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danibee33 · 9 months ago

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The Queen’s Guard - Chapter 9: Longing

knight!simon riley x queen!reader

cw: mentions of death/gore* & the smut we’ve all been waiting for 🖤

word count: 6.7k

The clouds dance and whirl overhead, bringing with them a wind so sharp you think it might cut right through the heavy cloak, all the way down to your skin- maybe even deeper than that.

“Storm’s moving fast..” You say, more to yourself than anything, but Simon hums out an agreement anyway, casting his eyes upward with a squint,

“C’mon, there’s a village not too much further-”

Tugging at your hood, you begrudgingly squeeze your chaffed and aching thighs in order to urge the mare forward. Never in your life had you ridden for so long at one time- over the span of a week, you’ve hardly gotten off the beast unless it’s to relieve yourself or when it’s time to set up camp; and your very spoiled and sheltered life is proving to be a great disadvantage at the moment.

“Sore?”

His question confuses you, your cheeks beginning to burn, though the heat has nothing to do with your wind-chapped skin,

“From the saddle, love..” You can’t help but to roll your eyes at the amusement in his tone, turning into your cowl even further, only to gasp when you feel his hands around your waist-

In quick succession he had gotten close enough to you on his own horse to reach across the short expanse and pull you over, settling you side saddle between his legs, “Simon!”

But, it seems he quite enjoys your disgruntled fussing, “Is this all right?”, he asks, “If not, I’ll put you back-”

“No.. no.” You give in quickly, too enamored by the heat of his body against yours, his delightful warmth leaching into you, and the way your legs and pelvis scream at you to stay. Stay here in this very unbecoming position, one of his arms wrapped snugly over your hips, fingers loosely holding the reins, as the other works to tether your horse to his,

“It takes some gettin’ used to.” Simon coos, holding you closer, “But, you’ve done so well..”

His praise makes your skin feel like it could be on fire, and the steady rocking motion of the horse’s gate does nothing to help- well, except for the tiny splashes of the first rain drops beginning to fall.

And by the time you reach the small square, you’re both thoroughly soaked. Your cloak and petticoat feel ten pounds heavier, sticking to Simon’s jacket as he helps lower you down to the muck and mud before dismounting himself.

The village is quaint, deserted due to the conditions, but it still manages to feel cozy somehow- with candles and lanterns flickering in almost every window, there’s a warmth to it that strikes you differently than you’re so used to. And the closer you get to the inn, the sounds of raucous laughter and amused banter bleed through the foggy windows and from under the solid door.

With Simon’s hand hovering against your lower back, he opens the door and you both shuffle inside. The air is thick with a lazy sort of heat, your nostrils immediately filled with the hearty scents of herbs and fatty meats slowly cooking. You’re grateful for all the noise then, grateful it hides the way your stomach rumbles and growls, excited for a meal that isn’t foraged berries, stale bread, and whatever small game Simon had hunted along the way-

“This way..” Simon guides you through the open area, firmly polite in the way he excuses some of the more rowdy patrons- and it strikes you then, oddly and out of place almost, that none of these people give you a second look. Sure, some of their gazes linger, half-lidded and plied with honeyed mead, at the strangers making their way to an empty table in the corner; but as soon as the next distraction comes, you’re easily forgotten.

An older woman sweeps by with two pint glasses frothing with amber liquid, “Travelers, eh? Been pishin’ a doon out there, I tell ya.”

“Aye, it has-”, you respond with a small chuckle, ordering two of whatever that delightful smell originates from when the matron asks.

“Do you have a room open for the night?”

“Tsch- o’course. Always a room open for a native lass, like y’rself.” She graces you with a warm smile, one that reminds you so much of your own mother it hurts, patting your shoulder before giving a.. less than welcoming glare to the man sitting across from you as she flits away with a hmpf.

You unpin your cloak, tugging it from around your shoulders- a bloom of heat coloring your cheeks when you lock eyes with Simon, a sly grin just barely tugging at the corner of his lips,

“What?”

His head tilts just enough to catch a bit of light from the hearth, casting his features in a deep, handsome glow as he studies you without saying a word. Those damned eyes finally thawing at the sight of your mess of hair still damp, and cheeks stained pink, the way you try to hold his gaze but always end up looking away- pretending to be interested in the wood grain of the table under your hands,

“It’s nice.. Seein’ you like this.”

Nice? You roll the word over your tongue a few times, unsure of what exactly nice entails- but your pondering is very quickly snuffed out by the sound of your name being spoken. They aren’t speaking to you, no, thank the gods, but the more you turn your ear towards the group, the tighter your chest feels-

“May the gods rest ‘er soul..” One man says, lifting his glass in the air, the others following suit in the impromptu eulogy.

“Aye.. Gods rest.”

“A right Scottish Queen on the throne- married off tae tha’ bastard. Now look at ‘er.. Butchered and they say they ne’er found ‘er heid.. A goddamn shame-”

“I heard the King’s heid was sat on the mantle- crown on and all.” Another one offers, staring vacantly into his cup before coming back to the present, “Bodies burnt to a crisp.”

You grit your teeth, images of their gossip wracking through your mind and body; the raw, visceral reaction unstoppable as a bone deep shiver quakes through you. Simon’s hand covers yours, squeezing just enough to draw your eyes back to him-

“‘Ere we are.” Two steaming plates are sat in front of you, roasted pheasant and a healthy portion of potatoes and boiled leafy greens, “‘S a shame, ain’t it?”

She glances back at the table of men, “I dinnae normally like to give in tae the rumors, but-”, her voice takes on a morose lilt, her hands buried deep in her apron, “it’s jus’ so heartbreakin’’. And to think it were her guard! Of all people..”

You really think you could be sick before you’ve even got a bite of your food down, the smell that had enticed you so, now feels too heavy in your nostrils, too rich and fatty, too thick-

“It is.” Simon interjects, tapping the heavy ring around his thumb against the table in that comforting pattern, “Gods rest-”

The woman sniffles, nodding her head before pulling a handkerchief that’s been tucked in her bosom, “Aye, gods rest. Ye two enjoy, lemme ken if ye need anythin’ at’all.”

With a nod and tight lipped smiles, she bustles away, the weather bringing more people into the small tavern than you think is usual. And within the hour, the room quickly shrinks to barely allow for standing space. The already warm air becoming near stifling the longer you sit, pushing bits of leftovers around the wooden plate,

“C’mon, love.” Simon stands, holding his hand out to you- “Let’s get some rest.”

You know he’s right, you know you have another full day of traveling tomorrow- which causes the ache in your bottom and thighs to rear its ugly head yet again. But you feel so utterly restless. The men’s words, long forgotten by them, have not left your mind. They bounce around relentlessly, conjuring awful images and memories- things you cannot forget.

But you let him take your hand, let his warmth anchor you, his steady hold guide you through the crowd and toward the small staircase that takes you both up and up. The air seems to cool step by step, a little easier to breathe the further you get from the noise.

Yet, the closer you get to the room, the more your thoughts seem dead set on casting you into the void entirely. You feel too warm and too cold at the same time, your body and mind unable to escape the vicious fight or flight cycle-

What have you done? What do you truly know of this man? What if he- could he be? Could your Simon be anything like the King? Maybe not right now, but what if- what if- what if-

“Your thoughts are loud tonight, little queen..”

It’s only at the sound of his voice that you notice you now stand in the middle of a spacious bedroom. One with a large bed that commands the space, a wardrobe stood in one corner and a gloriously deep bathtub sat opposite- and sure, you had shared a bed with Simon before, you had clung to him in the middle of forests, with only a thin sheet of canvas between you and the unforgiving wilderness.

But this.. Very suddenly, you’re confronted with the intimacy of the space you share now. Of the single bed, a bed untainted by the memory of another man, of him- you study the crackling fire, and the torrential rains still pelting against the fogged up window panes. Your eyes on anything other than the man that watches you so ardently.

“Was this..” – you suck in a shaking breath, meeting those beautiful amber eyes, the ones that seem to burn brighter than the flames in the hearth, “Did we-”

Oh, such a way with words you have- gods, just get it together.

He tilts his head, “Did we do the right thing?”, with a single step, he’s right in front of you, “Depends on who you ask. Though, I believe your people would say yes..”

“I hate that they think that you- that you would-“

“Kill you?”

Tears sting your eyes then, flooded by everything that happened that night- the poor woman’s body that had been stolen from the infirmary, the fire and blood, the way the King’s crown sparkled on his head as it sat on the mantle. All the horrendous acts that Johnny and Simon committed, for you.

Oh, perhaps Johnny was right all along, you are just a stupid, selfish girl-

“I should be dead, shouldn’t I?” You admit, turning away from him, “At least that way, you and Johnny, you could’ve had your lives- you would not be out here, in the middle of nowhere, helping me escape mine, at the cost of your own. I should be-”

“Don’t.” Simon’s grip on your arm isn’t forceful, it’s not painful or demanding, but you can feel the urgency, see the anguish in his eyes, hear the agony in his voice, “Please.. Don’t say those things.”

He takes up your field of view, holding your face between his hands before pulling away with a huff,

“Don’t you understand? I would do it all again, I would do it a hundred times. Because before you.. I-” – he stops mid-pace, raking a hand through his hair, “I had no life, none beyond a battlefield. My life has only ever been death. My hands..”

You watch him look at his own appendages as though he wishes to remove them completely, “My hands have rarely known or given a kind touch, they are tarnished and unworthy-”

“Simon, no-”

It’s you who reaches for him this time, taking his hands in yours- your lips pressed against the rough skin without a second thought. You kiss them slowly, softly, over and over, listening to each unsteady breath that rattles through his chest,

“I do not know the hands you speak of..” You whisper, looking up at him, “I only know the hands that have saved me, that have held me- hands that have only ever been kind and gentle.”

And to see him now, see every raw edge of him- you feel silly for ever thinking he could be anything like your late husband. That he would ever bring a hand to you that was meant to incite fear and pain, or turn his voice into a weapon to degrade and belittle you.

No, Simon had shown you his heart- openly, tenderly. He had allowed you to see him, pried open his chest and let you settle yourself there, in a space he has never allowed anyone before.

“But you’ve seen what they were made to do. Seen them bloody-” He shakes his head, letting it fall, eyes clenching shut, “I told you before that I am not a good man. The things I have done cannot be atoned for.”

Your hands move cautiously, blazing a slow path from his wrists over his forearms, the cords of muscle twitching and flexing under your palms until you reach high enough to cup his jaw. He doesn’t look at you right away, choosing to lean into the cool touch of your palm before speaking again,

“I’m afraid-” – he whispers, and you can see it in his eyes when he finally opens them, see the terror, the longing, these feelings so obviously and painfully foreign to him, “- that one day.. I will kill you. That I will bring Death right to our doorstep, and he will take you, just as he’s taken all others from me.”

His words feel like fire and frost in your veins. Never would you have thought Simon, your Simon, your steadfast protector- your lover - to harbor such a thing as fear. Much less, a fear of losing you, a fear so great it seems like it could bring the Titan of a man to his knees.

And yet, it’s that fear that fortifies you. If he can be so relentlessly strong for you in times when you thought you were shattering, then you can be that for him- because what is love, if not picking up each other’s pieces when they cannot?

Love was never meant to be only beauty and light, love is disturbing and messy; it is brutal in its hold and unfair in its unpredictability. You cannot choose who you love, not really. There are strings of fate that bind you- how else can something so dark and so wonderful dare make sense?

A sad smile pulls at your lips as you look up at him, thumb brushing back and forth through the stubble on his cheek, “Simon.. If Death should come for me, I will take his hand in mine- and with my other, I’ll hold yours, so that I might find you in every lifetime after.”

The breath that leaves him sounds like it might as well have been punched from his lungs, labored and groaning. But, in the next second you’re being pulled forward- leaning up onto your toes as he captures your lips in a desperate kiss, his arm snaking around your waist as you crash into him with all the grace of a newborn fawn.

But he doesn’t let you fall, he couldn’t dream of such a thing- no, he holds you closer, the span of his fingers covering your lower back, his immense warmth radiating even through the thick fabric of your dress-

“Wait, My Queen.. Wait-”

You feel how he braces himself, forcing his hands to gently push you just far enough away that you couldn’t reach his lips, “Simon-”

Tears well up at the very corners of your eyes, out of frustration or sheer petulance, you’re not sure. It’s just.. your body feels wound too tight, and your mind is so lost in its own haze of desire and longing that you can’t control the way your bottom lip quivers-

“Oh, sweet girl-” Simon presses a kiss to your pitiful pout first before holding your face up so that he could kiss your tears next, “Do you trust me?”

You nod against him, your hands still tightly tangled in the loose material of his tunic, “Yes, but-”

Another kiss causes your complaint to be forgotten at the back of your tongue, overtaken by the taste of his mouth on yours- and the subsequent throbbing deep in your core. Your body truly and utterly aches for him.

He sweeps you out of the room despite your small protests, leaving youstill unsure of what exactly his plan is, or why he insists on denying you and himself for even a moment longer. But you stay, standing by a large bay window, watching how the rain carves chaotic little paths down the glass, and catching glimpses of your reflection when the candlelight flickers just right.

You look properly disheveled. Tendrils of hair frame your dirt stained cheeks, your eyes slightly hollow from the nightmares that have plagued your sleep, lips chapped and raw from the wind, and Simon’s kisses-

Slowly, you untangle your braids, vainly attempting to rake your fingers through some of the mess when you hear boots ascending.

A man you don’t recognize appears first, followed by a much taller, much more familiar form just behind. They both carry a large basin in each hand, the water inside fragrant and steaming as they make their way inside, dumping the pails into the deep copper tub-

There's a small grin on Simon’s lips when he passes by, the men repeating the same act twice more before you watch them shake hands- the taller man slipping a few pieces of silver to the other in thanks,

“A bath?” You look up at him with wide eyes, unable to hide your excitement after weeks of bathing in frigid rivers and streams.

“Mh..” – he hums, moving to hold you again, those long fingers trailing up the laces of your bodice, “You deserve comfort, so, while I can give that to you, I will. And one day.. I’ll draw a bath for you whenever you’d like.”

As he speaks, his voice takes on a softer edge, dipping his head down to nuzzle against the skin of your neck. He lavishes the flesh with kiss after kiss all while his hands work to loosen every lace, methodically pulling until you can feel the ties give way enough to take a deep, shuddering breath-

“Is this ok, My Queen?” Simon asks, pulling back to search your face for any sign of discomfort.

It tugs at your heart in ways you didn’t think possible. Because the King had never asked, he never cared what was ok or not- and you didn’t know any better anyway.

But Simon waits, he waits to hear the soft ‘yes’, waits for even a second longer just to memorize the way your eyes sparkle for him- beautiful and bright. And with the same tender movements, he pulls the dress from your shoulders, easing the fabric down your arms, every prolonged graze of his fingertips leaving a wake of goosebumps.

You’ve never been completely bare to a man before- even your husband had never seen all of you at once, never taking the time to bother with undressing you when he could just hike your nightgown up.

What if he doesn’t find you appealing when he sees you so exposed? What if he thinks the stretch marks on your thighs are ugly? Or maybe the size of your hips and the fatty flesh that covers them- the King always made sure to remind you of how unsightly those parts of you were.

What if he doesn’t like how your stomach squishes and jiggles-

“Look at me.”

You hadn’t even noticed that your eyes were focused on the floor, cast down in shame when your gown pooled around your ankles. And you really should’ve known that one look at the man in front of you would take all your insecurities and wash them away, because to him, he’s never seen a woman so perfect.

Simon’s never seen skin as soft and unblemished as yours- and he finds himself wanting to kiss and mark every single inch of you, make you his and only his.

Instead, he tilts your chin up, relishing the sight of your swollen lips parting just so, like you, too, couldn’t get enough of him. No one’s ever looked at him that way, like he were something to be coveted and desired.

“You’re beautiful.”

That’s all he gives you before wrapping you in his arms, sealing his lips over yours- and this time when you pull at his belt, he lets you. He lets you loosen it around his hips, lets your hands wander, fingers skimming over the feverish skin of his torso. He helps you by tugging the tunic over his head, blessing you with the glorious sight of him; his muscles, and scars, and freckles, and moles- every stunning imperfection that has shaped him.

A flash of lightning illuminates the room just before the rattling boom of thunder, as if Mother Nature herself were as enthralled with this moment as you were-

“C’mere..” Simon takes your hand, offering a steadying hold for you to step into the bathtub, “‘S too hot?”

The water stings for only a moment on your legs, but you pay the slight discomfort no mind, lowering the rest of your body into the bath with a sigh,

“No, it’s perfect.” You say, looking up at him with a gracious smile, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t say anything more, opting to push his trousers over his hips and legs- and you know you’ve felt him, felt his length pressing into you through his pants, seen the outline of him straining against the fabric.

But this- you tug your bottom lip between your teeth, aware that your staring is entirely unladylike, but unable to find it in yourself to really care. How could you? When you’ve imagined his cock many a night as you touched yourself to merely the thought of him, to the idea of how good you just knew he could make you feel.

And now, here he is, naked as the day the he was born, towering over you, built like he was carved from the gods of war themselves-

The water sloshes when he steps one foot in, then the other, sitting opposite of you- one leg stretched out against yours and the other propped up so that his knee breaches the surface,

“I’ve never done this.” You admit, cheeks flushed a bright pink from the heat of the water, but mostly from the way he stretches his arms out over the rounded edges of the tub, the way his head tilts lazily to the side,

“Can’t say I have, either.”

You stay like that, watching him until he leans over, plucking a sponge from the small table, “May I?”

Well, how does he ever expect you to refuse when he looks at you like…that.

With a small nod, he inches himself forward, maneuvering your legs to rest atop his, your bodies precariously close again- and with not a thing but the water separating you from him. You avoid looking down, keeping your eyes focused instead on the myriad of scars that litter his broad chest- you watch the bulging muscles move under the skin as he washes you.

He starts with your hands, his eyes glued to you, reverently studying each part as he goes- cleansing you of dirt and grime, “What are you thinking, little queen?”

“That your self-control is admirable.” You respond without thought- the flesh he touches warming even more so when a he bellows a genuine laugh-

“It’s no easy feat. I assure you.”

When his fingers brush against your sensitive inner thigh, a traitorous moan escapes you, one that causes him to tense. And you think even with the hot, slippery water around you- the slick between your legs becomes more apparent, your thighs clenching on their own and your head rolling back,

“Simon..”

Hearing his name uttered as little more than a whimper makes him dizzy, large hand clamping over your thigh like it might steady him- his want for you reaching a peak he had never quite felt before,

“Careful, love..” He growls.

But it’s too late, because you cling to that tiny fault in his control, the wanton, lecherous parts of you gnashing and gnawing their way to the surface. A streak of confidence, or outright arrogance, guiding you to pull the sponge from between his fingers,

“May I?” You coo, repeating his own kind gesture, but you would be lying if you said you had nearly as pure intentions-

He nods, and you begin to mimic his movements- scrubbing his hands, and arms, letting yours linger and softly grope as you go. Every minute or so, you find yourself glancing at his face, seeing his brows knitted together, eyes steeled and unblinking as he watches you clean him- a queen, washing his skin, his queen, bathing him. His cock twitches and swells painfully at the thought-

“Has anyone ever called you beautiful?” You splay your small palm over his thigh, again forcing your eyes to stay away from the water, away from.. Well, away from gawking at his how his length only seems to grow bigger with your efforts.

A sharp laugh fills your ears, his dimples sinking in as he clamps his bottom lip between his teeth, “No.”

You do meet his eyes then, scooting forward so that your thighs are now settled over his, practically straddling his lap, “Well, you are. You look like those statues of the gods.. Like art.”

The sponge slips from your hand when you’re jerked forward, big hands spread out over the fleshy globes of your ass, his fingers kneading into the fat and muscle with a satisfied groan- followed in quick succession by your breathy little whine from the feel of his hardness pressed against your cunt.

Lips and teeth and tongues collide, your body rolling and writhing above his, hips eager to find that delicious friction again-

He moans when you tug your fingers through his hair, thrusting up hard enough to cause water to go splashing and spilling onto the floor below. But neither of you stop, neither of you wanting to fight that burning, deep-seated desire for a moment longer,

“I need you.. Simon- I need you.” You pant, swiping your tongue over his, “Please.”

Without pause, the giant man stands, your legs and arms flailing to stay firmly wrapped around him; even if you know that his hold on you is ironclad, the motion is so abrupt you can’t help the fleeting fear of being dropped. Or worse, either or both of you falling-

But he moves with that effortless confidence he’s so good at, stepping out of the tub, water dripping and puddling on the floor until you’re being nestled safely into the feather down mattress- skin prickling at the cold sheets beneath.

Thankfully, his hands and mouth make quick work in warming you.

“You can stop me-” Simon says, kissing over your jaw and down your neck, “All right? You say the word, and I’ll stop. We don’t- mh- don’t have to do this.”

You tilt your hips up, straining to wrap your legs around his waist, “I want to. I want you..”

He moves to hover over you, those damned eyes picking you apart layer by layer, almost begging for a reason to remove himself- not because he doesn’t want you just as badly, but because he still can’t wrap his mind around the fact that you want him.

Simon has been with women, out of need and lust, sure. And while you are not the first person he’s been with, when you look up at him like that, with those big eyes, and that sweet smirk, he vows to himself then, that you will be his last.

“You already have me, sweet girl..”

Too quickly, he pushes away, your lips chasing after him until you see exactly where he’s headed-

“Wha- oh..”

A warm chuckle fans out over your tummy, “Just need a taste, sweetheart.” – he says, like it were the most normal thing in the world.

The thing is, you’ve never actually had someone do that. You’ve only read about it, heard stories from your handmaids-

Dreamed of it..

The memory of your heat-induced fantasy flashes before your eyes- only then, you didn’t even have a face to fantasize of, but now..

Well now, the vision of Simon’s face settled between your thighs is enough to make your head swoon. Feeling the dark hair in your hands, his breath against your center- that alone is enough to make your back arch off the bed,

“Feelin’ needy, little queen?”

You scoff, the gripe on the tip of your tongue forgotten at the feeling of his thick tongue dragging through your folds- the sensation unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, hot and wet, firm and soft. You cry out, gripping his head tighter, your legs attempting to squeeze shut until he pries you open again,

“Mm-mm..” Simon groans into you, “Don’t hide..”

With another sharp gasp, your head rolls back into the pillows as he latches onto your clit- the swollen bud already entirely too sensitive. And when he circles your entrance with a rough finger, it’s almost enough to take you over the edge right then, feeling the blissful stretch of his digit, and then two- it’s enough, more than enough, and yet, nowhere near enough.

“Mmh- Oh gods..” You moan, using both hands now to guide him, “Right there- right th-there.”

It’s as if you’ve thrown oil onto fire the way he ravishes you, lapping and suckling until you’re nothing more than a trembling, whiny mess beneath him- your body tensing and curling as the orgasm burns through you hard and fast, his name on your lips and yours on his-

“My good girl- fuckin’ hell.. That’s it.”

He praises you, pacing his ministrations to draw out your pleasure until every fiber of your being feels like you’re floating above the heavens.

You’ve reached your finish before, but never so.. intensely; and never at the hands, or mouth of another.

And to have it now, from a man you’ve wanted for so long.. You know you shouldn't uphold him as an idol, as a being deserving of prayer.

No, that is a blasphemous act.

But you do.

“I’ve dreamt of havin’ you on my tongue..”, he drawls, not bothering to wipe your slick from his lips before kissing you- shoving his tongue forward like he wants you to taste yourself, “Of tasting a queen, My Queen.”

A soft hum bubbles out of you, spreading your thighs for him again, and keening at the weight of his cock as it settles over your slit-

“I’m not your queen anymore, Simon..” Is all you can manage to say, reaching between your body and his, no longer slickened by water, but instead glimmering with a sheen of sweat. You wrap your hand around him, another soft whine parting your lips at the way his length jerks at your touch.

Simon nuzzles into your neck, “Aren’t you? Shall I give you my vows again, then?” – his words are muffled by your flesh, his lips warm and wet, “Vow to defend you..”

Kiss.

“To obey you-”

Another kiss.

“To give my life for yours-”

Before he can punctuate the next vow with a kiss, he leans up to cradle your face in his hand, “But.. I suppose I am not fit to be your guard anymore..”

Your brows pull together, “And why is that, Ser Simon?”

His hand settles at your hip, gliding up your thigh to hitch it a bit higher on his waist- the other still cupping your jaw, “Because I cannot promise you to never wed..” – he says, molten amber eyes piercing into you, “I cannot promise to never take land- cannot vow to father no children..”

You don’t need the answer, you know it, but it doesn’t stop you from whispering, “Why?”

Simon’s dimpled smile gives you comfort, the calloused pad of his thumb softly grazing over your cheek, “Well.. if you asked me for those things, I wouldn’t think twice about giving them to you.”

Once more, you’re stunned by the simplicity in which he says it- like he weren’t proposing a life with you. Like he didn’t just admit to wanting more with you, wanting everything with you.

“The thought of you havin’ my name..” – he grinds down as if to prove his point, that the idea of you taking his name is more than enough to turn him on, “Of givin’ you land, buildin’ a home with you.. Children, if you want them.”

Your legs clench around him, not entirely of your own free will. It’s just the things he’s saying, and that fucking voice- it will surely be your downfall. But, if this is falling, you don’t mind how sinfully good it feels.

“Mm..” You hum, leaning up to claim his lips, “In that case, I permanently relieve you of your duty, good Ser.”

You feel his grin, but in the next breath, you also feel that burning sense of urgency return to his movements- hands scorching flesh, lips offering only a temporary reprieve, and it’s all so perfect.

Simon leans up one more time, another question in his eyes as he covers your hand on his cock. You don’t give him the chance to ask though, quieting his thoughts by reaching out to wrap your arms around his neck, voice hardly a whisper,

“I love you, Simon.”

His eyes widen, pupils already blown into thick, inky voids- and for only a second, you worry you’ve said too much, too soon. That he will pull away from you for good, but that notion is lost when he presses forward, his plump tip pushing into you, slowly, inch by mouth-watering inch, while he watches you like it’s the last thing he might ever do.

He watches your lips part into the prettiest shape around your gasp, watches your eyebrows scrunch together, your fingers tightening in his hair-

And fuck, you knew you were shamefully wet for him, but the lewd sound your cunt makes when he sinks into you makes your cheeks bloom a deep red, eyes fighting to stay open, to stay on him. But you feel so full. The stretch of taking his girth so new that it stings, but the pain only seems to make the pleasure multiply. It makes no sense, but you suppose nothing ever really has with him.

It’s when he’s fully seated inside you, arms now propped on either side of your head, sweat beading on his skin that he gives you, and himself, just a moment to adjust. He peppers your lips and cheeks and neck with kisses, swallowing your sweet moans before moving again- languidly drawing back, and pushing in just as slow.

There’s nothing quick about the way he ruins you, he takes his time, wanting you to feel every single moment- wanting to watch the pleasure etch itself into your features, the pleasure he gives you. Deliberately and thoroughly.

Time could have ceased to exist in this moment. You wouldn’t know, you wouldn’t care. Because you can only feel the way he consumes you, your mind and body, spirit and soul, he can have it. Just as he told you that he was yours on that balcony what feels like a lifetime ago now, you knew that you were just as much his.

So, yes, he could take whatever he wanted- it had belonged to him from the start.

Simon Riley is the man fate bound to you.

Just as the familiar pressure blooms once more low in your belly, you feel his fingers lace with yours, his free hand wandering between your bodies, “You feel like a dream, sweet girl.. Better than dreams-”

He groans when your walls flutter and tense around him, his fingers working gentle circles over your clit, the flesh of his hips smacking against yours with every bone-deep thrust. And you knew it would only be a matter of seconds if he keeps up like this, so before you’re lost to the bliss yet again, you pull his head down, licking and nipping at his bottom lip,

“Simon– mmh-”

Your body trembles right before its release, your orgasm somehow deeper, more spectacularly bright than the first. It rings in your ears, only made better by Simon’s own guttural moans growing higher, more desperate- his panting breaths mix with yours, your name spilling out over and over. His rhythm is indiscernible now as he chases his end, your slick and his prespend glistening over your thighs and the thick curls at the base of his cock.

And you really didn’t think it was possible that you could be more enamored or entranced by him than you already are, but seeing him above you- seeing every trace of that unshakable stoicism melt away, leaving just Simon behind.

Leaving just a man, not a knight or a queen’s guard, not a killer, nor a ghost. Just a man who has seen too much of the world, been hurt by it, lived too many lives isolated in his self-made fortress.

You see a boy who was forced to become a man far too soon. A boy who never got the luxury of feeling the sunlight on his face, or a warm breeze on his skin that wasn’t accompanied by guilt or pain. You see his story written in scars, from burns and blades, arrows and spears-

Yet, he is beautiful.

With a final string of grunts, he bullies his cock so deep inside your channel, you can’t help the shrill little squeak you give at the feeling. Pain and pleasure collide as you hug him as tight and close as you both can manage- chests slippery and heaving, the room falling into a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of your breaths.

“Did I hurt you?” He whispers, either unable or unwilling to lift his face from where it lays on your chest, shaking fingers absently tracing over your palm.

“No, not in ways I didn’t enjoy.” You hide your face in his hair, pressing a long kiss to the sweat-dampened locks.

A chuckle floats over your skin, his lips chasing the chills before looking up at you-

“I- I don’t know.. love, My Queen. I’ve read of it, though I can’t say I’ve actually seen it. I wouldn’t know what to look for, or recognize what it feels like. But-” – you give a warm smile, silently praying that one day soon, he might tell you his story.

But, for now, you understand.

“I do not need to hear it.. And perhaps, I don’t know much about the feeling either. But, you feel like the fairytales I grew up reading.”

This time, the chuckle grows into rich laughter, his fingers gently tickling your sides to pull a sweet laugh from you, too,

“Fuck’s sake, little queen. Tellin’ a man he feels like a fairytale.”

You squirm under him with another bout of giggles, “You know what I meant!” – you swat at his arm, groaning suddenly when you feel his cock sink a bit further inside you, his seed dribbling onto the sheets,

“I know happy endings are for children’s stories, but.. the way they speak of love..” —you trail off, looking up at the ceiling for something more poetic, something you might find in one of your books. But you don’t think Simon is man of great proclamations or fancy words-

So, you settle on meeting his gaze, voice soft, “Well, I love you, Simon Riley.”

He leans up to kiss you, slow and deep, “Say it again.”

“I love you, Simon.”

taglist: @spxctorsslxt @ssc7514 @ficcharsimp009

#smut smut smut #knight!ghost #and his queen #fic: the queens guard #call of duty #cod fandom #simon ghost riley #cod fanfic #ao3 fanfic #simon riley x reader #simon riley #but make it medieval #medieval au

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eriyu · 6 months ago

Text

as much as i like the Forgotten Knight, what a missed opportunity to not give us our own room in Fortemps Manor... maybe if they'd made Heavensward later, after they'd gotten the idea of branching out on what an "inn room" could be, we could've gotten one. :(((

#ff #ffxiv #hw

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yourlocaltreesimp · 1 year ago

Note

Could you maybe write the chain + koridai and courage (and maybe mask) reacting to a guide with self harm scars.

I know it's a tall order and a bit of a controversial ask but it would make this former self harmer quite happy. And if not thanks for taking the time to read.

^⁠_⁠^. ^⁠_⁠^. ^⁠_⁠^ ^⁠_⁠^

Only wrote Courage, Koridai and Mask, but i would definitely expand this to the rest of the chain if that’s what y’all would like! Please please let me know if any part of this is insensitive or tone deaf.

@triplecatattack come get your boys.

tw: self harm/self harm scars, familial abuse mentioned, sexual abuse loosely implied, physical abuse mentioned

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

The scars never truly stopped hurting. The blood would stop, a scab would form, the scar wouldn’t be as tender, but it still hurt to look at. It didn’t matter whether it was from the perspective of a picture or the reflection in the mirror— it didn’t change the mournful cry in your chest that always threatened to bubble out.

Still, you sat with your tunic looped through your forearms while your eyes remained caught on the old wounds. There were days they were easier to ignore. Days it didn’t matter who you were at your worst. But in the days you find yourself reminded that the you of the past lives living within the you of the present, they’re a little harder to leave be. It’s a just little harder to not wrap your arms around yourself in an attempt to console that aching bit of yourself.

At some point, each memory finds its way swimming to the surface all at once. It’s uncanny, how accurately the mind can recreate the sensations of memories and pain it once tried so hard to surpress. All at once you’re reminded how it feels to hold your life in your hands, your nerves suddenly back to raw and frightened. To be left with only your sorrows and the hope to carry through. That primal part of your mind, in its panic, telling you to hide as the door to your inn room opened. It urges you to cover your wounds— lest someone see the most fragile parts of you and decides they are simply too much.

Courage’s hands ached with the heavy bags of equipment and boxes the inn keeper had requested he help with. A day's worth of walking up and down stairs and monotonous lifting meant that he’d gotten quite… grimey. But despite the hard work, even he could admit, the nicer room and sauna were perks worth his work.

Sure, he was no smart man. There weren’t any schools for miles around, and even then he doubted his family would have the money to spend his and his brothers’ education.

But for what he lacked in scholarship, he made up for in strength. Not in the simple manner of labouring like his father— no. He was proven to be far, far beyond that. He could finally fight back.

To the world and its cruelty.

To his father and his drunken swings.

To his brothers and their torment.

To evil as it was.

He counted it as odd— the glassy look of your eyes as you stared at the mirror. But as soon as your trance was disturbed, it was broken. You offered a small, gentle smile to him in your reflection as you fiddled with the towel around your shoulders. You seemed ok, not perfectly content, but nothing that raised alarm bells. Your worries tugged at his nerves, but the last thing he’d ever choose to be towards you is overbearing.

He loved that small upturn of your lips, something so soft that it couldn’t be fabricated (such a detail he learned during his time as a knight, smiling is the mask of any good wealthy person). He had been so out of touch with genuine endearment during his time as a decorated knight, flirting with whichever noblewoman draped herself over his shoulder, that he wouldn’t be all too surprised if he’d fallen head over heels for you right then and there. He’d lived his life in a daze up until the, playing to his strengths within the court. He’d almost forgotten such a sense of genuine attraction.

He’d made it a point after you to not flirt with you— or not in the same manner he did with the noble folk of the court. You deserved far more grace and honour than lewd innuendos and wandering hands. Someone who stirred such a pure sense of hopeless romance in a heart as beaten as his deserved only his best treatment.

He gathered his swimwear and led you down the halls to their hot springs, keeping close watch for any prying eyes or wandering hands that may find you as their target. His most beloved deserved his protection. It didn’t matter if his blade had shattered and his bones had splintered, he’d fight to his dying breath if it meant keeping you safe.

Which is why the sobs from the adjacent row changing rooms were so concerning.

“My love?” He knocked softly on the door, not wishing to escalate the situation if it didn't call for it.

“Are you alright?” The weak hiccups and strained breaths only increased. His brow furrowed as he felt his heart squirm beneath his ribs.

“Dearest, what’s wrong?” There were only a few small shuffles before the lock clicked open. You looked at him through the crack with a level of concern that mirrored ashamed. He feels the way his face softens and he has to try and stop his hand from reaching towards you. Your hands cover your arms as your shoulders curl inward to appear small and shrunken.

“I-“ You choke on the syllable as you force words out, “I look horrible” You shuddered as you exhaled, the sound morphing back into your cries.

He can, at first, only manage to hold you as you cry. If he cannot rid the pain from you immediately, he can at least kiss each tear so they’re welcome. He would not let you believe your emotions are anything but beautiful. Because they are an extension of you and your life. How could anything of you not be beautiful?

When he gives you space he can see the irritation around the scars, scratch marks overlaying the fragile skin. Blood pokes through in a few of the less healed areas, and all at once he gets it. He nods wordlessly, embracing you with his own scarred arms.

“You’re so beautiful” His voice is filled with such awe and splendour you can’t even consider if they’re anything aside from pure candor.

“All of you.” His lips press against the inside of your wrists, right where your veins are visible.

“And you’re so sweet” He speaks into your skin as he works his way toward your elbow. Through his lashes you can see him looking up at you as he snickers at his own joke.

“And My, how I'm so lucky to love you.” He kisses where your scars end before diving back up to capture your lips.

You two aren’t so different, he thinks. You suffer similar demons. But if there’s anything that he can do to ward them off, it’s tell you all the things you make him feel. That life is worth living. That people care about you. That it’s ok to cry. That you’re worthy of love— in all its facets and forms.

۵♡۵

If there was any way to describe the way Koridai would present his affections to you, it would be through finery.

Many say that most people choose to interact with the world in a similar manner to the way they wished the world would treat them. He was no such exception.

Sure, while he certainly was held to a standard of respect and dignity, he wasn’t as much a fool as he pretended. He could tell that he was, no matter how much heroics he did, an outsider. Where we saw his livelihood spent protecting them, they saw a jester of sorts.

His service to them was expected.

There were days he wished that he were born into that life. That he could understand their intricacies when interacting and that perhaps, with prestige he could prove himself more than just a performer.

He wished he had such finery as a good and simple life. But, he could not so simply provide that to himself. He had not the money nor the means. The wealthy wanted their entertainment and it wasn’t easy to leave them unsated.

Where he could not provide for himself, however, he provided to you. Full meals, fine jewellery and clothing… his pockets were lined, but he’d empty them for you. The shine in your eyes as you opened a gift from him was far better than any rupee.

It had taken an only slightly embarrassing amount of time to get your ring size discretely and find a jeweller he thought fit for the job.

Even then, there came the incredibly precise matter of picking out a style for both yours and his own engagement ring. The styles had to complement one another without forgoing the practicality of something that would be worn on one’s hands. Not too fragile nor bulky, not overly simplistic nor egregiously bold- You get the deal.

Then, obviously, came the matter of finding a wizard to enchant the ring (because of course it needed enchantments) for which was a task he found to be needlessly difficult. But with careful management and months spent stealing books from the castle’s library, a wizard was found and an inn booked and the travel started.

He didn’t want to leave you in the room while he added the final touches to the rings, but he’d be damned if he didn’t propose to the culmination of his joy at the perfect place. So he left you to ‘get ready’ as he hiked up a comically large mountain towards a tower surrounded by swirling clouds and crackling lightning.

Some six or seven odd hours later, he was back down said mountain and incredibly fortunate to see both the sun and his sun again. He was light on his feet, gliding through the flow of people with an unfamiliar grace. He’d gotten a few odd stares regarding his soaked clothes and dopey grin, but it didn’t matter to him. It didn’t matter so long as it was the same smile you kiss before bed.

Now, it’s not that he was expecting any sense of divine perfection when he opened the door. You already embodied that to him, no matter if you walked the span of the world or fell down a cliff.

But it was concerning to see you crying.

It was more so to see how you tried so hard to cover it up.

His smile was wiped off his face as he moved with the same speed as before to your side. His hands cradled both of your shoulders in an attempt to block out whatever harmed you. But of course, he cannot easily block out what’s already inside.

“Hey hey hey- what’s wrong, pretty?” His voice must’ve been around as fragile as you felt, your head shaking no as you tried to pull back. He retreated slightly, granting you space if that’s what you wanted.

“D- I- Don’t. I’m not-“ You could hardly cough up the words. He reminded himself to breathe, forcing shaky lungs to draw breath.

“Not ok? Tell me what’s wrong lovely, I want to help” There was some crazed fear in the way you looked at him, like you’d been caught in some trap. Foxes and the like in similar situations would knaw their legs off if it meant escaping.

He hopes you know there’s alternative options.

He can save you too, if you’d let him.

“How could you say I'm beautiful when I look like this?” Your voice is hoarse. Instinctively, he goes to grab a glass of water, but he freezes in the motion. He swivelled to look back at you as you shrank away, your hands haphazardly moving to cover patches of cut skin.

“My love-“ He doesn’t quite intend for the way his own voice sounds strangled, but he never intended for you to be in pain. Even if it were from before he could’ve helped you, he could only wish that in the fire you’d know you wouldn’t be condemned to suffer alone. Not so long as he’d be there to hold you as you cried and begged for forgiveness from a sin you didn’t commit. Not if he were there to kiss every inch of skin if it helped with your discomfort.

Not so long as he loved you.

Not so long as he breathed.

۵♡۵

Bonus!

The door opened too quickly for you to tug your tunic back on. Much to your relief, you were only met with the eyes of the youngest hero. You flinched slightly in shock before settling back down where you sat.

He haphazardly climbed up onto the bed to sit by your side as you continued to get ready for another long day fighting. Your shoulders only ached familiarly as you tugged on your pack.

“Ready Kiddo?” He replied only with a nod and a grin lacking a few teeth.

It wasn’t until well past noon that you could find a moment to sit down and eat. You savoured the cold breeze as it ruffled the grasses and trees. You did, admittedly, savour it less when it covered the sound of Mask creeping up. Smaller hands seized your tired shoulders in an attempt to tackle you. His ambush was ultimately unsuccessful, warranting him air jail. He crossed his arms in unamusement before turning his attention to the handful of yellow blooms in his right hand.

“And what exactly are those for, mister? Poisoning?” You asked, bemused at his little smirk. He shook his head, extending them out to you.

“For me?” He nodded enthusiastically. “Why thank you, my knight”

“For your injuries.” His tiny voice corrected.

“Injuries?” You looked down to double check that you weren’t, in fact, bleeding.

“Your arms. They’re scarring.” He stared at you blankly. Your arms? Oh. That makes a little more sense now.

“That’s right, I forgot” You treasured the bright smile on his face, a sight that didn’t often greet you.

#linked universe #legend of zelda #linkeduniverse #link x reader #linked universe x reader #link x you #x reader #lu couragexreader #lu courage #lu koridaixreader #lu koridai #lu mask

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avirael · 4 months ago

Text

The Price of Failure

“Seven hells, A‘viloh! Open the damn door right now! I am worried about you, you idiot!”

After Haurchefant’s death the Miqo’te had locked himself up in a room at the Forgotten Knight and had barely spoken to anyone at all these last few days.

Go away - This is all my fault - They must hate me so - Stay away from me - I don’t want you to get hurt too.

With this and similar sentences, which Rael had day by day only heard muffled through the closed door, A’viloh had tried to get rid of them. Rael had expected the Miqo’te to blame himself for what had happened, they had even understood that A’viloh in his bizarre sense of self-loathing had decided to leave Fortemp Manor to not cause anyone any more pain. Anyone except himself of course.

Once again Rael felt so powerless seeing how A’viloh apparently saw all his fears confirmed, that as soon as he was involved in something, everything would eventually go horribly wrong and people would get hurt. Of course that was nonsense. But with the “evidence” at hand - and the poor Miqo’te really was a pretty unlucky fellow in this regard - it was also quite difficult to argue against it.

Seemingly he had also stopped letting Rael convince him of the opposite as they usually had so far. At least he had still talked to them. Through closed doors, but at least he had not ignored Rael entirely in another attempt to drive them away.

Well, not until today…

Another time Rael’s fist loudly drummed against the door.

“I swear, if you don’t open this damn door right now, I will break it down!”

Maybe getting angry at him was not going to encourage him any more than politely asking had but by now Rael’s patience reached its end.

“You are looking for the young Miqo’te, who’s living here since a few days, don’t you?”, a voice asked and Rael turned around to find the owner of the inn standing at the end of the corridor. “I saw you two together with mistress Tataru before.”

“I am.”, Rael confirmed and tried to look a little less like some hooligan about to trash the inn and attack its guests. “I am just worried about him…”

“Mhhh…”, the Elezen made a contemplating sound. “Well, all I can tell you is that your friend left a few hours ago and hasn’t returned since.”

“Left?!”, Rael blurted out, while their mind began to race. “To where?”

“That I don’t know, I am sorry…”, the man apologised.

It may have looked impolite but Rael left in a hurry without another word. Barely back outside they paused and realised that Ishgard was too big to just aimlessly run around and look for him. But where could he have gone?

At First Rael hurried to the chocobo stables. Somehow they had hoped to find him here cuddled to the bird Haurchefant had gifted him. It had been a naive hope, that of course proved wrong.

Then they ran to the city gates asking the guards if they had seen a person fitting A’viloh’s description leave the city and after that they did the same at the airship landing. Both times unsuccessful.

By now the sun, that had spent most of the day hidden by thick grey clouds, was slowly surrendering her last weak rays of light to the darkness of night. The lack of light would make searching even more difficult and Rael was out of ideas. Where else would A’viloh go?, they wondered when one last horrible idea crossed their mind.

As fast as Rael could they hurried back to the upper parts of the city, where at its highest point stood one of the most important places in town: The Vault.

The place where Haurchefant had been killed while trying to protect A‘viloh.

In a way it would be just like A’viloh to return here, if only to inflict more pain on himself and punish himself in the process. However as Rael walked towards the tall building they noticed the entrance had been sealed with a barrier and additionally a guard was stationed in front, informing Rael that the building remained closed for now due to ongoing investigations of the happenings around Thordan and his knights.

The guard hadn’t seen any Miqo’te around either and so Rael began to wonder what to do now. They could return to Fortemps Manor and ask Alphinaud and Tataru for help. Maybe even Artoirel and Emmanellain. Or go to the headquarters of the Temple Knights and speak to Ser Aymeric. Although every soldier in the city searching for A‘viloh possibly was a little exaggerated, this idea began to look more and more tempting to Rael with every passing minute. There was a nervousness inside their heart, a bad feeling, that was getting worse and worse with every passing second.

Rael had just walked down the first set of stairs when suddenly something in the cold night air changed. A strong breeze picked up, wind howling through the streets like a ghost. Feeling the strangeness of this sudden change Rael looked up to the night sky, where for a second they thought they saw the form of a bird circling in front of the glimmer of stars.

Then they blinked and it was gone. A shiver ran down Rael‘s spine. The feeling familiar but nonetheless in this case strangely unsettling, they gasped and almost stumbled. Their vision blurred for a moment and their eyes turned milky white, as Rael‘s mind was forcefully pulled away by a sudden vision.

Rael found themself standing on a square somewhere in Ishgard. It seemed familiar and Rael thought they recognised it from somewhere near Fortemps Manor. The air felt unreasonably chilling even through their warm clothes and Rael only slowly adjusted to the feeling of having a vision after none of them had shown up for so long.

Then Rael saw A’viloh.

There he stood, only a few steps away, at the edge of the square, where the higher parts of the city bordered onto the vast, foggy nothingness of the Holy Sea. But the Miqo’te’s tear-stained gaze was not focused on the bottomless depth below, but on the moon and the stars above.

This world… wouldn’t it be better off without me in it? No one would miss me at all…

A‘viloh did not say this aloud but Rael heard his voice just as clearly as if he had spoken instead of just thought it. It made Rael’s blood freeze in their veins.

Like petrified they watched A’viloh slowly raising his arms as if they were wings, like a bird that wanted to take flight.

Just that he wasn’t flying.

He was falling.

In an unnaturally slow motion he tilted forward, falling into the abyss and while Rael began to scream he was already gone.

#ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv writing #ffxiv screenshots #ff14 screenshots #ffxiv gpose #gpose #Rael Hyskaris #Aviloh Tia #uh-oh... now this is getting serious...#In case you were wondering: yes I had this planned since Vierapril!#You know I said that all Avi has to do is survive HW but will he though? ;D #Rael's track record with interpreting signs and visions and averting disasters is not exactly good so far...

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myreia · 1 month ago

Text

Exile from Delight

—chapter 2: the casual cruelty of causality

Rating: Mature Characters: Thancred, Hilda Pairings: Thancred x Hilda [background Thancred x Aureia (WoL) and background Aymeric x Aureia (WoL)] Chapter Words: 3,372 Summary: Hilda isn’t supposed to mean much to him. A good time, a fun time, a distraction from his sorry lot. But sometimes the best of distractions come hand-in-hand with a sharp tongue and a quick wit. Call it the gift of insight, if you would. Prompt: v. laughter | gift Chapters: one • two • three Read on AO3

Where are we going?

It’s a question he doesn’t bother asking as Hilda marches him through the streets. They wind their way through slush and snow, past the blocks of worn stone and creaking scaffolding that should have fallen down ten years ago, and join the crowd that flows from one end of the Brume to the other during the early afternoon lull. Despite the changes Aymeric de Borel’s reforms have brought, they have yet to become tangible for the folk down here. The Firmament may offer a glimmer of hope, of a community strengthened by a shared goal—but there will always be lowborn in the same ragged clothing, huddled by the same crumbling walls, warming their hands over makeshift firepits that have come and gone for gods know how long.

There will always be those left behind.

Movement catches his eye as they round a corner. The crowd is thicker and moving quicker than usual—steps swift, feet light, hoods pulled up to cover faces, as if no one wants to be caught in the street. A mark of the tension in the city, perhaps. Ishgard may have joined the Eorzean Alliance thanks to Aymeric’s efforts and Aureia as his linchpin, but in welcoming Eorzea, the city has welcomed its problems. With war brewing on the Gyr Abanian front and new primal threats on the rise, there must be a question at the forefront of her people’s minds, regardless of station: can Ishgard survive more war?

“Funny how everyone’s out for a walk today what with this weather and all,” Hilda says, huffing for breath. The Brume isn’t the place for a leisurely stroll, and what they are doing certainly isn’t leisurely—she has set a blood-pumping pace, her cheeks turning red and her eyes bright. She surveys the road ahead with the warmth of familiarity, and raises a hand to a passerby, a small smile on her lips. “Then again with all the ruckus the highborn are causin’, of course folk want to see what it’s all about—”

“Ruckus?”

“Didn’t you know? There’s some kind of goings on in the Firmament today.” She shrugs. “That young lord Francel is throwin’ one kind of a fête or another… Little early to be doing that if you ask me, but I won’t say no to seein’ lowborn in high spirits.”

He pauses, brows drawn together, and glances over his shoulder at the passing crowd. Was his read wrong?

No time to think. Hilda is off again, traipsing through the snow with fierce determination. She pauses at the lower entrance to the Forgotten Knight, slipping beneath the overhang to brush snow off her gloves and out of her hair. His chest tightens. For a moment he is certain she is going to lead him through the door, perhaps ply him with a drink or two, but she ducks back out into the snow and continues on.

He blows out a long breath and watches it rise. He has avoided the Forgotten Knight for weeks now, ever since the night he returned with an injured Alisaie. Aureia still calls the inn here home, though rumour says she has been spotted at the Borel Manor more often than not. She isn’t the type to take up permanent residence there, but knowing her she has likely strewn enough of her possessions about that she may as well be living there.

Twelve take him. His gut twists just thinking about it even though he knows she is gone, accompanying the twins to Limsa Lominsa. Even so, he’d rather not take the chance of running into her. As she has made it repeatedly clear, they have nothing to say to one another.

Up the slippery steps, past a group of children with their legs swinging over the edge, and they make it out into Foundation. The city bustles with activity—soldiers returning from across the Steps of Faith, merchants headed to the Jeweled Crozier, nobles and commoners meandering through the streets, Halonic priests pausing to talk to passersby, the aetheryte plaza lighting up as visitors and citizens teleport in from wherever their journey took them. The growing threat of a snow storm does little to hinder them.

This is just another day in Ishgard.

Hilda slows her pace as they pass beneath the Arc of the Humble and enter Saint Reinette’s Forum. She draws to a halt and folds her arms, surveying the square with a strange look in her eyes.

The snow is thicker here. Drifts form against the walls of buildings and beneath stone benches and forgotten carts and the various bits of debris that have washed up even this close to the Pillars. The head and shoulders of the great dragoon atop the running fountain in the centre is weighed down by a blanket of white. A group of children race around it, throwing snow and tripping over their feet. Their giggles fill the square with glee.

“You don’t see it, do you?” Hilda says quietly.

Thancred shrugs. “‘Tis likely I do, if you tell me what you’re looking for, which I suspect you won’t.”

“And that right there, that is the point.”

“You have lost me, I’m afraid. Look, are you going to tell me why you dragged me here? We’re not exactly the kind of couple to take a stroll around the city and see the sights.”

She rolls her eyes. “So we’re a couple now, are we? Thought I was a distraction.” A pause. She glances at him, hesitant to speak. Odd, for her. “Grief is a funny thing, ain’t it? The more you live, the more you lose and some days it don’t matter whether there’s a sun in the sky or a fire in your hearth, you might as well have neither. Everything’s tellin’ you there’s nothin’ good left here. You can be surrounded by folk—good folk, bad folk, and everythin’ in-between—and somehow you’ve never been more alone. I find sometimes it helps to be reminded you aren’t. Does that make a lick of sense?”

“Frankly, darling, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

A dark look crosses her face. “Then you’re as blind as you are in that eye,” she snaps.

Anger gnaws at him from the inside, scratching away at old hurts. “I am not.”

“What?”

“Blind. At least, not in the way you think.” Wind gusts about the forum, chafing his exposed face and chilling him to the bone. “‘Twas an accident some time ago. A consequence of my time lost in the Lifestream. I am not blind in the conventional sense but…”

He pauses, scratching at the stubble on his chin. It’s odd to be recounting this to Hilda. They’ve been all manner of intimate, but he has said scarce about himself. Close in one way, yet distant in the ways that matter. Another habit of his, this one going back further than his disastrous exit from Ul’dah. “My ability to manipulate aether is gone. Cut off as assuredly as a limb severed from a tree.”

Hilda whistles. “Well, now… that sure is somethin’. Here I thought you insistin’ on walkin’ everywhere was some strange Scion quirk. You’ve all got ‘em.”

He meets her eyes and her expression softens. Now is not the time for jokes.

“How did it happen?” she asks gently.

“The same as anything grievous does,” he replies with a shrug. Across the forum, the children’s chase comes to an abrupt stop as one of them tips over into a snow drift. The others laugh and follow suit, one at a time, toppling over like a series of Doman mahjong tiles. “Unintended consequences for unintended actions. Do you know the circumstances that preceded Aureia’s exile to Ishgard?”

She nods.

“Then I will not bore you by recounting it. What you must know is that we—the remaining Scions, that is, and our leader—found ourselves beneath Ul’dah that night. It was clear within minutes of setting foot within that watercourse that there was no way to hasten our escape without a diversion. Y’shtola and I provided that diversion with the acceptance that we would give our very lives. Anything to ensure that Aureia and Minfilia…” His leg twinges, a deep ache above the knee that seldom bothers him save in the cold. An old injury now, though he can still recall how it felt when the arrow plunged through it. He doesn’t remember when or how it healed; he must have the Lifestream to thank for that. “And we did. Or we should have. Just as her spell brought the tunnel down upon our enemies, it thrust her and I into the Lifestream. Body, soul, and mind. Perhaps to be lost forever in the maelstrom, ‘till circumstances found otherwise. It was by no mean feat that Aureia retrieved Y’shtola. As for me…”

“You found your own way out.”

“One could say that, yes. Was it chance or fate? Perhaps an expert in aetherology can decide.”

“An aetherologist? Bah.” She snorts with laughter. “Don’t need an aetherologist to guess it spat you out on account of your foul moods.”

“Hey, now—”

“You’re a sour man. Sometimes. Wouldn’t put it past you to give the Lifestream a bellyache and watch it spit you out, eh?”

He forces back a smile. Damn Hilda. For someone who is supposed to be a casual affair, she certainly figured out how to mock him and make him laugh in the same breath in record time. Moenbryda would tease him, were she here. Something about how he always thinks himself more complicated than he truly is.

But Moenbryda isn’t here. She died well over a year ago, a distant past after the tribulations the Scions of the Seventh Dawn have gone through. Gone and forgotten. The others do not speak of her, and Twelve know Urianger will clam up the moment she is mentioned by name. Minfilia is gone now, too. Not dead, but something more than that. Worse than that. Will her memory be victim to the same inevitability? Just as Louisoix more than half a decade ago?

His heart clenches, his breath growing shallow. The ache in his leg pulses, annoyingly persistent. It usually fades faster than that after it flares up.

“Did it work?” Hilda asks solemnly. “That diversion?”

“Aye, it did. Aureia is here, is she not? And Minfilia is not.”

“What happened?”

Thancred eyes her. “You’re full of questions,” he grumbles under his breath.

She shrugs. “So, shoot me.”

“Not everything can be resolved with your rifle, Hilda.”

“Ha! Try arguing’ that at the Machinist’s Guild.” Her smile fades, her expression growing grim. “No, but truly. What happened? You Scions are among the most resilient folk I have met. So, if your Minfilia isn’t here, then…”

“Gone. She’s with Hydaelyn now. Of her own volition, or so I understand.” He pauses, the full answer far too complicated and fantastical to describe. Though Krile has assured him that Minfilia has joined with the goddess, he still cannot make sense of what happened in the Antitower nor the implications of what came before in the Ul’dahn waterways. What possessed her to turn around that night? And why did Aureia not stop her? “She was a civilian, Hilda. I trusted Aureia to keep her safe. She promised me she would keep her safe. And that is all you need to know.”

She nods. “This Minfilia… she was important to you.”

“As close as a sister. Like family.”

“Can’t say I know what that’s like, losin’ family. On account of me presentin’ a big problem to their noble arses… well. There was my mum, I suppose. And I’ve got friends who are good as kin, and if one of them up and vanished into nothing, I’d be downright furious about it. But I suppose the question is, Thancred—” She turns sharply and meets his eye. “Who are you angry at? Y’shtola, for castin’ that spell? Minfilia, for makin’ whatever choice she made? Aureia, for lettin’ you down? Or yourself, for not bein’ there to stop it all from happenin’?”

“I…” Her words are sharp and they leave him raw and aching. But it’s a good hurt—as if she is resetting a bone. Strange how Hilda has loosened his tongue on this subject more than anyone. Not even Krile, who claims to be Minfilia’s dearest friend, did as much. “I don’t know.”

Wind howls through the square, gusting snow and tugging at their clothes. Hilda’s hair blows across her face, getting stuck in her mouth. She spits it out and looks away, shoving her hands into her armpits as she observes the children shrieking by the fountain. They are playing on the lip now, walking in a short line with their arms thrown out. There are as many Hyur as there are Elezen, just as there are as many highborn to low. Perhaps this next generation is already resisting the prejudices of their forefathers.

“Look,” Hilda says after a moment. “I’ve known anger before. All kinds. Righteous anger, bitter anger. There’s a lot to be angry for. I grew up hating’ the highborn arses, and my father before that, and the drunken lout my mum was seein’ before I was old enough to know who my father was. But nothin’—nothin’—compares to the anger I feel on days I hate myself. Days when I’m too slow, too stupid, too reckless. Days when I muck things up worse than a chocobo’s stable. I’ve been trusted with things before, and aye, I have failed. And any time I’ve had reason to be angered with someone, the real person I am angry with the most is myself.”

“What are you saying?”

“Do yourself a favour and find an answer to that question. Because I don’t think there’s a way out of this until you do—HEY!” She takes off at an abrupt pace, marching towards the fountain with her hands in the air. The children freeze, wide-eyed and still as statues. Two are standing in the water, their coats hiked up to their knees. “Get out of there, you idiots! Go! Scram!”

The children scamper off, darting out of the fountain and across the forum, leaving a trail of footprints behind.

Hilda sighs and stretches her arms above her head as she watches them go, a fond smile on her lips. “Little fools,” she says as he joins her. “Don’t know what they’re gettin’ into.”

“An overreaction for a fountain, no? I didn’t take you for one to impose such arbitrary rules. Does Saint Reinette have some greater meaning for you?”

She snorts. “It’s nothin’ like that. Shouldn’t play in that water—on account of the piss.”

“…I beg your pardon?”

“Didn’t you know? Lowborn’ve been pissing in that fountain for centuries whenever some highborn buffoon gets his head stuck too far up his arse. Time honoured tradition at this point. Still, don’t want the children playin’ in… well. You know.”

“Frankly, that’s less of a mystery than how that damn fountain remains running in the first place in these temperatures.”

She chortles. With a shake of her head, she scuffs her boots on the ground, scraping at the ice and snow, then heads leisurely across the square. Always on the move, this one. Their trysts have all ended in some variation of her pulling her clothes back on, giving him a wink and a smile, and hastily exiting the scene. At first he thought it was due to some embarrassment about being (or not being) with him. The most unpleasant of the Scions, eleven years her senior (fucking hells), and with an appearance on the same level as a dishevelled nutkin. If he were her, he wouldn’t be caught dead with him, either.

Now he knows she simply cannot stay in one place for long.

Their relationship to date has been succinct. Perfunctory. The sex is good; she’s creative and spirited and invigorating in ways that stretch even his imagination sometimes. They fulfill each other in that way (most days), but no more than that. He can’t even take a gander at who she is beyond Hilda the Mongrel. Sharp-tongued, foul-mouthed, quick-witted. Proud and determined, a voice for her people. A damn good shot. In another age, she would be a folk hero.

He knew as much the day he met her.

With that in mind, wandering the streets with her after one of their encounters, long after the point where she would have (as she puts it) fucked off, is… New. Odd.

Newly odd.

It occurs to him that this may be the most they have spoken one-on-one outside of sex. Just as it occurs to him that there must be a reason why.

“I have to hand it to you,” Thancred says as they climb the next set of steps, following the long, sweeping arc upwards to the Pillars. They’ll exit out into the Jeweled Crozier soon enough… is the ring still at the pawnbroker’s? Should he stop and make sure? “This was a convoluted way of asking about Aureia.”

Hilda stops short, one foot ramming into a step. “Bleedin’ hells, ouch—” She sucks in a breath and winces, shaking her boot back and forth in the air. “Aye. It is. ‘Cause it’s clear to me no one else wants to do the dirty business of bringin’ her up with you.”

“Right. Perhaps because no one else considered it their business.”

“Rotten luck. I’m too nosy for that.”

“It’s rude.”

“Tough. Don’t know what manners you Scion types were brought up on, and I ain’t gonna stick around long enough to find out.” Her ruby eyes narrow and she sets her foot back down on the step. “You’re hurt. She’s hurt. Someone has to do somethin’.”

“It doesn’t have to be you.”

“I may be nosy, but I’m not usually one to shove myself into a place I don’t belong. Trust me on that. But you two’ve caught me in an awkward position, y’know. I am her friend, aye. Just as I am yours. And as much as I dislike being stuck between the pair of you, I don’t know how many times I need to say sort your shit out.”

“I would love that, darling, but I doubt even the smartest, calmest mind in Eorzea would know where to begin.”

“You’re being unfair to her.”

“And you are not?” He steps into her, his gaze trained on hers. Their shadows flicker in the dark of the passageway, dancing away from the glow of distant lanterns. “You haven’t told her about our little sojourns, have you? For the truth of the matter, Hilda, is that you have been sleeping with me long past the point where you should have stopped. You’ve come to enjoy yourself, and a little part of you—that selfish, self-indulgent part that whispers in your ear at night, craving all the things you know you shouldn’t have—just can’t be silenced. Not yet. Not while you’re still having fun.”

She returns his gaze, a muscle twitching in her jaw. “You do realize she thought you were dead,” she says flatly.

His stomach drops, his heart hammering beneath his breast bone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She thought you were dead. When you were lost in the wilds. There’s a reason she never came to look for you, she was grieving your sorry arse. And when she finally discovers you alive and well, you’re holding the meanest, fattest grudge against her for something beyond her control because you’re too twisted up inside about the people you’ve lost. Did you ever stop to think she’s lost them, too?”

The passageway echoes with the sound of her voice, carrying it above and below—on and on and on, it might as well have been heard in the Brume.

“That…” He splutters. “That is not… That is…”

Hilda shrugs and spreads her hands. “That’s the truth of it, ain’t it?” she says pointedly.

For once, he has nothing to say.

Hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped, he follows her up the rest of the stairs and breaks through into the bright, cheerful pathways of the Jeweled Crozier.

next chapter ->

#ffxiv #ff14 #ffxiv fanfic #thancred waters #hilda ware #thanhilda #wolcred #writing tag

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headcanons-n-shit · 2 years ago

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how they move in with you (ff14 bois)

Thancred

What starts as “it’s too late to send you to an inn, stay here for the night” leads to “yeah i grabbed an extra toothbrush for you its on the bathroom counter” which turns into “this is your half of the closet :)”, and the next thing you know you’re waking up to the sound of him puttering around in the kitchen in the morning like he usually does. It feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Urianger

You catch him sleeping in his workspace. There’s a padded bench and a warm-looking quilt, but it’s. Sad. It’s really sad, and you’re not going to stand for it. You bully him into your apartment and onto your couch/into the spare bedroom, and he just kind of. Forgets to leave. And you forget to kick him out. And the next thing you know his research is spread out on the kitchen counter and his favorite biscuits are in the cupboard and youre drinking the weird fermented tea he likes and handing him a mug when he wanders into the kitchen in his sleep clothes, all bleary eyes and rats-nest hair and.

Well. Youre certainly not going to kick him out now.

G’raha

Like a true cat: you bring him in from the cold ONE night, feed him ONCE, and the next thing you know there are piles of pillows in the sunniest spots in your house, scratches on the doorframes where he likes to swing around in his speed, and books. Everywhere.

Estinien

You dont so much invite him to live with you as you just. Dont object. You wake up in the morning and hes crashed on your couch, as unobtrusively as he can, his lance resting against the back and his armor in a little pile next to him. When you turn around hes gone, but theres his clothes in your laundry pile and his part of the grocery gil in the dish and his cheap romance novels on the coffee table. At some point he stops crawling onto the couch in the middle of the night and starts crawling into your bed instead, starts washing the laundry on weekends and watering your plants when youre out, and you couldnt rightly say when it started, but youre not about to stop it now.

Aymeric

You dont even realize whats happening until its already done. What starts with him not wanting you to stay in a place as dangerous as the forgotten knight (especially when you seem to make a sport of pissing off temple knights) turns into you asking to crash in his mansion whenever you get back from a clan hunt, which becomes you crashing at his place whenever youre in town, which becomes you making your travel plans with his house in mind, and then the next thing you know his majordomo is greeting you with "welcome home" and.

Yeah. His mansion is home for you now, isnt it.

Haurchefant

He is absolutely in love with your home. No, really. Hes lived in a lot of different places in his life, but your home is just so. You. And maybe he has to suddenly budget astheryte travel into the camp dragonhead budget, but. Its worth it for the opportunity to call your home his. To wake up to you every morning, to bump hips with you in the bathroom, to kiss you goodbye before you both leave for work.

Sidurgu

You got the house from Edmont after the Dragonsong war, and honestly you’ve only ever stayed in it once. You couldn’t bear to, not after. Haurchefant. Estinien. Nidhogg. Everything. But a fire tears through the Brume, and whether be it a candle left unattended or an intentional spark Sidurgu and Rielle find themselves with nowhere else to go.

You really don’t mind though. A house should be lived in, and though you know they wouldn’t have accepted it under any other situation, you watching them settle in you cant help but feel like this place is a little more like home.

#ff14 #ff14 headcanons #thancred waters #graha tia #urianger augurelt #aymeric de borel #estinien wyrmblood #estinien varlineau #haurchefant greystone #sidurgu orl #wolcred #wolianger #wolmeric #wolstinien #haurchewol #sidwol

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pangolinheart · 2 years ago

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Okay, a long post of lore and mostly-baseless speculation incoming.

I do believe that, canonically, the WoL is staying at the Fortemps manor when they're in Ishgard proper during the events of HW. Though, I know at least a few people who headcanon their WoL being uncomfortable there, especially after the events of the Vault, so I guess it's nice to have the variety?

I'm not sure why the devs chose to make the player-useable resting space an inn room rather than a room within Fortemps manor. If I had to guess I would say it maybe had something to do with either a) the fact that the interior of Fortemps manor is already an instanced area and it was either considered too complicated or too inconvenient to make the player go through two layers of instanced areas to reach their room or b) to keep with the previously established convention of resting spaces (in all of the other locations they're in hotels/inns, even in the Crystarium.) The player doesn't have a room in the Waking Sands or the Rising Stones, either. Maybe they thought an inn room would be easier to find? (Though, given the people in the notes saying they didn't realize Ishgard had inn rooms, that may have backfired lol.)

I can more easily, however, think of a few reasons why, if they were going to choose an inn room, it would be in this particular location and of this particular... ambiance.

Why The Forgotten Knight?

Well, if you were going to make an inn room attached to a tavern, like all of the rest of Eorzea's inn rooms, the Forgotten Knight is really the only tavern the players have occasion to visit as part of the plot. Two of the DRK NPCs live(?) there, but even non-DRK NPCs are aware of it, as a few early events in the expansion take place there (it's where the WoL, Alphinaud, and Tataru are first introduced to the nature of The Brume). Tataru also does, canonically, work there during HW. So, it's a location all players could be expected to be at least somewhat familiar with.

From a lore perspective, though, why make the rest location a dilapidated inn in Foundation rather than something classier in the Pillars, where the WoL arguably spends more time? I would say it probably comes down to Ishgard's long stretch of isolationism. I think it's very possible there are no inns in the Pillars. The lack of travel in and out of the city means there's not really much need for inns. There are, in general, no tourists or immigrants to make use of them, and my impression has always been that most of Ishgard's trade with the outside world is brokered through outlying settlements and fortifications, like Camp Dragonhead or Tailfeather, so there wouldn't even be many travelling merchants that make it all the way to the city gates. We do know that, while it's probably not common, some High Houses have contacts or friends from other countries (Edmont is friends/business partners with Godbert Manderville, for example). Presumably, though, these individuals would enter Ishgard at the invitation of one of the noble houses, who would host them within their own mansions.

You could also make the argument that it's a good excuse to highlight the wealth disparity between The Pillars and Foundation, since the WoL doesn't spend too much time there during the MSQ compared to many of the expansion's other locations. Which leads to the next question:

Why is it such a wreck?

Cloud Nine/The Forgotten Knight is run by and for the low-born population of Ishgard (so the dingy rooms and gross bed aren't as much a punishment for poverty as they are a symptom of the larger class issue lol.) As already noted above (and several times in the tags), Ishgard doesn't get a lot of visitors prior the end of the Dragonsong War, so the inn business probably isn't very profitable. Fixing loose floorboards and exposed brick, upgrading furniture, and buying new linens all cost money, which I'm sure the proprietor is loath to spend.

Foregoing the expenses of maintenance and remodeling also probably helps keep the price low (and thus, at an affordable level for the residents of Foundation and The Brume.) Without much coming and going by outsiders, my guess is that their normal clientele probably consists of patrons too drunk to stumble back to their own homes and people who, for one reason or another, have a use for a warm room for a few hours or nights. Maybe the occasional Knight stationed outside of the city visiting home? It depends, I guess. So improving the accommodations really isn't in anyone's best interest. Given the general lack of business, funding repairs or renovations might necessitate an increase in cost, which might make the price of a room prohibitive to some of their usual guests, which would cost them money in the long run.

All that being said, it's not a great excuse for the room's general dustiness and disarray. Sure, maybe they can't afford to hire a maid, and maybe the general staff don't have enough time to wash the sheets, but how long does it take to collect a couple (dozen) bottles and replace a candle or two when someone checks out? But I'm not in the hospitality industry, so what do I know? Maybe no one complains because they don't care as long as it's cheap? Or it's not any worse than their usual sleeping quarters, if they even have any? Or maybe this is the only game in town and it's not like they can just go somewhere else if they're not satisfied.

Still... What's the deal with the rope?

I've always genuinely loved how aggressively shitty the inn rooms in Ishgard are compared to any other inn in the game.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #rambling #ishgard #the forgotten knight #this is all probably obvious i just felt like typing #still the funniest inn room in Eorzea #it may suck major ass but it's like a home away from home for rhiki #because that's where her wife and child live

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spectrechosts · 4 months ago

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Beast Of Burden - Chapter 3

Kallixenia returns home and tries to explain her intentions.

Full Series

Kallixenia's time on the road alone is uneventful, as it often is when one is nearly eight feet of god-touched muscle and isn't escorting someone who looks eminently ransomable.

The silence of her long trip is broken only by the occasional polite conversation with a shopkeep or innkeeper, and the sudden appearances of ghostly lights bearing short transmissions from her wife.

"Capital in sight. Pray for me, my love. (Do not actually, I am fine.)"

Kallixenia smiles softly, and brushes the light with her fingertips. "You're better than fine." She replies. "Your father won't stand a chance."

And then the light winks out of existence, having served its purpose. She sighs and focuses back on the road, wishing that she could offer more support.

Wishing that she had more of her wife than these short correspondences.

She had considered, briefly, whether or not she would prefer to have Lunaeris with her to offer support while she attempts to renegotiate the terms of her paladinhood. The thought of doing it alone is daunting, for sure, and she's supposed to ask for more things, but-

Well, Lunaeris can be… aggressive, when she takes issue with something. Kallixenia doesn't have high hopes, but she just might be able to make it through this if she's careful. Explains her reasoning, that she doesn't want to stop serving the gods, she just wants to change how.

She's almost certain that Lunaeris' assistance in the matter would result in not only her immediate fall from grace, but also the incineration of several irreplaceable religious texts and a great deal of structural damage to one of the oldest monasteries in the land. Best to handle it on her own, even if she's a little mopey about her absence.

The Princess arrives at her destination days before Kallixenia does, and while her messages definitely convey that she isn't having fun she seems to be otherwise fine.

Kallixenia is also fine, mostly, as she enters the mountain range she calls home. Just one more short stop at an inn, one that's built to comfortably accommodate people her size for once, before she's arrived.

She's pretty sure she's settled on the best way to ask for what she wants as she comes up on the small outpost at the base of the climb to the Seventh Monastery. She just has to… work her way up to actually doing it.

"Welcome back, Ser Kallixenia." The stablehand greets her, as she lodges her steed. "Or do I call you Princess Kallixenia now? You've sure had an eventful trip!"

"Don't call me Princess, please." Kallixenia replies, bashful. "I'm still the same knight I've always been."

"Hah, sounds like you. I got made a Princess, I'd be off living a life of luxury. Guess that's why you're the paladin, right?"

"Haha… yeah…" She chuckles uneasily.

"Ahh, but you're not here to yap with me. You've got important business, I'm sure." The stablehand says, moving past Kallixenia to take her horse by the lead. "You're here to see me though, right girl? Yeaaah, let's get you some treats-"

Kallixenia steps out, her steed taken care of. There is of course a road for travellers on horseback, but it's long, and winding, and her horse has been worked hard enough. Paladins have a more direct path.

She spreads her wings and takes to the sky. It's been too long since she felt the cold mountain wind through her feathers like this, she's missed it. She rises and rises, wings beating as she spirals upward through the air until she can glide gently down to the landing platform at the monastery.

It takes mere moments for her to be swarmed and bear hugged by her battle-sisters.

"Kallixenia!"

"Kallixenia's back!"

"Ow." She grunts. "Athis. My ribs."

After so much time away, being The Giant, she'd forgotten how forcefully her fellow paladins could hug. Thank the gods Lunaeris is as small as she is, or her bones would be dust by now.

Athis releases her crushing embrace and claps her on the back.

"We've been reading your letters!" She says.

"Yeah!" Says Pherusa, opting to shake her hand excitedly rather than squish her again. "Everyone will be so happy to see you're back!"

"Achaia's back too, you can tell us all about elf princess things!" Says Nephele.

Right, Lunaeris had told her that she had picked up a letter at the Adventurer's Guild (after some convincing from Ryse that it wasn't the type of organization to rat out it's members), that Achaia had become close with another of her sisters after the wedding. They're sure to have a lot to talk about, but first-

"It's nice to see you all, but I have to speak with High Cleric Dione right away if that's alright." She says, and her sisters nod and give her space.

"We'll catch up over dinner! Meat pies tonight!"

Ooh, she loves meat pie days! Hopefully Dione doesn't throw her out right away.

Or, rather, at all.

She makes her way to the High Cleric's chambers, being encircled by excited sisters a few more times along the way. She's gathered a bit of a fandom in her time away it seems, it's rather exciting for someone to get caught up in a prophecy and become a princess. She certainly hadn't seen it coming when she was sent out.

She nervously raps on Dione's door, before letting herself in and kneeling.

"Ah!" Exclaims the High Cleric. "Ser Kallixenia, I wasn't expecting you. Or should I say Princess Kallixenia? Forgive me if I don't kneel, the old knees aren't what they used to be."

"I could never ask you to kneel to me, High Cleric Dione." Kallixenia says, wondering how many times she'll have this exchange during her visit. "I am but one of your humble knights."

The old cleric hums and interlaces her fingers. "Most of my humble knights don't abscond with their charges," she says, "though I know you well enough to presume that wasn't your idea. Where is Princess Lunaeris?"

"Visiting her father. She arrived at the castle a few days ago, to my knowledge."

"Hmm. Good, good, he was quite upset. Get up, child- you don't need to kneel all day." She tuts. "Why aren't you with her?"

Kallixenia gets to her feet and swallows. This is it. She just has to say what she's planned to say.

"Well, you see High Cleric, I was… Me and my charge were both wondering, about, um."

She gives a slight cough as the High Cleric watches her over her desk.

"Has anyone ever… taken a second oath?"

"A second oath?" High Cleric Dione asks.

"Yes ma'am."

Kallixenia gets anxious when she lies. Paladins aren't supposed to lie, especially not to the High Cleric. But half truths are, you know, they're half true. She does want to take a second oath, just… not in addition to her existing one.

"Hmm. A second oath…" Dione mumbles, leaning back in her chair. "I can't say I've ever heard of such a thing. Especially not involving one on the Path of the Bulwark such as yourself. You've already bound your life itself to your duty, you want more?"

"Well, you see, the thing is-" Kallixenia starts, scratching the back of her neck. "The life binding is all well and good, but-"

"But?"

"-but I worry it might not be… what we want, for this exact, particular scenario." She says, and nervously waits for the cleric's response.

"Kallixenia, you swore an oath." Says Dione, frowning. "You swore your life-"

"I swore my life to Lunaeris, once as her knight and again as her wife. I did not do so frivolously. Trust that when I ask about this I am only asking to better serve her."

Oh gods, she didn't mean to sound so mad when she said that.

The High Cleric sighs and opens her hands.

"Of course, Ser Kallixenia." She says. "I would never doubt that your heart is true. Explain it to me."

Okay, good, that's the first step done. She's got her foot in the door.

"Lunaeris is… she's not averse to danger. Has adventuring aspirations." Kallixenia says, hating that she has to phrase it like her wife is a foolish child. "Having my life bound to her is- Well, it's more suited to preventing assassinations. Did so, quite effectively. Were she content to remain and carry out her royal duties, It's possible it would serve us perfectly."

Again, half-truths. Unlikely things are possible.

"…She should remain and carry out her royal duties." Says High Cleric Dione. "Is-"

"Of course, of course. But she's- headstrong."

Cutting someone off before they can ask you something that you would have to lie about also isn't lying, really, if you think about it.

"My worry is that if she goes off and gets herself into trouble again, will taking her wounds as my own be enough? She'll be briefly spared, but remain in danger. No castle full of other guards to intervene once I give my life for her. Wouldn't it only serve to kill us both? That can't be what the gods intended with their gift to me. There must be a way that I can continue to keep her safe, to uphold my duty to her."

"Hmmmm…" Dione hums, furrowing her wrinkled brow. "I can't deny that your concerns make sense. But as long as you can keep her from wandering off again-"

"I know, but- very, very willful. That's why, I thought perhaps a second one? Just in case?"

"Hmmmmmmmmm………"

Kallixenia holds her breath in anticipation.

"Well, that doesn't change that I've never heard of such a thing." Says the High Cleric.

"Ah."

"However, seeing as you only have her best interests in mind, and the two of you were entangled with that prophecy… perhaps the gods themselves may guide you, where I cannot." She says, shrugging. "Once you've settled in, I suggest you sequester yourself and spend your time in meditation. I'm sure an answer will become clear to you."

Kallixenia nods.

"Thank you, High Cleric. I'll do that."

That's… something, at least? High Cleric Dione isn't mad at her, which- Sure she doesn't know the exact details, but, does she need to? Maybe this is just between her and the gods.

And the gods would… probably have already done something, if they were upset with her.

…Right?

#Better Off Alone #Elf #Princess #Knight #Princess x Knight #Spectre Writes

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