Prince turned back to look at Princess, who was much further through the garden now. The waterfall was one of Prince’s favorite places in the whole kingdom. 

As he watched Princess roll on the grass in an attempt to dodge one of the ladies, a plan started forming in Prince’s head. “Thank you, that will be all.”

“Sir, you…you don’t want to hear anything else?”

Prince furrowed his brows, spinning to see Maid’s furrowed brows. “What else is there?”

Maid glanced over her shoulder and then lowered her voice. “There’s a man–”

“No!” Prince said, so loudly, Maid flinched. “I’m sorry.” Prince rubbed his forehead, reeling back his feelings and pushing them down. “You’re dismissed.”

His outburst must’ve frightened her, for Maid curtsied and scurried away. 

What had she been about to say? It certainly would’ve involved Guard, but was it information Prince already knew? Or was there more?

Prince swallowed hard and pulled out a map, forcing himself to stare at the location of Queen’s Veil Falls. 

The waterfall was a pleasant, secluded space. Prince had never been there with more than three people, and often, he simply went by himself. But Princess wouldn’t want to spend her birthday with Prince, and he couldn’t send her ladies there without an escort, and an escort would make the group too big.

But there was a way for Princess to go to the waterfall with only one other person, someone who was very capable of protecting her, and possibly the person Princess would most enjoy going with. 

-

Prince waited until the next morning before going to the barracks.

The dimly lit room contained twenty beds, ten on each side. Nineteen of the beds were empty, only one bed was occupied: the bed in the corner, furthest away from the light. The torches had been snuffed, leaving the sunlight streaming through two tiny windows as the only source of light in the room.

Prince walked briskly to the bed, eyeing the lump underneath the blanket. Guard was on duty the night before and was now catching up on some much needed sleep. Normally, Prince would avoid waking him at all costs, for Guard was already problematic enough to deal with when he’d slept well.

But this conversation couldn’t wait with the Princess’s birthday being the next day. 

“I have work for you,” he told the lump still in bed.

The lump moved from beneath the blanket, and Guard’s groggy face appeared. Any other soldier in this castle would leap out of bed, standing at attention with poker straight posture. But Guard merely rubbed his eyes. “What?” he said, irritated. 

“Princess’s birthday is tomorrow.” 

Guard propped himself up on his elbows, blinking sleepily at Prince. “And?”

Prince stood statue still. Somewhere inside surely resided anger, but all Prince could feel was misery. Everyone deserved to be celebrated on their birthday. If Guard cared a mite for Princess, he’d commit himself to her enjoyment. But he didn’t, so he wouldn’t. Over and over, Guard’s actions spoke of nothing but self-interest, and Prince only had himself to blame for being disappointed. 

He took a deep breath and blew it out as slowly as he could. “Princess wants to go to Queen’s Veil Falls. If the two of you leave after breakfast tomorrow, she can have lunch at the falls and be back before dinner. I think–”

“What’s in it for me?” Guard interrupted, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“A picnic. The chance to see a beautiful place. Time with Princess away from the castle.” Guard raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed, and Prince scowled. “You’ll have a day free of duties aside from keeping her safe. That must be sorely tempting.”

Guard smacked his lips, as if he were literally tasting the offer and deciding his verdict. “Very well.”

Prince stared as Guard yawned and stretched.

What would he himself give to be the one Princess wanted to celebrate her birthday with? If some witch could somehow make Princess naturally love Prince…why, Prince would give the witch anything she wanted, perhaps even his life’s purpose—his kingdom. And here Guard was, acting as though this opportunity, as though Princess were burdensome?

Guard’s eyes lazily passed over Prince, but then he froze in his position with his arms stretched towards the ceiling. Then, he lowered his arms and pushed himself up on his feet. “Does His Highness have something to say?” he asked, his mocking voice undermining the title. 

Prince turned away. “The kitchens will prepare the picnic basket, and the stables will have two horses saddled and waiting for you.”

“Look at me!” Guard shouted, and Prince looked over his shoulder to see a dangerous light flickering in Guard’s eyes. “You don’t get to dismiss me.”

“I’m not.”

Guard advanced on Prince. “You will treat me with the respect I’m owed, or I’ll–”

“Spill the beans. I’m aware.” Prince held his clasped hands behind him, looking Guard directly in the eye. If only Guard knew what the kitchen staff normally did to rats, then he’d have no doubt that Prince was already treating him much better than he deserved.

Guard’s mouth suddenly spread into a nasty smile as he made a show of dusting off the shoulder of Prince’s doublet. “No matter. Your wife treats me well enough for both of you.”

Maybe Prince should’ve punched in Guard’s nose right then and there. Ordered him out of the castle. Called for the other soldiers to throw him in prison.

He was too defeated to do anything of the kind.

Prince just tiredly blinked at Guard, waiting until the man was satisfied enough to allow him to leave without more grandstanding.

Guard stepped back. And then he spat.

Prince lowered his gaze to the glob of saliva now darkening the front of his shirt.

“You’re pathetic,” Guard said in a low tone. “And your wife knows it.” 

Prince waited for the searing, poker-hot pain to shoot through his chest, but he felt nothing. Nothing at all. His heart made nary a peep. Perhaps it really was wholly and completely Princess’s, so far gone, it resided in his chest no longer. “Don’t forget about tomorrow,” he said quietly before turning away.

“Come back here!” Guard shouted, but Prince ignored him.

He had a meeting to go to, and apparently he had to change his shirt.

-

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

Tag list:

@writing-on-the-wahl @thepenultimateword @elf-kid2 @thinkwrite5 @tobeornottobeateacher @brekker-by-brekkerr @girl-of-the-sea-and-stars @lunatic-moss-studio @blueberryblood11

[writing-on-the-wahl]

Ok I wrote this ages ago and it’s probably wayyy too dramatic but it does have an entire storyline behind it that I’m thinking of turning into a series (an adjusted rewrite of this would actually be a part in the middle haha)

Just wanted to reblog and add our new fantasci tags:)

Writing Snippet #5

Queen of the Harvest

*Vibe check: I listened to Warriors by Imagine Dragons while creating this one*

—————————————

Her city was surrounded.

The new queen sat on her throne, fingers brushing the oval sapphire hanging against her forehead as her advisors argued about what was to be done. Her golden hair stood in stark contrast to the dark wood of the throne, gleaming just as deeply as the the gilded heads of wheat carved into the back and sides of the chair.

She dropped her hand back into her lap.

“Could they not have waited for the mourning period to be over?”

Her quiet words brought a crashing halt to the debate.

“Your Majesty—” the Master of the Markets cautiously broke the silence, hands clutching the skirts of her dress.

But the young queen held up a hand. “There is no point going down that path, I know.” She turned to the old grizzled soldier standing near the throne.

“Master of the Watch?”

“Yes, my queen?”

“How many men do we have within the city walls?”

“Less than six hundred, Your Majesty.”

“Against how many?”

“At least five thousand, Your Majesty.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

“I thought Prince Raiiyn was busy attacking the Southwest border. Is that not why we sent nearly our entire army to repel him? And yet, somehow he is here, in the heart of our land?” She looked around the room, her slender brows raised in question.

“Your Majesty, the Crimson Prince is indeed at the border with part of his army. It is one of his generals that now beats at our door.”

“How much food and water do with have within the city walls?”

The Master of the Silos stepped forward. “Enough to feed our people for over a year.”

“If we use the seed intended for planting,” muttered the Master of the Planting.

The Master of the Silos ignored this remark. “But with last year’s drought... the harvest did not yield much. Now that you are queen and the rains have returned, the wells should be...” he trailed off at the raw sorrow upon the queen’s face.

He bowed low, fingers to his brow. “Forgive me.”

The queen offered a small nod and pushed her grief away. “How long would it take our army to return?”

The Master of the Watch shrugged hopelessly. “If they could disengage without being pursued by the Crimson Prince?” His tone suggested just how likely that was. “Ten days? Twelve? The cavalry could be here in three days, but that would leave our army weak, and 400 horsemen would do little against the army camped outside our gates.”

“They have little by way of supplies. Our people took every scrap of food they could when they retreated to the city. We can try to wait them out. The odds of them breaching the gate—”

“Maing Soundolung!” The doors of the hall burst open and a soldier rushed forward.

“Maing Soundolung!” He gasped out as he bowed, fingers to his brow.

Her eyes narrowed in concern. He was addressing her not as the nation’s queen, but as ruler of the harvest. It was the first time the honorific had been used since the sapphire had been placed upon her. Something was very wrong.

“The southern gate is on fire.”

The queen pushed off the arms of her chair and rose to her feet. The entire council bowed, fingers to brows, as she strode through their midst and out the doors. The hall opened up directly onto the hill overlooking the colorful city, which was bathed in the light of the setting sun. In front of her, smoke billowed from the distant wall, flickers of red and orange gleaming through the haze.

She walked across the stone landing until her bare feet rested on the grassy slope that led down to the city proper. Silence reigned as she closed her eyes and felt the earth.

Finally, she spoke.

“The roots are half an inch long. Master of the Fields?”

“They can handle some rain, but not much.”

“Master of the Planting?”

“We have enough seed to replant nearly three quarters of the fields, but that leaves us nothing for next year.”

Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a breath. “Then we will pray it is enough.” The council bowed their heads as one.

Then she slowly lifted her hands from her sides, raising them towards the heavens. Black clouds formed on the horizon and drew closer as her hands continued to rise. Soon the sun was blocked by the dark boiling clouds.

Her palms touched above her head, and the skies opened. Rain poured down.

Water dropped from her lashes as she lowered her palms until her fingertips rested against the sapphire that adorned her brow.

She kept her eyes fixed on the angry flames that fought against the downpour.

They must have used oil.

“Signal for the guards to abandon the southern wall and have the townspeople retreat to the northern quarter.”

The advisors eyed one another but hastened to obey. A horn rang out in four quick bursts.

When the answering horn replied that all was clear, she split her hands. The rains slowed as she raised her right fist to the clouds and stretched her left down to the earth.

“Can you aim that carefully, Maing Soundolung?” The Master of the Market asked hopefully.

“I can try.” she replied, her quiet voice grim but determined.

In one swift motion, she spread her fingers wide. Thunder shook the air as bursts of lighting split the sky, striking the ground beyond the southern wall in angry streaks of light and power. The thunder rolled unceasingly as lighting struck again and again.

Rain streamed down her arms and dropped off her chin, but the Queen of the Harvest did not cease until a horn blast signaled that the enemy was retreating.

As her arms fell weakly to her sides, the air stilled and the clouds began to retreat.

The council stood, frozen in awe, as the queen looked out at the scorched strip of earth between her city and the vast enemy encampment.

To the right, a brilliant sunset had turned the sky blood-red. A sign of what was to come if she followed this path.

“How fast can you get a message to our army?” She said, voice steady but eyes wide as she took in the destruction.

“Our fastest messenger bird could be there by tomorrow. Are you going to call for the cavalry?”

“No. That would only result in a slaughter.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I’m going to surrender.”

—————————————

She raised her hands to ward off the building protests. “I cannot fend off their attacks indefinitely without destroying the crops, and neither can our army keep the prince’s force at bay forever. If they take the city by force, they will show no mercy. If I surrender, I can negotiate the terms.” She swallowed, then continued. “He does not want this war to drag on either. They want to rule over Zea because they have no good soil of their own. They rely on our harvest as much as we do. He will accept—”

“You cannot negotiate with that monster!”

The queen turned her head to look at the Master of the Fields. “He is a prince, a not a monster.”

“The Crimson Prince is a demon!”

“Prince Raiiyn is a Tyger. If heightened senses and reflexes make someone a demon, then what does that make me?”

She gestured to the burnt earth behind her.

Her advisors did not speak, but the soldier who’d first brought word of the attack stepped forward. “It makes you Cerelia: Soundolung, Queen of the Harvest, Singer of Storms, Protector of Zea.”

He bowed, one hand to his brow, the other raised as if to touch hers. As he straightened, his burning eyes met hers. “It makes you our queen.”

She inclined her head, touching her sapphire, symbol of her role and conduit for her power. “Then as your queen, I must do what I can to protect our people. From starvation and enemy soldiers alike.”

“Your Majesty,” the old Master of the Watch was regarding her with sorrowful respect. “Surrender... you know the cost?”

She turned back towards the hall, where the doors still sat open, the last light of the day casting streams of light on the throne of gilded wheat.

“I know the cost.”

[fantasci-side-blog]

Alrighty, my pretties!

So, let's get #fantasci tumblr going!

First things first.

"Learn by example" & "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery"

I'm a #heroes and villains gal, and I love the community that exists around that tag. So let's try to encompass that!

All of the below goes for all types of creators: writers, artists, meme creators -- I just can't ctrl+h on Tumblr.

My experience with #heroes and villains has taught me that:

A - Ships

People love ships! #hero x villain is more popular than #heroes and villains, so make sure to tag your ships!

Your ship doesn't need to be romantic, I tag platonic, found family and friendship snippets and prompts as #hero x villain too!

It may get annoying for readers who don't want romance to see their favorite tag bombarded with romance. #hero x villain doesn't have a solution to that, except the occasional #enemies to lovers tag which makes the genre clear.

In our new community, make your content reader-friendly by tagging your post as romantic or otherwise, or mentioning it in the A/N at the top, or adding a genre disclaimer. Put a readmore so that users can scroll past if they don't have the right settings enabled.

No, don't have a blandly tagged post just to fish in defenceless readers! That's unethical! And your readers will be annoyed and may even block you (I know I've blocked users who won't add the right trigger warnings, make me uncomfortable).

B - Names!

Snippets and prompts without names receive more traction than ones with them in the #hero x villain and #heroes and villains "fandoms".

Idk, guess it's easier to get into the story, at least for me.

Of course, you can't have just Hero and Villain. What if they're both heroes? What if you have more than 2 characters?

Solution:

Villain names: Villain, Other Villain, Supervillain, Sidekick, Villain Sidekick, Henchman, Thief, Vigilante(?)

Civilian names: Civilian, Reporter, Mayor, Kid, Child, Teen, Parent

Now, what if your characters aren't easily definable? That's fine too! Some heroes are evil, some villains are good. But they still take their Hero/Villain name in the story BUT it's made clear who's the good guy

1) through their actions or

2) the tags like #good villain #bad hero #evil hero. These tags also make it easier for users to navigate their niche.

For example:

Maybe I want to read about sweet villains?

Then I'll look at the tags #good villain #kind villain #soft villain

What if I don't want to read about abusive characters?

I'll filter out the tags #abusive hero, #abusive villain, #cruel hero, #cruel villain and so on

It makes my navigation simpler, and if a writer prefers to write about cruel heroes, I can just filter them out without outright blocking them, keeping the door open for me to read their other works which may contain the tropes I do like which won't show up if I've blocked them.

It may feel weird, especially after you've chosen the perfect names, but I sincerely think the lack of names makes it easier for readers to get into the story.

If you still want names, you can always create a character list separately, or add in the names at the end or in a later part of the series (series of snippets! Not talking about your novel series here!)

Examples of #fantasci "names" off the top of my head:

Pirate, Queen, Thief, Mermaid, Prince, Knight, Robot, Alien, Human, Fairy, Warrior, General, Leader, Monster, Dryad, Dragon

If they're famous myth or fairytale figures, then feel free to use Cinderella, Medusa, Athena, Ares etc.

Disclaimer: I don't know if this might not be as big of an issue in #fantasci. Because while I have seen nameless fics get more traction on #heroes and villains, and I prefer those too, because I like just running head on into the story, who's to say #fantasci tumblr will be the same?

C - Organize!

<> Use the tags like above, it's still a new community so tags will grow and decline organically, I hope. But that's the tagging system I'll be using on my blog and for my works.

<> Have a masterlist on your blog, categorized however feels right for you.

<> Write what genre your work is, in the tags or A/N. Fluff, angst, flangst, whump, hurt no comfort, hurt/comfort etc.

<> Differentiate between mediums!

If it's a snippet, prompt, or if you're promoting your OCs or published works.

This community started because of the information overload on #creative writing #fantasy etc, such that people weren't getting readers, and the #hero x villain writers who were getting readers, weren't getting readers if they went outside that genre.

So, tag it as #fantasci snippet/s, #fantasci prompt/s, I guess

If you're promoting your book, maybe tag it as #fantasci book?

I can guess how good it feels to complete a book and you want everyone to buy it and read it, and it may seem like you should promote it everywhere to everyone...

But think about it from the reader's perspective.

Maybe they can't afford to buy books at the time, but they would be the absolute best supporter of your snippets because they love cyberpunk found family which is the specialty of the snippets you post for writing practice on Tumblr.

And maybe they'll be so in love with you as a person for making their days better with your snippets, that they buy your book the first chance they get when they have cash to spare.

Don't scare them off by filling the tag with books that you have to buy before you read them. Yes, even if you're indie authors. We already have #fantasy #indie author etc (and I think they suffer from a highly skewed writer: reader ratio too).

This community is for people who want to check out the fantasci genre, want to fill prompts, want to read short snippets that explore one trope or one cliche they like.

It's perfectly okay to be excited for your book. But think of the community.

If you really want readers, do it organically through what's essentially content marketing. Write prompts, snippets, prompt fills. This will get you followers and traction. THEN promote your book on your own blog. The people who like your snippets will like your published work you put more effort on lol.

<> Put trigger warnings! Tag it if it's not sfw! If it has those themes or even allusions to them! It is NOT fun to be reader and suddenly come across something that makes you uncomfortable. Happens enough times and you're blocked.

D - Interact!

Here's a handy list for interacting with creators.

I once wrote a long and heartfelt email to an indie game company. They responded with a generic corporate thank you and a "look out for our next game."

That sucked.

Made me feel bad, actually. I would've preferred no reply at all because then I could assume it got lost, or I could've forgotten.

But they replied and didn't make it seem they valued my appreciation... that company has a bad impression in my brain now, and if I do play their games, I just don't want to interact with them anymore.

More Tumblr specific is when I interact with a blogger's work and write such a long heartfelt reply and they don't reply at all. Still better than a corporate reply, but happens enough and it makes me feel bad and I regret spending time writing that stupid email.

If I write a paragraph-long appreciation letter for 2 people, and one person replies back and interacts, while the other doesn't do anything, who do you think I'm gonna write more paragraphs of appreciation for?

Why am I saying this? Don't I think you already know, most of you being creators and all?

The success of #hero x villain lies in its community. Of course, there are more lurkers and likers instead of rebloggers and commenters.

But rebloggers and commenters exist! People even send asks! They especially send anon asks, with requests for prompts or snippet continuations

How it works is that:

A reader will enter the tag first as a lurker. They might not even heart your posts.

They see a few posts, see what they like and don't like

They check out an author's masterlist for other works

They follow if they like your work enough

They might let you know what they like as an anon, might even become a regular anon

They might send anon ask requests which you are free to accept or reject. Do not feel pressured. You are allowed to say no.

Best case scenario is they comment their appreciation, and reblog for their other followers to see.

I see that, despite this blog (@fantasci-side-blog) getting followers thanks to the pinned post, there's isn't much interaction.

I'm sure you know that hurts. Doesn't hurt me much right now because I'm not actually posting my own works, just reblogging stuff I like. Sometimes I'm adding little comments.

It does make me anxious over the lack of community though. But I'm going to chalk it up to it having only been a few days since I created the hashtag.

The fact that you're not interacting could have multiple reasons:

<> You don't like the content I'm reblogging.

Valid. But seriously, nothing? Wow, my interests are niche online too. You want to follow blogs you want on your dash, right? Why are you following my blog if you don't like the stuff I'm posting?

<> You don't want to reblog on your main blog and are thinking of creating a separate blog just for reblogging.

Hmm, that could work but only if you have a good enough following, or expect a following on that blog. Otherwise, you're just talking to an empty void and defeating the purpose of reblogs.

<> Posts aren't showing up on your dash.

Valid. Time differences, or your dash has too much already, or Tumblr glitches.

<> No time.

Valid. I hope you find the time to relax. Please prioritize your health (mental and physical, idk if there are any other) over social media.

<> You liked it but have nothing to say.

Valid. But an empty reblog might help the creator. Not all creators appreciate empty reblogs, but if that empty reblog leads one of your followers seeing it who does interact with it, well, that's the dream.

<> You hearted it, isn't that enough?

Unfortunately, not always. Some creators like likes, for sure. But all creators prefer some form of interaction.

<> "I queued it."

Hi-5! I do this too! Read the next point.

<> "I'll tag and queue later."

I do this too! Valid imo. But I try to make it a point to prioritize posts with low notes or low interaction or new writers over popular Tumblr blogs with hundreds of notes a piece. I hope you can see my logic. Sometime posts that didn't get interaction when they were first posted get a lot when they're reblogged at a different time of the day or year.

<> No one interacts with my work! Why should I for anyone else?

Community, darling. Read below.

You can't just keep posting your work and expect engagement but then not respond to said engagement.

As a reader, it's like talking to a void. I will stop engaging and feel sad. I am giving my time, energy, feelings. But I feel embarrassed about writing so much for nothing.

The writer doesn't owe me engagement, of course not.

But why should I, a reader, interact if I'm not receiving anything in return?

What if there's another user who's not as a good of a creator but is actually friendlier?

I'll go there. I'll interact more over there.

It's not that the writer already invested time and energy into making their work that they shouldn't have to put more time and energy into a back and forth.

It's that the reader is also putting in time and energy to

1) actually go through your work

2) think about what to write

3) writing it

4) reblogging or comment or sending an ask for others to see.

It's a symbiotic relationship.

It's community.

Most of my friends are users turned mutuals whose posts I interacted with. We don't need to reblog all of our friend's works, but I have friends I can talk to, help out, get help from, tag on posts I think they'd like, share posts with which they then do reblog.

It's just a wholesome relationship.

Sometimes an author won't reply to my reblog publicly, but will take the effort to message me privately. This may also soon take the form of them becoming my actual friendo! 🤩🥰

A social media consultant I worked with once (she was really nice and intelligent, don't be mean) said that if someone is taking the effort to engage with you, you should put double the effort to engage back.

I agree. For the above reasons.

-

E - next steps

This is just me trying stuff out! This is NOT the #heroes and villains community so some things might work, some things may not. We're here to try everything including new ideas and see what to stick with!

Next steps for me and you

Create a masterpost/ masterlist of previous works

Create an intro post (optional)

Mention if you prefer asks or anon asks (optional)

Mention if you take requests (optional)

Interact with blogs and stories you like

Use #fantasci tumblr on your old posts, they'll show up in the tag dw

Don't tag me for every single one of your posts, because this is my side blog, not a community wide blog. I have my own preferences and time limitations and I won't read stuff that doesn't interest me. And I'll only reblog stuff that does interest me or stuff I like. I would appreciate being tagged in stuff you think I'm interested in though! Just not everything you ever post lol

PUT TRIGGER WARNINGS. Tag your stuff! Or risk getting blocked!

My birthday's coming up soon so prepare presents. I do accept early and late presents so you can give them to me any time of the year. I take cash, credit, gold, magical amulets, books, writing advice, and more! :) (highly recommended)

[thepenultimateword]

Prompt #242

“Sorry, sunshine, I don’t do love potions no more. The ethical quandaries were keeping me awake at night.”

“Oh, no, no,” said the other apothecary. “I don’t need one made; I was wondering if you could taste one of mine.” Then, as if only just realizing the sound of their words, they flushed bright red. “Not in a weird way, I just have a hard time finding test subjects and I’ve admired you’re work for a long time so I trust your judgment and I know as a professional you keep antidote around so it shouldn’t have any problem being reversed. I just want to know if I’m doing it right before I try putting it on shelves! It would just be a little taste, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to! I just thought since I’m in town, and in your shop, it wouldn’t hurt to at least ask.”

[raineandsky]

#126

An older man steps forwards towards the altar, a rather simple thing, barren of any offering. A golden chalice sits aloft in his hands. “A gift,” he proclaims, “for our beautiful goddess.”

He places it carefully upon the altar’s surface, stepping back patiently. This is the part where whichever god he’s offering to takes a look at his gift, decides whether he’s worth helping, gives him their divine intervention. He’s done it before. He knows what’s coming.

What he doesn’t expect is a skittish presence to wrap him too tight with an awkward “… you don’t have to do that.”

Most of the gods the man has met are warm, intimidating, bright. This one is… well. Clearly rather tame—for a goddess, at least.

“My goddess,” he says with genuine surprise, “I seek your advice. A gift in return for your wisdom.”

The air is humming with nervous energy. It’s making him anxious too. “I enjoy passing on my knowledge,” the goddess says a little desperately. “There is no need for bribery.”

“No, I’m not trying to—” A trick, perhaps? The gods are known for toying with their followers. “No, my goddess, I simply aim to create a mutually beneficial transaction.”

“If you so wish, although the chalice is quite lovely in comparison to what I can offer you.” Something of a nervous laugh, forced and painful. “What is it you seek?”

The goddess of the travelling merchants. A small god, and a rather niche one, but a god with a loyal following none the less. From her title alone, the man can picture the types of people coming here to worship her.

“I am but a humble pelt seller, my goddess.” The man points rather unnecessarily to the chalice he’s laid on her empty altar. Now he’s thinking about it, he can see why her altar’s empty, given her attitude. “My wife is due to bring us a child. I want only the best life for them both.”

A tense, uncomfortable silence. “I do appreciate you seeking my guidance,” she starts slowly, “but I fear I am a little out of my depth with such a request. The goddess of fertility is in the temple down the street. Or, perhaps, if you seek fortune, the god for that is in the next town—”

“Please excuse my interruption, my goddess, but that is not what I came to ask for.” The man turns his eyes down to his feet, like he’s trying to avoid her gaze, as if her eyes aren’t everywhere. “My pelts are the business that gives my family life. Please, with your blessing, I could sell enough to create the life I want for my wife and my child.”

“You want a blessing but still want to work?”

“It would mean something to know I did it myself, even if I did it with the blessing of our beautiful goddess.”

“Oh, stop, please.” The goddess hums thoughtfully. “That is sweet. I will bless you—of course—I will bless you and your cart and your pelts and your donkey, if you require.”

The man bows as low as his rickety back will let him. “Thank you, my goddess. That is really too much.”

“Not at all.” An awkward laugh ripples through the air that cringes the man to his core. “My blessings are rather meagre compared to other gods, anyway. It is only fair.”

He’s never met such a self-conscious god in his life. Aren’t they meant to be powerful, self-righteous creatures? The man would almost believe her to be human, if not for the overwhelming presence to give her away.

The goddess blesses him, his cart, his pelts, and his donkey, as promised. He bows again in thanks before he turns to take his leave. He can feel her uncertainty before she speaks.

“Your chalice,” she says hurriedly. “You appear to have forgotten it.”

“As I said, my goddess,” the man replies, “it is my gift to you in return for the kindness you have shown me. Please, accept the compassion you have allowed me and keep it.”

She may be a goddess, but she can’t stop him from turning on his heel and continuing on his way back out into the town.

The man doesn’t visit her again—he has no need. His business flourishes, his worries vanquished, his wife and newborn child healthy. The goddess of travelling merchants cannot help the merchant who has already found success.

If only he’d needed to visit her, though. He would see that, after all this time, she has started accepting gifts. Small tokens of appreciation she has learnt to take instead of disregard—blankets and teas and gemstones.

And amidst it all, her prized possession—a bright, golden chalice.