#fic: embers in our bloodlines

[luucypevensie]

For @ginevrastilinski-ocs as part of her Holiday Gift Exchange! Hope you enjoy this Greta! I personally think that Nyneve and Skye would absolutely be dragon besties together and it causes Allison and Merlin to get massive headaches over their chaos

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 3: We Drown Traitors In Shallow Water]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, people being aware of Daeron's existence, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, Aemond having feelings (not good ones), references to sexual content (18+), an unexpected field trip.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Champagne for My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰💜

Aemond never tells you where you’re going.

You follow him—ivy-green velvet tunic, silver flood of hair like moonlight—to Grand Maester Orwyle’s chambers and up a narrow spiral staircase to the rookery of the Red Keep. Windows open out into all four cardinal directions: wests towards the Reach, south towards the Stormlands, north towards the Riverlands, east towards the Narrow Sea. Late-afternoon sunlight like the pulsing glow of embers paints you both in gold, in rust. As Aemond goes to the writing desk and begins drafting a letter—his penmanship is always slow and precise, painstakingly neat—you look at the ravens that tiptoe on talons like a dragon’s through the straw beds of their cages. Each enclosure is labeled with the castles that particular raven is trained to fly to. One raven knows the way to Lannisport, another to Riverrun, a third to Winterfell where Cregan Stark is gathering far-flung Northerner soldiers to help him march south and leave his mark on the world, something like a brand or a bloodstain or a bruise. You notice that a particularly clever raven—old, greying, fast asleep with his beak tucked into scruffy feathers—is assigned three separate strongholds, all in the Crownlands: Dragonstone, Driftmark, Claw Isle. It is not often that you see all the Valyrian houses of Westeros listed together; it is not often that House Celtigar is properly acknowledged. Generations of intermarrying with Westerosi bloodlines has camouflaged your Valyrian features, but still, the truth is inescapable. The fates of the Targaryens, Velaryons, and Celtigars are hopelessly intertwined. They always have been. You survived the Doom together; you are meant to prosper or burn together.

“Who are you writing to?” you ask Aemond.

He speaks without looking up from his letter, straight regimented lines and meticulous dots. “Eastbriar.”

The seat of House Thorne, your supposed kin. You choke down a dismayed mewing—it rises in your throat like stream from a kettle—and imagine the tone of your voice to be like a ship: vital to keep level and upright, even in the roughest of waves. “A summons for our soldiers?”

Aemond nods, his eye still on the parchment. “They have had ample time to mop up after Rook’s Rest. Those who have survived and are capable of battle will meet me and Criston as we lead our army north to the Riverlands.”

This is a compromise, you know. Aemond wanted to depart from the capital on Vhagar and pursue Daemon and Caraxes alone. Everyone was against it—Criston, Otto, Alicent, Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the entire Kingsguard, Aegon when he was roused enough to pry an answer out of—and so Aemond relented. But there is still a restlessness that lives in the icy blue cave of his remaining eye like a caged animal. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“This brings me great confidence, the endorsement of a woman with no tactical proficiency whatsoever.” And you think: I might know more of wartime strategy than your own advisors. I have heard what the Black Council discusses. I have stayed up with my father and brothers until the dark, lonely hours of the early morning as they plotted, Clement rabid to see combat, Everett assisting Father with calculations of cost and gain. Aemond smirks and beckons you closer to the desk. “I’ve finished. Go on, leave a note at the bottom.”

“What?” You stare at him, then down at the parchment. “Me?”

“I thought you might like to include a brief postscript for your family. I assume you have told them that you are here and safe. They would appreciate further report on occasion, I’m sure. To read that you are perfectly well in your own words.”

“Right,” you agree uncertainly.

Aemond crosses the rookery and turns his back to you. His hand slips into a pocket of his tunic and reemerges with small pieces of crumbly bread; he feeds them to the ravens, voracious black beaks jabbing out from between metal bars. “I will give you privacy to disparage me as much as you wish to,” he says, and you can hear the teasing smile in his voice.

He’s not suspicious, you realize. He means this as an act of kindness, of esteem. He trusts me.

And you have grown to understand Aemond well enough to know that this will only make things worse for you if your treason is discovered. It is not just the Greens’ security or strategy that is implicated here. It is Aemond’s pride. Sometimes, you think, it is his grudging affection as well.

 You pick up the quill and contemplate the letter to House Thorne. What do I write? What the hell do I write?

Then an idea occurs to you. You add to the bottom of the parchment, just below Aemond’s signature:

P.S. Please send any livestock that you can spare to help sustain Sunfyre at Rook’s Rest. His alertness and strength improve each day. The Greens cannot spare any of our dragons…and Sunfyre is beloved for his ferocity by all the loyal subjects of the realm.

You hesitate, then sign in a looping scrawl:

Aegon II, King of the Seven Kingdoms

This comes so easily, like breathing, like healing, a treachery as smooth and painless as milk of the poppy.

“Done?” Aemond asks.

“Yes.” You roll up the parchment and give it to Aemond. Without looking at what you’ve written—he trusts me, he trusts me, a chant that is in equal parts honored and horrified—he ties it with a green ribbon, attaches it to a twiglike ink-colored leg of the raven trained to fly to Eastbriar, and looses the bird out into the troubled world through the open window that faces Blackwater Bay.

The sunlight catches on something: gold wings, jade eyes. Aemond is wearing Aegon’s ring, the one you stripped him of at Rook’s Rest as he lingered at the gate between our world and the one beyond, above or below or wherever you believe it to be, ice or fire or clouds or void.

“You should give that back to Aegon,” you say. “His hands are no longer too swollen to wear it. And I think he has noticed it’s missing.”

Aemond watches you, twisting the ring where it remains on his finger. He is thoughtful in a way that you cannot decipher. “You have done your king a great service. I know you will be generously rewarded.”

“That’s not why I’m helping him.”

“Yes, I know that part too.”

A silence, deep and laden and uncomfortable. Then Aemond winces—a tiny gesture he is used to hiding—and touches his fingertips to his forehead just above the black leather of his eyepatch. You have never seen him without it. “Headache?” you say.

“Having pieces of your eye scooped out of its socket comes at a price. I’m still paying it, I’ll never stop.”

You see it clearly, the story you were told: Aemond climbing up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, his skull rattling with vengeful maroon glee, slate-grey storm winds in his rain-soaked hair. “Is that why you killed Luke?”

Aemond gazes out the open window over the frothing waves speckled with sunbeams, and there is something strange in his face: not gloating but a pensiveness that grows almost despondent. At last, he speaks. “Now he has his brother to keep him company in the afterlife.”

“Jace?” you say, shocked. “Jace is dead?”

“Larys just informed me. The rest of the city will know by nightfall.”

You remember Jace, self-assured and ambitious and looking nothing like a Velaryon. You’ve met him. You’ve met all of the Blacks, even if only fleetingly or from a distance. “How?”

“Corlys’ navy attacked the Triarchy’s fleet in the Gullet.” The Triarchy are Essosi allies of the Greens, won over by Otto’s diplomacy, notes and promises that Aegon was too impatient to wait for. At last, they have arrived. “Jace and Vermax were torching our ships. Vermax was struck by a crossbow bolt and crashed into the burning wreckage of a galley. He struggled for a while and then disappeared into the waves. Jace clung to a piece of debris but was shot by arrows until dead. His body could not be recovered before it sank.”

You don’t know what to say; it is a defeat for the Celtigars, it is a victory for Aegon, it is a tragedy for all humankind. Are we any closer to peace? Or is this a wound that rips apart its stitching again and again until infection turns all our blood to poison? “So Rhaenyra has two sons buried in the sea.”

“There is something else that Larys told me,” Aemond says. And he does not seem like a man just handed news of a triumph. “Vermax was not the only dragon at the Battle of the Gullet.”

Caraxes is with Daemon at Harrenhal, last you heard. “Syrax?”

“No. The bitch won’t fight.” He means Rhaenyra, not her dragon. Aemond looks at you with fear swimming in his river-blue eye, something he rarely lets others see. “Silverwing, Seasmoke, Vermithor, and one that was never ridden before. The Blacks call him Sheepstealer.”

“Four more dragons,” you exhale with terror. “Four battle-ready, full-grown dragons.”

“They can’t use them here,” Aemond says, like he’s comforting you. “Rhaenyra cannot sanction the burning of King’s Landing and keep the love of the people. The people’s fondness for her is halfhearted at best already.”

“But the Blacks can use their dragons against you and Criston when you march north.”

Aemond smirks, half-taunting and half-warm. “It almost sounds like you’re worried about me.”

You ignore this. You don’t know how to respond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon. A week or two.” He swipes for your wrist. You pull it away just as his fingertips graze your skin. Aemond smiles. “I’ll leave it to you to inform Aegon of Jace’s demise. I’m sure it will cheer him.” Then he descends the narrow spiral staircase and abandons you in the rookery, surrounded by squawking, pacing ravens that claw at the walls of their cages.

You stop at Helaena’s bedchamber before going to Aegon’s; he drained his goblet of milk of the poppy an hour ago and is almost certainly still unconscious. He is trapped in a cycle of bitter disappointment. He has a day when he feels better, overexerts himself, and then spends the next three or four sleeping to escape the pain. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell him to be cautious, to be patient. You walk into his room and find him polishing his sword, trying to pull on his boots, crawling out onto the balcony after nightfall when the sun cannot burn his fragile skin.

The queen is sitting in a chair and staring at the wall. She is watching the shadows of birds flit across tapestries depicting the night sky, a flurry of butterflies, unicorns, ladybugs, Dreamfyre. Each day you bring her flowers from the gardens; they sit in vases all over the room gathering dust, lilies and irises and tulips and daisies, roses red like the crabs that scuttle across your true house’s sigil. “Your Grace? Are you alright?”

Helaena says nothing. When you move closer, you see that her ghost-pale eyes are wide and vacant.

“Helaena, come walk in the gardens with me.”

Her voice is quiet, as if from a great distance away. “Is Jaehaerys playing there?”

It takes you a moment to decide how to answer. There is no sense in upsetting Helaena; she has suffered so much already. You will not remind her that her firstborn son was beheaded in front of her. “We’ve sent him away to keep him safe. You will see him again when the war is over.”

“I’ll see many people again when the war is over. But not you.”

You hold out your hand to her. “Helaena, please. Let’s walk in the gardens before the sun sets.” Before the world ends, you think randomly, unwelcomely.

You do not expect Helaena to take your hand. She never has before, though you offer it frequently. But this time her delicate, feather-light palm finds yours. One of her children is dead, and she cannot bring herself to act as a mother to the two that remain. Her marriage never brought her happiness, her father never cherished her. You cannot change any of this. But you can remind her that she is not alone. When you have spent an hour strolling through lush greenery and past ponds that ripple with the splashing of fish, you bring Helaena to Otto—he has supper with her most nights—and then continue on alone to Aegon’s bedchamber.

You stand in the doorway watching him as he sleeps, this man that you as a Celtigar have no business touching, this man you cannot bring yourself to leave.

He is mending. He is past the worst of the danger. If I disappeared now, Grand Maester Orwyle would be more than capable of tending to him. And every second I spend in King’s Landing is another opportunity to be discovered, imprisoned, interrogated, punished, ransomed, killed.

So when will you go?

Today seems impossible. Tomorrow isn’t any better. A few days, a week, a month?

Never, you think, so abruptly and forcefully that it stuns you. I never want to be away from him.

Aegon stirs, his eyes opening in bleary slits. His mess of silvery hair cascades over his face; the scar on his right cheek spills across his skin like blood in snow. He spots you from across the room, smiles, reaches out to you with one seeking, unburned hand.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Aegon, you have to set it free.” It’s morning, days later. Outside the sun is bright and forbidden; in his bed across the room, draped in cool shadows, Aegon follows your eyeline to the glass jar on his bedside table, to the tiny creature Helaena gifted him. The once-caterpillar is now a captive butterfly with shimmering gold wings.

Aegon looks at it without much interest. “I’m terribly sorry. I was distracted by my many deformities.”

“Stop trying to lure me into complimenting you.” You remove the lid from the jar. The butterfly ascends through the opening, meanders around the room, and eventually finds its way through the window. “Besides, lots of women appreciate scars on a man.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Women in general, or one in particular…?”

“Quiet, miscreant.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages and inspect the places you are most concerned with: the crooks of his elbows, the backs of his shoulders, his waist where the scar tissue strains when he moves. You begin massaging rose oil onto his arms, starting at his wrists. He is lucky the flames did not claim his hands; from what you have learned from books and maesters, keeping fingers nimble and stopping them from fusing together as they heal is nearly impossible.

“You’re always undressing me,” Aegon muses, gazing at you with hazy, murky blue eyes and a playful smile. “Maybe one day I’ll have the opportunity to return the favor.”

You won’t. But Cregan Stark will. And for the first time you are vividly aware that the thought of Aegon touching you—anywhere, everywhere—does not fill you with fear or dread but rather a sort of curiosity, maybe even willingness, maybe even the first pangs of a craving like hunger.

Aegon’s smile dies as you knead rose oil into his right forearm. He will require the use of it if he is to ever wield a sword properly again. “I did not mean to offend you. Allow me to apologize. I am thoroughly medicated, my judgment is impaired. And I confess that it was not so good to begin with.”

“I’m not offended. I’m…distracted.”

Distracted by the promise-prison of your betrothal, Aegon knows. “Angel,” he says firmly, and waits until you meet his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Aegon. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You have enough worries already.”

“You’ve helped me,” Aegon insists. “Now let me help you. I may be weak and hideous now, but I’m still the king. Whoever he is, I can have him married off to someone else. I can have him sent to the Night’s Watch. I can fix this.”

Your words spill out in a mournful whisper. “You can’t touch him.”

Aegon shakes his head, stretches out his hand, skims his thumbprint across your cheekbone like shadows dance over walls. “Who the hell is he?”

There is a noise outside, a shrill reverberating shriek that grows louder as it nears the Red Keep. You and Aegon share a startled, knowing glance. It is the cry of a dragon, and not one already housed here in the Dragonpit. You do not recognize this voice: a high whistling, a tinny quality like a small bell being rung. Not Vhagar or Dreamfyre, not the reptilian infants Shrykos or Morghul…

Then Aegon begins to laugh. “Oh, Aemond is going to murder him.”

You jolt up off the bed and race to the open window. Down on the beach, it is landing: a shining lapis-colored beast about the same size as Sunfyre, lean, regal, sprightly, swanlike. A white-haired boy, perhaps fifteen, is climbing down out of the saddle as waves bubble up around his mount’s claws. “Tessarion,” you breathe, awed despite yourself. You have no fondness for dragons—you are too closely acquainted with their singular capacity for destruction—but her beauty is striking. You understand now why she is called the Blue Queen.

“And Daeron too, I assume,” Aegon quips. “Or has she eaten him?”

“No, he is presently uneaten. His hair is already longer than yours.”

“Yes, everyone’s is.”

You turn back to Aegon, sitting up in bed and wearing only his loose cotton trousers. “Why is yours so short and…” What is a polite way to put it? Haphazard? Irregular? Uneven? “Choppy?”

“Do not bully me, angel. I may perish and you will regret your harsh words.” He smiles drowsily. “I used to cut it myself. I have since I was eight or nine years old.”

He has servants for that. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to look like a Targaryen. I didn’t want to be one at all. But this inheritance cannot be refused, it seems. It’s written into parts of me that can’t be burned away. The whites of the bones, the chambers of the heart.”

It occurs to you as you say it: “Had you not been born a Targaryen, I never would have met you.”

He studies you thoughtfully. “Then perhaps it was not all a curse.”

There are robust, hurried footsteps, and then Aegon’s bedchamber door is thrown open. Daeron stands there. He is already as tall as Aegon. He is athletic, fussily dressed in seafoam green, more conventionally handsome than either of his brothers. He lacks something…an edge, a cynicism. He has a cape that flutters around him as ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

“Seven hells,” Daeron gasps as he approaches Aegon’s bedside, large blue eyes—a clear, shallow blue like Aemond’s—sweeping over Aegon’s wounds: gnarled thickets of angry red scar tissue, raw spots that are still weeping, a scorched landscape like the ruins of Valyria. “You look awful.”

Aegon chuckles. “I know. I’m a roasted pig.”

“A burnt-to-a-crisp pig, rather. A dragon might eat you, but no human would.”

Aemond and Sir Criston stampede into the room, blinking at Daeron as if he is a mirage that may vanish at any moment. Aegon tells Daeron: “Now we must stop discussing pigs.”

Aemond ignores this and addresses Daeron. “You’re supposed to be with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army.”

“That’s where I was. Until the Battle of the Honeywine.”

Aemond exchanges a puzzled glance with Criston. “The what?”

“Well I won it, you see.” Daeron grins, and you suddenly glimpse so much of Aegon in him it hurts, it feels like someone is digging around in the marrow of your bones with a rusty blade. “The nobles of the Reach who have sworn loyalty to Rhaenyra descended upon Lord Ormund’s forces and all hope was lost. Until Tessarion and I arrived. Our enemies look worse than Aegon now, if you can believe it. They are puffs of ash and memory.”

“We haven’t heard anything,” Aemond says.

“News never travels faster than by dragon.”

“But you’re too young to fight,” Criston says dully, his mind struggling to catch up.

“Am I?” Daeron replies with mock scandal. “Thank you for making me aware. I will free Tessarion immediately and take myself back to the nursery. Is there a wetnurse available for suckling? I’ve flown a long way, and I’m very hungry.”

“I’ll tell Mother that you’re here,” Aemond says flatly. “She’ll want to have a feast.” Then he strides out of the bedchamber, long hair streaming and aisles of daylight cutting stripes across his back. After a moment, Criston trots after him.

Daeron says to Aegon: “I heard he stole your crown.”

“No,” Aegon replies, as if he can’t quite believe it himself. “For some reason, he’s only borrowing it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A banquet in the Great Hall would be ostentatious during wartime when others are expected to ration their bread and send their sons to slaughter. Instead, Alicent settles for a private early supper with the royal family and only their most essential guests, of which there are three: Hand of the King Sir Criston Cole, Master of Whisperers Larys Strong, and you.

Daeron is regaling the table with the dramatic tale of his victory at the Battle of the Honeywine. He is using the chunks of carrots and squash on his plate to demonstrate military formations. Otto is beaming at Daeron with bright, probing eyes, suddenly aware of his worth. Alicent touches her youngest son constantly, his hands and his hair and his face. He allows this; perhaps he even enjoys it. He is the only child who does not make her feel like a failure of a mother; he is the only one she can love in a way that is uncomplicated. Helaena stares down at a tiny figurine in her hands, a bear carved out of wood. Aegon made that for her years ago. Aemond says little and frowns often.

Aegon was determined to attend. He wears an emerald green tunic over his bandages, his burns hidden except for the scarlet plume on his right cheek. He sits beside you taking frequent gulps from his wine cup, dripping sweat from his temples, glazed-eyed and exhausted by even the smallest motions: the tearing of a hunk of bread, the slicing of a slab of beef wet with gravy. As he saws with his knife, his movements grow slow and feeble and labored.

“Aegon, please, let me cut that for you.” You reach for his plate; he slides it away.

“I can do it,” he pants.

“Aegon—”

“Dignity,” he says. He wants to keep what little of it he has left. “But if your fingers are too idle, I have another task for you.”

You do not need to ask what he means. Smiling, you begin weaving a fresh braid into his hair; his most recent one was washed out last night. Criston observes this with awkward fascination. Aemond twists off the ring—Aegon’s ring, the golden dragon with jade eyes—and tosses it over. It lands on the tabletop, bounces twice, and comes to rest by Aegon’s wine cup. He picks the ring up and examines it.

“I was wondering where that went.” He slips it onto a finger and grins at Aemond crookedly, mischieviously. “You’re always developing attachments to things that are mine.”

Aemond tells you as you braid Aegon’s hair: “He can do that himself, you know. I’ve seen him. He just pretends he can’t when you’re around.”

“Do we know who the new riders are yet?” Otto asks Larys, and now the conversation has been monopolized by the machinations of war. Everyone—with the exception of Helaena, who is walking her wooden bear across the table like a child would—is listening to Larys.

“Vermithor is ridden by a Dragonstone bastard, the son of a blacksmith,” Larys says. He is eating red grapes with his pink, rodent-like hands; he peels each one completely with his fingernails before popping it into his mouth. “He calls himself Hugh Hammer. Seasmoke was claimed by a boy rumored to be the bastard of Corlys Velaryon.”

Daeron mutters to Aegon: “Goddamn, it’s bastards all the way down over on their side.”

“Silverwing is ridden by a man known as Ulf the White,” Larys continues. “He has the Targaryen coloring. And is supposedly a drunk and an unreliable character all-around.”

Otto casts a glance at Aegon, long and unsubtle. Aegon pretends not to see it.

“And the last one?” Aemond says. “Sheepstealer? Ridden by yet another undesirable dredged up from the slums of Dragonstone, I assume.”

“Interestingly, no,” Larys replies. “She is a girl from Driftmark called Nettles. Fierce, rugged.” He pauses meaningfully, reeling his audience in like fish on hooks. “She is now at Harrenhal with Daemon.”

“With Daemon?” Alicent echoes. “As an…understudy? Strategist? Accomplice?”

“As far more than that, if the rumors are to be believed.”

“Oh, may the Mother have mercy,” Alicent murmurs, gripping her gold necklace in the shape of the seven-pointed star.

“Daemon? With a teenager?!” Criston says. “He’s repulsive. He’s ancient.”

Otto laughs, a wicked low rumble. “Rhaenyra must be mortified! She must think of little else.”

Larys nods, smirking, conniving. “My point is, my lords…and ladies…these lowborn new riders—Dragonseeds, as they are being called—possess unsound loyalties. They risked their lives to claim the beasts for the promise of land and riches, not to help any particular faction win the Iron Throne. They do not love Rhaenyra or her cause. Already they are causing discord within the Blacks’ ranks. In time, they may prove to be liabilities more than assets, and if we could win even only Vermithor or Silverwing to our side…”

You peer over at Aegon as plots sail across the table. He is swaying in his seat, hands trembling, agonized and empty like a dry well. His eyes are dark and glassy; he gazes inanely straight ahead. He needs to leave soon, and you will go with him. But you have one question to ask first.

You say to Larys: “Do you think the Pact of Ice and Fire might be dissolved? Now that Jace is dead?”

Everyone looks at you; everyone, that is, except Aegon and Helaena. They are well-matched for once, equally present in body but not in soul. Too late, you realize that perhaps this was an unwise inquiry. You should not be attracting attention to yourself. You should not be expressing anxiety about Cregan Stark’s allegiances.

Fortunately, Larys does not seem to be wary. He titters, peeling a grape with those rat-like little fingers. “I don’t think we’ll get that lucky, Lady Thorne. Cregan fancies himself to be an honorable man, and he believes Rhaenyra—as Viserys’ allegedly chosen heir—to be the honorable choice. And I’m sure she will offer him some redress for his lost future daughter-in-law, perhaps a daughter of Joffrey.”

“Or Daemon and Nettles,” Daeron adds, snickering.

“In any case, there is another matter keeping Cregan on the Blacks’ side,” Larys says. “I heard months ago that he is apparently smitten with some Celtigar girl, and she’s been promised to him—”

Aegon groans and nearly tumbles out of his chair; you leap up to steady him. “The king must be taken back to bed immediately.”

Alicent stands and throws down her green cloth napkin onto the table. She’s wrung it with nervous hands into a tight little twist. “I’ll go with you.”

You and Alicent trail after the guards as they carry Aegon to his bedchamber. Grand Maester Orwyle meets you there and helps you undress Aegon, drug him, clean him, inspect his wounds for any new abrasions or signs of festering, apply honey to raw patches, work warm rose oil into the scar tissue around his joints, rebandage him with fresh strips of linen. Alicent watches all of this with tears brimming in her eyes, those vast shadowy pools of memories, so few of them good.

When Orwyle is gone and Aegon drifts in bottomless psychic darkness that he will likely not surface from for days, you ask Alicent: “Would you like to touch him? You can. On his hands, his face. It’s alright. You won’t harm him.”

Her own hands are clasped together so tightly her knuckles are a bloodless shade of white. “I won’t?”

“No. Come and see.”

She steps closer tentatively. She ghosts her fingertips across his limp left hand, where his dragon ring glints and his flesh is unscarred. Then she threads his braid through her hand. Her voice is so soft you can barely hear her, though she stands right beside you. “If he died, it would kill me.”

I understand. I’m afraid that’s becoming true for me too. It’s spreading like infection, like plague. “He’s not going to die. He is mending.”

Alicent nods, sniffling, swiping tears from her flushed, puffy face. “What can I do? Anything?”

“Tell him you love him. And that you’re proud of him. That he is a true Targaryen and a worthy king.”

“Yes,” she agrees; but she looks as if you have given her instructions in a language she does not speak. She flees from the room in a daze, in a nightmare she cannot wake up from.

An hour later, you are sitting on Aegon’s floor in an corridor of late-afternoon sunlight and reading a book on herbology when Aemond comes to collect you. He never tells you where you’re going, and now is no exception. You follow him down hallways and staircases, through throngs of courtiers who wear green and toast to the deaths of Jace Velaryon and those traitors at the Battle of the Honeywine. Contrary to your best guesses, Aemond does not lead you to the council chamber or the rookery or the library.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says as he beckons you out into the gardens. There are a group of nobles clustered by a trickling fountain and chatting merrily. One of them is Sir Rickard Thorne. “Your family is here.”

Cold blood in your veins, a terror like a prey animal’s, legs that threaten to buckle. Your shoes halt mid-step. “Family…?”

“Some of Sir Rickard’s relatives came to visit him before we march north. I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to see your aunt and cousins—”

A woman screams, a sound like glass breaking. She drops the cup she was holding and wine floods across the cobblestones like blood. Her hands fly up to her face. You know her: Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother, a name like Clara or Cora or Camila. Her daughters yelp and gape alongside her. Aemond is baffled but not alarmed. The truth is too unthinkable for him to consider.

“Why is she here?!” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother hisses through bared teeth.

Aemond looks at you, then to the woman. “She is not your kin…?”

“She’s not ours.” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother points at you, a finger like a knife, stabbing, lethal. “She’s one of Bartimos Celtigar’s daughters!”

Someone is yelling, not you, but someone. People are making accusations and demands. Aemond is not listening to any of them. He is staring at you with his remaining eye wide and filling up with blade-sharp realization, shock, betrayal, hatred. You have no good options. You choose a not-good one. You bolt away from him and through the gardens, trampling flowers and ricocheting off marble statues. You can hear Aemond behind you, swift and deft like a falcon. You crash through a wall of scrubs and tumble blindly into a fishpond. You gasp for air as you burst up out of the water, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on rocks slick with algae. Panicked fish zoom by you, their fins leaving paper-thin gashes in your skin. Aemond is at the water’s edge, his hand closing around your wrist to drag you from the pond. And now there is nothing funny about it; now Aemond isn’t smiling.

You’re on the cobblestones and coughing water from your lungs, you’re being yanked upright, you’re being hauled through the gardens. You claw and shove, you fight him viciously. It’s just like when you first met. Except that now Aemond knows exactly who you are.

“Aemond, stop, stop, please listen to me—”

“You fucking liar,” he seethes. He is towing you out into the streets of King’s Landing. Where? Where? “In our bedrooms. In our council meetings. While your father bankrolls Rhaenyra’s treason.”

“I meant no harm to you—”

“House Thorne!” Aemond roars into your face. “I asked you which family was yours and you said House Thorne, you masqueraded as a Green, you deceived us, you lied to me—”

“So you would let me help him!” you shout back. “You asked me to save Aegon’s life and I did, I did and I was the only one who could, and you never would have let me near him if you knew who my family was!”

“A Celtigar.” He snarls it like a curse that can kill. “You never cared about any of us.”

“That’s not true.”

“A traitor, a spy.”

“I never spied—”

“Sending letters home to your avaricious demon of a father.”

You strike at Aemond’s chest as hard as you can, hard enough to try to get him to listen. “I never wrote letters! Not one! They don’t know I’m here, they don’t know anything, all I’ve done since the second I met you was serve your house, your king!”

“Keep moving,” Aemond snaps. Smallfolk and mule carts jostle by you. Street venders and shopkeepers bellow out the attributes of their merchandise. You are accustomed to the aftermath of battles, but not filthy and bustling city streets. You are overwhelmed by foreign sights, sounds, scents. People gawk and bow when they spot Aemond, perhaps genuinely, perhaps because they know he commands the largest dragon in the world and does not shy away from murder. Where is he taking me? Where?

There are women wandering in the streets now, their faces smeared with sweated-through makeup, their sleeves hanging off their shoulders. They simper at the prince regent, they reach out to comb their long painted fingernails through his hair. They are prostitutes.

No, you think. No no no.

“Aemond, where are we going?”

“Exactly where you belong. You sell lies. There are lots of women who make a living that way.”

“You can’t do this,” you say with horror.

“I assure you, I can do just about anything.”

“You found me!” you scream at Aemond. “You dragged me off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest and into that tent, you brought me to King’s Landing, every step I made was orchestrated by you, you found me, so don’t you act like I gained anything from this except the satisfaction of saving your brother’s life when you were incapable of it!”

“Your father funds Rhaenyra’s war effort,” Aemond says with chilling matter-of-factness. “Now you can help fund ours.”

“No!” You struggle against his grip, scratch at his face. Your fingers catch on the strap of his eyepatch and tear it away. Beneath is a sapphire that glitters cruelly in a nest of the frayed remnants of his eyelids. You shriek, but there is no one to help you, nowhere to run.

“Are you finished now?” Aemond demands, glaring ferociously: one eye of flesh, the other of cold earth-mined fire. He draws his dagger from his belt and lays the blade against your jugular. “Yes, you are. You’d better be.”

He brings you to a doorway. There is a woman standing in it: voluptuous, beautiful, middle-aged, hair long and braided and the warm brown color of a stag’s coat. She summons a practiced, enticing smile. She knows about things you do not want to imagine. “Hello again, my prince.”

They are already acquainted. Aemond does not seem pleased that she is being so forthright about it. “She will stay here,” he says, meaning you, this terrified woman with a dagger to the pulsing arteries of her throat.

“Yes,” the brothel madam agrees immediately.

“She will be put to work. Each week, someone will come to collect her wages.”

“Very good, my prince.”

“She must be watched closely.”

“All the girls are.”

“Especially closely. If she tries to escape, kill her.”

“Yes, my prince,” the madam says as you breathe in the sweat, salt, cries, moans, feigned pleasure, real pain of this place.

“Aemond, please don’t do this, please don’t leave me here, not here, anywhere but here—”

He flings you into the arms of the madam, tucking his dagger away. He gives you one last glance—dismissive, hateful, soulless—and then disappears into the swarming, anonymous streets.

Who will save me?

“You poor thing, you’ve had the fright of your life, haven’t you?” the brothel madam says, stroking your hair tenderly.

Clement? Father? Alicent? Aegon?

“Don’t worry, love. You can help in the kitchen tonight. We’ll get you situated tomorrow. I can’t have you running off clients with this hysteria anyway.”

No one knows I’m here.

“It isn’t so bad. You’ll see. We’ll take good care of you.”

How will they save me if no one knows I’m here?

[olenvasynyt]

How do Lucien’s fire powers stack up against his brothers, considering that they aren’t his primary powers?

Ooooh interesting question! It’s hard to gauge anything from his powers because he doesn’t use any of his abilities often and when we see it, it’s so stupidly vague. I know some people theorize that Lucien actually doesn’t have any Autumn powers because again, we don’t really see it explicitly, but I say that he does for 2 reasons: 1. We get these vague descriptions of his powers in ACOWAR:

Chapter 12 of ACOWAR:

“[My powers] couldn’t keep them contained for long, and I could indeed feel someone’s power rising to challenge mine.

But there was another force to wield.

Lucien understood the same moment I did.

Sweat simmered off Lucien‘s brow as a pulse of flame licked power slammed into the stones just above us. Dust and debris rained down.

I threw any trickle of magic into Lucien’s next blow. His next.

As well as a very vague quote:

Chapter 13 of ACOWAR:

Beyond me, Lucien has unleashed himself on his two brothers. Metal and fire blasted and collided, ice spraying.

And 2. It’s also implied that he got his fire from LoA and that it was one of the reasons why Beron didn’t just kill him outright.

Chapter 46 of ACOWAR:

Beron must have discovered the affair when she was pregnant with Lucien.

He likely suspected, but there was no way to prove it not if she was sharing his bed too. I have no doubt Beron debated, killing her for the betrayal, and even afterward. When Lucien could be possible as his own offspring, just enough to make him doubt who had sired his last son.

His power is flame, though. They’ve mused Beron‘s title could go to him.

His mother‘s family is strong—that was why Beron wanted a bride from their line. The gift could be hers. 

If he had no fire powers, it would have been very obvious in his youth and it would raise some eyebrows. LoA is from a power bloodline of fire-wielders and Beron, who is assumed to be Lucien’s father, is High Lord. Plus I just like the sort of symbolism of him having his feet in both Autumn and Day when he has fire powers and Day powers.

The magic in ACOTAR isn’t very well written in my opinion and the vagueness makes it confusing and up for interpretation.

But anyways, getting back to how powerful Lucien is. We see two scenes where he is actively fighting, and one is with his sword and fire in Winter when he’s fighting against his brothers. He was outnumbered and just recovering from having faebane in his system for a while. And he was able to fight them very well 2 to 1. So based on that alone I would say that his fire powers could be pretty powerful, as well as his melee. He’s also using his sword, and he defeated the Hybern general very easily (surprise attack but whatever). So like, tbh, he’s probably more powerful than his brothers.

When I think about this quote, I like to speculate that he was very clever about hiding his abilities from his brothers and Beron when he was younger.

Chapter 11 of ACOWAR:

“As the youngest of seven sons, I wasn’t particularly needed or wanted. Perhaps it was a good thing. I was able to study for longer than my father allow my brothers before shoving them out the door to rule over some territory within our lands, and I could train for as long as I liked, since no one believed, I’d be dumb enough to kill my way up the long list of heirs. And when I grew bored with studying and fighting, I learned what I could of the land from its people. Learned about the people too.”

So one saw him as a threat to their fight for the throne, and they kind of left him to himself. He trained as much as he could because he didn’t have any responsibilities, even longer than his brothers. And I like to think that he trained even more when he ran from Autumn and lived in Spring. He didn’t have his brothers or Beron watching him.

In my backstory fic A Court of Embers and Sunlight, I don’t focus on his fire too much? Right now I’m kind of following that quote I said before: “And when I grew bored with studying and fighting, I learned what I could of the land from its people. Learned about the people too.” In my fic, he’s at the point where he’s trained for almost everything and he is learning from the land and people now.

Interesting question! I love Lucien and I have picked apart every aspect of him, but sometimes I’m like 😐 SJM come on. You can try a little harder. Give me more than just vagueness.

[let-it-return-to-the-ashes]

Over fifty posts in on this blog, it’s probably well past the time to post something that isn’t a reblog for once lmao.

And so, behold:

A new fic inspired by @teecupangel ! And this post in particular:

The assumption that Desmond is an Auditore Lovechild??? Leonardo and Ezio both pulling a Shouto Todoroki??? Beautiful.

And so, I present the brainchild that came forth.

Summary:

So…this is how it ends, huh. Alone, surrounded only by the ghosts of humanity’s cruel creators. The end of the line—the end of her bloodline—and everything has come crashing down. To release Juno, who seeks to enslave humanity once more, or to condemn billions of innocents to a cruel, unjust death.

There’s really no choice, isn’t there?

Have a nice timezone

(:!

—Ember

[melilovesghost]

Hello again, Ghesties! Its time for day 2 of kinktober, hosted by @kroas-adtam !! Disclaimer: this chapter is based on events that happen in the wattpad fic "It's A Long Way Down" by JamieStark445, so I would recommend reading that for it to make more sense, but there is a bit of backstop at the start to set the scene, so this is optional. Also I have never written anything like this before, so apologies if its bad 😅.

Day 2 - Tail Play (I don't know enough about how Quintessence works)

It hadn't even been a week since Lilith had thrown her sister into the depths of hell. She was trying hard to make sure the ghouls felt safe in her company, that she wasn't at all like her evil sister. She had been working hard to destroy the rules her sister had made, so the ghouls could live happier, more comfortable lives. The first rule she abolished was the rule that ghouls had to be masked around EVERYONE, except themselves. This meant that the ghouls basically had to live in their huge, uncomfortable masks full time. Lilith hated this, she knew how uncomfortable those masks got after a long period of time. She changed the rule so that ghouls can present how they want, since everyone in the ministry knows they're ghouls anyway. This also included their full ghoul form, however she stated it was preferable if they didn't be full ghouls infront of the sisters of sin, as they are only human and they might scare them, especially Mountain, who is 8ft in full ghoul form. Lilith made sure to tell the ghouls this rule immediately, hoping it would help them trust her.

"So guys, Lilith seems serious about this no mask rule. Maybe she won't be like Imperator?" Aether spoke to the group. Aether has always been the most rational of the group, so for him to have said this it must be true. Sodo however was the least trusting. To him, she was from the same bloodline, so must be the same. "I bet she's just changed that stupid rule in hopes that she can gain our trust so then she can shoot us down and it will hurt even more. I don't trust her one bit. He tricks won't work on me." Sodo spat. "Think about it though Sodo, even if she is stringing us along, it will still be beneficial for us to get to be in our full ghoul forms, we've all had to glamour for way too long now. It'll do us some good." Aether commented. "I suppose you're right Aeth. Shall we all unglamour then?" Sodo suggested. "Sounds good" Swiss added, unglamouring, everyone else following quickly after.

All of them sighed happily upon feeling the relief of being able to be themselves. Sodo tail immediately wrapped around the waist of his mates. Cirrus round Cumulus, Mountain round Swiss. They all cuddled in peace in the common room until Sodo's dirty mind decided it needed to have an input. He leant into Ember's ear and whispered "hey baby, we've never fucked in ghoul form, wanna give it a try?" Ember found herself getting wet just from the thought of it. She discreetly nodded her head, causing Sodo to pick her up using his tail, throw her onto his shoulder bridal style and swiftly carry her to his room.

Using his tail, he carefully threw Ember onto his bed. He then climbed on top of her and wrapped his tail around her again to pull her close, into a deep passionate kiss. Without breaking the kiss, Ember began to use her tail to feel inside Sodo's pants, using her hands to get them undone. Sodo then broke the kiss to quickly take his shirt off, unwrapping his tail from Ember's waist, allowing it to slip under her shirt. Ember helped Sodo's tail to remove her shirt, quickly following with her bra. Sodo's tail immediately circled round Ember's left breast, stroking her nipple with the tip of his tail. Ember's head fell back in pleasure whilst she let out a moan. Ember then wrapped her tail around Sodo's dick, pulling it out of his boxers, and started rubbing it, causing Sodo to moan and involuntarily squeezing Ember's nipple with his tail a bit harder.

Sodo began kissing Ember again, letting his tail slowly roam her body until it reached her sweats. Skillfully, he uses his tail to undo the ties, and breaks the kiss briefly to pull them down, leaving her in just her panties. Swiftly, he went back to kissing her, using his tail to rub her up and down through her panties, causing her to moan into the kiss, also increasing the speed in which she was rubbing him off. Sodo could feel himself starting to build so he dove his tail into Ember's now soaking wet panties, feeling her clit. Ember didn't see this coming, causing her tail to squeeze Sodo's dick. Sodo moaned in both pleasure and pain from this action. Ember realises what she did ans quickly removed her tail, frantically saying sorry to Sodo, only for him to shut her up with his lips. "I'm okay, don't worry" he whispered to her after breaking the kiss. "But those panties are coming off now." Still massaging her clit with this tail, he quickly rips off her panties.

Sodo then lined himself up with Ember, thrusting into her whilst still rubbing her clit with his tail. He uses his hands to massage her nipples, turning Ember into a moaning mess. It didn't take long for them both to get close, Ember using her tail to grip Sodo's waist and pull him closer to her, deeper into her. Sodo could feel her tail vibrate around him, telling him she was close, causing him to start pumping into her harder and faster. A short time later, they both came in perfect synchronisation, tails twitching, panting from their highs.

"Damn Em, that was fun, we should definitely do that again sometime whadyasay?" Sodo commented between pants. "Yeah, yeah.. we... should..." Ember said softly, falling asleep. Sodo quickly wrapped her up, laid next to her and wrapped his tail around her, setting an alarm for 30m so they could get themselves cleaned up afterwards, and slowly drifting off next to his mate, the love of his life.

[anthropwashere]

deadfic: our indestructible days ch 1

More deadfic for the Good Intentions WIP Fest, though since the event’s over I’ll spare the poor mod yet more of my horseshit. 

This was, in fact, the first fic I really tackled post 2017 BH watch! And boy does it show. I’m doing y’all a favor by editing it to hell and back before posting any of it, honest. Due to that however, I don’t know how many chapters there will be. At least 4, since that’s as far as I’ve gotten in the editing process. We shall see!

All you need to know for this one is: What if Kimblee didn’t stop Pride from possessing Ed on the Promised Day? :)

Title comes from Puscifer’s “Dear Brother.”

=

The air burns against his flaking skin, molten stone growing dark yet still radiating a dangerous heat. Everyone else has gone after Father, the rattle and scrape of transmuted stone fading. It's just the two of them now, the alchemist and the homunculus, and Pride has the upper hand.

“This container won’t last much longer,” he says matter-of-factly, leaping down to stand before the boy. In the dusty sunlight filtering in from above Edward Elric’s eyes shine, catlike and calculating. His breathing is ragged, spit between clenched teeth. He’s pinned by cords of unyielding shadow. If he struggles much harder, Pride might break something.

That thought demands brief consideration. It would be satisfying to take Edward apart bone by brittle bone, to take his pound of flesh for the damage incurred to his Philosopher’s Stone. The left arm would sever easily, if he but sharpened his shadows. Tempting, yes, but ultimately pointless.

“But still,” he continues thoughtfully, a new plan already fallen into place. “Like my father is, you are of Hohenheim's bloodline. We’re virtually brothers. Which means, Edward Elric, I can use your container. Your body belongs to me!”

It is an easy thing to invade the bloodstream, entering through a thin cut on the boy’s cheek. Pride fills every vein and artery with shadows until Edward’s heart is smothered, his blood sludge. He ignores the screams, the uptick in thrashing. This is tricky work, something only achieved twice before, and he hadn't seen either success firsthand. His Stone is too big for such a little cut. He spares a tendril of himself to stab the boy's chest, wrenching open a wound big enough to deposit his core directly against the thrashing heart within. Connective tissue regrows at a breakneck pace, sewing him irrevocably into a body a thousand times more complex than his original container.

With that taken care of Pride lashes out with a snap of white teeth, unfettering the strangled soul. The body still writhes, pain a thing of the flesh rather than the spirit, but there is less resistance after that. If it's lucky, the boy's soul will be absorbed into his Stone, its energy and knowledge assimilated, made useful. Then again it could simply burn up in the transference, an ember caught in a cold wind.

Either way, that which was called Edward Elric will no longer be a concern.

What a big fuss Wrath made of it, with his story of the man who became a homunculus who became King. A little pain suffered is nothing, when the alternative is death.

Edward’s screaming makes this all the sweeter.

Without its contents, his old container collapses to so much dust and an empty pile of clothing, and— 

—ah. 

There are memories, kept just beneath the surface of Edward’s dying panic. The mind is easy to parse when the soul is absent. Old night terrors, old horrors. Loneliness. What a childish thing to fear.

A heartbeat. 

Another. 

Waiting— dreading— the body’s rejection of him. 

But it never comes. Barely a shudder of resistance, the only lash of alchemical reaction his Stone instinctively healing injuries the boy had incurred.

The silence after that's finished is a breathless, giddy surprise.

Pride tests his new container carefully, casting an unhappy glance at the automail arm he’s now saddled with. It’s an unpleasant weight, cold and heavy; the leg much the same. It'll take time he doesn't have to adjust to them. How pathetic, that humans must rely on machinery to recover from serious injury. Once he’s regained some of his strength he’ll have to do something about them.

Something shifts within him, a sensation not unlike vertigo stealing his breath. Pride hesitates, wobbling on unfamiliar limbs, but the feeling passes. He smiles. A strong bloodline indeed.

“Fight all you wish,” he says aloud. “I've won.”

Even his voice has changed. His true voice is marred, pitched deeper. Weighed down. He is weighed down by this new container. It's strange. This is all very strange. But he must adjust quickly, for the battle isn’t won yet.

He shakes unfamiliar blond hair from his new container’s eyes, looking up through the hole punched through the many underground floors beneath Central Command. Four thin stone pillars ascend through it, stretching all the way up to the parade grounds. Such a distance. Even the sacrifices shouldn't have been capable of stretching so much material so high without it collapsing. What did they do? What was that array they activated that allowed them to perform alchemy again?

The fight has shifted. He must return to the fray, now that he’s been renewed. Father would—

Father expects him to—

No. 

Not yet. He’s not strong enough to rejoin that fight, yet. His Stone was damaged even more than they’d anticipated when he forced Mustang through the Gate. 

Pride sniffs, tasting the air. There are humans nearby; more souls to consume. He licks his lips and sends his grinning shadows upward.

He is hungry.

=

Major General Armstrong kneels beside the body of Führer King Bradley, hating that she's been sideline for what is surely the most decisive battle Amestris has ever seen. Her men are up there, where that pale creature had ascended only minutes ago atop a pillar of molten stone. Bullets and mortars were near useless against the lesser homunculi; what could their Father be capable of?

Her pulse is still racing, a sour taste settled in her mouth. She knows acutely what it feels like to die, and the experience has left her feeling hollowed out in a way she's unsure of how to voice. She remembers a maelstrom of suffering, countless voices begging for release. It's not something she'd wish on a Drachman, let alone endure again. If not for the Elric brothers' father she'd still be trapped in that hell. They all would be.

Is it fear that still makes her heart pound, or cowardice?

Her lip curls. Fear is justified. Fear is the intelligent reaction. To fear something means you're paying attention. Cowardice, however....

She shakes her head. Four of the human sacrifices—Izumi Curtis, Alphonse Elric, Van Hohenheim, and Mustang—had been afraid, and yet still determined to stop that monster. Even blinded Mustang hadn't hesitated to fight on, utilizing the famed Hawk's Eye to direct his flame attacks. It's both begrudging and gratifying, to realize the man has a stronger spine than she'd thought. 

The fifth, Fullmetal, is still below fighting Pride. There'd been sounds of combat, and then screaming, but it's gone quiet now. The distance and echo distorting the sounds had made it impossible to determine who had been doing the screaming. The lot of them on this level have been keeping a wary eye on the hole in the floor since then. They don't know what that particular homunculus is capable of and the only alchemist left here is the serial killer Scar, and he's in no shape to assist. The idiot boy had better not die while the battle's still on.

She eases to her feet, hissing pain despite her best efforts, and cats her sight on the blue sky above. A single blast of power had punched a hole in this underground labyrinth clear through to the surface. How can they defend against something like that?

Bah. Defeatist's talk. The alchemists will do all they can to do just that, and her men will support them. They're Briggs men. They'll do whatever it—

"What the hell?!"

"What is that?!"

She turns sharply toward where the few soldiers who'd insisted on staying behind as a protection detail are gathered. They've all drawn their weapons, aiming at the hole in the floor. Ribbons of—shadows—stretch up from below, splitting open to reveal red eyes and white jaws.

Damn! And here she'd thought Fullmetal had been left behind to fight the homunculus alone for good reason! Was the boy really so useless as to die now?

"PREPARE YOURSELVES!" She bellows, striding toward the lashing shadows. A glance is all she needs to know it would be futile to try and keep distance in a room as small as this. Better to be with her men. She may have lost the use of her sword arm but this is a fight she will not—cannot—leave for her men to fight alone. "Fire at Selim Bradley the moment he shows himself!"

The red eyes narrow. The white jaws grin. Grating laughter echoes off of the stone walls. "That container has been discarded, Major General," the mouths all say in the same mocking voice. "But are you really going to risk injuring this body?"

From out of the depths a figure rises, lifted up on tendrils of shadow to step lightly onto the rubble-strewn floor. Her men curse, guns dipping. Somewhere behind her Mr. Curtis and the frog chimera inhale sharply. She can't blame any of them.

The grinning boy with living shadows curling at his boots is Fullmetal.

"Edward," Izumi's husband says, hushed. The boy pays him no mind, eyes flat and cold as coins.

"It was wise of you to stay behind," Fullmetal—no, Pride—says, still smiling. The shadows stretch and curl, painting the room in streaks of black. "Your contributions to the war effort are greatly appreciated."

Too late, she understands what he means to do. "No! Don't you dare—!"

The shadows strike, and her men begin to scream.

=

"Edward Elric."

His name whispered out of the murk. A voice calling him awake. He can't pinpoint where it's coming from. Everything else is so loud. There are so many people nearby, all of them screaming, all of them begging to die. Everything is so red.

"Fullmetal."

He tries to put a name to the voice. He knows it. Doesn't he know it?

Fraying. He's being... stretched. Pulled apart. Losing his sense of self.

He's losing himself.

"Surely you're not going to roll over as easily as that, are you?"

He... he knows this voice.

A pinpoint of white, searing amongst all this writhing red. The shape of a man comes into focus. White clothes, long dark hair, the wide eyes of a madman, tattoos on his outstretched palms.

"K...Kim...blee...?"

The man smiles. "Ah, so you are still in there. Good, very good."

"Where... what is... this...?"

"We've both become a part of Pride's Philosopher's Stone now. Two souls clinging to our individuality amidst a howling mob of anguish." Kimblee rocks back on his heels, throwing out his hands. His face is a picture of bliss. "Isn't it exquisite?"

He looks away, out at the writhing, the screaming. Nothing but gaping mouths and dark eye sockets everywhere he looks, the barest suggestions of human shapes. Souls. How many died to make this Stone? "It's—loud. No. No, this. This isn't. This isn't what I...."

It's getting so hard to think.

Kimblee looks almost disappointed now. "Tell me, Edward Elric. Are you truly so weak as this? Unraveling at the first glimpse of something beyond your control?"

He looks down at himself. Two arms, two legs. No automail pulling insistently at his bones. Of course not. He's only a soul, nearly as red as the others twisting all around him. He's inside a Philosopher's Stone, which makes him only one more lost soul. Wisps of red peel from his limbs, chafed and scraped away by the chaos pushing and pulling at him from all sides. He's falling apart. Losing himself. Soon he'll be nothing but babbling energy, regenerative power for the homunculus he's become a part of. For... for....

"Pride."

Kimblee raises one curious eyebrow. "That's right."

"Where—Where is he?"

"A bit preoccupied eating to overhear this conversation, if that's your concern."

He—Edward, he's Ed, gotta stay focused, he can't slip again, his name is Edward—strains, struggling to remember what happened. How he came to be like this. He was.... There had been.... Pride. Selim had been badly—injured? damaged?—after forcing the Colonel through the Gate. His container was failing. He'd pinned Ed down—pain, it had hurt—and declared that Ed would be... that Ed's body would be....

Ed's just a soul now. He doesn't have a body, no skin to prickle and no breath to catch, but a chill runs through him all the same. "He. He took my body. He made me his new container. Didn't he?"

"That's right."

No matter where Ed looks it's all souls, no glimpse of what's going on outside this Stone. Ling—and Greed, for that matter—have always had a good idea of what was going on when the other one had been in control of Ling's body. How did they—

Hold on.

Ed looks back at Kimblee, who just smiles pleasantly back. Eating. Pride can't hear them right now because he's eating. The hell does that mean?

"I can't see," Ed snaps, shoving at a soul that's drifted uncomfortably close. His hand is paler, more defined than it was before. He's got a good grip on himself again. He really should've paid more attention when Ling talked about the meditation shit he did while Greed was refusing to share. "Ugh. Where is he? What's he doing, Kimblee?"

Kimblee chuckles and waves his hand. The tempest of screaming parts like a theater curtain; bright light spills in that leaves Ed blinking and shading his eyes. He goes to it anyway. He has to know what Kimblee meant—

His sight adjusts, and he's looking at a bloodbath.

There's red sprayed across the near wall, splashed along the floor, drips and splatters and scraps of tattered uniforms everywhere he looks. A single soldier is in view, firing wildly right at Ed only to have the bullets deflected by a shadow pitted with familiar eyes and bloodstained fangs. The gun in the soldier's hands clicks, the clip emptied, and the shadow cuts him down. Ed can hear the brutal crunch of bone, the muted spurt of spilled blood, the ragged tearing of meat. He hears someone laughing. His voice. His stolen voice multiplied weirdly through the shadow mouths as Selim's had been. 

Ed hollers, twisting away, but Kimblee's white hands hold him fast. The man's voice roars out, ragged with terrible glee. "Don't avert your eyes! Don't look away! That's your body out there, cutting those men down. Take credit for the destruction your hands have wrought!"

"NO! NO! That's not—it's not me—get the fuck off—I don't want this!"

"Then what are you going to do about it?!"

"—no, no, I don't—I—w-what?"

Once Ed's stopped struggling Kimblee all but drops him, still grinning from ear to ear. "I thought about interfering, when Pride first tried to take your body for himself."

"What?"

"I'm perfectly content in here, but he decided to throw away his honor as a homunculus. So proud to be what he is, that very quality he was named for, but the moment he found himself in grave danger he sought to escape into the body of a human." Kimblee snarls. "He's pathetic. A disgrace."

Ed watches his body's left hand rise, pointing at—Major General Armstrong? Her face is a mask of blood, and the rest of her isn't much better. Sig's beside her, one arm slick and hanging heavily, the other supporting Scar who looks like he narrowly escaped a meat grinder. Behind them he can just glimpse Jerso in his frog form, lying so still it's impossible to tell if he's still breathing. The window or whatever out into the real world flickers as—fuck—as Pride looks at another soldier spring out from behind cover. He empties his clip in record time, unerringly aimed at Ed's chest. Do any of the bullets hit? Do they hurt? The soldier's cradling his rifle strangely, one hand clumsily wrapped in bloodstained cloth. 

"Why?" Ed asks, weary. A shadow arcs out, bristling with teeth, and bites through the man. He goes down with a bizarrely muted scream and another spray of blood. "Why didn't you stop him? This—this wouldn't be happening if you'd stopped him!"

Kimblee regards him, eyes narrowed, face unreadable. "Führer Bradley is a homunculus," he says conversationally. "And Greed. His vessel is human as well, isn't it?"

Outside, sounds of crunching, splattering, chewing. Ed watches a clean white uniform stain almost black with gore. "Yeah? So what?"

"I started to think a little, that's what." Another little chuckle. Fuck, this guy really is crazy. He's enjoying this. "The homunculi make such a fuss out of being better than humans. More evolved, above our petty fears and desires. They're so proud to be the puppeteers of this country, the hands on our yokes as they've guided us to this Promised day."

Ed watches the shadows finish off the soldier, nothing but a smear of blood and a couple glistening pieces of meat left behind. The window flickers again as Pride turns his head to regard the last of the survivors.

"It's funny," Kimblee says. "For how much they talk, they so rarely deliver on their promises. So I ask you, Edward Elric. What are you going to do now?"

The General. Sig. Jerso. Scar. They're going to die. Pride's going to kill them. For all Ed knows they might think he agreed to let Pride take his body.

He looks at his hands. He's nearly himself again, or at least as nearly like himself as he can be without his body. He's got two arms here. Two legs too. An arm and a leg, and a body, and the whole damn country on top of it now. He's made way too many promises to fail here.

Ed sets his jaw and leaps out into the light.

[redrobin-detective]

Heya! Sorry to bother, but I've been getting back into ATLA recently and I wanted to know if you have any Fic Recs for that? Mainly ones including Zuko! Thanks already!!

TheTAlright here we go, I’ve split it between FF and AO3 fics because I read a lot of stuff on FF. If you see an * next to an FF story then the story was crossposted to AO3.

Fanfiction

Another Brother by Avocado Love*- 10 year old Zuko is discovered by Hakoda’s fleet with no memories and is adopted into the Water Tribe as Sokka and Katara’s brother when they discover the Avatar in the ice. My favorite ATLA AU.

In His Shoes by Avocado Love- While staying in Ba Sing Se, Sokka and Zuko run into and accidentally kill one another. The spirits bring them back, but in each other’s bodies to teach them a lesson about understanding different people and cultures.

Tea With Destiny by Avocado Love*- During his Spirit World Quest, Iroh meets a wise old Fire Lord who invites him for tea and advice but who is that mysterious scarred man?

The Undying Fire: Book One by Boogum- Part one of five (originally one 90 some chapter story). In order to save Aang during the Blue Spirit adventure, Zuko discovers he has healing fire. He ends up travelling with the Gaang mid book 2. Really good, I lost track but I need to finish. 

Bloodline by mon-petit-pois*- A brief but fascinating look at the royals of the Fire Nation from Sozin to Izumi and how fire, hatred and war shaped them all for good or ill.

What Do You Mean I’m Not Fire Lord by ManofManyHats*- Its the aftermath of Zuko’s Agni Kai and he’s frustrated to learn there’s still some political maneuverings in order to be crowned. Alternatively: Zuko wants snuggles and gets struggles (but some snuggles later).

Revenant by ManofManyHats*- 13 year old Zuko dies at his father’s hand during their Agni Kai. He wanders as a ghost until he becomes a ‘spiritual’ adviser to Team Avatar. This is one of the most fulfilling angsts I’ve ever read, breaking my heart but also feeling very natural and peaceful.

Bringing Out the Blue by maguena1- Zuko never gets revealed as the Blue Spirit so Aang takes his savior back to camp. He sees it as an oppertunity to catch the Avatar but soon finds himself fond of this crazy group he accidentally became a part of. 

Understanding the Enemy by TheTimelessCycle- the cathartic, ‘Katara and Zuko finally talk about their issues and put the past behind them with more than an “I forgive you” hug’ we never got in the show.

Embers by Vathara*- How do I even describe this landmark fic? Yes its probably the longest fic I’ve ever read but the details and intricate social and political breakdown on the nature of cultures and bending. Definitely paints some characters (Zuko, Toph) way better than others (Katara, Aang) but damn this shit is good. Zuko has healing fire and it spirals way out of control from there.

Hide and Seek by Swiss Army Knife- The gaang trains by playing games in the woods, Sokka and new to the group, Zuko, team up and its just a really fun shot. 

Avatar Book Four: Air by Kojab8890- Man this blew 15 year old me away when I first read it. Right after the end of the series, while trying to energy bend Azula’s fire away, she steals the Avatar spirit from Aang. As she travels the globe to learn the elements, the Gaang chase behind to get the Avatar spirit back. 

A Matter of Patience by Assault Sloth- Bumi hosts gathering for all the nobles in the Earth Kingdom and yet finds himself most interested in the tiny blind girl who hides a powerful Earthbending talent and sense of humor behind her porcelain face AKA Bumi and Toph cannot behave at a fancy dinner. 

AO3

broken crown by ohmygodwhy- Zuko is made and tempered by fire

ribs by ohmygodwhy- Zuko teaches Aang firebending and a little of bad things that have happened to him

the first rule of earth kingdom fight club series by ohmygodwhy- After separating from Iroh, Zuko decides he needs to learn how to fight all kinds of people and ends up participating in Earth Kingdom fight clubs where he meets all kinds of interesting people. 

The Crown Hangs Heavy by monpetitepois- While returning from the Boiling Rock, Hakoda talks to Zuko about some rumors he’d heard about what the Fire Lord had done to his eldest son.

Red is the Color at the End of the World by Sholio- Katara in the Fire Nation in the aftermath thinking on what’s coming next.

Eight Principles of Yong by psocoptera- Zuko always had an interest and talent in calligraphy, especially with fire. When Sozin’s comet blazes, you uses his words not his fists to spread peace.

What Makes a Man by DracoMaleficium- While hunting, Zuko and Sokka come across some cute turtleducks that Zuko refuses to kill. Sokka learns there’s more than evil to the jerkbender and Zuko gets some new friends.

In Our Bedroom After the War by Wildgoosery- Zuko is stressed out trying to the teenage leader of the most hated country in the world. Mai, steady and calm, helps him relax. 

The Rusty Engine by orphan-account- Fire Lord Zuko is out of his mind with stress and orders a dirty, wrecked piece of machinery be brought to him so he can spend a glorious day doing thoughtless grunt work.

Three Years at Sea by orphan-account- A look at what Zuko was up to during the three years before Aang’s return.

love language by aloneintherain- Zuko is a living heatpack and the gaang takes advantage.

Cheating at Pai Sho by MuffinLance- Aang manages to convince Zuko he’s just a regular Airbender instead of the Avatar which sucks for Zuko especially when the freeloader invites his Water Tribe friends and his bison to live on the Wani together. 

Towards the Sun by MuffinLance- Zuko isn’t able to escape after the Day of Black Sun and ends up in prison but is made Fire Lord after Ozai is defeated. On the day the Gaang arrives to the Fire nation, they see their once enemy with a crown upon his head and no good interactions to their name. PS the servant really love their awkward Fire Lord

Little Zuko v The World by MuffinLance- Zuko is baby banished at 12 and discovers the Avatar shortly afterwards. Hijinks as teeny tiny Fire Prince tries to scream the world into submission (it sometimes works too)

[royaltealovingkookiness]

ATLA fic rec master-list

A place to organize the ATLA fanfic I like.

I tend to like Zuko-centric stuff, and stories that focus not exclusively on romance (though I do read many different ships as well). As it will become apparent, my taste is rather eclectic, so there can be things in it for everyone. 

Most links are to AO3, I just prefer it that much to the layout of ffnet.  Also, if I haven’t tagged someone in Tumblr correctly, please give me a shout.

General AUs / Gaang/ adventure (various ships)

The Worst Prisoner  by @emletish-fish  (WIP) (Zutara) - in this AU starting already from S1, Zuko becomes friends with the Gaang much, much sooner, which means there is lots of amazing 

Zuko’s Tiny Dilemma by @botherkupo (slight Zutara) S1 Zuko agebending story featuring Iroh as a teapot!  Tiny, grumpy Zuko gets the Mumtara treatment and has great Gaang content. It sweet and funny. Now with an Azula-centric spin-off No Returns, No Refunds

The Undying Fire series by @botherkupo  -  (there are some ships, but the main focus is Gen) This is an epic Zuko is a firehealer, AU starting with The Blue Spirit, and spanning through each season. Extremely good, lots of Gaang focus, great Aang and Zuko friendship vibes and so much more. I don’t want to spoil it, other than, if you haven’t read it, go read it now!

Another Brother by @awesomeavocadolove    (Gen, WIP) Zuko is adopted by Hakoda, grows up as WaterTribe, as another sibling of Sokka and Katara. 

The Avatar Makes Three by @awesomeavocadolove (Gen, WIP) - Aang loses, but before he dies, he divides the Avatar spirit between Zuko, Katara and Toph.

Ozymandias, King of Kings by @Think_of_a_Wonderful_Thought (WIP) - (Zuko/Sokka) This is a pretty dark AU, where instead of exile, Zuko was sent to a work camp before he’s freed by Aang and the others. The Zuko of this story is a pretty traumatized fellow, who is simply sick of everything. 

Southern Lights by @colourwhirled - (WIP, it’s Zutara, but it’s so much more). An AU world, where the Avatar has disappeared, the empire won the war. Iroh sets up a specialized unit with a chill airbender, a waterbending prodigy, a run away earth-bender and a banished prince.  There is politics, intrigue, adventure, cross-bending, and while the world is different the characters remain very recognizable.)  

In His Shoes by @awesomeavocadolove (Zuko/Sokka) It’s a bodyswap AU in Ba Sing Se. I love Ba Sing Se era Zuko and I love any AU where the Gaang sees this version of him. 

We Ourselves Must Walk the Path by @winterskywrites  (Gen) - short S3 AU where the Gaang really takes Zuko as prisoner in The Western Air Temple.

Fight by Electrons (Gen, WIP ) Zuko chooses differently in Ba Sing Se - now he’s the Gaang’s tour-guide to the Fire Nation. Lots of world-building around the Fire Nation. The story is on hiatus, but it’s still well-worth a read.

Unchained Melody by @awesomeavocadolove (WIP) (Zuko/Sokka), Sokka is stuck in spirit form, only Zuko can see him, S1 AU where Zuko and spirit-form Sokka are forced to hang out together. I mean how could it be wrong?

Little Zuko v the World by @muffinlance (Gen, WIP) Zuko finds Aang when they are both 12 in this S1 AU, which is written with a sweet humour. 

Fate Deferred by @catie-does-things  (WIP, Zutara) In this story Aang sleeps for another ten years before Zuko and Katara find him. It’s a story of Dadko and Momtara taking Aang to get his training in a world that ended up in a very different way after Sozin’s comet. It weaves together past and present masterfully and it’s as fun to follow the new adventures as it is to follow the past story of Zuko and Katara and see how things ended up as they are.

A Tale of Ice and Water by @soopersara (WIP) (pre-Zutara) - a canon-close AU featuring Avatar Katara, who still finds Aang in the ice. 

Zutara

Frozen @Aris Merquoni   - The ultimate Zuko gets captured at the North Pole fic. 

The Descent @chromeknickers  - S1 AU - Katara goes down to the spirit world to drag Zuko back to the living. A cranky waterbender, a pissed-off pony-tailed spirit and a very vivid spirit world. 

The Fifth Coloumn @chromeknickers (post-series Assassin AU) Katara is imprisoned by a secret society. A mysterious assassin infiltrates them. This has some dark / mature themes,  but a fantastic story overall.

Once Around the Sun  by Eleventy7 An amazing post-series eventual Zutara story, focused on Katara, Zuko and Azula. It’s a journey, both inside and out and it is amazing. Soul-searching, bonding, changing, adventure.

Mending Wounds by  FictionIsSocialInquiry  S2 AU, post-Chase. While lost in the Foggy Swamp, searching for her brother and her Avatar, Katara is haunted by visions of the Fire Nation's disgraced prince. Visions of peace after war, visions of honour and secrets...Katara has some interesting visions in the Swamp)

Stalking Zuko by @emletish-fish  Oldie but goldie, Zuko joins the Gaang, Katara takes up stalking. Sweet, funny Zutara fic from the Western Air Temple days.

I Don’t Speak Meow Language by @botherkupo   (Boogum)  Ba Sing Se-era, Zuko is a tea-server, Katara is a feisty cat AU - sweet, sweet silliness (I adore any fic where anyone from the Gaang gets to see up-close and personal, the sweet, awkward mess tea-shop Zuko is and you can’t get much closer than being a cat)

The Little Adentures of Katara (and One Giant Prince) by @botherkupo (WIP) An early S3 AU where a tiny Katara is stuck with her big princely saviour. I love this one because it gives a rare glimpse into Zuko’s palace life through Katara’s eyes, at the time when Zuko returns to the Fire Nation.  

so let us melt, and make no noise by littleloststar - a very moody AU, where Zuko is haunting for the last waterbender and Katara lives alone in an ice-palace. It feels like a Nordic myth with swirling snow and lots of darkness and ice. 

Fire Nation Royal Family

Lovable by LadyCharity (Zutara) A very emotional post-series Zuko & Azula story, which is also a Zutara story.

Azula’s Search by crowleyhouseplant (series) (slight TyZula)This story is just my absolute favourite post-series Azula-centric story, featuring an epic Azula/Mai/TyLee/Suki roadtrip to look for clues about Ursa. There is a little background Maiko and TyZula, but it is mostly about Azula’s road to redemption.

The Suns Inside of Us by @crowleyhouseplant   - (WIP) this is a sequel to Azula’s Search as she keeps searching her lost firebending, and perhaps her redemption, as she’s trying to figure out her place in the post-series reality, her relationship with Zuko, Mai, Ty Lee and others, but above all, herself.

Call “Uncle” by @jaggedcliffs  - (one-shot, Gen) The Gaang slowly adopts Iroh as everyone’s uncle.

Decorum by @sometimeswarrior (Gen) writes many good Iroh-centric one-shots. This one with Iroh & Ozai after the agni kai is my favourite.

stained in tea-colours by sangi - (one-shot, Gen) After the War, Azula eventually comes to live in Ba Sing Se with Iroh. A soulful story about Iroh, Azula and Zuko, and all the wounds they carry and the ties that bind them. It is a fantastic take on post-series Azula and her relationship with Iroh. Sangi has many great one-shots on the Fire Nation Royals, and they are really worth checking out.

There All the Honour Lies by @shastafirecracker (Gen) Iroh & Zuko oneshot, about the immediate aftermath of the Agni kai

our curse by @gaynasas and the last dragon by @runrundoyourstuff (Gen) OK, these are very dark, but very good takes on what would have happened if Ozai made a different decision about Iroh’s fate post S-2. Check out the tags before reading!

Choices by @catie-does-things  (Gen) Very interesting one-shot looking at Aang’s decision to spare Ozai’s life from the perspective of Zuko who now has to decide his fate.

Bloodline by monpetitpois (Gen) Multi-generation history of the Fire Nation Royals starting with Sozin to Izumi. It’s well written and in character and has a lovely forcus on Zuko’s and Izumi’s relationship. Character-focused, canon-compliant.

Zuko-centric (various ships & friendships)

the beginning of a new and brighter birth by  @captainkirkk (aloneintherain) (Gen) My favourite take on post-series Zuko becoming Fire-Lord. None of that comic nonsense. Very solid political plot, lots of heart and really it’s just the story that had to be told.

The Problem With Zuko by avocadolove (Gen) AU where Lu Ten didn’t die, and Zuko is just an overlooked lesser prince. He is put in charge of imprisoning Aang and his companions.

The Revenant by @achievement-bender (Gen) Zuko helps the Gaang, but in a very different way. A sad, but so good, Ghost!Zuko story. (check out the rest of their stuff - I also love Catch and Release, which is an AU where the Blue Spirit gets captured by Zhao

ribs by @gaynasas (oneshot) (Gen) There are simply not enough Zuko & Aang friendship stories in the world. This one is a great one about bonding over firebending and learning about Zuko’s scars. All of her stuff is very well written and worth reading.

a night at the theatre by @captainkirkk  (one-shot) (Gen) Fire Lord Zuko meets the Ember Island Players

A Candle to a Dragon by @achievement-bender  (WIP) (Gen) Non-bender Zuko AU. Wow, what a ride with a bookish, sweet, heartbroken Zuko, training with Piandao as he’s trying to figure out who he is without bending in a family of prodigies. 

Heartlines by @kuchee  (WIP) Zuko loves Katara. Katara loves Zuko. Aang loves Katara. Katara loves Aang. Aang loves Zuko. Zuko loves Aang. It doesn’t have to be a love triangle if everyone has two hands? A lovely Zuko/Katara/Aang OT3 with lots of pining set during a post-series Earth Kingdom natural disaster.

Antebellum by @veliseraptor (Gen) A Zuko & Aang friendship oneshot (did I mention I have a thing for these? Set during the Western Air Temple days.

Towards the Sun by @muffinlance - (Gen, WIP) Zuko is Fire Lord AU  - Zuko got imprisoned on the Day of the Black Sun, so never joined the Gaang. After Ozai’s defeat, he becomes Fire Lord by default. So when the Gaang and Iroh show up to hammer out peace, things get complicated. (WIP)

Home We’ll Go by themanofmanyhats - (Gen) This is a post-war take on Zuko’s path crossing again with Lee and his family from Zuko Alone. What can I say? Post-war Earth Kingdom reveals are my jam.

there is fire in me by @suzukiblu  - (Gen) - Firebender!Jet with Ba Sing Se era Zuko and Sokka makes for a very unlikely, but great bonding story

Modern AUs

Pulse by @isnt_it_pretty  I rarely read modern AUs, but this one caught my eye. It is set in a modern era, but the characters feel really on spot. Warning! it’s super angsty

Welcome Heat by @cowlicklesschick  - (Zutara, Sukka) firefighter Zuko and pre-med Katara, with a good side helping of sweet Sokka & Suki romance. It’s fluffy with just the right amount angst, and a reimagined modern world where all the characters fit right in.

---

[quagmireisadora]

A/N: part 2 of  Patron of the (Lonely)

this is for @lokiat221b. I love my JongKey with time games. The fic was originally 4 parts set in different times. The first was modern au and this is Silla so... More to come!

------

희망이 있는 곳엔 반드시 시련이 있네

The man had stayed by his side for many moons, an unerring protector against all threats. His fingers were quick to nock arrows, his aim was sure to meet its target.

When Lord Kibum was given the boon of a guard to accompany him on the journey west, he did not know what to expect. Or, in truth, he had some expectation: a broad man with a broad face, large arms and legs like trees. He had thought the queen would send her emissary forth to the silk route with much pomp and preparation. Yet, he had departed before the first rays of morning found their tracks on the hoof-beaten paths of Wiryeseong.

“Jonghyun,” he turned now to his companion: a short, quiet, mysterious young hwarang who moved like a bat in darkness. “Come, have a drink. Share a tale or two with me.” Lord Kibum patted the blanket next to him.

Together, they had traveled by horse, by carriage, by ship, and now by foot, to arrive in this desert. The mornings scorched their backs and the evenings froze their lips. Their feet were callused, their arms tired, their bodies bruised. The last of the yaks had disappeared some nights before, leaving the men to carry the weight of their belongings on their own shoulders. Food was scarce and shelter forgotten; the comfort of Silla was far behind them. No more would they see wagtails flutter over swaying zelkovas on a spring afternoon, no more would the sun gleam against the palace tiles as it set against the horizon of hills. Now sand crunched between their teeth, grated under their eyelids. Now the only sight of green was in their memories.

The rest of the platoon looked as bedraggled as Kibum felt, and he felt terrible. Yet there was Jonghyun, gait as smooth as it always was and eyes as calm as the Han river on winter mornings. He obeyed the offer and seated himself close to his charge.

“This journey tries you, my lord,” there was no malice in the hwarang’s words. They steamed concern out into the cold air.

“The queen has set us on this… quest,” Kibum replied with some pity for his circumstances. “And if we should lose our lives in pursuit of what the queen wants, then… so it shall be,” he nodded.

“A sentencing,” Jonghyun spoke the words as if questioning his own pronunciation of the words. “And…” his eyebrows knit together with worry. “Does my lord accept this sentence? Does he hold guilt?”

Kibum stared at the man with a rueful smile. He had been raised a lord by the graces of luck. Deemed pure of bloodline, he had been accepted by the academy. He had studied--studied the words of other men, studied paintings from other lands, studied with inks and brushes. He had spent a lifetime hidden between parchment and tablet so that the throne may feel less threatened by his existence. But it had certainly not been enough.

“Go west.” When he had heard the words, he had flinched at them. He remembered a moment of gratefulness swimming in his belly, for the words may easily have been, “Go to the gallows.” He reminisced as he sat close to a fire, fingers spread and fur wrapped securely around his shivering frame.

But he related nothing of it to Jonghyun.

“I have committed many wrongs that could mean punishment for me, and for my sons who would come after me,” Kibum said. “Perhaps… one of those sins is my birth.”

The hwarang showed sympathy, but remained silent. It was uncertain what he perceived of court politics, but his condolences were a welcome smear of warmth in the cold night. Kibum hoped the warmth would remain unchanged for the rest of the expedition, for it is often the road that breeds mistrust and discontent in the hearts of men: with its challenging length and its vengeful terrain. Regardless of his noble nature, and his kind ways, Jonghyun would surely become roughened, much like the sand they traversed. After all, he had been sentenced, too. Someone wanted him away from the barracks in Gyeongju. Someone had wished him out of their way, out of their schemes, and this would soon infect the man with doubt. It would spread through his loyalty, fell his kindness, murder his bravery. Lord Kibum knew this as he knew his own self--knew that he may only afford his companion as long as there is silver still hanging from his belt. When he loses the weight in his pouch, he will truly lose everything.

“Deoryeonim,” Jonghyun called attention to his voice, ringing like bells against the wind. “You are a good man.” Kibum touched his own cheek, wondering if his thoughts had appeared on his face as writing.

To love a man, or to be loved by one: it was common among the hwarangs. Despite living the life of nobility, Kibum had heard the poems. He knew of talk among the public that some of these men had sworn deep affection for one another, an affection that burned so bright it incinerated all custom and tradition. Indeed, Kibum had caught wind of words that serenaded to hands roughed by the hilt of a sword, to eyes that remained vigilant in their sleep, to bodies that toiled for the safety of the throne and its subjects. And despite it being considered unnatural by some, he held no disapproval for such a love. A love held by no bounds, in his eyes, was true love. A love colored crimson and coursing through one's blood with every intake of breath--to Kibum the bearer of such a love was to be envied. And Jonghyun's golden eyes held the promise of that love. His hands offered it freely, like a well offering limitless water.

To love a man, or to be loved by one: it was well-accepted among the hwarangs, but Lord Kibum was not to have the pleasure of accepting such a love. He was expected to take a wife, from a suitable family with means and displaying a modest nature. He was to father children that may someday be little lordlings that would be sent to academy, like their father before them. The stature that came with lordship required that all desires be disposed of, and life be lived by the heels of the queen's favor.

A hwarang may not tempt a lord, and a Kibum may not love a Jonghyun. But in the middle of this desert of silence, of solitude, the love surrounded them where they huddled by a dying fire. And like the glowing orange embers before him, Kibum restrained his voice from leaping between them to caress the other's face with tenderness.

He may never be in Kibum's arms, his lips may never kiss Kibum's name, his chest may never ring with Kibum's heartbeat, but in the light of lingering love, Jonghyun was beautiful.

When the sun rose the next morning, they were met by strangers riding odd creatures of humped backs. The strangers studied them as they offered food and water. Where some of the soldiers accepted wearily, the hwarang was as courteous as he would have been were they still in the queen’s court. He bowed, strolled back to Kibum’s side and shared his portion. “It is not poisoned, my lord,” he assured.

The other considered his empty belly before he refused with a smile. His protector needed it more than he did. “Feast,” he approved.

“They say there is a town some ri away to the west,” Jonghyun munched.

“Do you speak their tongue?” Kibum asked incredulously.

“There are ways for travelers to speak without words, my lord,” Jonghyun laughed. “They simply pointed me to their home, and they did not appear to have been traveling long.”

It was something to ponder on. Did Jonghyun’s ears discern every silent utterance around him? Did he deduce confessions on people’s foreheads before they were expelled by their lips? Did he answer questions in advance of their arrival, fully formed and coherent? As Kibum watched the other chew through bread and meat, humming his appreciation, he wondered if any of his own thoughts had spilled out in the open. He fretted over the idea that perhaps… perhaps Jonghyun had already walked through the gateway of his miserable field of rumination, scowling at the desert inside Kibum like he scowled at the one outside. He shuddered at the notion.

As they approached the town, there was a synchronous thud as every man undid his burdens and ran forward to bathe in the air of the marketplace. Fires burned in homes, children ran in circles, men yelled orders to other men, and women laughed in balconies of brick and stone. Clothes fluttered in the wind, wheels rolled across paving stones, animals complained about the heat, and somewhere--somewhere in the distance was the sound of flowing water.

“Home,” Lord Kibum muttered.

“Could it become a home away from home?” Jonghyun smiled. His shoulders were relaxed, and his hand no longer gripped the hilt of his sword. The shadow of vigilance had cleared from his eyes. They shone like honey in the sunlight. Only now, after all the distances they had crossed, did it seem like they were finally free of their titles. No more were they lord and servant, no longer did one stand beneath another. Only now, after all these moons, did they become equals.

“A worthy consideration,” Kibum smiled in return.

Above the starving peasants and greedy merchants, above the palace that demanded obeisance and the temple that forbade dissidence, above the fiefdoms and injustices and inequalities of blood; above the rivers and valleys and deserts, above all the parched fields of paddy and every sward of wild flowers--there is a hill. At the end of his life, Kibum wished he would meet Jonghyun again on that knoll, untouched by everything around it. Then they would truly be free.

희망이 있는 곳엔 반드시 시련이 있네

[amerraka]

Original Fic Fest day 3-- Non-romantic relationship

The beginning of Sky’s relationship with Jet, her youngest son. 

I just have these two scenes--I may expand them into a story at some point, and then it’ll probably change a bit. 

@originalficfest

-

Sky stood looking out the window. The city shimmered in the heat, glinting like crystallized sugar.

My city, she thought. For the first time ever, she was alone, ruling it. The King had thought that it was quiet enough he and his son, her husband, could go on a diplomatic mission to Mirage. All was well. She should feel serene. She’d even made up with Ember before he left after a month-long fight. And since the city basically ruled itself, she could focus on her children. Already getting so big. Even little Blade. Right now they were all out playing, so she could have a moment of solitude, that, admittedly, she needed at times even though she loved her kids like crazy.

She missed Ember, of course. He’d been gone almost a month. He was due back soon, and then they could pick up where they’d left off. After a night of getting to know him again, exploring his glory, erasing the past with ecstasy, he’d left early in the morning, giving her a kiss, and then vanished like mist, leaving desire twisting in her stomach, shivering across her skin.

But now, unease gripped her. How would Ember react to the news? Perhaps this would shred their relationship just as it was healing.

She’d gone to the infirmary this morning for a routine checkup. The M had held its medical hand over her, and it made an insistent bleep, along with a green flashing light on the M’s palm.

She shot up. “What does that mean?”

The M’s eyebrow raised, looking a little surprised itself. “It means you’re pregnant.”

“I saw that alarm last time, I just thought—it was impossible.”

The M frowned, flexing its medical hand, one metal finger after the other in the air. “It should be impossible. But I don’t think I’m malfunctioning. Let me get another opinion.” And it summoned another medM over.

It checked her. “Yep, you’re pregnant,” it said, flipping its holographic hair, and went back to its other patient.

“Congratulations,” said her M doctor, who had a much better bedside manner than the other one.

“Thank you. I just—don’t know how this happened.”

“Did you not have intercourse with your husband?”

She paused at its rather obtuse, impolite question. “Yes.”

“Sorry. That was a joke.”

“Oh.”

It sighed. “I’ve been told I have to work on my sense of humor. Oh well. Yes, this is very unusual. It has been almost 1000 years since a member of the Royal family has conceived naturally. This is unprecedented in modern times, especially since how obsessive we are about purity—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—“

She waved a hand. “That’s all right. I’m aware of the lore concerning purity of bloodline—the more pure, the harder it is to conceive naturally. And I’m aware that my own bloodline is as pure as it gets, which is why I’m mystified why this happens. I’m an anomaly.”

“Yes, an anomaly,” said the M, eager to rectify its mistake. “You are unique and should celebrate such an unexpected event.”

“Yes,” she said, and smiled at the M to encourage it for its effort. But inside, she felt a sinking feeling. She should feel elation—but what would Ember think about a surprise like this? It had been conceived from their last night of passion—from the timing, it could only be that night. She wasn’t worried whether he would doubt her; they had DNA tests for that anyway. She wasn’t worried that Justice, the king, would ostracize her. But Ember had inherited some of his father’s fire and his mother’s regard for the rules. Things that didn’t always go well together.

We already have our three children, she thought. What will we do with a fourth? It will be special, but what kind of place will it have in our family? No official role….but never an outcast. No, Ember wouldn’t do that. He loved her; he’d love their new son or daughter.

Her real concern was whether it would bring up memories. Of the past, what she longed to forget—

The records had been wiped from the System but she still remembered.

Her firstborn. A hundred years before she was supposed to start having children. A bleep on the monitor, a green blinking light on the M’s hand. “What does that mean?”

“You are with child.”

Excitement. Even though it was unheard-of….and unorthodox. She didn’t care. It was born from their love. And then—

They’d discovered it was deformed.

“It won’t have any quality of life. It won’t fit in—the best it can hope for is to live cooped up in the Spire. It’s best to get rid of it.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “But love—love, Ember. That’s all that matters. I can love it. It can love in return.”

“It’s so deformed it won’t be able to love. Trust me, Sky.”

And so she’d lain on the operating table, waiting for them to put her under, kill it—there it was on the monitor, not even recognizable as a human—best to put it to death before it could experience the misery of life—

And then, its little hand flexed, as if reaching out to her.

She flipped away the mask as it came down toward her face. Stood, gathering the skimpy hospital gown to her chest, and she ran.

Fled to another world, leaving Ember, everything behind, for the possibility, the slight glimmer of hope she’d seen when the baby had reached for her—

In the end, Ember had found her. She gave birth to the baby. And it had lived one month. She’d held it in her arms, and its deformed little face was beautiful to her. And then, one night of horrible gasping, amid the tents of the natives, it had died. In her arms. It was buried out in the wasteland, and Ember would never understand the love she’d had for it. It had shoved a rift between them, even though he loved her with all his being. But he hadn’t loved it. Hadn’t held it in his arms. He said to just forget it. And the family had erased the memory. Except her own. It had put a barrier between them, even though he’d forgiven her for leaving….perhaps she shouldn’t have left. But they would have killed it, even without her consent. It had died anyway—but it had known love.

She’d thought she’d moved on….but now the memories had come flooding back full force. It might shove a wedge in their relationship again, after all these years….another baby conceived naturally. What were the chances? Perhaps something was wrong with her….

She didn’t want to dredge up old pain. But this happy occasion was dimmed by the past, by the fact that this new child wasn’t really supposed to be.

But she had a city to rule, kids to raise. She had to forget it, for just a little….till Ember returned. Then, she’d have to tell him.

-

Sky held the tiny baby in her arms. For the first time, she was in physical contact with him since he’d been installed in the artificial womb 5 months ago, for her own safety. She touched his soft black hair, and kissed the top of his head. His nose was a perfect button nose. He opened his eyes, looked up at her, and his mouth made an ‘o’.

The door opened. Ember walked in, resplendent in his official robes of purple and gold.

“How is he?”

“He’s beautiful.”

Ember stepped over to the side of the bed. “He’s still a bit small. Maybe we should have kept him in the womb a bit longer.”

“He’s perfect the way he is! Look at him. Look at your son.”

“He has your eyes.” Awe filled his voice.

“And your hair.” She reached up, stroked his luxuriant black locks. “He’ll be a lot like you, I think.”

“We have no idea what he’ll be like.”

“That’s the wonder, the adventure of it.” She handed the baby to him. He took him in his arms. 

“What shall we name him?” he said.

“I was thinking….he should be named after your father.”

“Justice? But what about—“ 

“My father?” Sadness clung to her voice. “I want him to be like your father, not mine.”

“Justice it is then.” He leaned down and kissed his son’s forehead.

[southsidestory]

To Their Embers

NOTES: Many thanks to the anon who asked for baby fic! This is actually a future scene from my story Until the Stars Give Way (which if you run over to AO3 to read, please mind the warnings). I’m taking Reylo prompts for the foreseeable future, so if there’s anything you’d like to see, please feel free to drop a request in my inbox! Also, for those of you who have read Claudia Grey’s Bloodline, you’ll probably the recognize the lullaby here. ;)

Kylo is frowning, his jaw working in a way that twists the scar down the right side of his face, the scar she graced him with three years ago. Rey is tempted to give him another one if he doesn’t stop glaring at their baby.

“Quit that,” Rey hisses.

Kylo starts rocking the baby a bit away from his chest, like he’s afraid to touch their son. He looks ridiculous, dressed from the neck down in his menacing, battle-worn gear, with a newborn halfway cradled against him.

He turns his scowl on her, then says, “He’s won’t stop crying. Did you feed him?”

Rey settles back against the mountain of fluffy pillows that Kylo arranged for her this morning. Which makes her feel silly, yet strangely cared for. “Of course I did. And babies are supposed to cry.” She thinks.

“How would you know? A lot of babies on Jakku, were there?” Kylo holds their son closer, but he keeps wailing, a sound that only gets louder and higher-pitched.

It’s grating on Rey’s nerves, no matter how much she wishes it didn’t. I’ll get used to it, she thinks. I can get used to anything, as long as I’m patient.

Rey holds out her arms. “No, but I wasn’t born yesterday, unlike our son, and I know that it’s normal for babies cry. Now give him to me.”

Kylo rushes to pass off the baby, but it doesn’t help. If anything, his cries only grow more piercing as soon as Rey is holding him.

Kylo uses the Force to pull up the heavy corner chair beside her bed, sits in it, and says, “I have an idea, but you can’t laugh at me.”

“Why would I laugh?” Rey asks. “Anything that will calm him down would be welcome right now.”

Kylo nods, leans closer, and takes a deep breath. She wonders what he means to say, but instead of speaking, he starts humming. It’s a simple tune, some kind of lullaby, and Rey is overwhelmed by the odd, dual urge to both giggle and cry.

Then he starts to sing, so quietly that it takes her a moment to realize that his voice isn’t half-bad. Not particularly skilled, but there’s something soft and compelling in it. Deep, yet round and resonant, not unlike his speaking voice, but less intimidating. Gentler.

It’s a lovely song, almost as beautiful as the man singing it.

Mirrorbright, shines the moon, its glow as soft as an ember

When the moon is mirrorbright, take this time to remember

Those you have loved but are gone

Those who kept you so safe and warm

The mirrorbright moon lets you see

Those who have ceased to be

Mirrorbright shines the moon, as fires die to their embers

Those you loved are with you still—

The moon will help you remember

The baby is still fussy, but he stopped crying near the end of the song, and Rey prompts Kylo to sing it again. So he does, with a more confident, smoother voice this time, then once more, until their son is asleep.

“Is that Alderaanian?” Rey whispers.

Kylo nods. “How’d you know that?”

“Your mother,” Rey says, careful to keep her gaze fixed on the top of their son’s peach-fuzz head. “She has a ship called the Mirrorbright.”

Silence falls between them, broken only by their own breaths and the baby’s wheezy snores. Rey doesn’t like the resentments that creep in between them whenever their bickering stops, so she says, “We should name him. Can’t just call him ‘the baby’ forever.”

Kylo laughs. A real laugh, full of what might be true happiness, and Rey looks up so she won’t miss it. He’s handsome all the time, but breathtaking when he smiles, and she wishes she hadn’t jumped to witness it. It’s going to be harder, much harder, to hate him when she knows that he can look at her and their son like they’re the only bright points in the whole galaxy.

[hiqueenbambiwaugh-blog]

Bloodlines

Author: Dreamwvr73 (HiQueenBambiWaugh)

Fandom: The Magicians

Genre: AU, some canon events included

Word Count: 13000 +

Warnings: Possible triggers for mental health treatment, some mention of sexual assault

Summary: The Vikings are in Fillory to establish a relationship with the flourishing kingdom. When the king questions the lineage of High Queen Margo, will there be peace or war between the two kingdoms? 

Author’s Notes: This is for the Welter’s Challenge Trials Big Bang, Tier 1! I don’t own The Magicians, they were created by much cooler people than me, but I thank them!  I also want to thank All-Hale-Eliot... my BFF that was my own personal cheerleader when I had my doubts and served as my editor when the story was done. This is my first Magicians Fic. 

Castle Whitespire was quiet for the night, and the only light that shone was from the torches along the wall. High Queen Margo’s black boots made echoing footfalls as she walked down the hall. The high queen wore a black silky shirt with gold sparkles all over it; her pants were black with gold piping down the legs.

Margo was muttering to herself as she stomped down the hall, then finally arrived at her destination: Eliot’s common room with its solid oak double doors. Margo gripped the cold gold handles, opened the doors, and poked her head in. There sat her husband Eliot in his favorite grey paisley outfit, his dark head slumped to one side. Clearly, the high king had been working late and had fallen asleep at his table.  

“Oh Baboo…” Margo sighed as her anger bled out of her and she stepped into the room. She did an about face then closed the doors behind her. She crossed the room and went over to Eliot’s thick and heavy wooden chair. Eliot’s head lolled, and there was heavy stubble along his cheeks and neck, a sign of how hard he had been working.

Awww poor baby. She thought to herself. He works so hard…

“El, wake up.” She gently touched his face and straightened his head. The motion and touch made Eliot’s eyes open, and the exhausted amber depths peered at her.

“Bambi-” He said, bringing one big hand up and rubbing it across his face. “What time is it?”

“After midnight.” She turned to see the papers scattered all the shining surface of Eliot’s table.

“Christ, its late. A queen in your condition should be resting.”

“And what about you?” Margo motioned to Eliot’s round belly. “Idri didn’t just knock me up you realize.”

“I prefer the term with child, thank you very much.” Eliot swatted at her hand then gently touched his belly rubbing it. His thoughts drifted back to the night both he and Margo got pregnant. Shortly after the quadruple wedding, the royals had gone to the Outer Isles for their honeymoon. A rare moon had occurred on the island, and the resulting threesome between Margo, Eliot, and Idri, had resulted in the high king and high queen getting pregnant. The shock of being pregnant had shocked Eliot so much the high king had nearly fainted, but the specialness of it slowly won over his fear. Eliot’s thoughts snapped back to the present.

“Quentin and Gabriel?” Eliot asked as he stood up.

“Got back a few minutes ago, which is why I’m here. Can’t go to bed without the high king.”

“Fine,” Eliot sighed. “Our bed is a lot more comfortable than that chair.” He touched his hands to his lower back and leaned back, stretching.

“God, my back is killing me.” He groaned.

“The baby is putting pressure on your spine.” Margo stepped behind him and rubbed his lower back.  “And wearing those boots isn’t helping either.”

“Me without my boots? You might as well ask me to run around naked.” Eliot pouted.

“For Christ’s sake El, you’re already ten feet tall, do you really need the help? You look like a curly, hairy tree!”

Eliot sighed. “Bambi, sweetie, can we talk about this later? I’m too tired to tongue battle with you.”

Margo nodded then slipped her arms around his waist, her cheek pressed into his back.

“Sorry, just tired too. Let’s go cuddle with our trio of hot husbands waiting for us in the royal bed chamber.”

“That’s the best idea ever.” Eliot slipped his arm around Margo, then the two of them headed out of Eliot’s common room.

***** *********** **********

The sound of the shower turned off and a few moments later, the bathroom door opened. King Idri wore a  white robe, his dark skin shining from the shower. He had a thick white towel in his hands and used it to dry off the top of his smooth head. Sitting on the king-size bed were Quentin and Gabriel, the two men in robes, one blue and one grey. Quentin’s hair was almost to his shoulders, and the silver streak in his bangs drew Idri’s dark eyes. The younger man was reading a book and then turned to look at him.

“Hey, ready for bed?” Quentin set his leather journal book aside.

Idri then shifted his gaze to Gabriel, and if there was one unusual choice for a husband Eliot had made, it was Gabriel MacKenzie .  Half witch and half magician, Gabriel was 6 feet tall, had broad shoulders, long legs, and the build of a California surfer with a shaggy mop of blonde hair. Gabriel’s handsome face and strong jaw was only accentuated by his light blue eyes, and a perfect bright smile that could easily earn him top billing in a Hollywood movie. Though despite his good looks, the combination of power he had was unprecedent, and he could perform spells with ease and talent. Eliot and Gabriel had met after Eliot was newly crowned the high king of Fillory. Adjusting to his new role was not an easy one, and Eliot had made frequent trips to earth. During one such short trip home, Gabriel had crossed his path in New York City, and it was love at first sight for them both.  Idri stepped closer to the bed close to the two men.

“I’m ready for bed, and perhaps more.” He reached out and ran his finger along Quentin’s silver streak, a permanent reminder of when Quentin had faced down the fairy queen some months earlier, then leaned in and kissed him gently.  Quentin returned it, blushing as he tucked a stray hair behind his ear. Idri then turned and captured Gabriel’s lips in a deep kiss; the young man returned it and began opening the tie on Idri’s robe.

“Mmmhpp!” Idri broke the kiss and laughed as he gently gripped Gabriel’s hand. “Patience my husband, we must wait for our other spouses.”

Gabriel pouted as he got up. “Then let me go get them,” He tightened the tie on his grey robe and rounded the bed.

He was about to open the doors when they opened on their own, and there stood the high king and high queen. “Shit! I was just coming to get you.” Gabriel tugged them both inside, and into his arms. “Mmmmm. Now that is what I need,” Gabriel nudged both of their heads.

“Yeah…” Quentin sighed as he watched. “Oh Gabriel, would you quit being a spog?”

Margo dropped her arms from Gabriel’s waist. “Quentin, what the hell is a spog?”

“Spouse hog.” Eliot answered for her then kissed Gabriel before stepping away from him. He went over to Quentin and slipped an arm around his waist.

“Don’t worry Quenny, plenty of me to go around.” Eliot drew Quentin’s head to his chest and closed his eyes.

“Spog,” Gabriel made a face then closed and locked the double bedroom doors. “You make me sound like Smaug’s country cousin.”

“Come and help me get undressed, Spog.” Margo wrinkled her nose at him then went to the walk-in closet. She opened the doors and stepped inside. Gabriel grinned and followed her into it, the double doors closing behind them both.

Quentin closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of Eliot’s long, lean body in his arms and how his growing belly only accentuated his lovely shape. Oh, Ember, I love him so much. Quentin thought, then remembered the first time he had seen Eliot lying on top of the Brakebills sign. I thought he was a hallucination, and then part of me prayed he wasn’t because I fell in love with him in that moment.

“Quentin, if we stay like this much longer I’ll be asleep on my feet.” Eliot’s voice broke Quentin out of his thoughts and let go of him.

“Sorry, sorry, just…” Quentin backed off fast.  

“Just what?” Eliot asked as he gently removed his crown and set it on the special purple velvet pillow with gold piping that sat on top of one of the oak nightstands on both sides of the bed.

“I like holding you.” Quentin said softly as he watched his spouse.

Eliot smiled as he unbuttoned his grey paisley jacket. Ever since the group of magicians had decided to get married to be one happy polyamorous family, they had all taken a vow to have total honesty, no matter what. Though it had been tough for Quentin to be that open, he slowly had been learning to express how he felt to his spouses.

“We have that meeting with the Vikings tomorrow, and we need to get some rest to make sure everything is ready. You know how anal Tick can be, and I don’t mean the good kind.”  With that, Eliot climbed into the big bed and waved for his spouses to join him.

The last of the torches blew out, and Whitespire was silent and peaceful as the royal family settled into bed.

********** *********************

The next morning dawned cold, and the servants bustled to make sure that all the rooms in the castle were warm, especially the throne room. Margo was up before dawn and had slipped out of the bedroom to oversee preparations. The Viking contingent was due by 10 am, and she wanted plenty of time to get the castle ready, and then to get dressed herself.  Margo barked out orders wearing nothing but a pink silk robe and her crown, which made for an interesting sight. Finally, the food was being made, the throne room was being set up with a large table, and all the fancy gold plates, silverware, and goblets were being polished up and set onto it. Margo glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the wall, and with one hour to spare, she headed back into the royal bed chamber. The others were already up and fussing over their outfits, Eliot being the most vocal. The king-sized bed was covered with clothing and he held each item up to his long, frame.

“Que, what do you think?” Eliot held up light grey pants with a white filmy shirt with see-through sleeves and heavy ruffles at the wrist. Quentin, who was all in black, looked at the outfit and shook his head.

“The pants are nice, but the shirt…” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s too… um…” He tucked a stray hair behind his ear.  Eliot blinked at him expectedly, wanting him to finish his thoughts.

“Um what? What about the shirt?”

“From what I hear, these Vikings are pretty tough, and that shirt screams more like you’re doing a revival of Pirates of Penzance.”

“Nothing wrong with musical theater, Que but now is not the time for me to look like Rex Smith.” Eliot kept the pants but dropped the shirt on the bed and picked up a black silk shirt with a long black-and-grey tight-fitting coat with bright silver buttons.

“Oh yes! Now this is butch!”

Margo watched all this as she took her crown off her head and set it on the nightstand. She untied her robe and disappeared into her closet. Gabriel was in there with brown velvet pants on, and nothing else. Margo stopped a moment to admire his muscled chest and arms as he looked through the shirts. He pulled a tan paisley shirt out. One thing that most of the kingdom did not know about Gabriel was his fine sewing skills. Running a kingdom was a tough job, and the half warlock, half magician found sewing very soothing. He frequently made all the royals their clothing, and Eliot especially was delighted at his husband’s sewing ability.

“What do you think, Margie?” He turned to look at her, the shirt up to his broad chest.

“The shirt or everything else?” Margo smiled and went over to him. “You are a genius when it comes to making clothes, Gabriel, and I think you look hot.” The two briefly kissed, then she turned and pulled out a velvet dress with a gold-and-silver embroidered neckline. Gabriel had made her the dress, and a long velvet-and-gold overcoat that had the same embroidery as around the neck and down the sides of the dress to match it. Gabriel saw her choice and smiled.

“You too.”

“Where’s Idri?” Margo parted her robe and let it fall from her arms.

“Idri went out with the knights to greet the Vikings. He wore the white leather and fur outfit I made for him, he looks quite regal.” Gabriel slipped the shirt on and began buttoning it up. He watched as Margo choose her bra and panties and saw how furrowed her brow was.

“Margo… it’s going to be okay.” Gabriel stepped closer to her and touched her shoulders.

“It’s just—this is our first meeting with these guys, and from what we’ve heard, if they don’t make peace, they invade and slaughter. I’m pregnant and El is pregnant, so what if they think we’re easy prey?”

“You know I enchanted all these clothes, no one is going to see the babies, and Eliot can be tough when it comes to protecting his home.”

“You’re right.” Margo straightened her spine and took a deep breath. “I better hurry, I need to make sure Tick has everything ready.”

**** ***** *************

The sounds of marching echoed through the castle, and it made all the royals immediately stop what they were doing.  In the throne room, Margo and Eliot glanced at each other.

“Did we stumble into the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade?”  

Eliot wrinkled his nose. “Please, I wouldn’t be caught dead on 6th Avenue.”

The sounds grew louder until they were right outside the double doors. Everyone straightened their spines and Margo reached out to take Eliot’s hand, giving it a squeeze. He turned to look at her and smiled, then focused his attention on the doors as they opened. The knights were in blue tunics with the Fillorian crest on their chests and long navy blue matching cloaks, their swords at their sides. Idri’s expression was one one of pride as he escorted half a dozen burly men in. They resembled the starting lineup of a football team with their body size, all of them in various colors of velvet, leather, and chain mail. The leader was tall, with a heavy black beard and shoulder-length curly hair that matched. He had cat-like green eyes and a giant broad sword at his side. He wore solid black with a matching cloak and a heavy gold and jewel-encrusted necklace around his neck.

Idri took him to the base of the stairs then turned to Margo and Eliot.

“High King Eliot, High Queen Margo… may I present King Crissimar.” The burly man bowed his head but casually moved one hand to the hilt of his big sword.    

The knights, who were surrounding the stage where the royals sat, all reacted to the move. In one swift movement, the men all drew their swords and pointed them right at the Viking king. The air in the throne room suddenly grew thick with tension. A tall knight with long blond hair moved to the front: he, too, had his sword drawn and moved closer to the king.

“Your sword, Your Majesty. You were permitted to keep it by King Idri, but only if you showed no threat with it.”

King Crissimar slowly raised his hand, palm up. “Forgiveness Sir Knight. You may take my sword and those of my men.”  

“May I introduce Sir Alex. He personally guards the royal family.” Eliot said, and Alex gave the Viking a quick, shallow bow.

“The Fillorian knights are here for our protection and yours.” Eliot glanced to the other knights, who then looked to Alex, who nodded. The half dozen men, including King Crissimar, were stripped of their weapons before they stepped back.

King Crissimar straightened as Sir Alex removed his sword, then raised his chin. Eliot saw the look on the Viking king’s face and wondered if he was offended. Once the knights moved back with the weapons, he seemed to ease down.

“You have strong knights and good instincts, King Eliot, I know how I will be safe here. A pleasure to meet you both.”  Crissimar’s light green eyes slid to Margo. He stared at her long enough for Margo to shift her stance a little.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too.” Margo said as he continued to stare. She flicked her gaze to Eliot.

“King Crissimar, are you admiring my queen’s beauty or is there something else on your mind? You’ve hardly taken your eyes off her.”

Crissimar finally shifted his gaze to Eliot. “News of how you became the king of Fillory has spread far and wide. Everyone knows how you were given the knife test, and your royal blood was revealed. However, what is not known is the blood status of the High Queen.”

Crissimar’s men began to murmur behind him, and everyone turned their gaze to Margo. Margo bristled at the attention and stepped forward.

“If you have something to say King Crissimar, you can say it to me.”

Eliot nodded. “Margo is the High Queen, I can assure you she is worthy of the crown.”

The men again began to whisper, and the world stafkarl was heard. Sir Alex frowned as he heard it and he gave a look to Eliot.

“Sir Alex?”  Eliot waved him closer, and the knight marched up the stairs to where Eliot stood. He leaned in to whisper to him.  

“The word they keep using is Old Norse, it means tramp.” Everyone watched as the blond man conferred with the king. Eliot’s amber eyes suddenly turned fiery and his jaw instantly clenched.

“King Crissimar, do you question the virtue of the High Queen?”

“Of course not, King Eliot.” Crissimar gave Eliot his most charming smile.

“Then why does my Head Knight tell me that the word tramp is what your men are whispering?”  

“Tramp?” Margo put her hands on her hips. “You think I’m a tramp?”

King Eliot turned to look at Margo and discreetly shifted his weight. Though he wore shielded clothing to hide his pregnancy, the magic could not help the muscles of his lower back, which were starting to get tired. But he was not about to show any hint or pain or weakness in the presence of the Vikings.

“You dare insult the High Queen?” Quentin stepped forward, his brown eyes burning with fury. “You come into our kingdom and make an accusation like that?”  

“We do not look kindly on future allies insulting our spouse.” Gabriel too was on his feet.

Margo looked at Eliot, who put his hands up.

“We must have peace between our two kingdoms, and this is certainly off to a bang-up start.” He sighed and looked back to Crissimar.

“What can we do to prove to you that High Queen Margo is not some…” He looked at Alex.

“Stafkarl.” Alex said, and Eliot wrinkled his nose.

“Stafkarl? Sounds like a venereal disease.” Eliot said, and Margo stared daggers at him. “As I was saying, how can we prove to you that Queen Margo is not some stafkarl in a crown?”

One of Crissimar’s men stepped closer and the Viking king turned so the two could speak. They were speaking Old Norse, and trying to keep it low enough so Alex could not hear them.  Finally, the two men turned back to Eliot.

“We have a test for blood purity, much as the one you took, King Eliot. Permit us to test the High Queen, and then the peace process can go forward.”

“And where is this test?” Margo said. Crissimar pretended not to hear her and addressed Eliot.

“The blade and test can be brought from our land, we can send a message and it will take one day for it to arrive.”

“That’s fine.” Eliot stood. “Sir Alex, escort the king and his men to the guest quarters, and post double guards outside the room.”

“Yes, My King.” Alex bowed and motioned to the knights, who formed and escort around King Crissimar and his men. The double doors were then opened, and the group of men all headed out.

******** ************ ***********

After the confrontation in the throne room, the castle and kingdom were abuzz from what had happened with the Viking contingent. Every time the high queen walked into a room, it went instantly silent, and people would lean in close to whisper to each other. Finally, Margo had enough of the whispering and retired to the royal bedchamber, blaming her pregnancy for her absence. The weather outside had turned to snow, and she stood at the window, watching it fall. Having changed out of her clothes, she was back in her pink robe, her crown absent from her head. She sighed as she crossed her arms over her chest. The snow was beginning to cover everything in white, making Fillory look pure and innocent.

“Penny for your thoughts?” A voice said from the door, Margo turned to see Quentin come in and close and lock the double doors.

“No…. I’m not that cheap, despite rumors to the contrary.”

“What do you mean?” Quentin asked as he went over by the window and stood behind her. His fine-boned hands touched her shoulders and rubbed them.

Margo closed her eyes, trying to let Quentin’s touch soothe her. “Come on, Quentin, you’re not deaf or dumb! You heard what everyone’s been saying.” She said softly. “Good King Crissimar has me pegged as nothing more than a whore in a crown.”

“Margo, of course you’re not. Don’t ever say anything like that ever again!” He turned her around to they were face to face. “You’re the High Queen of Fillory.” The tips of his fingers brushed her cheek.

“And, you’re about to become a mother, and I know you’ll be amazing at that too.”

Margo’s eyes grew bright. “Thank you, Quentin.” Quentin hugged her tight.

“I’m going to let you rest, okay?” He pulled back and touched her hair.

Margo reached up to touch his hand then stood on her tip toes and kissed him gently, then touched her forehead to his. “I love you, Quentin.”

“To the moon and back.” Quentin said then kissed the tip of her nose. He then took her by the hand, led her over to the big bed, pulled the duvet back, and helped her into it.

“There!” He adjusted the plush purple comforter over her, then gently removed her crown and set it on her nightstand. “Get some rest.”

Margo turned on her right side, then she grabbed one of Eliot’s velvet purple pillows, pressed it into her chest, and closed her eyes as memories of chanting children filled her mind.

“Hey Shorty, smile so we can see you! The sun went down!”

“Margo Fargo, pudding and pie, her mom got knocked up by an unknown guy!”

“No one wanted you, Margo the Maggot! That’s why no one knows who your parents are!”

Margo whimpered in her sleep and turned. She had been sent to an orphanage when she was about two and had arrived on the doorstep of a police station with nothing but a small gold box with strange symbols carved into its tarnished surface she wore on a chain around her neck. Margo had absolutely no memory at all of either her mother or her father. Though despite their best efforts at detective work, the orphanage workers and the Department of Children’s Services were unable to find out anything about the little lost toddler they now had charge of.  With local foster homes being filled to their capacity, the only place left for Margo to go was the Brooklyn Orphanage.

The box Margo had been abandoned with sat in her nightstand in a small lockbox, but she never looked at it because all it did was frustrate her. Margo had shown it to everyone she thought could help decipher it, but no one recognized the symbols. Despite its somewhat frail and weathered appearance, the box could withstand tools, lock picks, keys of every shape and size, and most of all, magic. Margo herself had tried to open the box with magic, but it had no effect. Finally, out of sheer annoyance, Margo had dropped the box in another lock box and put it in her nightstand. The only person who knew anything about Margo’s past was Eliot, and even though he knew about the box, she had never shown it to him.

“Darkie Darkie 2 by 4, daddy’s a druggie and mommy’s a whore! No one wants to see you live, the nurse will give you a sedative!” The echoing memories of cruel chants grew louder and louder, causing Margo to groan and whimper in her sleep as she tossed and turned. The double doors of the royal bed chamber opened, and a dark curly head poked in. Eliot came into the room quietly, then shut the double doors behind him.

“Margo the Maggot! Margo the Maggot!” Eliot heard the echo in his head thanks to his telekinesis, and his powers gave him flashes of a young Margo, surrounded by a circle of nasty-looking children that were shoving her around. He then turned to see Margo thrashing about on the bed and rushed over to her.

“Margo…” He reached out and gently shook her. “Come on Sweetie, don’t let those nasty little miscreants get to you!” Eliot shook her again, a little harder this time, his fingers pressing into her flesh.

“Margo!” The kids’ voices dissolved into a voice she recognized, and she suddenly sat up to come face to face with Eliot.

“Baboo…” She whispered before she burst into tears, covering her face. Eliot sighed as he drew her to his chest and held her.

“Shhhh, it’s all right. You were dreaming.” Eliot said as he stroked the back of her head.

“King Crissimar wants to know where I came from El, how can I tell him when I don’t even fucking know?” Margo sniffled.   Eliot pursed his lips a moment then shrugged.

“Then let’s go find out.”

“What?” Margo pulled back to look up at him, her eyebrows furrowing.

“The orphanage in Brooklyn was where you were before Henry found you on the streets, right?”

“Yeah.” Margo wiped her face. “But after all this time?”

“Worth a shot right? And… did you ever show him your little lock box?”

“Yeah, but he’s just as clueless about it as everyone else.” Margo sighed.  Eliot saw the conflict on her face and he touched her cheek.

“You are Margo, you are fabulous, and it’s time we found out just how fabulous you really are. Crissimar isn’t the only one that’s going to have questions.” His hand slid from her cheek then came to rest on her small belly. “Maybe it’s time all of us got some answers.” Eliot said softly.

********* ************

Little Lamb Orphans Home sat close to Upper Bay and was a red brick building built so long ago that it was now a faded orange color.  There were two giant equally orange brick smoke stacks behind it, and from a distance, the building looked like a factory from the early 1900’s. The home had closed down a few years earlier, and now it was used for the Department of Children’s Services records storage.  Margo stared up at the building, her heart sinking into her shoes. Though dressed in a loose black sweater, black jeans, and knee-high black suede boots, she felt like a five year old once again.

“Why do I feel like I should be wearing coveralls and a miner’s helmet?” Margo jumped as Eliot spoke beside her. The temperature was more than a bit crisp in New York, and Eliot dressed for it with a grey baggy cable knit turtle neck sweater, light plum colored slacks, and a dark-grey long wool coat with the collar turned up.

“What?” Margo asked.

“I said, I feel like I’m in the musical revival of Coal Miner’s Daughter.” Eliot wrinkled his nose as he looked at the building. “Or like I need a long, hot, shower.”

“I feel like I need more than that.” Margo sighed and ran a hand over her belly.

“Where did they keep the records in this place?” Eliot asked as he slipped a supportive arm around her shoulders.

“The orphanage records were kept in the attic, I doubt they changed that.” Margo leaned into Eliot.

“Shall we Abracadabra our way up there?” Eliot looked down at her. He saw the look on her face and gently kissed her forehead. “Courage, Bambi.”

“Trying.” Margo met his gaze. “Let’s get up there.”

Eliot let go of her and the two turned to face one another. They rubbed their hands together, then made a square with their hands then opened it, and formed a rainbow shape over their heads.  The air around them rippled, and a moment later, the duo appeared in the attic of the ancient brick building. The overpowering aroma of dust hit Eliot so hard that he began to sneeze uncontrollably. Margo began to wheeze; she formed a circle with her thumb and index finger, then blew a bubble from it that encapsulated them both. No longer inhaling dust and mold, the two began to calm down. Eliot plucked a monogrammed handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket and touched it to his nose.

“Thank you, Honey. I think I can breathe again.”

“Me too, but you’re not the only one that needs a long, hot shower now.” Margo said as they both turned to survey the room. There were big industrial-size black metal shelves that covered every wall surface of the attic. The big brown boxes had white labels on them with a computer printout of a year, the name of a children’s home, and the office whose jurisdiction it was under. Eliot looked the files up and down.

“Accio Margo’s file!” He shouted, and Margo rolled her eyes.

“Really, King? Really?” Margo put her hands on her hips, her brown eyes fiery as she stared at Eliot. He winced at her flare of temper.

“Sorry… but I’ve always wanted to do that.”

 “Yeah. I get it, Eliot Potter, but it didn’t work.” Margo sighed as she looked over all the shelves. “You start at that end, I’ll start over here. We need to go back 10 years minimum.”

“You were there for over 12 years.” Eliot said as he walked to the other side of the room.  

“I know, but who knows if they kept good records or not.” Margo in the opposite direction and started looking over all the boxes.

“Come on…come on…” Margo said to herself as she began looking over all the labels. The writing was faded, dusty, and difficult to read.  Some of the shelves were too high to see despite her heels, so she closed her eyes and levitated two feet off the floor. Finally, the boxes at the top were in view and she read each one over before moving to the next set of three that were stacked on top of one another. Margo reached out and slid one box aside, getting a blast of dust right in her face.

“Goddamn it!” She started sneezing with such force that it made her start to bounce around the room like a deflating balloon. Margo zipped right into Eliot, who neatly caught her.

“Okay, flying queen!”

Margo held onto Eliot and opened her mouth to thank him when another powerful sneeze knocked them both of them into a shelf with such force that it made the whole structure shake. Eliot slid to the ground, his legs spread in a V shape, and Margo settled between them with her back to his chest.

“Well, that was dramatic!”

A box at the top of the shelf teetered a bit, came tumbling down, and busted open right in front of them.

“Sorry, El, I got a noseful of dust!” Margo brushed her fingers under her nose to scratch it, then glanced at the papers that were all over the floor. She was about to swear when she saw the name on the box.

“That’s it!” Margo got up fast and began sorting through the scattered papers. She set the box right side up and began pulling files out of it. Finally, she found a file on the bottom of the box dated 12 years ago.

“Jane Doe, age around 2.” Margo began to read out loud, then shifted from her knees to sit on the dusty floor.

“You didn’t even have a name?”  Eliot took the now-empty box and put all the files back in it.

“I… I guess I didn’t.” Margo read the first page she found, then shuffled to the next one. Her brow was furrowed, and Eliot had never seen her look so serious or be so quiet.

“Margo? Bambi?” Eliot said softly, then reached out to touch her knee, which made her jump.

“Sorry.” He said as he slid his hand away, but then she grabbed it with her hand.

“They named me.” Margo said softly, then her dark eyes raised to meet Eliot’s amber.

“I was found covered in blood.” She handed him the paper that was labeled Police Report.  

“Says you were found wandering this abandoned neighborhood in Brooklyn.” Eliot read from the paper.  “You kept pointing to a house, but when the cops busted in, all they found was blood everywhere and no trace of any bodies.” He lifted his gaze, the amber depths bright with both sympathy and sadness.

“They never knew what happened, but you were the only survivor.”

Margo signed, her dark head bowing. “Maybe, I’m just not meant to know.”

“Margo…” Eliot set the paper down and drew his spouse into a hug. “No matter what, Margo Jane Waugh, you are the High Queen of Fillory and we all love you. The people of Fillory love you too, and frankly, fuck Crissimar and his horned assholes!”

“Eliot, we can’t say Fuck Crissimar!” Margo sniffled and wiped her face. “We need them to be our allies or they’ll invade Fillory. You know this!”

“He called the High Queen of Fillory a whore, and I should slit his throat for that!” Eliot snapped, and then he deflated and sighed. “We’re boned without lube either way, aren’t we?”

“No. You know what, El? I am the High Queen, and I deserve to wear the crown!” Margo smoothed her hair back. “And if I have to defend it, I will!”

Margo got to her feet as she gently tugged Eliot up too, then stared up at him.

“I want to do what’s best for our home, Baboo.” She said firmly.

“If High Queen Margo Waugh wants to fight for her kingdom, and what is best for her people, then it’s always the right decision.” Eliot said, then kissed her cheek.

Margo nodded, but then she went over to the window and stared out across the street. She saw another fading red brick building and an old memory flashed in her mind.

“Wait…what?” She muttered, and Eliot joined her.

“What is it?”

Margo raised her hand and her red painted nail tapped the dirty, dusty glass. “Do you see that building over there?”

“The disgusting one that looks like one good windstorm will make it collapse?” Eliot wrinkled his nose at the dust on the windows.

“Yeah! I remember it. Something about it is really familiar.” Margo’s hand drifted down to touch her small belly and she rubbed it.

“Well, since this little trip to Dusty Land is mostly a bust…”

“Wouldn’t hurt to check it out.”

“Okay, I’m easy.” Eliot said, and Margo turned and wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Of course you are, but I love you anyway.” She stood on her tiptoes and gave his lips a brief kiss.

************* *******************

The building across the compound was the same faded orange brick as its neighbor. However, it was in much worse condition with the bricks cracked and crumbling, and one half of it was sagging where the New York weather had taken its toll on the structure. The high queen and high king had chosen to go around the back of the building, which was not the part of that was sagging, and had found a door partially hanging off its hinges. With a well-aimed magical missile from Eliot’s palm, the door was sent flying, and Margo carefully stepped over the threshold and stepped inside.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” She said as she walked in and stood awe struck at the rows of stacked-up metal beds that filled half the room. The white paint was chipping off in big chunks that covered the floor, and the beds themselves were rusting and becoming twisted from the humidity in the air. There were huge chunks of plaster from both the walls and the ceilings on the floor too, and the smell in the air was thick with mold and dust.

“Jesus…” The sound of Eliot’s voice beside her made Margo jump about a foot in the air, and she whipped around to see him standing next to her, his nose wrinkled.

“You grew up in the Chamber of Secrets?”

“More like the Chamber of Horrors.” Margo whispered as she looked around. She could hear the echoes of the kids that made fun of her, and she reached down to rub at her own belly.

“Used to cry myself to sleep every night in one of those rotting beds.”

Eliot watched her with a touch of concern. The Margo he knew that could command a room with the quick sashay of her walk was gone, replaced by this tiny woman stuck in her past.

“And now you have a royal bedchamber you share with four hot men.” Eliot said, and it made Margo blink and turn to look at him. “Sorry, Baboo. Just…felt like that little girl again.” Margo sighed and straightened her spine as she took Eliot by the hand, and they began to look around.

“So much bigger than I remember it.” Margo squeezed Eliot’s hand as they carefully stepped around the huge stacks of metal beds. A staircase was on the far left side of the room, and the two stopped at the bottom of them. The wooden stairs were leaning over a little, the paint was cracking, and Eliot shook his head.

“No way Sweetie, we’re pregnant and this looks like a Final Destination scene waiting to happen, so I have another idea.” Eliot stepped back and held out his hands.  Margo smiled as she faced Eliot, and slipped her small hands into his. The high king closed his eyes, and a wind began to blow through the old building, which made it whistle and howl. Margo and Eliot slowly rose in the air higher and higher until they were able to come down gently onto the second level of the building. The staircase groaned under their feet, and shook a little, but seemed to be much more stable than the staircase. Margo lost her footing a little, but Eliot still had her hands and steadied her.

“Geez, been awhile since you did that.” Margo let go of his hands and headed down the hall that had doors on the left side.  

“One of these used to be my room.” She stopped at the fourth door down and tipped her head to one side. “Something else…” Margo turned to Eliot. “I know there was another door here, like a small storeroom.” She went over to a wall at the end of the row, and it had blue and white striped wallpaper that was speckled with rust spots from the pipes behind the walls. Margo reached out to place her palm on the paper, and part of it flaked off. She brushed off her hands.

“Gross!”

“Here, let me.” Eliot said, then he rubbed his hands together and formed a square with his thumbs and index fingers. He raised the square up to his face and peered through it at the wall and saw a small room with boxes that was similar to what was across the compound.

“You’re right, there’s a small room back there.” Eliot said as he lowered his hands.

“Looks like there’s boxes of files.” Eliot went over to the wall and tapped it, listening for a place he could break. He found a hollow-sounding place near the middle and waved for Margo to step back. Eliot tutted, then clapped his palms together then opened them, and a small magical missile emerged from his palm to strike that section of the wall. The wall blew apart with bits of the plaster, wood, and paint erupting out of it. Margo and Eliot both turned away, waiting for the air to clear, then stepped closer when it finally did. Eliot bent over a little to see the old white door with a tarnished brass door knob. Eliot put one long arm into the small hole, turned the knob, then pulled the door back. The ancient door creaked, but then the hinges gave, and the paneling over it broke off and fell to the floor.

“Thank you, Oh Mighty Hercules.” Margo teased as she stepped around him then into the hidden room.

“Please, like I’d be caught dead in a toga!” Eliot brushed the dust, paint, and bits of plaster off his sleeve then followed her.  The room was in the same terrible condition as the rest of the building with its holey walls, holey ceiling, paint chips all over the floor that creaked badly with every step they took. The only difference was the north wall of the dilapidated room had three dark grey filing cabinets that were rusting and leaning a little from their weight affecting the floor on which they sat.

“Okay, you start on the left cabinet, I’ll start on the right cabinet, and then we’ll meet in the middle.”

“If the cabinets don’t crash through the floor, you mean?” Eliot said as he went to the right cabinet, gripped the tarnished handle, then tugged open the drawer. A cloud of dust came out of the drawer and Eliot turned his face away and coughed.

“Jesus! I’ve inhaled enough lint, paint, and dust to sneeze a house out of my nose.” Eliot then focused his attention back on the files and began flipping through the sections that had faded tags with faded letters written on them. Next to him, Margo had tugged open her drawer and was sorting as well.

“Cathy Ryerson.” She said out loud, then stopped a moment as memories began to fill her mind. She saw a sandy-haired, green-eyed girl with freckles on her nose.

“I remember her.” Margo looked at Eliot.

“She vanished one day.”

“Vanished? Like kidnapped or something?” Eliot’s amber eyes looked concerned.

“I don’t know, I guess they figured she ran off.” Margo flipped to the next file and saw another name.

“Scott Smith.” Margo saw flashes of a young red-haired boy. “He was gone, too.”

“That explains why they’re in here.” Eliot said. “Hiding their sins. It’s much easier to hide the files in here, and pretend the kids weren’t here, then to explain their negligence.” He pulled out a folder with Margo’s name on it. “Here’s yours.”

Margo saw the faded yellow folder in Eliot’s big hands and closed her eyes. “I don’t know if I can look at it, El.” She said softly and turned away.

“I can,” Eliot leaned down, kissed her cheek, then took the folder, opened it and took a few steps away from her as he read. “This file has more information about what happened when you were found.”

“Like what?” Margo went over to him and looked at the file in his hands, then took it from him and glanced at its contents.

“Elizabeth Arias Hanson was married to Peter Hanson for two years, but the marriage was unhappy and there were many visits by Child Protective Services.” Margo read more words and took in a big breath.

“They found enough blood to draw the conclusion they were both killed, but no bodies.” She raised her gaze to Eliot, and there were tears in her eyes. “No information about them could be found but… at least I know their names.” She said, and Eliot drew her into a hug.

“It’s all right Sweetie, whoever they were, I’m thankful for them both because I wouldn’t have my Bambi and queen if not for them, no matter what happened.”

Margo closed the folder then wrapped her arms around Eliot. “Thanks, Sweetie.” She said softly, then pulled back.

“Let’s just take the folder and go home. The Vikings are probably getting antsy.”

“You’re not alone in this, Margo, I swear.” Eliot said softly and gently placed a hand on her cheek.

 **** ******* *********

Margo and Eliot arrived back in Fillory, but because of the time difference between Earth and the magical kingdom, it was very late at night. Gabriel, Idri, and Quentin were in their robes, pacing circles in the royal bedchamber. Quentin finally stopped and tucked the hair behind his ears.

“Ugh, I hate this!” He said as he jammed his hands into the pockets of his tan robe.

“We should have heard something by now!”

Gabriel went over to his husband and took Quentin’s hands out of the pockets so he could hold them.

“You know the time difference between here and Earth, and you know they had to do a little investigating about Margo’s past.” Gabriel touched Quentin’s chin and raised it so they were looking into each other’s eyes.

“They’ll be home soon, okay?” Gabriel said to Quentin then looked at Idri, who nodded.

“Our treasures will return to us soon.”

“I know, but they’re both pregnant and…” Quentin started to speak when the double doors opened and Margo and Eliot stepped into the room. The High King and High Queen both looked weary, and the pair were instantly scooped up by their worried spouses.

“Thank Ember!” Quentin said as he hugged Eliot to him. “Are you all right?”

Eliot blinked at the fierce hug, but raised his arms to return it. “We’re okay, Quentin, just feel like I need a long hot shower. The buildings we were in were in a shambles and it’s a miracle they didn’t collapse with us inside of them.”

Gabriel had his arms around Margo, and he saw the folder she carried. “Margo, what’s that?”

“My past.” Margo said softly as she rested her head on Gabriel’s right shoulder.

Idri stood between the two of them and placed a hand on each of their backs. “Your safe return makes my heart soar, my treasures. We were worried about you both.”

“And the Vikings?” Eliot asked as the hug with Quentin ended and he began to take off his clothes.

Gabriel let go of Margo and began to strip. “King Crissimar is in a guest room, and the rest of his men are bunking with the knights. Alex promised to keep a close eye on them.”

“What about the test?” Margo took off her jacket and shirt, then crossed the room and dropped them both in her hamper.

“Not sure really, King Crissimar said it was arriving and he claims it’ll be here by the tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

Margo heard this then went into the bathroom. The moment the door closed, Idri, Gabriel, and Quentin all turned to Eliot.

“What happened?”

“All you found was this one folder?”

Eliot put his hand up. “Yeah all we found was that file. Margo just decided to take the test since we didn’t find anything else.” He striped out of his shirt. “Whatever happens with the Vikings happens, and we’ll deal with it from there.” Eliot said as he went into the bathroom to join Margo in the shower.

***** ****** ******

The next morning dawned cold, and the quietness of Whitespire was interrupted by a lot of noise coming from the Vikings, who were eating breakfast and making themselves comfortable in the castle. King Crissimar was among the men as he sat in Eliot’s chair and ate a hearty porridge. The doors to the dining room opened and Elio and the other male kings entered. Crissimar saw Eliot and he stood up and moved out of the high king’s chair.

“Good morning, King Eliot, King Idri, King Gabriel, and King Quentin.” He gave them a bow, and his men all stood and returned the respectful gesture.  

Eliot, dressed in a dark grey silk shirt and black-and-silver streaked pants with a matching jacket, cocked an eyebrow when he saw Crissimar in his chair.

“Good morning.” Eliot’s gaze flicked to his chair, with its purple velvet backing, gold crown, and a carved E at the top. It was clear who the chair belonged to. He wanted to say something, but trying to keep the peace between the two kingdoms was foremost on his mind, so he held his tongue. Gabriel saw the look on Eliot’s face and he leaned in. “Sire, do you wish for me to fetch the Lysol?”

“Do we have some?” Eliot said as he turned to look at him.

“I think we do.” Gabriel said, but then Eliot put his hand up.

“I have another solution.” Eliot reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a folded gold-and- purple embroidered hanky. He  went over to his chair, unfolded it, then draped it over the seat.

“Tea, please.” He said to a servant before he sat down gracefully and crossed his legs.

King Crissimar chose another seat and sat down, watching as Eliot was given his tea and he doctored it with cream and sugar.

“The test arrives today, King Eliot. Is the high queen prepared to take it?”

Eliot lifted the delicate tea cup to his lips and had a sip then he cleared his throat.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” He lifted his gaze and pointed with his chin to the doors of the dining room. Margo stood there in a purple-and-gold dress with a matching shawl, the material sparkling in the candlelight. She saw all eyes on her and raised her chin.

“Whatever test you have for me King Crissimar, I will take for both myself and my kingdom. I’ve earned this crown and it is rightfully mine.” All the men in the room stood as Margo entered it, and she walked around the table to where Eliot stood. He held out his hand to her, a small smile of both pride and affection on his face. Margo slid her smaller hand into his, and he raised it to his lips in a kiss before guiding her to her chair beside his.

“You look stunning.” Eliot said to her, and she winked at him.

King Crissimar nodded. “I understand Queen Margo, and I hope for the sake of both our kingdoms this test goes well.”

Margo’s gaze flicked to Crissimar as he spoke, then she looked at Eliot and the way he looked at her spoke volumes. You have our support Bambi, you are the High Queen of Fillory and your spouses and fellow monarchs support you. Margo stared at his handsome face then she suddenly turned to the Viking king.

“You know something? The test doesn’t matter. If you want to negotiate a treaty between our worlds, then fine, we’ll talk all day long. If you don’t want to because I won’t let you bully me into some stupid test which, hello…” She pointed to her head where her crown gleamed in the candlelight. “Percy… who’s queen?”

Margo spoke in a higher voice and both Eliot and Quentin looked at each other. Eliot sighed.

“Blackadder…see? See your influence on the high queen?”  He said to Quentin, who only grinned.

“Hey! She’s a woman of taste and sophistication!”

King Crissimar flicked a look and Eliot and Quentin, then it went back to Margo. “So, you will not take the test, Queen Margo?”

Margo’s dark eyes turned fiery and she was about to open her mouth when Eliot squeezed her hand.

“I’ll handle this, sweetie.” Eliot said, then turned to King Crissimar and flicked his hand. Magic burst from his fingertips and the word NO appeared in shimmering gold letters over their head, then burst into a shower of gold glitter and rained down on them all before vanishing.

“As she said, we are welcome to negotiate peace between our worlds.”

Margo leaned over and kissed his cheek, but the air in the room turned tense. King Crissimar’s face bore a deep scowl. He rose to his feet, and his men got up along with him. Before he could speak one word, Alex and the Fillorian knights quickly filed into the room and stood around the monarchs. Alex scowled as he watched King Crissimar and his hand went to his right side, where his thick broadsword was sheathed.

“If you will excuse us, your majesties, my men and I must talk.” King Crissimar said, his spine was straight as a board as they all filed out of the room.

**** *********** ***********

King Crissimar returned to the guest room he had been given. Located in the west wing, it was a modest room with grey stone walls that were covered by tapestries that depicted the woods, Whitespire, the village, and of course, the royals. Crissimar was in a heavy brown fur cloak, and he untied it hastily and dropped it on the big bed in the center of the room. The king began to pace, and his big thick boots made a low booming noise in the room.

“How dare she mock our test!” He said to himself, then went to the fireplace and waved his hand. It burst into big flames and he stood there a moment, warming his hands. A knock on the door raised his head and he scowled.

“Telanor, that better be you!” He barked, then turned, strode over to the door, and almost yanked it off its hinges. A small man with thick round glasses and a black fur outfit stood there and he bowed. He had a wooden chest in his hands.

“The test arrived, Sire.” He said, then dared to shift his gaze to the scowling face of the Viking king. Telanor had served Crissimar since he was a teenager, and the small, boney man with a big nose, thick round black framed glasses, and a thin body looked more like a rat on two legs than a human.

“It’s about time!” Crissimar grabbed the chest and yanked at it, which not only gave him the chest, but tugged Telanor into the room. The thick door was kicked shut and Telanor went over to the fire to warm himself.

“Forgiveness, your majesty, but a terrible storm delayed our returning here, and you know magic does not work to cross the Lonely Sea.” He stretched his hands out to the fire and sighed at the warmth.

“Snow has also begun to fall, which also made the crossing treacherous.”

“Yes, yes, I know there were delays.” Crissimar went over to the table and chairs set in the corner of the room and set the chest down. He folded his hands palm to palm, then opened them over the chest and whispered a spell. The metal on the box began to glow, and the chest promptly popped open.

“Yes….” King Crissimar said as he reached into the glowing chest and pulled out a dagger of pure gold and held it up. “Such a beauty you are.” He whispered as his gaze traveled along its long smooth glinting surface.

Telanor watched how Crissimar admired the knife. “What is your plan, Sire?”

“Oh…” He said with a smile. “The high queen and I have a date.”

*** ********* ************

The Vikings were quiet the rest of the day, but for the most part, they had accepted Margo’s decision about foregoing the test. Finally, around supper time, the tension in the castle settled down, and the monarchs and Vikings were able to enjoy a nice dinner of brazed beef, roasted potatoes, steamed veggies, and plenty of wine. King Crissimar seemed the most cooperative and festive, but the knights were posted around the castle to ensure everything was calm and peaceful.  Despite the fact things with King Crissmar seemed settled, the trip to New York, and the tension of everything left Margo feeling a little worn out. Outside, the weather had turned for the worst, and snow began to fall. After standing at the dining room windows and watching her kingdom turn white, Margo went over to Eliot.

“Sweetie, I hope you don’t mind, but I need a hot bath and some tea.” She said as she took his hand. He squeezed it and tugged her closer so he could whisper in her ear.

“Proud of you, bitch.” Eliot whispered in her ear, then kissed her cheek.

“Thanks, Sweetie.” Margo said, kissing him back as she moved away and casually slipped out of the room. Telanor’s beady little eyes watched as Margo left, and he skittered over to his master then practically slithered to his side.

“Queen Margo has left.” He said to Crissimar, who was enjoying a gold goblet full of ale.

“Good eyes. I didn’t even see her leave.”

“I have watched her the whole time, My Lord.” Telanor said with a hint of desire for Margo in his black eyes.

“Of course you have, she’s a beautiful woman.” Crissimar downed the rest of his ale then casually set the goblet down. He gave a nod to his men as he made his way to the door. The number of men in the room made it hard to keep an eye on everyone, but not only did Alex and his knights keep watch, but there were powerful wards in the castle that acted like intruder alarms. Eliot sat on his throne watching, sipping from goblet of honey wine. Alex made his way over to him and leaned over.

“Sire, do you think Crissimar is up to something?”

The high king cleared his throat and nodded. “I’m certain of it, but the wards are tightened. He won’t be able to do much without us knowing.” Alex turned to look at him.

“The alarm wards?” He asked, and Eliot gave a small smile.

“I’m both beauty and brains combined, Sir Knight.”

******** ************* ********

Margo entered the royal bed chamber and took off her crown. She put it on one of the purple pillows Eliot kept for all their crowns, and she took a moment to rub at her lower back.

“Ohhh baby, you are hard on Mama’s back.” Margo closed her eyes and bent backwards a little to stretch, then unzipped her black dress. She wore a dress Gabriel had made for her, black with interwoven gold thread that glinted in the light. Gabriel created a long skirt too, and she also unzipped that and let it puddle at her feet. Now clad in just a bra and panties, Margo sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over to open her nightstand. She took out the tarnished lock box and held it in her hands, turning it over.

“My stint as Nancy Drew didn’t go over so well.” She sighed, then set the box on the edge of the nightstand.

Outside the door, Crissimar took the gold dagger out of a sheath on his belt and held it in his hand. He closed his eyes.

“O great Thor, God over all, guide me and help me do what is best for my people.” The dagger began to glow, and as it brightened, the wards that showed up as glowing gold lines all around the castle began to flash and vanish. Crissimar began to change too, and after a moment, both he and the dagger turned invisible.  With a wave of the dagger, the bed chamber doors blew open, and Margo was on her feet fast to see why. She took a few steps toward the doors, but then they closed on their own.

“The fuck?” Margo said, and then the air began to shimmer as she backed away.   Crissimar stepped closer to her, and he smiled as he saw her in her bra and panties.

What a shame…. He thought to himself as he held the dagger tight in both his hands then jutted it straight into Margo’s chest. She felt the air shift and had put her hands up in a battle magic pose, but it did little to prevent the attack. The blade ended up between her breasts, and she barely had time to utter a syllable before a spray of blood erupted out of the wound. Margo’s face, the bed, the floor, and the nightstand were spattered with blood. She saw Crissimar, slowly dropped to her knees, then fell over.

A ripple went through the castle, and it stopped everyone cold. Eliot stood up then looked at Alex, the color draining from his face. He began breathing hard.

“Margo…” He said turned to see the three other male monarchs felt it too. Quentin, Idri, Gabriel, Eliot, Alex, all ran from the room.

“Secure the Vikings!” Alex’s voice carried back into the room, and the knights all drew their swords and surrounded the Vikings.

Eliot burst through the double doors and saw the carnage that lay within. His eyes were huge as he walked around the bed and saw Margo laying on the floor.

“Bambi…” He said as his eyes grew bright, then his amber eyes flashed. The rest of the men came in behind him, but the doors quickly slammed. The air around Eliot began to crackle, and he slowly raised his head.

“I know you’re here.” Eliot spoke calmly, then raised his hands up to his eyes in the formed square, and threw his arms out. Crissimar appeared in the corner, and Eliot raises his head to see the Viking king. The anger in Eliot’s face had turned it red, and around him, the air was sizzling, with a small flame that was traveling around him like a glowing moth.

“Crissimar!” Idri, Gabriel, and Quentin all charged him, but Eliot’s power had created a power shield that actually protected him.

Alex pulled his sword from the sheath and held it straight out.

“Sire, may I dispatch him?” The blond knight said, his mouth tightened in a sneer.

“Back off, Sir Alex. If anyone will get justice for Margo, it’ll be those that called her wife.” Eliot could barely get the words out, and he raised his hands. Alex lowered his sword, but he kept it in his hand.

Crissimar did not flinch or back off. He straightened his spine and raised his chin.

“Whether you understand or not, I did what I did for my people.”

Eliot opened his mouth to say something when a small bang got his attention. He turned and saw Margo’s tarnished box shift on the nightstand.

Quentin wiped his eyes and turned too to see the box move again.

“What is that?” He asked Gabriel and Idri.

“Margo’s box.” Gabriel said, and Idri took a step toward it when it fell off the nightstand and landed in the puddle of blood around Margo. A beam of light emerged from the keyhole, and it widened and scanned Margo like a giant computer. The lock clicked: the lid popped open and slid to one side. A bright light came out of the box, and a woman who looked exactly like Margo emerged. The woman wore a gold gown, and it seemed to glow.  Eliot went over to her; he thought for the briefest of moment that it was the ghost of Margo, but she had light-colored eyes and the shape of her lips was different.

“Are you…?” Eliot asked, and she smiled.

“You know who I am, but you don’t at the same time.” She said, then touched the crown on her head.

“But first . . .” The woman crouched down and pulled the dagger out of Margo’s chest. She set it down and placed her hand over the gash. The wound began to glow, then it slowly sealed up, and Margo stirred.

“Oh Ember, she’s alive.” Eliot said, then touched his belly as he watched Margo sit up and touch between her breasts. The wound from the dagger was gone, and the only hint it was there was the blood stains on her bra. She raised her head to see the woman, and a flash from the past came back to her. The face was familiar, and it made her heart start to beat hard as tears began to fill her eyes.

“You’re my-”

“Mother.” Elizabeth Hanson said, then helped her daughter to her feet.  The two women stared at each other, and for a moment, Margo thought she was hallucinating from her recent death. Elizabeth smiled as she placed a hand on Margo’s cheek.

“You grew up to be so beautiful.” She said softly as her eyes grew bright. Margo looked up at the crown on her head.

“I… I don’t understand.” She said, her voice thick with emotion, then she saw the opened gold box. “What happened?”

“Let’s deal with one thing at a time.” Elizabeth said, then both mother and daughter turned to Crissimar; the Viking king’s mouth formed a perfect circle.

“Oh, Thor!” He said as he dropped to his knees.

“I did it for my people, I only want to do what is best for them!”

“By putting a dagger between my tits?” Margo snapped, and Elizabeth gently patted her hand.

“The Norse gods demand purity of blood to keep magic strong in our land!”

“And that’s exactly what you tried to destroy!” Elizabeth shouted, then she waved her hand and the Viking king rose to his feet. She walked over to where Crissimar floated and threw him against the wall with her power.

“Do you see this crown on my head? Do you know where I got it?”

Margo watched the scene unfold and went over to Eliot, who hugged her hard, blood covered or not.

“Margo…” He said then the other kings came over and each one grabbed Margo, and hugged her so hard that she nearly fell over.

Elizabeth paused a moment to watch Margo reunite with her spouses, and the love she saw between them all only fueled her anger.

“Do you see what you almost did? Denied my daughter her life, and her child as well?” She watched as Idri dropped to his knees and kissed her small belly; there were tears rolling down his face. Margo gave him a watery smile as she stroked her hand along his head. Elizabeth waved her hand again, and the opened tarnished gold box floated in the air. She closed her eyes and it began to glow, then a small gold light came out of the box. The firefly-like light rose in the air, then it flashed, and the image of a man in pure black appeared, and he, too, wore a crown on his head.  He was light skinned, with thick black curly hair and sharp dark eyes, and he looked like a distant relative of their servant, Tick, only with lighter skin color and a longer, thinner frame.

“Peter…” Elizabeth said then held her hand out to him. He smiled, and when he did, Eliot blinked because he suddenly realized who this man was. He went and got a black silk robe for Margo out of their closet and put it around her. Margo once again wore a stunned expression on her face as she watched her parents.

Crissimar struggled against the power that held him to the wall.  He looked down to see the dagger on the floor and he closed his eyes, trying to get it to him. The dagger slowly rose in the air and began to float toward him. Peter caught it in midair and held it up, then took the outstretched hand of his wife.

“This is the dagger you used on my child?” Peter asked in a deep booming voice that made the Viking king flinch.

“Blood purity is important to my people.” Crissimar squeaked out, and Peter shook his head before lifting his gaze to see Margo.

“Jasmina.” He said, and Elizabeth sighed.

“They named her Margo. The earthlings.” Elizabeth said, and he held his hand out to his daughter.

“I know you have questions.”

Margo wrapped the robe around herself, trying to stop the shivering she suddenly felt that had nothing to do with her death or the cold. She looked up at Eliot, her dark eyes questioning, and he smiled as he smoothed her loose hair from around her face.

“You wanted answers, Margo. I think you’re about to get them.” Eliot said softly, then kissed her forehead.

Margo went over to her parents, and Peter took her hand and looked her over.

“The last time we were all together like this--” Peter started to say, then his dark eyes grew bright.

“We were attacked.” He sighed, then looked at Elizabeth.

“Your mother is from earth, but I am not.” Peter turned to look at Idri. “He took over for me when I disappeared.”  

“Idri.” Margo said then the former Lorian king’s eyes grew wide. “Shalimar?”

Quentin gasped beside him, and all eyes turned to him.

“I read about this!” Quentin said as he went over to the bookshelf in the room, and pulled out on of his Fillory books.

“King Shalimar ruled Loria, but then one day he vanished.”  Quentin tucked a hair behind his ear as he hastily flipped through the book. He stopped when he saw a picture and turned the book around to show the picture of the dark-haired man wearing the same crown.

“See? According to the book, Shalimar just vanished and Idri was appointed king.”

“Not vanished… was killed when he and his earth wife tried to establish a life there. The Pennon saw to that.” Peter touched Margo’s cheek. “You were so young, and they had attacked several times before, but this night they were prepared. We fought them as best we could, but in the end we were killed, and they carted our bodies away.”

Margo’s eyes widened as she remembered what was in her file. “I was found alone, and covered with blood, but there was no trace of either of you.”

“The Lorians returned to earth to find the princess, but you were gone too.”

“Taken to some filthy, disgusting orphanage where I stayed for 12 years before running away.” Margo scowled, but then it faded and she took her father and mother by the hand.

“I was so angry for a long time because I knew nothing of either of you. I had to go out and find my own family.” Margo turned to see Eliot, Idri, Quentin, and Gabriel and she smiled at them.

“If not for what happened, I wouldn’t have any of them, my kingdom, or my baby on the way. I wouldn’t change any of that.”

“Princess Jasmina.” Quentin said with a smile as he closed the book and pressed it to his chest.

Margo straightened her spine, then looked over at Crissimar. “So, what do we do about the Vikings and their assassination attempt on the Princess of Loria and the High Queen of Fillory?” She turned to look at Eliot. “Do we play the Red Queen card?”

“Sweetie, that’s so cliché.” Eliot went over to her and slipped an arm around her.

“And what would we do with a severed head anyway? Turn it into a table lamp?” Eliot then looked at Crissimar. “Though I should, considering what you did.”

“Would that really be best for your two kingdoms?” Peter put his arm around Elizabeth and kissed her gently before he touched his forehead to hers. Elizabeth closed her eyes as she nuzzled the side of her husband’s face.

“We created the gold box as a way to tell you the truth, if the worst should happen.”

“And it did.” Peter said softly. “But, I praise the god for you surviving, and I see the love your spouses have for you.”

Elizabeth lowered Crissimar to the floor with her power. The Viking king took a moment to adjust his clothing, then his gaze turned to Margo.

“I asked for your lineage because the Norse gods demand the best for the people.” Crissimar then slowly sunk to his knees. “I attacked you, Queen Margo and I was wrong. I’ll do what I must for my kingdom, even if it means surrendering my life for what I’ve done.”

Quentin, Gabriel, and Idri all went to surround Margo and Eliot. The high king and high queen looked at one another.

“Normally, anyone that did what you did, I’d be wearing your balls as accessories.” Margo moved away from her group of spouses and stood over Crissimar. She saw that Peter had the gold dagger, and she took it from him and looked it over.

“Its beautiful.”  Margo looked down to see the dried blood that was still on her chest.

“And sharp.” She sighed. “Crissimar, I’m a queen and I get that the people come first.” Margo reached out and touched his chin then raised it so they were eye to eye.

“My people mean everything to me, to us.” She corrected herself. “You came here to make peace with Fillory so both our kingdoms could prosper. I think despite what happened, we need to talk about that.” The tension in the air lightened considerably; Alex still had his sword out and he put it back in its sheathe. Eliot too breathed out a sigh of relief.

“High Queen Bambi is wise.” Eliot went to his wife.

“Rise, King Crissimar.” He took the gold dagger, flipped it in his hand, and offered the handle to the Viking king.

“Sheathe your dagger. We have a lot to discuss.”  

King Crissimar stood up, took the dagger, then bowed to Eliot and Margo.

“I think we do, your majesties.”

*** ********* ***********

The talks between King Crissimar and the monarchy of Fillory lasted all day and into the night. There were breaks in between, but by suppertime, things were winding down. A supper was prepared for the royal family and the guests. The meal consisted of fine venison steaks, roasted potatoes, roasted vegetables, rice, mashed potatoes, fresh baked rolls, and plenty of wine. Margo finished her meal and excused herself. The tales of the high queen’s resurrection spread through the castle, and the voices of earlier gossip were now whispers of awe as she walked down the hall. Finally, she opened the double doors to the royal bed chamber and went inside.

Margo removed her crown, set it on the nightstand, and disappeared into the closet. She emerged a short time later with her pink plushie robe over a long pair of fuzzy matching pink pajamas with flamingoes on them. The bedroom had a window box, which featured a built- in seat, and Margo frequently liked to sit there and look out at the amazing view.  Before taking her customary seat at the window, Margo opened her nightstand and pulled out the tarnished gold box. She went back to the window, sat down on the built-in cushion, and began to turn the box over in her hands.

The snow had returned, and she watched as the fat white flakes began to cover the already-frozen ground. Margo took in a deep breath, then sighed it out as she replayed what had happened in her mind.

“Penny for your thoughts?” The voice of Eliot interrupted her thoughts, and she whipped her head to see him coming into the double doors.

“I’ve already died once today, don’t need a sequel.” Margo set the box down on her lap.

“Thought you were busy entertaining?”

Eliot slipped into the closet, and he came out wearing a black silk robe with a gold embroidered dragon on the back of it. The hanging open robe revealed black flannel lounge pants that also had big gold dragons on it, and he tied his robe closed. Eliot sat across from Margo in the window box and held out his arms to her.

Margo quickly crawled over to Eliot and into his lap. She held the gold box in her hands as she adjusted the way she sat.  Sitting side saddle on Eliot’s long legs, Margo leaned her head on his left shoulder.

“Here…” Eliot said as he took the box from her hands and looked at it.

“You finally know the truth Sweetie, but if you don’t mind, there’s a few things I want to ask about.”

“I figured you would.” Margo said softly. “Go ahead. Before they went away, my parents and I had a really long talk, and they told me everything.”

“How did they even meet?” Eliot asked as he stroked a hand over Margo’s loose hair.

“Open the box.” She said as she raised her head. Eliot took the box and slide the lock open. He ran his finger over the keyhole and the seam of the box popped open. Inside the gold box, Eliot saw a small glowing old-fashioned brass key.

“A key? To what?”

“To Earth, apparently.” Margo picked the key up and looked at it. “Doesn’t seem like much does it?”

“Not really.” Eliot looked into the box and shook it a little to see if anything else came out of it.

“Take the key, put it in a lock, and turn the key toward the left.” Margo said then handed him the key.

“All right.”  Eliot stared at Margo and she slowly rose off of his lap.

“Hey!” Margo laughed as she hovered in midair. Eliot got up then she slowly sank back down to the cushion.

Eliot took the key and went over to the bathroom door. He stuck it in the lock and gave it a twist to the left. The wooden bathroom door shimmered, and dissolved away to reveal flashing neon light. Eliot creased his brow as he stepped closer.

“The fuck?” He then stuck his head into the open door and looked around. He craned his neck around the edge and saw the flashing Coca-Cola sign located in Times Square.

“Holy shit!” Eliot pulled back then tugged the key out. The flashing neon light faded and returned to the master bathroom.

“This is a key to New York City.”

“New York City is the key. It’s the place they met, fell in love, and had me. Mom was a student at NYU working at some hipster coffeehouse and Dad went there whenever he came to Earth. She noticed him, and would slip him free coffee, and the next thing you know…”

“Romeo and Juliet over latte?” Eliot sat back down in the window box, then pouted.

“And now I want a latte.”

Margo once again climbed into Eliot’s lap. She took the box from him and set it aside, then wrapped her arms around his neck.

“What is it, Bambi?” He stroked a big hand over her hair as she frowned. Margo closed her eyes as Eliot touched her, the touch soothing her a little.

“Just feel like things are unsettled. I got some answers, but still have some lingering questions.”

“You’re a princess of Loria, and the high queen of Fillory. You live here, but maybe what you need to do is go see Loria, which is technically your kingdom too.”

“A trip to Loria.” Margo sighed. “Idri is here now, Ess has taken over, and what do I tell him about the fact my father was the king?”

“The truth above all else.” Eliot said plainly, a serious expression on his face.

“All the time we’ve been here, we’ve never stepped foot in Loria.” Margo sighed, then reached up to take Eliot’s hand and laced her fingers between his. He knew her so well that he could tell she had a lot of lingering doubts.

“You found out a lot these past few days, Margo. You need to give yourself some time to sort things out.” Eliot touched her chin and raised it so he could see her eyes.

“Figure out some things, and then we can go to Loria, or even back to New York if you need to, okay?”

“How Princess Jasmina got her groove back?” Margo gave a small smile, which made Eliot smile too.

“You never lost it, Jasmina, which is a very beautiful and fitting name for you.”

A knock rang out on the double doors, they opened and Quentin poked his head in. The young king wore a tarnished silver helmet with two giant white horns on it. The horns were outlined with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, and both Eliot and Margo looked at each other.

“Hey check it out!” Quentin strutted into the room, then spun and put his hands on his hips in a super hero style pose. With the hunter green pants, and shirt, he looked like the grownup version of Peter Pan.

“Bambi…” Eliot blinked. “I think we need to change his name from Quentin the Maladjusted to Quentin the-”

“Horny?” Margo finished as she got up and went over to him. “All right, show me the size of your sword.” She poked his waist, and Quentin laughed as he tugged her into a hug.

“Maybe later.” Quentin kissed her hair. “So glad you’re okay.” He said softly.

“Me too.” Margo pulled back and kissed him.

“King Crissimar wants you both to come back out.” Quentin still had his arms around Margo.

“All right, duty calls.” Eliot said as he stood up and went into the closet to change.

“Coming.” Margo let go of Quentin and followed him.

From outside the closed doors, a burst of cheers rang out that echoed throughout the whole castle. Quentin turned at the noise then smiled.

“Okay, okay, we’re coming!” Eliot came out in his grey paisley shirt and pants, then slipped his jacket on. Margo was in a gold and black dress and slipped a gold coat over it, which had a long train behind her.

“Royalty, bitches!” Quentin took their hands and tugged them out into the hall. Eliot waved the doors closed with one flick of his wrist.

Margo smiled and squeezed the hands of her husband’s. She held her head high and smiled.

“Royalty, bitch, and I got the pedigree to prove it.” Margo said as she marched down the hall toward the dining room.

END.

[cullywullycurlywurly]

I saw you did an ask for someone else, so I hope this isn't rude but... I really like your dad!Cullen/Cullen-family stuff you write. I'm an adoribull fan and wondered if you would do a fic or drabble with them babysitting the babies? Only if you want to!

(Thanks for this, Nonny! Love a little Adoribull on my dash!)

“Maaaayhem!”

The echoed shouts seemed to bounce from the walls, and Dorian stood at the door to the bathing room, an unimpressed curl of his lip emerging at the sight that greeted him. “Yes, because turning the flooring into one large puddle is such a good idea.”

“Aw, come on, kadan. We were just causing-“

“Mayhem.” Bull’s grin was less than apologetic. “I believe even the guard on the furthest battlement now knows that to be fact.”

“But Uncle Dowian!” Conner lisped, wet curls plastered back against his head, grinning up at him from amongst the towering bubbles that only Bull could have assumed necessary, “what’s baf’time without maaaaayhem!” The young boy thrashed in the water, drenching the front of Dorian’s robe and causing Bull to snort with laughter, the mage raising an eyebrow as he stared the boy down.

“Must you splash so ferociously, Connor?”

“It’s not mayhem if you do it sensitively, now is it?” Bull splashed the boy back, causing peals of laughter and Dorian rolled his eyes as he turned from the bathtub.

“Festis bei umo canavarum.” They had agreed to mind the children for a night while the Inquisitor and Commander dealt with a matter outside of Skyhold; Dorian had no qualms in suspecting this suddenly arising issue was simply a night alone minus the small people he was now in custody of. Even he would admit that a night alone with his love in a tent would be considered romantic compared to wrestling two wriggling cherubs into the bath.  “Come, Imogen, that hair of yours will take hours to dry. Join me in sweet, dry sanity.”

The eldest Rutherford glanced over, dressed already in fresh pyjamas, fighting with the wet tangle of blonde that covered her head and followed him wordlessly out into their parents’ private quarters. They found a spot before the fire, and Dorian found himself wondering how on earth one human being could have so much hair as he dried it with the flannel towel. He focused as he worked, enough magic flowing into the thick comb to warm it as he brushed, separating thick blonde curls with care. She nestled into him, humming along with him as he combed, and the warmth of the fireplace filled the room, the glow of the hot embers cloaking it in peace.

He had never considered himself particularly paternal (Maker knows the brats he usually encountered irked him enough to consider investing his efforts into finding a method of reproduction that entirely skipped this phase of life), and he was usually thankful children were most certainly not included on the path he found himself walking. His own experience as a child left a lot to be desired, to say the least. But the little girl currently occupying his lap had been different, as had her brother. Sure, he had gingerly agreed to hold them both as newborns as the Inquisitor had thrust them at him, regardless of the matter that babies were most definitely not his thing. But as time had passed, they had begun to speak through the crystal of their own vocation, to add notes and drawings to the letters their mother had sent north. They were no longer wailing infants needing napkins changed - they were people. Inquisitive, cheerful, entertaining little people, and their charm was compelling. He loved to listen to them play, to marvel at the ingenuity of their endless imagination, and he found himself leaving their company a little lighter in his step. Not to mention threatening to turn them all ‘Tevinter’, and watching Elicia’s amusement and Cullen’s profuse panic, had become his newest hobby.

“Uncle Dorian?”

“Mh?”

“Will you teach me more about magic tomorrow? I want to learn more about the fire.”

He chuckled as he began to plait her hair, fingers working through long tresses. “I fear your father will banish me from Skyhold if I teach you anymore, lest you burn a hole in the curtains. He can be ferocious when he is angry.”

“Daddy?” She laughed, tucking her feet together and shuffling in place. “Daddy isn’t scary. Daddy is…well, Daddy. He’s funny and he tells good stories, and he makes my favourite cocoa and he plays chess with me…” She paused, twiddling her fingers as her face fell. “ He gives good cuddles, especially when I have nightmares. I don’t think I could ever be scared if Daddy is there.”

Dorian supposed many years ago he would have been jealous, even admittedly of this little girl, for something so very natural and normal. For boasting of having a father so involved that he could calm fear with a mere hug, for wanting to spend time with a child he loved. For being the towering, strong, wise, fearless figure of a father he supposed was written into Varic’s best tales. His father had certainly never approached even mediocre, and he wondered how differently his life may have lead had he had a father that too made cocoa and wiped tear-stained cheeks. That, however, was the past and he had no reservations that Cullen was every bit the adoring father to these children out of the same devotion that he suspected the man lived most of his life with, rather than through any desire to see bloodlines preserved or familial honour. And him? Well, he played the adoring uncle, aloof enough to avoid embroiling himself in petty things such as discipline, but involved enough to receive the latest artistic master pieces by raven.

“Well, I am glad he is good at something. He is terrible at chess, and I suppose it runs in the family.”

“Hey, I beat you twice today!” Imogen reached a hand back to prod at him before she sighed, curling a blonde strand around her finger as she straightened up again. “I like having you and Bull here.”

“Well, I suppose I rather like being here too. I have many happy memories at Skyhold.”

“Can’t you stay then? And we could have tea parties each Friday, and you could read me more of the books in the library and…and…it’d be great!”

Oh, and the thought was delightful, not only for the company of his de-facto niece and nephew. A library of his own to complete, to study and to research at his leisure. Bull nearby, at his beck and call when at home, with friends aplenty and the splendours of Skyhold to behold each day. But the cruel reality of duty pulled him back from imaging such pleasures - they were not his to dream of. He completed the plait with a tut, tying the end with a simple bow and tucking it over her shoulder before replying.

“As much as I may wish it, I must return to Tevinter. I am rather important, you see. However would the Magisterium cope without me? It would be so dull, so uninspiring, and so very bland.”

Imogen leant back into him, obvious disappointment in the scowl plastering across her face as she raised her eyes, meeting his gaze as she folded her arms. “What’s so good about Tevinter? What’s it like anyway?”

“Simply breathtaking. Wide landscape, dramatic scenery, the high spires of the city…It is rather brilliant.”

“It can’t be that brilliant. I’m not there.”

“No,” he admitted with a chuckle, patting her cheek with a tender smile. “You are not, little one. I suppose Tevinter shall always be missing that.”

“We could come and visit!” The moment was broken by the arrival of Connor, perched precariously on Bull’s horns, beaming broadly from underneath a thatch of golden curls that bounced with each large step.

“Suggest that one to your father and write me with his decision, Master Rutherford.”

Bull snorted once more, lifting the boy from his shoulders and placing him down on the awaiting bedsheets. “I’d pay silver to see Cullen’s face at the idea of a family vacation to Minrathous.”

Dorian managed to hold back the mirthful sneer that threatened, only for fear of having to explain the inner politics of Thedas this side of midnight to two easily excitable youngsters. He chivvied Imogen gently from his lap, straightening the robe he wore as he stood. “I am going to fetch our bedtime refreshments from the kitchen. I will leave you in charge of the story-telling, amatus.”

“Okay, okay. Settle down, c’mon, because this story kicks a…I mean…butt. Alright…once upon a time, there was a dragon. A biiiiiig dragon. And you know what dragons mean?”

The echo of mayhem followed Dorian down the stone stairs, and he could not help but quench the bittersweet taste in his mouth with the most exasperated, yet content, of laughs.