#fourteen would ring her up after he gets settled in at the nobles and be like “oi you owe me lifetimes of backpay in fathers day gifts”

[whitetail-doe-femme]

Because I know in my bones Ace McShane is still a little shit even as a 50 something year old woman, I feel like if someone who knows about alien stuff off handedly mentions incarnations of the Doctor, but doesn't really know them, she just drops "oh, that's my Dad" and continues on with the rest of the conversation with no elaboration. She finds it funniest with Eleven and Thirteen. I feel like Fifteen would be the one to introduce Ace (and Tegan, too) as his daughter, though, and it would amuse the hell out of the both of them.

[thequeendomhq]

NAME. Althea AGE & BIRTH DATE. Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/her. NATIONALITY. Lysaran SPECIES. Witch FACTION. Student of Proserpina OCCUPATION. Emissary FACE CLAIM. Priscilla Quintana

biography

i. DAUGHTER

Chores never interested Althea, she enjoyed the simpler things and while her sister Aradia was hauling buckets of churning water from the well, Althea was tending to a sparrow with a broken wing. The two sisters were like night and day, born from different mothers to an unfaithful, lazy father, he had no clue how to raise two young girls. He dressed them as boys, but Althea begged for dresses and more often than not, she managed to get what she wanted. 

  Nestled in a box that she’d emptied and packed with twigs and leaves, bits of cloth and cotton that the young woman had wrangled together. Her father found it and pulled the box away from her, Althea cried, but he told her that she was being cruel. 

  The bird went silent and Althea ran: she’d flee that place and run into the hills, live like the women in the mountains - hunting game and roasting wild meat over an open fire. Althea would feast on berries and tan hide into leather to fashion herself the clothes and furs she’d need to survive the winters out there on her own. In her long skirts she made it as far as the river before a bad fall tore her dress and shredded her knee. There, she sat, and she wept until Aradia inevitably came to take her home. 

  At fourteen there was nothing significant about her, not really. She was a girl from the valley, one who stood behind Aradia after telling her sister about how Rufus and his friends had mocked the flowers that she’d woven into her braid. Delicate wasn’t a word that Althea associated with herself, but she could not pull up the winds to send Rufus and his friends soaring into the river, nor she could wrench up the tide pools to toss them down the stream. Althea laughed though, the boys didn’t bother her again. 

ii. NOVICE

Aradia had power. Enough to warrant her an education in the Tower, the Olympian that had discovered the young witch all but demanded it. Aradia was young, but strong, there was iron beneath her delicate features and if the witch was to offer compensation for one, then their father offered the other too. Aradia was strong, she could do the chores of two boys, Althea- well, Althea was only formidable when Aradia stood by her side. 

  Eterna was unlike anything that Althea had ever seen before, she’d followed her sister to the Tower because Althea had been her sister’s shadow since they were little girls. They were only fifteen, sisters with different mothers, and a lazy, unfaithful father who hadn’t known the first thing about how to raise them. It wasn’t difficult to picture how her sister might someday appear like the woman who’d found them, an indomitable Olympian clad in gold, maroon, and scarlet. Warrior of Mars. Hero with the dragongold ring, inlaid with the signet of war. 

  Althea couldn’t see it for herself, she was filled with doubt and uncertainty. She missed home and its simple comforts, lazy afternoons in the sun, but instead as a novice she scrubbed chamber pots, cutlery, and old stones. Naturally, Althea did what she could to escape her chores, she giggled with her friends as they used weaves of air to speed of fermented fruits in their rooms. 

  Already her fellow novices were ahead of her, popular and keen, Althea had never had friends beside Aradia. So she laughed, and rolled her eyes as she observed - pretending as if their weaves were child’s play. Althea was Aradia’s prettier sister, after all, clearly she had to be just as powerful. Maybe even more. 

  In private, Althea struggled to embrace the One Power, they confirmed that she was a witch…. But she’d never managed to cast anything. 

  A mentor took to her, observed how Althea boasted and bragged. How she skipped out on her chores, flaunted the consequences, and settled in nicely with a gaggle of noble daughters who were only there at their mother’s behest. 

  In private, the Sitter mentored her, encouraged her: this Student of Proserpina who wore robes of violet, crimson, and black. The dragon gold ring emblazoned with the signet of the dead maiden on her hand. Elusive and secretive, her interest came up fruitless again and again as Althea failed to take hold of the One Power. Failed to do any weaves at all. 

  When conventional methods failed, others took hold. Aradia’s mentor struck her with lashes of air again and again until eventually the young witch had no choice but to reach out and seize it for herself. 

  She’d found her gate: fear, terror, and rage.

iii. ACCEPTED

Maturity staved Althea from flaunting her studies further, but her and her friends had acquired something of a reputation. A powerful trio of unkind, rude witches. Aradia continued to soar, her strength spoke for her, but Althea was not so quiet. She studied the body and its workings, human and animalia alike. Memorized incantations and sigils; Althea had a delicate hand from a childhood spent trying to keep a needle steady so she could hem her own dressed. Fingers that wove her braid day after day worked the pattern just as keenly as the long hair that trailed down her shoulders. 

  Althea didn’t care for battle, she also didn’t care to spend her life talking to people she deemed beneath her. Scholars negotiating with powers to try and subvert consequence was embarrassing. What Althea wanted was to be powerful, to fit in, what she craved was to become so strong that no man or woman ever had power over her again. The sparrow with the broken wing, the roll of her father’s eyes when she asked for bolts of cloth, the Student of Proserpina who’d ridiculed her and tormented her in private. 

  Aradia who did nothing but succeed. Her magic was a pitance compared to what others in the Tower could wield, so where some could simply hurl their weaves with the one power, she practiced with refined delicacy and grace. Efficiency was key, and it showed in her weaves. Each was maximised in the use of her power, not a whisper of a breath out of place, not a single movement out of order. Elegance followed Aradia’s name, the beautiful woman from the valley, the witch whose weaves moved with the intricacy of lace, who danced amid the pattern - unbothered. 

iv. CERES

A healer’s touch had her studying under the Healers of Ceres, it was what her friends had gravitated toward. If she could lean on their strength, then she could stand on their shoulders without them ever knowing. It was a fool proof plan, really. Their invitations to the alcoves below the Tower came as a surprise, but dead flesh posed less of a risk than live tissue. Here they could practice and train, among the bones and the spirits they tethered their weaves across the veil and stitched some together while pushing away others. 

  Interest again took hold as Althea bended the threads of spirit through the body, flesh was friably delicate but the soul? The soul was a blazing sun, a volcano just waiting to erupt. Patience, dedication, and study. Her friends with their ham hands were better off working on patients and silly little birds with broken wings. 

  A knock on her bedroom door in the middle of the night, masked men and women brought her to the forbidden alcoves below and under the cover of the witching hour they toiled over the dead and the damned. 

v. PROSERPINA

Confidence struck the length of her spine as Althea walked into the Hall of the Sitters and stood before them, prepared to take her trials. Despite how she presented, the young woman had never known a greater fear than what she felt that day. Academics were simple, as if Althea would be outdone by a simple test of knowledge. Ability was well-prepared, she had spent months perfecting a single weave that brought a spirit of wisdom from across the veil. The Sitters marvelled at the young Accepted, applauding her efforts without being aware that she’d set aside everything else to structure this singular demonstration. 

  Aradia had gone through her third trial already. Warrior of Mars. Laughably predictable. Althea’s name was synonymous with her sister’s and she would not fall back into the other’s shadow. 

  Nightmares persisted in the years that followed, Althea’s decision would haunt her forever, but she earned the signet of the dead maiden in her dragon gold ring and would never have to answer to another again. 

  Within Eterna she lavished in privilege, in wealth she hadn’t known before, and dolled out circumstantial knowledge while maintaining her studies within the Tower. That was where her friends were, but as her fellow Students of Proserpina grew and flourished, Althea’s magic brought her to a plateau that she could not exceed. She spoke of the great weaves she was crafting, the ancient knowledge she was studying, and the dead with whom she was communing and those who flocked to her marveled in her passive bravado. 

  Except it was a lie. She worked through the delicacies of weaves, honed her magic further, distilled it, sharpened it, but Althea could not keep up. 

  Disgrace took hold of Aradia’s name. Her name. And when Aradia was exiled from the Tower after her actions in the war, Althea followed. She claimed it was because she had a duty to it, complain that Aradia’s actions made it so she couldn’t suffer the gossip that permeated the halls of the Tower… But the truth was that she could continue to hide in the shadows of her better. So she moved to hide from the public completely. 

In Haven, at the ass end of Lysara, Althea and her sister took up posts as emissaries to the werewolves. 

personality

+ focused, creative, intelligent – vindictive, self-conscious, dogmatic

played by shane. est. He/him.

[faux-fires]

Welcome to DA DWC! Prompt for the situation/pairing/whatever of your choice: "how did we end up here?"

Thank you so much! I didn’t get very much done tonight but I did finish this, which I’m choosing to see as progress since it’s the first thing I’ve written since 2017. Thank you for the prompt!

For @dadrunkwriting - Male Hawke x Anders, set some time around late Act 2.

The soft clink of cutlery against expensive plates never failed to remind Anders of etiquette lessons back at the Circle. He was a hundred miles from Kinloch, and yet when Hawke rapped his spoon against his drinking glass for attention it brought him right back to a drafty classroom, ten years ago and across the sea, all fourteen of Kinloch's cohort of potential spirit-healers jammed inside and Senior Enchanter Wynne standing at the front of the room.

"Being a spirit healer," she'd said, making eye contact with each of them in turn, "means responsibility."

Her gaze had lingered on Anders at this. Unlike the other thirteen students, he'd more or less fallen his way in spirit healing; he'd heard the gossip, he knew she'd argued against allowing him to train. Irving had overruled her, because the old bastard still thought he could win Anders over to a life of fear and confinement and exceptionally ugly robes.

"Spirit healers are uniquely gifted," she'd continued, after a pause. "With our natural talent, bolstered by both study and the support of one of the good Fade spirits, it's no wonder that we are often called upon to exercise our skills in the world outside of the Circle tower. As the Chant says, magic must serve man... and whether through a Chantry-sanctioned hospice or in service to a noble, we will find ourselves in all sorts of situations, and it is important to be able to adapt." With this, she dipped a hand in the basket in front of her and began removing silverware, carefully placing it on the table in front of her. "In this class, I will endeavor to teach you all the social etiquette that will enable you to work efficiently with people from all walks of life... starting with table manners, Karl."

Karl had grinned sheepishly as the other apprentices chuckled, rubbing at his beard; they had been giddy with the novelty of the class, crowded around old wooden desks and aglow with curiosity. The draft whistling in through the narrow, ill-fitting windows so high up and close to the ceiling had smelled to them of freedom, and they were drunk on it.

Anders could understand that longing. To be a household mage was an impossibly rare opportunity; gossip still circulated around the tower of some mage who had attracted a position for a noble in Orlais just that year past. She had supposedly been poise and grace, perfect for a court enchanter; Anders was laden with spots and his apprentice robes never covered his ankles or wrists. Soup spoons, dessert spoons, napkin rings, toasting etiquette; he'd never thought he'd need it and hadn't paid much in the way of attention. After all, when would he, a mage son of a shepherd, ever be dining with nobility?

Hawke dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and set his spoon down. "Ladies," he said, "Gentlemen. A toast, if you please?"

The table's hubbub settled down, twenty-two noblemen and women in their finery taking up their own glasses and staring unblinkingly at Hawke; Anders, at his right hand, stared at his own wineglass and thought the Maker has a cruel sense of irony.

The toast wasn't exceptionally interesting; two of the gathered nobles had gotten engaged recently, and Hawke spoke with his usual charm and candour about their union while the young lady laughed at his jokes and the man gave him bedroom eyes. After he had finished the whole table applauded and then broke for coffee and cigars in the parlour, and Anders ducked out to the balcony to breathe and loosen the cuffs on his suit. The sky was flecked with stars like diamonds, and the air was blowing into Hightown from across the Waking Sea, bringing with it the smell of ocean spray and oncoming rain.

What would that breeze be like when it reached the Gallows, Anders wondered? It would reach the Circle after the rest of Kirkwall had finished with it - after Hightown's perfumed torches, the incense from the Chantry, a hundred sparkling parties; after Lowtown, foundry smog and dirt and dust and the Hanged Man, bouncing out its drunken rejects into the nearest gutters; the docks and all that went on there. Would there be any trace of the sea within it after it had whistled through the long sewer corridors of Darktown?

The balcony door clicked open and then closed. One of the nobles in the room behind him had settled down with a harp; her fingers on its strings were sweet and thoughtful, the melody familiar. Anders turned his head, and knew it was Hawke come to join him long before Garrett settled a hand on his lower back. He smelled like a storm, one of the proper ones the sea fetched up to them from time to time, lashings of rain and lightning for days. Anders leaned into him, solid shoulder and broad arm, and Garrett obligingly shifted, moving closer.

"I'm not a very good host," Anders said, because Garrett hadn't. "I'm sorry, love."

"I noticed," said Hawke, but he didn't sound worried. "You're missing out on Lady du Fou's incredibly fascinating impersonation of Duke Something-or-other of the Anderfels. Do you think you'll survive?"

Once upon a time Anders would've turned that into a joke. He'd been good at that. He'd had an earring, a scarf and a cat, and he'd thought he'd known freedom. "I used to wish for this, you know," he said. "In the Circle."

"Terrible impersonations?" Hawke's brow raised. "I don't mean to cast doubt on your ambitions, but if I'd known... I can do one of Varric, if you like. He said if he ever saw me do it again he'd put a bounty on me, and to be honest with you, that's fair."

"I know." Anders smiled despite himself. "I was there." It had been late in the Hanged Man, and Isabela had been buying Hawke birthday whiskeys; the impression had started with the words 'Well, shit' and ended with '- and then I bathed her glossy stock with my rugged dwarven tongue -' before Varric had thrown them out, laughing. "I remain amazed at your artistic tendencies," said Anders, and Hawke huffed once in amusement before pressing his mouth to Anders' temple in something nearly a kiss. Anders tilted his head toward Hawke, feeling that delicious shiver go down his arms; he had never had a lover so openly affectionate before.

Sometimes he wondered how much longer this could last. Surely he couldn't be allowed to have this, this larger-than-life man, this free apostate who loved him so openly in defiance of all that he was. If Hawke was the Hightown wind, fresh and pure from the sea, Anders felt like the Gallows wind and all that it brought with it. *In the Circle, love was merely a game, he'd said, but oh, he wasn't playing now.

He'd thought this was freedom, once. But now he knew that as long as the Circle stood - breathing in its secondhand wind, shuttered tight and cloistered - he and Hawke were anything but.

He turned toward Hawke, his hip pressed against the balcony railing. In the starlight Garrett's eyes glittered gold, as did the silver gilt ornamentation on his expensive costume; he watched Anders with the corner of his mouth turned up just so. Anders knew why. He thought of Wynne counting out the silverware, and of Karl, studying it so intently; he thought of the breeze whistling through the narrow windows of Kinloch. Once this would have been the endpoint of his journey, what he had sought on his many escapes - love, life and liberty, all his for the taking.

Hawke's too, he suspected - clawing out coin in Lowtown, fighting his way up in the city to keep away from the templars; and now they had what they had wanted. He was the most beautiful man Anders had ever seen, and he was on the balcony at his own party, hiding away from his guests. Anders reached for his hands, and Hawke let him; they held each other like drowning men for all Hawke's face wore such an easy smile. Anders could see the tightness at the corner of his eyes, and impulsively drew Hawke toward him; their mouths met, Hawke's lips soft and sure.

They would have to go back in soon. They'd do the rounds, keep the masks on tight; they'd play the part of 'safe' mages to people to whom they were little more than curiosities. Anders knew how they'd ended up here, and he knew what was expected of them, and he knew Hawke hated it nearly as much as he did. There was so much to do. It wasn't enough for the two of them to be free; so long as the Gallows and all alike it still stood - handing out silverware and lectures and the illusion of an escape to so few - no mage could ever truly be free.

But for tonight, they had this - the salt-strong taste of Hawke's mouth, the stars on his bare skin; the security of their own balcony; the beating of his heart in his chest, the feel of Hawke's hand in his.

It wasn't much. It never could be. But it was theirs, and at the end of it all, it was a start.

[shreddedparchment]

Pseudo Princess Pt.11

In His Shoes

10/22/2019

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader           Word Count: 7,744

Warnings: Light smut, dub-con scene (Please do not read if this offends you or if you are triggered by it. You have been warned), language, angst, fluff, angry Steve

A/N: Well, I hammered this out in like...six hours? I don’t know. I wrote the first bit over a few days because I’ve been sick and I couldn’t relax until I got the rest out, so here it is. I hope you like it and if you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Tags are closed!

Eight Months Ago

“What are you saying?” Steve wonders, the hint if irritation in his voice.

He looks at Lord Ross, almost not recognizing the man. Which is strange as Steve sees these men a few times a week.

“Lord Ross, if I may?” Lord Pierce interjects.

Ross gestures him on with a lazy wave of his hand. He’s not offended but rather impatient.

“What we are trying to say, your Majesty, is that we understand the loss you suffered. Many of at this table have lost a loved one. A wife.

“We know your pain.” He continues.

Steve’s nerves are suddenly grated. He clenches his fist and beside him, he can see Bucky motion for Lord Pierce to speak more quickly.

“Get to the point, Alexander.” Steve says, jaw clenched.

“My point is, our point is, that the kingdom needs a Queen. The crown needs an heir. It’s been two years since her Majesty Queen Margaret died and the people are losing faith that the kingdom might ever prosper.”

“You want me to get married.” Steve realizes.

“Yes. In fact, I’m afraid to say that we-” Pierce stops, and then reconsiders before he starts again. “There is a clause in Broklin law that gives the people the right to, shall we say, pass on the right of succession if the reigning monarch refuses to do his, or her, duty to ensure the prosperity of the kingdom.”

“Are you saying that you’re going to take my crown away from me, Lord Pierce? To what? Give it to yourself? Aren’t you the next in line for the throne?” Steve sounds amused, bitterly.

“As it stands, yes. I am next in line and it was not my choice to enforce the clause. The council voted and…”

Ross finally cuts in again, never afraid to be more forceful with Steve the way the others seem to fear him.

“You have one year to find yourself a wife.” Ross says, “That’s what we brought you here to say.”

The door across the hall opens and a dark-haired man with a handsome if somewhat rugged face walks in. His eyes are sharp, piercing, menacing. He smirks across the room at Steve, amused, Steve thinks, with his sudden dilemma.

His blue eyes are glued to the man until he reaches Pierce then leans down to whisper in his ear.

Slowly, Steve stands, staring at the young man with a frown. “Well, you’ve made your demand. If that’s all…”

He pushes his chair back and moves around the table, walking with sturdy steps, shoulders back and his chin flexing.

As he passes Pierce, the younger man stands up straight, turning that same smug smile on him again as the rest of the men around the table stand up in respect for their sovereign.

The young man bows his head as Steve passes.

“Rumlow.” Steve greets, reluctantly.

“Your Majesty.” Rumlow responds.

Bucky follows.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Here.” Bucky holds out a carefully folded parchment. Stamped with a peculiar ring of red and gold wax. “This just came.”

Steve stares at the letter, hesitating as he considers the response he might get.

He’s not sure what he wants to find in here.

He takes it, Bucky moves to sit across from him.

The door to Steve’s office opens once more and Sam slips in to stand nearby, listening and watching. Waiting. Everything hangs in the balance with this letter and Steve knows that the severity of it has seeped out into the various noble houses across both Broklin and Malibia.

He knows the rumors that have spread. Marriage or war.

Tony won’t believe any of that, but it means that everyone will be expecting the kingdoms to unite in marriage.

He opens the letter and puts it down on his lap.

“Steve,” Sam begins. “No time like the present.”

Steve looks at him. “I feel like I’m condemning Morgana. She’s only fourteen.”

“You’ll only be married on paper.” Bucky insists. “It’s just to get the council off your back. Give you some time.”

“But she’ll be my queen. Eventually, we’ll have to really be married.” Steve argues gently, hating the path he’s been set upon.

“Not for many years. You can get used to the idea of being with someone again and Morgana will have time to grow up.” Sam explains.

“She’s feels like family.” Steve sighs. “She’s like a niece.”

“Steve, just read it.” Bucky urges.

At their insistence Steve reads it.

“Well?” Sam asks, stepping closer and bringing his arms up to cross over his chest.

Steve folds the letter and puts it underneath their red ledger.

“I’m getting married.” Steve says, no joy in his voice but resigned to his fate.

~~~~~~~~~~

7 Months Ago

“You’ve found yourself a bride?” Pierce asks, slightly shocked. Behind him, Rumlow shifts nervously.

Steve sees this and watches them both, feeling at first nothing but as Rumlow’s brow creases more and more, he grows suspicious.

“The Princess Morgana, from Malibia.” Steve informs him.

“Princess Morgana Stark?” Ross asks, his own brow now furrowed in confusion.

“Is that a problem?” Steve wonders, looking at Ross instead.

Ross thinks for a second, leaning forward as he taps his hand against the wooden tabletop. “She’s a little young, isn’t she?”

That’s what Steve thought! “She is. But she will grow.”

“I don’t think-”

“Well, this sounds like it’s all settled. Don’t you think my lords?” Pierce asks, rhetorically.

He looks really pleased by this bit of news.

“I don’t think we need to keep the meeting going if-”

Pierce is eager but Ross is determined, and he cuts his off, raising his voice a little louder to speak above him.

“I don’t think,” Ross says, firm and making it clear that he will not be interrupted. “Your Majesty, that you understood what we meant at our previous meeting. Whoever you take as your bride will be required to produce an heir within the year following your marriage.”

All of his blood seems to rush out of his head and limbs making them cold and numb. His heart is pounding however and beside him Bucky makes a noise that sounds a little like shock and part disgust.

Steve suddenly understands Pierce’s eagerness to end the meeting here.

“I…she’s only fourteen.” Steve says.

“That’s precisely my point, your Majesty. I think, however strong an alliance with his Majesty, King Anthony Stark might be, taking a bride so young would not be wise.” Ross finishes.

Steve agrees and a flood of gratitude for the man who so often stands at odds with him fills him.

“I…” Steve looks down at his hands, leaning forward as he fidgets. “…I can’t marry the Princess Morgana. I’ll write to Tony and send my regrets and apologies.”

He rises, as do the others, and as he passes Pierce, he stops to look down at the man with pure indignation.

“You’d ruin two lives to get your hand on the crown?” He asks, his voice so quiet that only Pierce will hear him.

“I don’t know what you mean, your Majesty. I wish only to serve my kingdom.” Pierce lies and Steve can see right through it.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s this?” Steve stops, letting the council walk ahead of him as he turns to Sam as he holds out a small folded piece of parchment, the familiar Stark seal in bright red and gold.

He’d thought he’d seen his last letter from Tony.

“It just came. It’s for you.” Sam waits, looking ahead down the hall where Pierce and Rumlow have stopped to watch at a safe distance. “Can I help you Lord Pierce? Did you forget something in the council chamber that you’d like me to get for you?”

Steve looks at Lord Pierce who forces a smile, Rumlow scowling behind him.

“No. Have a good day Your Majesty. Sir Wilson.” Pierce bows his head and walks down the hall out of sight.

“Is there a reason you keep that parasite on the council?” Sam asks.

Steve takes the letter and gently breaks the seal.

“I don’t have any proof that he’s up to anything yet. I got distracted.” Yes. His wife died.

A reasonable distraction from the things that had once mattered. Something much more pressing or so he’d felt at the time.

He looks at the letter and he feels a fleeting rise of hope. It dwindles after a second as he finishes the letter.

“What? You’re pale.” Sam reaches out to place his hand on Steve’s shoulder for support. “Look, I’m sorry. I won’t bring it up again.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, it’s not Pierce…Tony,”

With a hard swallow, he folds the letter and looks into Sam’s dark eyes. “What about him?”

“He says that he has another daughter. Older. Who will gladly give me an heir.”

“Another daughter? With Pepper?” Sam asks, disbelieving.

Steve nods, wondering the exact same thing as Sam. Why, if he has an older daughter, had Steve not met her?

A few days later, as he sits in his office, Bucky moves in and skids to a stop holding out another large letter with the Stark insignia.

Steve stands, tears it open, and reads the words quickly as Bucky breathes heavily from his run, no doubt to get the letter to Steve as quickly as possible.

“Why the rush, Steve?” Bucky asks. “You can take your time.”

“I want this over with.” Steve insists.

He holds the page open but looks up to stare at Maggie’s corner. A vivid image of her sitting in her royal blue silk dress, her brown waves gathered up on top of her head and pinned away from her face fills his mind.

She’s sitting on her cushion, staring out at the garden before she looks over at him and smiles when she catches him watching her.

She puts her book down on the table beside her bench then gets to her feet and saunters over towards him, to kiss him? Hug him? Whisper something in his ear?

She did them all and for Steve it feels like yesterday and forever ago all at once.

The image fades and he forces his eyes to the words in the letter.

As he reads on, his brow creases. He moves to sit in his chair, and he reads it over and over.

“What’s it say?” Bucky asks, eager to know what explanation Tony will give about this mysterious older daughter that none of them had known about.

“He says his daughter, his eldest, was born out of wedlock. And she’s not Pepper’s though we’re not to say she isn’t.” He glances at the door nervously; anxious the secret might get out. “She was sent away when she presented with emotional instability issues as a toddler and was raised in a school meant to rehabilitate those with issues like hers.”

“He’s trying to send you someone crazy?” Bucky gasps, sounding betrayed for his king.

“He says she’s doing better. Much better. She’s cured and is as pleasant as the rest of us.” Steve continues, reading on.

“The rest of us? Sam too?” Bucky jokes, and Steve shoots him a quick frown before looking back down at his letter.

“He says that he’s sending for her and she’ll be in Malibia within the fortnight. We can be married, as soon as I’d like. He’ll also settle whatever amount I wish. Properties in his kingdom or gold and silver if I should wish. I need only ask.” Steve reads the letter word for word at the end and sighs.

“Will you take her?” Bucky asks, moving closer to stand by the desk. “Steve…you don’t have to do this. Choose someone here, from our kingdom. Someone we know. What about Sha-”

“No.” Steve says sternly. “Not her.”

“Marrying your dead wife’s cousin isn’t that weird. And people would understand. We already know her. We wouldn’t have to hide all of the stuff we do. She’s already invested in that side of your life. Shar-”

“I said no, Buck. Drop it.” Steve frowns up at his best friend, waiting for him to give up.

“She’s in love with you.” Bucky doesn’t desist. “She has been since before you and Maggie got married.”

“Damn it, Buck. I don’t want to marry Sharon. I-I can’t. She…they…they were like sisters I…” He looks up at the corner again, untouched, dusty, a faded memory that lives only in his mind now. “I won’t.”

Bucky sighs. “Fine. Then how will you know that marrying this Stark’s strange daughter is a good idea?”

That’s a good question. He does feel a little weird marrying someone he’s never met before. After marrying the love of his life and all. A woman he’d known since they were children.

“I’ll ask him for a portrait of her. We’ll send Natasha too. She’s honest and won’t try to trick me.” Steve pulls over a piece of parchment and quickly scribbles his letter.

“So, if you like her looks, you’re going to marry her? A portrait won’t tell you whether she’s crazy or not.” Bucky challenges, watching as Steve seals the letter.

“No. But it’ll let me at least see her. And Nat will tell me if she’s crazy or not.” Steve explains then holds out the letter for him to take.

~~~~~~~~~~

6 Months Ago

Steve looks at the portrait and only gives the girl a quick glance.

She’s wearing red. No doubt Tony chose the dress for her, knowing that he’d like the color.

She’s young. Which is expected but not as young as Morgana.

An adult. Someone who understand the responsibilities that will come with this marriage.

Unfortunately, Steve is finding it harder and harder to reconcile the fact that he’ll have to sleep with this girl.

He’ll need to consummate the marriage and the very thought sends his heart into agony.

The last woman he’d slept with had been the woman he loved. He’d taken a vow to be faithful to her. Sleeping with this girl, making her his queen feels wrong.

This feeling is fleeting. It comes and he pushes it aside quickly, easily. He can deal with this. He’s done worse. He can shut off his emotions for a while. It’s simple.

“Send word that I’ll marry her. Right away.” Steve waves the portrait away without giving it a proper glance and moves to tend to other matters at his desk.

“How soon is right away?” Sam asks, exchanging a worried glance with Bucky who is holding the girl’s portrait, looking it over.

“Day after tomorrow.” Steve states.

“Woah,” Bucky says, putting the portrait off against the wall. “Hey, Steve…why so quickly? You can drag this out. You have a year. Get to know the girl. Invite her over, court her a little. Then marry her.”

“I don’t want to court…no.” Steve insists. “I want this over with, Buck. Sam, tell Tony I’ll do it. I’ll marry his eldest.”

Sam hesitates but when Bucky nor Steve says anything, he turns and heads off to deliver the news.

“Steve…”

“Buck!” Steve almost shouts, but he chuckles without humor, holding his hands out on his desk with frustration. “Just…let me do this. I need to keep this kingdom out of Pierce’s hands. I need to marry this girl.”

“But you’re rushing.”

“Because I need it to be over.” Steve explains.

“Why? Why do you need to do it so damn fast?” Bucky demands.

“Because I never thought that I’d be marrying anyone other than Margaret, Buck!” Steve nearly shouts. “I feel like I’m betraying her memory. I was perfectly happy dying alone. Now I have to marry someone?”

“You could have waited until you found someone to love.”

“I will never love anyone again, Buck.” Steve shakes his head, meeting his friend’s intense gaze. “Maggie was my beginning and she will be my end. She was my one true love and it is impossible for me to love anyone again. Ever.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Steve should have known that he would be eating his words.

He should have given your portrait a longer look instead of a cursory glance.

As he moves around his massive throne and you come into view wearing a baby blue silk gown, your hair carefully waved and style with a tiara, he feels as if the wind has been knocked out of him.

It’s not just your beauty that shocks him, it’s what lies underneath.

He can see you clearly, the girl underneath.

There is hope and already adoration in your eyes when you look at him. He can see your nerves and he can feel your goodness from here.

You aren’t what he was expecting, and it catches him off guard.

Despite the things you will have gone through, there’s a sweetness that radiates from the spot where you stand, and his heart is a thrumming mess.

You bow to him, deep. You stay there for so long. He can see your legs lose their balance.

“Stand up, your Highness.” He tells you, a little miffed at your dedication. As quickly as he can, he makes sure to detach himself from this situation because he can’t care how your legs must be tired. “I trust your trip went well?”

Your voice is soft, breathy, nervous. He doesn’t listen too closely. He hears you but he doesn’t bother focusing. He’s too busy watching your pretty face…wait…

He steps forward, thrown by the slip of his mind. “Why are you doing this?”

Surely, you…this exquisite creature…What are you thinking?...has had other offers?

You’re confused.

“The marriage. This whole thing, why? You could have anyone.” Because you’re perfect. Damn it. “You’re a princess.”

It’s a flimsy explanation to his words but it seems to make sense as you don’t raise a fuss.

“I…I want to-to make my father happy.” You stutter, still full of nerves.

You mention his portrait and he’s confused as to how you have it…but you reach your point quickly.

“When I saw it…I decided that I-I wanted to make you happy.” You confess, your eyes sparkling with true hope and desire. For him, he realizes.

You’re hoping that this will all turn into some tale of love, but he can’t give you that. He can never give you that. He’s empty inside. Hollow. His heart buried with his love, Maggie. He has to set you straight. Before you’re married.

“That’ll never happen.” He doesn’t mean to sound so rough, so harsh…but there it is. “You will never make me happy. Never.”

The sorrow in your eyes is surprising and the heartbreak in your expression tells him that he should have left long ago. Maybe he shouldn’t have even come in here to begin with.

He wants to reach out and comfort you…He has to get out of here.

“We’ll get married in the morning. Tell Tony I accept his offer.” Quickly, without a second glance at the disappointment he’s created, he turns and leaves you standing there, flummoxed.

~~~~~~~~~~

He spouts the words. He takes your hand. He makes his promises and wants to mean them which terrifies him, and he releases your hand as soon as you’re in the carriage.

He tries not to look at you because you’re beautiful.

The silks and gold and silver that you’re draped in is not the only beauty he takes notice of. Your kind smile to those that reach out to you—the rabble—and the way you don’t pull away from their dirty hands. You’re gentle and placating.

Maggie had been kind too, but she’d been a bit harder. Her smiles slightly sterner.

She accepted no nonsense and yet, while Bucky and Sam joke around you, teasing you and teasing Steve kindly, you chuckle and take it all in stride.

Maggie would have scolded them for playing around on such an important day.

“People are watching you. Is this what you want Steve’s people to see his elite guard doing? There are eyes everywhere, James.”

And yes, it would have been right for her to chastise them, but Steve’s chest warms, and his heart gives a gentle squeeze at the laughter in your eyes. He likes how gentle you are with his friends because they can be fools, but they mean only to make you smile.

He likes how relaxed you look, nervous, sure…but you’re not stressing about your visibility. He likes that you don’t care what the world sees when they look at you—but how can you care when all there is to see is sweetness and perfection?

You’re dangerous. Steve can see that. He’s taken you as his wife and he can already feel himself falling for you. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

He was supposed to live out his life alone, with his love for Margaret to sustain him until he died. Betraying her love like this, isn’t right. He feels forced and he hates himself for agreeing to this.

He should have let Pierce have the damn kingdom.

You reach out to him, looking to place your hand on his and the tips of your fingers are right there. He yanks it away and uses the pretense of waving at his people.

“Wave at our people, your Majesty.” He tells you flatly.

He can see your mind racing with worry. He hates that he gives it to you, but he has to stop feeling guilt towards you. You’re the intruder. A welcomed one, but an intruder, nonetheless.

“Your Majesty…” You begin gently. “…Steve.”

His breath is nearly stolen.

Another voice in the back of his mind fills his head vividly with a million cries of his name. “Steve. Steve! Steve? Steve?! Steve…oh, Steve…” He shuts his eyes, willing Margaret’s voice to fade but it doesn’t and all he can hear is her calling to him, whispers in the night, languid moans…he misses her so much.

“Please, call me by my name when we’re together. I-I’m your wife now. I want to know you.” He can see that shred of hope in your expression again.

You’re his wife…his wife…his wife is dead.

He will never say your name. Never.

“You must do as you wish, your Majesty.” He makes sure that you know he won’t say it. You are his wife in name alone. He doesn’t love you. He’ll prove it.

For a moment, as you raise your chin in what he can only assume is defiance, he thinks you might get angry.

Yes. Be angry at me. Hate me. I will never love you.

“Never mind, your Majesty.” You relent.

What?!

“I will follow your lead.” You comply, and Steve hates you for being so kind, so accommodating, maybe not as perfect as he thought…but close enough.

The wedding feast is crowded. The music is loud, just as he’d requested. He wants to drown you out. To be abel to ignore any attempts at conversation.

After Bucky’s scolding about his treatment of you outside, Steve feels worse than he did this morning. Not only does he feel like he’s failing Margaret, but now he’s also being terrible to you.

He doesn’t want to be…but he must. He won’t let you in. No one can make him.

Compared to his first wedding feast, this one is louder. Happier.

He knows that it’s probably because the people are happy to see him married but he feels bitter at their glee.

He doesn’t want to be happy that he’s taken a new wife.

At his first wedding feast he’d danced the night away with his bride. He’d laughed with his friends. He’d been happy.

He misses Margaret to no end.

He scans the dance floor and spots the two biggest fools in the castle.

Dancing together, paired off pleasantly. So much has changed since Margaret’s passing.

Bucky and Nat are together now, and he expects them to announce their engagement soon—if Nat will stop telling Bucky no.

When they marry, it will truly be a happy occasion. Something that he eagerly awaits.

Lost in his thoughts and happiness for his friends, he lets the mask slip away. He smiles.

“They make a beautiful couple.” Your voice invades his senses and pleases his already swelling heart. He likes your voice. It’s pleasant.

“Yes.” Steve agrees without thinking, not realizing his slip at first.

Bucky sends him an approving smile and he realizes what he’s just done.

He frowns, turning to scowl at you to negate his slip.

You’re getting too comfortable here. Too much at home. He’ll knock you up, then when you’ve had the baby, he’ll send you far away. He won’t have to see you or hear you or deal with your hopes.

This isn’t your home and you need to know that.

“Why aren’t they married yet?” You ask him, ignoring the frown on his face. “From what I saw of them together, it seems like Bucky would like very much to-”

His anger is unreasonable. He knows this. But you’re…you’re too risky. Already he feels himself softening towards you.

“Bucky?” He asks, his anger seeping through. “Bucky?”

“I mean, Sir James. I-When I saw him last, he asked me to call him-”

“If he asked you to then do as you wish.” Steve cuts you off, hoping to avoid your pitiful explanations.

He leans away from you though, trying to put as much distance between himself and your allure.

You lapse into silence, for which he is grateful.

It comes out of nowhere, your little hand, placed over his and it’s fire. He feels a solid burn where you touch, and it terrifies him. He shouldn’t like your touch this much, but he does.

“Your Majesty?” You check, speaking slowly, fear in your voice. Of upsetting him—he realizes.

Steve turns to stare at your hand, wondering if he would be betraying Margaret if he turned it over and took it. Would holding your hand be so bad? In front of his people, surely that’s expected?

“We haven’t danced yet.” You tell him, trying to convince him. “Isn’t it customer for a King and his Queen to-”

No! You aren’t his queen!

He stands up quickly, chair rattling and squealing against the floor. The room quiets and they watch as he faces you.

He can see the utter pleasure, the excitement in your expectant eyes—you want to dance.

“We will retire to the marriage bed.” He says and watches as your disappointment is renewed.

He can’t dance with you. Never will he dance with you.

He leaves you by your room, and quickly peels away his crown and tunic. He lays it aside and moves to his water basin to splash his face with the tepid water.

His heart is racing and his mind a hive of bees, buzzing in chaos as he tries to convince himself that this is what he needs to do.

“For my kingdom…” He sighs, looking towards the side of his bed left empty for so long. “I’m sorry, Maggie.”

He wants to cry; his heart is breaking. This isn’t what he wants. He doesn’t want you.

He moves back out, untucking his shirt as he goes. There’s no way he’ll even be able to get himself hard for you.

It’ll be simple. He’ll be unable to bed you. Then he can end this sham of a marriage.

He throws the doors to your room open and his feet stutter at the sight of you.

Your eyes are wide and full of shock and anticipation.

You’re almost naked, dressed in a thin, flimsy nightdress made of lace with embroidered peonies. He can see you. All of you.

His mind is wiped clean as he devours your body, every curve, every ridge, nipple peaks and a dip as your nightdress curves down between your legs a bit.

His blood is fire. All of a sudden, he doesn’t know what to think.

His body takes over and he moves towards you, savage hunger in his eyes. Fuck, he wants you.

As you retreat, your legs hit the edge of your bed and you whimper slightly, afraid? No, just nervous again.

He peels his shirt away and he can see you take in his own body, admiring and in awe. He’s done much to take care of his form and he hopes the scars on his sides and chest don’t scare you.

There is no fear in your eyes though, just an equal hunger to his own.

Your mouth is slightly open as you stare, at a loss almost as much as he is.

His cock twitches in his pants, harder than ever before. It’s been so long and you’re just so…your smiles from the morning replay themselves in his mind. He remembers the way you looked as you walked towards him in the church.

An angel.

He reaches for the front of his pants as a sudden worry begins to slip into your heated gaze. You swallow hard and he wonders if maybe you’re worried that he doesn’t want you.

He’ll show you.

He drops his pants and he springs free, cock gently slapping against the base of his belly.

You sigh with relief and Steve almost smiles at your fretting. He watches you lick your lips and his desire is renewed as he steps out of his pants and your eyes meet his once again.

With surprisingly steady hands, Steve reaches out and touches you. Your hips first. He squeezes them, relishing in the soft woman flesh beneath his hands. He twitches again, picturing you on your back, beneath him, mewling as he pleases you.

You’re stunned by his touch and you nearly fall back but wrap your arms around his shoulders.

The movement jars him, you clinging to him. But when he meets your eyes, he’s not afraid. He likes this, you holding onto him.

He likes the way you feel in his arms and he wraps you up in them, hands splayed out along your back where he then traces every curve of your body making you gasp quietly.

Your hands, surprisingly rough for a princess, trace along his shoulders, relishing in the feel of his skin. You move them up along his neck and then back behind his head to play with the hairs on the nape of his neck—“Oh, Steve. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Be quiet, Maggie, they’ll hear you.”

“I don’t care if they hear me.” She moves her hands up into his hair, caressing his scalp before she pushes herself up onto her toes. “Kiss me, Steve. Make love to me.”

Steve meets her lips with intense passion, tongue slipping past her ruby reds as he tastes her and his heart soars. She’s his, forever. This kiss will always be his.

It happens quickly. Steve’s heart pounds, the vision of Margaret fills his mind, and every touch he places on you feels like a sin. He lifts you up to push you back onto the bed, ignoring the way you shift uncomfortably in his hands.

“Steve?” Your meek voice questions, slightly scared.

He hates it when you say his name.

He just needs to do this. Get it over with. Once it’s done, he can go back to his room.

He searches for the bottom of your nightdress and pulls it up roughly. It rips in his hand and he almost stops but he doesn’t. He needs this to be over.

“Oooh, Steve…harder…” She fills his mind, overpowering the now so that all he can see, and feel is her, in his memory, vivid and encompassing.

“Steve, wait.” You’re breathless as he settles over you, and the fear is just a little filtered with desire.

“Stop saying my name.” He growls at you.

You try to touch him, but he doesn’t want you! Not you!

All at once, after a flurry of movements, he’s ready to sink into you.

You’re startled by his rush and he can see the fear returning. You’re not sure what’s happening, and he isn’t sure he’s ready for this.

No. He isn’t ready for this. But you’re…his wife…he has to…he…

“Ste-?” You begin and he can’t bear to hear you say his name again.

Just do it. He convinces himself and he’s inside of you.

He can hear you struggling. He can feel you squirming. You’re a vice around his dick and you’re crying, and he just keeps going.

Just a little more and it’ll all be over.

“Yes, Steve. Just like that. Oh, Steve.” His mind fills with her laugh, her pretty brown eyes, the stretch of her red lips as she smiles up at him, loving him.

“You and I are forever, darling. We’ll be together until the end.” Maggie promises. Laying beside him as she reaches back to trace the shape of his shoulders.

Steve wraps her up closer, giving her hips a gentle squeeze.

“It’ll only ever be you, Maggie. You’re my only love.” He promises.

“Do you wear it?” She asks, a challenge, playful. “I am the only woman you will ever sleep with? I am your one and only love?”

“Yes.” Steve kisses her. “My only love.”

“Oh, Steve.” She coos.

“Please…” You cry, a weighty sob that pierces his wistful memory. “Steve…”

He growls, angry that it isn’t her voice. Hating you because you aren’t Maggie and you’ve made him a liar. You’ve made him break his word. “Stop saying my name!”

“Steve…” You beg one final time as he thrusts and groans, then releases within you.

He shoves himself into you a few more times then holds it steady as his heart slow and his brain mush begins to resemble actual thought again.

Steve pulls away and you cry out in pain.

He freezes and finds your pretty face, only you’re sobbing, fear has overtaken you and you’re turning away from him, curling into yourself and he’s filled with utter disgust and terror at the sight of what he’s wrought.

He makes to reach out to you, to put his hand on your shoulder but you’re busy trying to cover as much of yourself as possible to notice.

The stain of blood on your sheets shocks him.

He knew…he knew that you would probably be a virgin, but he never thought that…what has he done?

He slides to the end of your bed and sits there listening to you cry.

This is not what he wanted. This is not the night he’d envisioned. This isn’t him. He would have never hurt you. He…this isn’t your fault. Maggie’s death is not your fault.

This marriage is not your fault. You agreed because you were asked. The council forced him into this marriage. But the council wasn’t here in your room.

The council didn’t force you to sleep with him. The council didn’t violate you and hurt you.

He did that to you.

This is all his own fault.

He’s a monster.

He pulls on his pants and shirt, and because he’s afraid to look at you and see what he’s done once more, he leaves you without a second glance.

~~~~~~~~~~

3 Months Ago

Steve is grateful. He’s thankful.

Somehow, some way, he was able to redeem himself a little after that terrible night in the smallest of ways.

He’d apologized and maybe you’d seen the sincerity in his words, but you’d accepted. For some reason that he cannot fathom, you’d forgiven him. You’re too good for him. He knows this.

You’d been afraid of him, that first time after it happened, and that still fills his heart with dread. He’s tried to make it right. Tried to start fresh with you, but every time he touches you in your room, he’s haunted by her and what he did to you. A reverberating echo of his past mistakes every time he’s with you.

He wants to show you that he wants you. But every time he tries, he chokes.

He can feel you stiffen beneath him and he knows that he’s failing. But he doesn’t hurt you again. He makes sure of that. He checks on you, he takes care of you afterwards, though maybe you don’t see it like that.

You seem almost not yourself when he cleans you up. Like you’re in a trance. He doesn’t even think you really know that it’s happening.

He’s sure it’s all his fault. He broke you after that first time.

“Like this?” Your voice comes from around the corner and Steve follows the echo.

You’re in the library, looking at a piece of parchment on the table you’re sitting on. He can’t see who you’re talking to because they’re out of view. He can see an arm. Probably the instructor he’d asked for after you’d confessed your lack of schooling.

He still feels a subtle rage at the thought of Tony sending you off to be locked up in some school to be neglected.

But after what he himself has done; how can he judge?

No. He frowns. He’s right to be angry. Tony’s a jerk.

“Very good, your Majesty. Now, let us move onto conjunctions.” He says, and Steve can hear the scraping pen to paper as the instructor jots a few words down out of sight.

Steve’s gaze is only for you. Sitting there looking pretty in your pink dress, pale yellow diamonds on the bodice. Your hair pulled back to keep it out of your face though that seems to be failing as it falls forward as you write.

You bite your lip as you concentrate and when you finish you turn behind you to beam at whoever is standing out of sight.

A moment later, Nat moves forward and caresses your shoulder before leaning over to look at your work.

She whispers something to you, and you giggle, eyes vibrant and you’re so happy.

Though he’s filled with pain that he cannot make you look as happy as that when you’re with him, he’s happy to know that you’re happy here at home at least and that you’re not miserable, despite the constant way he seems to fuck up.

He smiles as you’re chastised and then wait until you’re no longer being watched to laugh again.

You bite your lip once more, and Steve would give anything to caress it. To feel it pressed against his own.

He hasn’t been able to get himself to do it, to kiss you. He almost did a few times in bed, but it felt wrong to kiss you then when he’s doing what is necessitated of him.

What if he kisses you and you kiss him back because you must? Not because you want to?

He doesn’t want to take from you anymore. Not like he did that first night…He’ll wait until the time is right.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice comes from behind him.

Fuck!

Steve backs away from the door and moves towards his friend.

“What were you doing?” Bucky asks, glancing towards the door as it closes.

He catches a glimpse of you and Steve feels his neck heat up.

“Were you watching Y/N?” He asks, excited.

“Don’t be stupid.” Steve bristles. “Why would I be watching her? What do you want?”

He turns and walks off, headed for his office.

“Steve, you were smiling.” Bucky insists.

“No, I wasn’t.” Steve argues, cursing himself for being careless.

“Steve…”

“I wasn’t!” He nearly shouts and stops to glare at Bucky.

Bucky reaches out and grasps his shoulder.

“It’s okay to fall for you wife, Steve. It’s okay to give in. She’s nice. She’s pretty. She’s a little helpless too…” Bucky admits. “I think she’s just what you need.”

“I’m not falling for her.” Steve glares.

“Why are you fighting this?” Bucky wonders as Steve slaps his hand away. “Why won’t you let yourself be happy?”

“Because I don’t deserve to be happy.” Steve’s broken his promise to Maggie, and he hurt you. He doesn’t deserve you, no matter how much he may want to.

He promised Maggie that it would only be her, and that’s who it will be. From this moment on, he will put you out of his mind.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three Weeks Ago

“Pierce!” Steve shouts, storming into the council chambers.

Pierce, alone with his cohort Rumlow, look up in surprise at the madness in Steve’s voice.

“Your Majesty?” Pierce checks as Rumlow moves to plant himself in front of him.

Steve stops, but grabs Rumlow’s shirt, shaking him. “Where is she? I know you took her.”

“Took who?” Pierce asks, standing slowly as he should in his king’s presence.

Rumlow smirks. “It looks like our king has lost his queen, Lord Pierce. How tragic.”

“The Queen is missing?” Pierce asks, mock shock in his voice. “Hot unfortunate. I do hope nothing has befallen her Majesty.”

“Looks like you finally drove her away.” Brock mutters cruelly. “If only you weren’t so torn up about Maggie-”

Steve shakes him hard. “Utter one more word…do it…I dare you.”

Rumlow’s rage contorts his face but he gets it under control and turns a scowl on his king before he forces himself to smile through heavy breath.

“We haven’t seen her, your Majesty. Lord Pierce and I have been here, under your very nose. When would we have had time to take her?”

“Is there anything that we can do to help, your Majesety?” Pierce offers.

As much as Steve wishes to deny it, he can’t prove that they took you and he aggressively releases Rumlow then turns and leaves them in the council room.

“I hope you find her.” Rumlow calls out.

Steve considers taking his head.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two Weeks Ago

“Where is he?” Tony spits and Steve can feel the rage from his spot at his desk.

He gets up as Tony shoves his way past Bucky and Sam.

He has hardly a second to look at him before a solid punch hits him square in the jaw. Crashing against his desk where his papers and trinkets rattle with the impact, Steve reaches up to grab his chin and stare at your father.

“Hey!” Sam cries out, already lunging forward.

“Leave it, Sam.” Steve orders, and Bucky quickly ushers him out to leave Tony and Steve alone.

Again. Hit me again. Steve wishes.

He will take as many hits as Tony can dole out. He deserves more. He should suffer. More than he’s already suffering in your absence.

“You were supposed to be taking care of her.” Tony rages.

He shakes from head to toe with his anger but there’s pain there too.

“She’s already lived a hard life and I gave her to you because you said that you needed a wife. A wife. Not a slave.” He rants. “Now I hear that you’ve hardly spoken to her? You keep her at a distance? Why? Because of Margaret?”

Steve has no excuses to make. He ducks his head in shame and remains leaning against his desk.

“Pepper is out of her mind with worry. What did you do? What did you tell her that she felt the need to run away?” Tony demands, hands balled into tight fists, ready to punch some more.

Steve swallows dryly, wishing he could take back the words he’d uttered to drive you out. Finally, he got what he wished for. He pushed you away…just as he was ready to let you in.

“I told her that I…I shouldn’t have married her.” Steve sighs. “That it was a mistake.”

Tony sighs angrily.

“But I only meant that I haven’t been good for her. I have caused her nothing but pain. If I hadn’t married her then maybe she might have made a better marriage? With someone less broken. Someone who could love her the way she deserves.” Steve explains, having desperately wanted to tell you these very words. “She deserves more than me, Tony. She deserves so much more.”

“And you don’t love her?” Tony demands, reaching up to wipe his mouth in anger.

“I…” Steve knows what his answer is, but it terrifies him to admit. “I do. I love her.”

Silence follows his confession and Tony slowly seethes a little less.

“When we find her, if she wants to leave you, I’m taking her home.” Tony declares. “And if you try and stop me, I swear to the Gods that I will end you and this damn kingdom.”

Steve nods, knowing that if you leave him, he will only have himself to blame.

~~~~~~~~~~

Today

The horses are skittish, unsettled by the roar of thunder overhead.

The storm had come out of nowhere and Steve had pushed them through it, drawing his black cloak over his head as it began to rain.

Here at the edge of the forest that he’s searched nearly a hundred times in the thirty plus days since you’ve been gone, he waits for a sign. Smoke from a fire, the crackling of a twig. Anything that will tell him that you’re out here.

“Where are you?” He pleads with you, hoping that you might hear him across whatever distance may separate you. “Please, Y/N. Don’t leave me.”

He would deserve it. He wouldn’t stop you.

Another clap of thunder splits the sky and draws his eyes up.

He watches the clouds swirl above his head and darken to pitch before looking back at the tress before him.

Almost losing his sanity, he dismounts as his eyes are met with a familiar large form. Blonde hair braided and wet, giant arms that could crush metal with ease, and in his arms a flash of scarlet wrapped around your limp body.

“No.” Steve gasps, racing forward towards Thor.

“Get out of the way.” Thor orders him, shoving him aside as he gets close. “We need to get her to a doctor.”

“What happened? Where did you find her?” Steve is almost floating with relief. You’re here. You’re passed out—fainted maybe?

“She fell.” Thor says, “Hit her head. She won’t wake up.”

Steve freezes. “No.”

His mouth is a desert as memories of Margaret and her fall overwhelm him.

“No.” Steve utters, then races to his horse and climbs back on. “Give her to me.”

Thor doesn’t hesitate. He places you in Steve’s arms on the horse.

Steve takes off, no hesitation as he holds you close and races towards the castle as fast as he can. “Please, don’t leave me, sweetheart. Please wake up.”

Behind him, he hears Thor calls his hammer to fly and catch up.

[lemondropsssss]

“Hello Geralt.” By some strange miracle his tone is even, his hands don’t shake, and Jaskier doubts even Geralt could suss out his anxiety.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt looks different. Ragged would not be an incorrect word for it. Geralt’s hair is greasy, the white streaked grey from lack of washing. He’s dressed all in black par the course, but his shirt has seen better days and his cloak looks like it’s coming apart at the seams. Geralt is without his armor, but his steel sword hangs on his belt and Jaskier knows he has at least three knives hidden somewhere beneath the mess. He looks older, and more exhausted than Jaskier has ever seen him.

What is most curious is his companion. He can’t be more than fourteen, but why would Geralt have a young boy with him? He wears a loose shirt and worn trousers, and a cap covers his head. He looks up at Jaskier from under a too-big cloak, and he’s struck by all too familiar emerald eyes. There is only one green-eyed fourteen-year-old who could possibly be following a Witcher. A Cintran princess thought lost to the world.

He meets Geralt’s gaze and they have a quick nonverbal conversation over her head, Geralt confirming his suspicions of her identity with a curt nod. The ease and familiarity of their communication digs like a knife into Jaskier’s gut.

“We were hoping you could...” Geralt pauses, and Cirilla wastes no time in digging an elbow into his side. “We were hoping you could help us.”

“Help you.” He repeats, just to make sure he heard correctly. Not at all because asking had made Geralt’s face contort in ways Jaskier hadn’t thought possible.

Geralt sounds off a grunt and a short nod, which he supposes he should have expected from the Witcher.

“What kind of help do-” Jaskier is cut off by a door banging open down the hall, and the loud sounds of students spilling into the walkways. Geralt curls a protective arm around Cirilla’s shoulders, tucking her against his side and out of sight of any passing students.  

“We shouldn’t talk here. The University is safe enough, but walls have ears, and you carry precious cargo.” He nods towards Cirilla. “Right then. Help. You need to go to Number 6 Cheeseman Street. Tell Beatrice that you’re friends of Julian. Here, take this,” He tugs the heavy silver signet ring off his middle finger and holds it out to Geralt, “So she knows I sent you.”

“Who’s Julia- Wait. You’re not coming with us?” Confusion is evident on Geralt’s face, and the knife in Jaskier’s gut just cuts deeper.

You’re doing it again says the cruel voice in his head, You’ll give and he’ll take until there’s nothing left of use to him. And then he’ll run off with his sorceress and his child while you wither and die like the weak pathetic mortal man you are.

“You came at the end of this class, Geralt, but I do have another one today. Funny, how schools work on a non-Witcher-centric timetable, isn’t it?” Geralt looks reasonably chastised, and Jaskier can’t help but feel a spark of vindication at that. “I have responsibilities here that I can’t just abandon. Go and wait for me. Bea will take care of you, and you’ll be safe there.”

Geralt watches Jaskier turn on his heel and walk back into his classroom with a feeling akin to longing in his gut. He hadn't realized how much he had been missing the bard until he was standing in front of him. He was struck with the sinking feeling that their friendship may not have survived the dragon mountains after all.

“Here,” He grunts, passing Ciri the signet ring. If he’s disturbed by this new, different Jaskier he doesn’t show it. He can't show it, not around Ciri. She needs him, and he would die before failing her. Geralt knew Jaskier might have still been upset after their disastrous parting, but the changes he saw in his old friend were not what he had expected. He wore somber clothes, had shorter silver swept hair, and no open smile; the man who had come out of that classroom didn’t seem much like the Jaskier he remembered.

They collect Roach at the front gates, and begin the trek towards Number 6 Cheeseman Street. Ciri is quiet as they walk, toying the ring between her fingers. It’s been a long year, and Geralt knows she’s more tired than he is. He leads her through busy city streets, keeping her tucked close between him and Roach, finally coming upon the quieter richer streets favored by nobles and the prissier academics. Of course Jaskier would know someone here.

They reach Number 6, and Geralt pauses and situates Ciri half behind him before he rings the bell. It’s another minute before the door is opened.

“Yes?” An older woman asks. She’s short and stout, her more-grey-than-brown hair pulled back into a neat bun. There’s a softness to her, a kindness around the eyes, even as she frowns warily at them. She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman Jaskier normally fell into bed with, but it’s entirely possible the bard’s tastes had changed.

“Are you Beatrice?”

“I am. Can I help you with something?”

Geralt motions to Ciri, who holds Jaskier’s signet ring out to the woman. “We’re friends of Julian’s,” Ciri says, and Geralt can see the older woman softening at the sight of both the ring and the child. She inspects the ring for a short moment, giving a long sigh and muttering something about bringing home strays before stepping aside to let them in.

Beatrice is a force of nature, and it isn’t long before Geralt and Ciri have both been bathed, scrubbed, changed into clean clothes, and settled at the kitchen table with bowls of hearty stew and fresh brown bread. Roach is taken two houses down to be stabled. Bea, as she insists they call her, assures him she’ll be well taken care of. Their bags are brought back to the house and settled in their connecting rooms.

This is all done in the span of an hour, and it’s all Geralt can do to just let it happen. The woman doesn’t seem any particular threat, though he has put an idle thought towards what happens when whatever lord of the house shows up. He knows Jaskier has friends in all sorts of places, but he doesn’t know of any noble who would be happy to find an unknown Witcher at his table.

They’re halfway through their second helping of stew when Geralt hears the front door open, and an even tread making its way toward the kitchen. A moment later, Jaskier appears in the doorway. He looks over them both with a sharp eye, and Geralt feels strangely vulnerable under his gaze.

“Here you are, dear,” Bea hands Ciri another large slice of bread for her soup, and then passes another to Geralt. “Get in here,” She orders, and Ciri’s gaze snaps up, just noticing another has joined them. “I’ll not be bringing you supper to your room later, you’ll eat here with your guests.” It’s not a negotiation. Jaskier grins, holding up his hands in a sign of peace.

“Yes ma’am.” He sinks into the chair at the head of the table, and Bea puts down his own bowl of stew and bread. “I should have warned you, Witcher, Bea does have a tendency to over feed her guests; you and your companion are bound to roll away from the table.” Jaskier winks at Ciri over his bowl, and the girl offers a small smile in return.

“I am sorry dear, in all the commotion we were never properly introduced.” Ciri stills, and her gaze shifts to Bea in the corner before flicking back to Geralt. “Bea,” Jaskier calls out when he realizes her worry, “Would you mind giving me and my guests the room?” The housekeeper huffs but leaves, with a stern warning to Jaskier about what will happen if he lets the bread burn. It’s only when Jaskier can no longer hear her footsteps that he turns back to Ciri. “I admire your caution, little one. An important skill to learn when one travels with a Witcher. I wish you no ill will, and I can promise that no harm will come to you in this house.”

Ciri looks back to Geralt for confirmation, and he gives her a short nod. Jaskier feels a mild pull of hurt at the familiarity of their silent conversation, and quickly tucks it away before either can notice.

“Ciri,” She says quietly, sitting up just a little straighter as she does. “You can call me Ciri. But we use Fiona around everyone else.”

“Then perhaps you should remain Fiona during your stay here. I trust Beatrice with my life, and she’ll probably spoil you rotten as long as you let her, but it will be safer if she doesn’t know your true identity. Information is powerful, little one, but no one can let spill a secret they don’t know. I am very happy to see you safe here, Ciri.” He says her true name softly, and when she smiles at him the sight practically melts his heart.

“Who owns this place?”  Geralt interrupts, earning himself a scowl from Jaskier. “Not another lord you’re cuckolding?”

“It’s a bit hard to cuckold oneself, dear, but I supposed I could give it the old college try.” He’s smiling and his tone is light, trying to mask any hurt at the dig.

“What, this is yours?” Ciri asks, looking around the expansive kitchen. “Bea said it belonged to Master Julian, but Geralt said your name was Jaskier.”

“Yes, well, it’s been over a year and she still refuses to drop the ‘master’ part. I did try and tell her it wasn’t necessary and then she got very offended and didn’t speak to me for three days.” Geralt is giving Jaskier his dopey-what-the-fuck-are-you-on-about look that once upon a time would’ve made his knees weak. Now it just makes him sad.

“Well then, let me introduce myself properly. Or, reintroduce, as the case may be.” He stands and bows low to Cirilla. “Professor Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, formerly known as the Bard Jaskier, at your eternal service.” When he adds an extra flourish Ciri giggles, and the sound tugs at his heart.

Geralt is watching him with a frown, and Jaskier meets it with a raised eyebrow himself.

“You never said you were a Viscount.”

“You never asked,” Jaskier points out, folding himself back into his seat, “I’ve told plenty of other people my name. Truly, twenty odd years and it never seemed strange to you that a woman would name her honest to gods son Buttercup ? It’s hardly my fault you weren’t paying enough attention.” Geralt opens his mouth to retort, so Jaskier shifts his attention back to Ciri. “It’s very good to have you here, little one. I came to sing to you a few times for your birthday, though you were quite young then, so I don’t expect you’d remember.”

“No, I remember you. A little, at least.” She pauses, tilting her head to think, “I remember grandmother didn’t like that grandfather had invited you.You brought me a carved wolf, but grandmother screeched and I wasn’t allowed to play with it. I didn’t know why. I liked your songs, especially the one about the lion cub.”

Jaskier laughs. “Yes, while Eist and I had a friendship of sorts, I can’t say your grandmother was overly fond of me. I think she worried I would tell you stories of a mighty Witcher who would one day come to claim you. Perhaps a wolf was a little too on the nose.” He grows somber, and reaches out to cover her small hand with his. “They were good people, your family. I am sorry they are gone.” He squeezes her hand, and gives the princess a reassuring smile that she returns, albeit shakily. “I admit I worried for you, when I heard of Cintra’s fate. It makes me very happy to see you safe here with Geralt.”

Jaskier can feel Geralt’s gaze on him, but he does not meet it. They finish their meal together, and Ciri warms to Jaskier quickly. He jokes and trades silly stories with her, Geralt grunting or adding short corrections to the ones about their adventures together. Soon enough Ciri is falling asleep in her stew. Jaskier sends her up to bed, bidding her goodnight and watching as she ascends the stairs to her room.

Geralt is still sitting at the kitchen table, watching Jaskier. His gaze is careful, his eyes follow Jaskier as the man collects two cups and a bottle of wine.

“I assume you still drink,” He says, setting a cup down for Geralt before sliding into a chair. He pours them both glasses before sitting back with a heavy sigh. “Go on, then. You’ve got that look in your eye. Does the mighty Witcher Geralt of Rivia have something to say?” It was much easier to keep his tone level with Cirilla there. Now he can’t keep the bitterness from his words, and they leave a bad taste in his mouth. He tries to wash it away with big gulps of wine, but it doesn’t help.

Geralt grunts instead of a real answer, and Jaskier huffs a laugh into his cup. He drains it, and pours himself another.

“You’re different.” It’s quiet, almost so quiet Jaskier can’t hear it over the crackling of the hearth but he does.

“Yes, well, that is normally expected of us humans. Change. Personal growth. That sort of thing.”

"Personal growth. Huh. I half expected you to offer to sing Ciri to sleep. Regale her with tales of the White Wolf."

Jaskier's answer is to huff a dark laugh into his cup and continue drinking with determination. At least he can be good at some things.

“Where’d you get the money for all this?” Geralt asks after a long silence. There’s a hint of accusation in his tone which Jaskier bristles at.

“Fishing, technically. And taxes, I guess, you’d really have to ask my sister.” At Geralt’s confused look he sighs deeply before explaining. “I’m a Viscount of a coastal estate, Geralt. I make money by having other people fish and then taxing them for it. Is this really the first thing you ask me? Eighteen months and all you have is a question about my business practices?”

Geralt doesn't answer, and that only helps to fuel the anger growing in his belly. The wine isn’t exactly helping, but he isn’t going to stop drinking it. They sit in silence, Jaskier drinking and Geralt watching him. After what feels like an eternity, Jaskier heaves a sigh and stands.

“Right, well, if you’re not going to say anything I’m going to bed.”

“Jaskier, wait.” He almost doesn’t. He almost leaves, but that voice. It haunts his fucking dreams, and he can’t say no to it. But he doesn’t turn around.

“It’s Julian, now, actually.”

“Julian, then.” The voice is closer now, and Jaskier had forgotten how quietly his Witcher could move. A hand tugs at his shoulder, turning him back around to face Geralt. His face is doing something Jaskier had never seen before, and on anyone else he’d say it was regret. “I wanted to...” He trails off, and Jaskier tugs his arm out of Geralt’s grip.

“If you have something to say, say it.”

“Damnit, bard. You don’t make this easy,” The man growls out, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I am sorry. About what happened on the dragon mountain. About what I said. I was angry, and you were there. I didn’t mean it.” It’s more of an apology than Jaskier had thought Geralt would be capable of, but it does nothing to repair the gaping chasm between them.

He still needs things from you, the insidious voice in his head whispers, Once you give him what he wants he’ll leave you. Haven’t you learned anything? He doesn’t care about you. You’re a burden to him. You don’t make this easy. How pathetic.

Jaskier offers Geralt a tight smile, taking a small step back. “The mountain is in the past. What happened there doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t need to worry, I understand what this is now. I’ll help you, and as soon as you’ve both rested and resupplied you’ll be on your way.” He says it with some amount of finality, as if that would make it any easier to get out.

Jaskier will help Geralt, because there really isn’t any version of reality in which he wouldn’t. But he knows now not to make their arrangement out to be anything more than that; an exchange of goods and services. He owes Geralt more than his own life is worth, and helping him and his Child Surprise now is simply a way to pay back that debt. As long as he remembers the status quo he should come out the other side unscathed.

“I bid you goodnight, Witcher.” Jaskier’s voice is steady when he speaks, thank all the gods for small mercies, and he’s almost halfway up the steps before Geralt’s reply reaches him.

“Goodnight, Julian.”

.

@itsthedemonsboi @naominami ya’ll asked to be tagged

here is part one, part two, and the full story on ao3

[stopforamoment]

Part Ten: Wisconsin Girl (Series 14, Part 10 of 15)

Series Fourteen: Halloween Hijinks (15 Parts)

Part Ten: Wisconsin Girl (Series 14, Part 10 of 15)

Masterlist

Book: The Royal Romance (After Book Three)

Pairing: Bastien Lykel x OC Rinda Parks Word Count: 2,288 (sorry--this got really long!) Rating: M for Language Author’s Note: Obligatory disclaimer that Pixelberry Studios owns the TRR characters and my pocketbook with those darn diamond scenes. OFC with all of her quirks is all mine. The character Merida is from Disney’s Pixar Studios. My apologies if Tumblr or I do something stupid when I try to post this. The keep reading link shows up on my laptop but not my phone. Ugh.

Thank you @asherella-is-a-dork-3​ for always being my sounding board! Thank you @cora-nova​ @silviasutton1989 @bobasheebaby for still being a part of the journey!

Series Summary: It’s Halloween! Bastien and Rinda are settling into their relationship, and Queen Riley enlists Rinda’s help to plan a Halloween Festival at her duchy.

Chapter Summary: Neville and Duchess Olivia challenge Rinda to demonstrate her archery skills.

Part Ten: Wisconsin Girl (Series 14, Part 10 of 15)

Bastien was still training his replacement, and Rinda understood that Bastien wanted to work for part of the night until he felt comfortable with the evening’s security. She was helping during the first part of the festival, and the boys were old enough to be off on their own. They’d all meet up when Bastien was ready. Later in the evening Bastien and Rinda were holding hands, walking around with the boys and enjoying the festival. Rinda stopped wearing her wedding ring at work awhile ago, and most families knew through the rumor mill that she and Bastien were dating. There were children and families who stopped to say “hi” to Bastien and Rinda, and some offered their congratulations or other comments on how happy they were for the two of them. Really, they were the perfect couple. Rinda was blushing and becoming flustered, but Bastien chuckled and kissed her hand. “What did you tell me once, Tria? Sometimes it sucks to be loved.” . . . . .

Bastien felt Rinda’s hand tighten in his. “Fuck. It’s Neville and he made eye contact. And now he’s walking this way.” Bastien gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Do you want me to kick his ass for you?” he deadpanned as he started to roll up his sleeves. Rinda threw back her head and laughed. His delivery was perfect—he looked so serious. But now Neville was in front of them, smiling at Rinda. “Mrs. Parks. I see you’re trying to be a princess for the night.” Rinda gave him an even stare. “Queen Riley asked that teachers and staff dress as Disney princes and princesses. I think Queen Kenna or Queen Val would have suited me much better.” Duchess Olivia Nevrakis walked over when she saw Neville approaching, smirking at Rinda’s comment that she’d rather be queen. “Well, both of them were warrior queens Mrs. Parks. You don’t have a sword, but you do have a bow and quiver of arrows. Princess Merida was an archer, but how are your archery skills, Mrs. Parks? That’s something every noble has practiced and mastered, right Neville?” Olivia was dressed as Zenobia, and Rinda sighed with jealousy that Olivia could be such a strong historical character for Halloween. Well, at least Merida didn’t take anyone’s shit—just like Rinda wasn’t going to. “The arrows aren’t real, Duchess Olivia. Not even blunts. It was a safety concern. But if there’s an archery range nearby, you can judge for yourself.” Olivia raised her brow. “There’s one just a short distance from here. Perhaps Queen Riley can provide you and Lord Neville with bows and . . . real arrows.” Neville smirked. “Duchess, I would enjoy that . . . very much.” Olivia deliberately looked Rinda over before she turned and sauntered off to find Riley. Bastien looked at Rinda with concern and bent over to whisper in her ear. “Tria . . . let me talk to Riley. Olivia hates Neville, but she has no right to bring you into it like this.” Before Rinda had a chance to respond, Henry was tugging on his mom’s arm. “Mom, Duchess Olivia is waving to us. We should go over there.” Rinda smiled and tousled his hair before turning to Neville. “Lord Neville, shall we?” . . . . . The target was 20 yards away, and Neville went first. He quickly notched the arrow, drew back the bow, and shot. The arrow landed just left of the bullseye. “Nicely done, Lord Neville!” Even though Rinda was praising him for the shot, she internally shook her head at how quickly he went. She had been taught differently—to take your time and focus on form—and she hoped she didn’t have to move that quickly. She knew she wouldn’t do very well if she did.

Henry wanted to be a part of the competition and he was supposed to go next, but he scrunched his nose. “So, I just have stand still and hit the paper target? Nothing else, right?” Rinda nodded. “Yup. According to Lord Neville that’s how the nobles do it.” Henry shrugged. He pulled back the bow and slowly started counting to 30, careful to maintain his form. Neville rolled his eyes. “Are you going to shoot?” Rinda glared at Neville. “Lord Neville, in Wisconsin we take bow hunting very seriously. Please be patient while he works on his arm strength and form as we get started. I thought this was supposed to be a fun way for you to show us how the nobility hone their archery skills?” Henry was ignoring them the entire time, focused on his target. He released the bow and it easily hit the center of the target. Bastien was beaming with pride. “Henry, great job!” Rinda was also bursting with pride, but she tried not to show it. “You did a great job with your form, Henry. I’m proud of you.” And you beat Neville’s ass. Fuck yeah, that’s my son! Henry gave both of them a smile and a thumb’s up. Now it was Rinda’s turn, and she took the bow in her left hand and drew back with her right. She held her form for 30 seconds, calmly focusing on her target. Bastien could see that she closed her left eye and focused on the target but then she opened both eyes, trying to maintain her aim. She closed her left eye one more time and made a slight adjustment before she released the arrow. It pierced the target next to Henry’s arrow. Bastien glanced at Rinda, who was ignoring him, and then Olivia, who was obviously hiding a smirk. Olivia calmly turned to Neville. “Why don’t we up the stakes. Let’s say 30 yards?” When the target was ready, Henry went first. He looked at the target for a few seconds, getting used to how small the bullseye looked in comparison. Rinda knelt down by him. “Just focus on your form and counting. It’s the same target, but just a little further away. Duchess Olivia wants to challenge us, and that’s a good thing. We’re just having fun, right?” Henry smiled and nodded. He drew back the bow and silently counted, just like his grandpa and dad taught him to do when they practiced. It was important to get your muscles used to holding back the bow for so long, because you never knew how long you might have to do that when you were actually hunting, waiting for the deer to get close enough. He released the arrow and it whistled through the air, landing just above the bullseye. Bastien grinned and walked over to tousle his hair. “Nicely done. How do you usually practice back home?” Henry smiled, obviously loving Bastien’s praise. “We usually do a 3-D deer, and you can tell if you have a lung or heart shot. We also practice from our tree stands, blind spots, kneeling down. Stuff like that. Sometimes we play follow the leader with my uncles and mom’s cousins. That’s when the person in charge tells you what to shoot at, and you have to use the same pose as the leader. But we use blunts because we start practicing in summer, before the season starts.” Henry puffed out his chest with pride. “I’ve already hit a pine cone at 20 yards. And we have a friend who actually bow fishes. She’s really hard core and awesome.” Olivia arched a brow and knelt down by Henry. “I can tell you have the heart of a Nevrakis. You are always welcome at Lythikos to practice. I’d also like you and your mom to join us for a hunt. But do you know how to field dress a large animal?” Henry scrunched his nose. “Do you mean ‘field gutting’?” Olivia nodded, and Henry smiled. “Yes, of course! In our family you aren’t allowed to go hunting unless you can do that. And we always save the deer hearts because our schools use them for science classes—dissecting them. We butcher and package the meat, and I help with that too. And I know a lot of ways to cook venison.” Olivia nodded with approval. “Then we will do all of that. I can even teach you to shoot a flaming arrow. How does that sound?” Henry grinned. “Pretty bad ass. That would be awesome.” Rinda looked at her son with pride, knowing Duchess Olivia only gave her praise to the people who truly earned it. Neville went next and again he quickly aimed, this time his arrow landing below the entire target. Henry gave Lord Neville an encouraging smile. “You did a really good job, Lord Neville. The first time I tried shooting from so far away my arrow didn’t even go far enough. Maybe instead of using recurve bows we could do compound bows? I think those are a lot easier to aim. Or maybe there’s another bow with more tension? That helps me with longer distances.” Bastien and Rinda locked eyes and smiled at how funny it was that Henry was politely trying to help Neville. When it was Rinda’s turn she took a deep breath and pulled back, counting for sixty seconds. This time she kept her left eye closed the entire time, and she hit the bull’s eye again, secretly breathing a sigh of relief when she realized the arrow hit its mark. Rinda looked over to Olivia, who discreetly nodded and then commanded the targets to be moved. “40 yards.” Rinda looked over at Henry. “Do you want to try it again, just to see how it goes?” Henry nodded. He notched his arrow, focused on his form, and released the arrow. It was several inches to the upper right of the bulls eye, but it did land within the target. Rinda gave him a high five. “That’s really good, Bug. That’s twice the distance of the first target and the arrow got all the way there.” Bastien hugged Henry and whispered that he would take them to Lythikos for more practice. He didn’t realize how good Henry was at archery. Neville went next, but his form was becoming even sloppier. The arrow didn’t even fly far enough to reach the target, and he threw down the bow in frustration. Olivia arched her brow. “Lord Neville, would you prefer a different bow?” Neville snorted with disgust, but Rinda looked over to Olivia. “Actually, may I use a different one?” Olivia nodded and motioned for Rinda to pick one. A left-handed one. And now Rinda held the bow in her right hand and drew back with her left, holding the pose for 30 seconds. And this time she was able to keep both eyes open, focused on the target. When she released the arrow it landed in the bullseye, and Bastien whistled under his breath. Rinda turned to Olivia with a playful grin. “I may not be from Lythikos, but Wisconsin girls can hold their own.” Olivia smiled. “I never doubted you.”   Bastien was looking in shock at the two ladies, and Rinda explained. “I actually borrowed the bow and arrows from Duchess Olivia. She refused to loan me any Nevrakis weapons until I proved myself. When she realized I knew the difference between a recurve and compound bow I began telling her about my hunting experiences growing up, and somehow we got to talking about Neville, and then we sort of had this planned in case he started being an ass to me. I was practicing a few days ago, so I could figure out the sights with this right-handed bow. But the Duchess promised that she’d also have a left-handed bow for me today.” Rinda grinned at Olivia. “Thanks for that, by the way. I wouldn’t have made the 40-yard target if I did it right-handed.” Bastien was just shaking his head. His Tria was a force to be reckoned with. Olivia smiled at two of them and then she began explaining to Henry how the children in Lythikos practiced their hunting skills. And when Rinda turned to Bastien he was looking at her with pride. “Tria, you’re ambidextrous?” Rinda blushed. “Only with shooting a bow and shotgun. My dad is left-handed, and he’s the one who taught me. I’m also left-eye dominant, so it made sense for me to start left-handed. But Jameson is the one who taught me to fire a handgun, so that I do right-handed. But I’m not that great because I always want to close my left eye to help me aim. That’s a big reason I’m so afraid of amateurs with guns. I’m nowhere close to having the control necessary even for basic concealed carry. If I were armed, I’d do more harm than good in an active shooter scenario.” “Would you like me to practice with you? I can help you with cross-dominant shooting.” Rinda’s face lit up. “I’d love that--thank you! But just so you know, I haven’t fired a handgun since Jameson died. I’ve done a couple active shooter scenarios with props, but not the real thing. So it’s perfect that you’d be the one to help me because you’re so patient with everything. I think I need to start by just holding an unloaded gun for awhile, to be honest.” Bastien gave Rinda a tender smile as he cupped her face and stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. “You’ll be fine. And yes, I promise to be patient and help you through it.” Rinda briefly closed her eyes, enjoying his touch, before she slowly opened them again. Bastien was grinning at her. “You’re a spitfire, Tria. And I love you for it.” Then he leaned down to kiss her.

[justsomewritingblog]

Be My Queen

Request:  T'CHALLA ASKS FEMALE READER TO BE HIS QUEEN IN BATTLE AND SHE DOESN'T ANSWER THEN SO HE ASKS AGAIN LATER AFTER THE BATTLE AND SHE SAYS YES MKAY!?

Requested by:  @herocstolegxnds

Rating: PG-13

Tips: Y/n: Your Name, L/n: Your Last Name, y/f/c: Your Favorite Color

Pairing:  King T’Challa x reader

Summary:  T’Challa asks you to be his queen

Warnings:  Blood, mentions of death, angst, fluff

A/N: Woo!  Another one! Be prepared for lots of Black Panther imagines.  My sister requested a lot.  J

Word count:  1,144  (Whoops)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was blood everywhere.  Thankfully, most of it wasn’t yours.  You did have a stab wound in your calf, which had been given to you by a wounded enemy on the ground.  You had let your guard down, and you felt like a fool.  You’ve been a warrior for years.  You shouldn’t have been so careless.  You know why though.  You had become distracted.  The king of Wakanda had been tackled to the ground by several men, but before you could make your way over, someone on the ground that you had just hit, decided it was a good idea to stab you.  It seemed to be, seeing as you were bleeding out, and your speed was decreasing.  T’Challa had managed to get some of the people off of him, and to your surprise, he was laughing gleefully.  You turned to him, confused, when three people charged you. You held them off, while T’Challa continued to laugh.  “What’s so funny!?”  You shouted as you managed to knock one of the men unconscious.  T’Challa turned upon hearing your voice.  He smiled, although you couldn’t see under his mask.

“It’s just like old times!”  He yelled.  You rolled your eyes, and shook your head at his childness.  It’s true though.  You and the king have been friends for years.  You had developed feelings for him at the age of fourteen, but thought it was simply a crush.  Now an adult, you realize that is no longer the case.  You pulled yourself from your thoughts, before they consumed you.  Just as you managed to kick the last guy off you, T’Challa spoke up again.  “So I was wondering!”  He began, but paused, struggling slightly.  You continued attacking, making your way through the rush of people. “You were wondering!?”  You questioned.  He looked up, you assumed at you, and nodded, as if remembering.  “I was wondering if when this was over, if you wouldn’t mind marrying me too much!”  Your eyes went wide.  He’s got to be kidding.  You thought.  There is no way he would propose to me during a battle.  You saw a couple of the people you were fighting glance at each other briefly, before continuing what they were doing.  You remained silent, trying to figure out what in the world had possessed him to ask you that, out here, right now, and if you were imagining it or not. T’Challa noticed your silence and dropped the subject.

As you made your way through more people, the more the pieces fit together in your head.  He always offered anything you wanted, he’s kind, and noble, and brave, and he has been acting strange lately.  When all of the bodies were on the ground around you, dead or unconscious, you could not say, you stood for a little bit, settling your breathing, and taking in everything that happened.  When you saw T’Challa start to make his way towards you, you panicked, and began speed walking back into the kingdom.  He raced after you, and sped walked as well, keeping your pace.  When you turned a corner to your room, he stopped at the closed door, and looked down.  He wondered what he did wrong.

You did propose to her during a fight.  Part of him thought.

Great going, genius. Thought the other.  Coming to a conclusion that that was not the time, nor place, he sighed and made his way to his room.

~The Black Panther has been a protector of Wakanda for generations~

You sat with your back against the door, listening to his leaving footsteps.  You knew you were being childish, but you had no idea what to do.  You loved him, yes, but you didn’t know if you could be queen. To distract yourself from it, you stood to clean off your double blades, and remembered that you’re, in fact, bleeding all over your carpet.  You groaned. You made your way outside, and to the doctor.  There were a few people in the med bay, from the battle.  You sat on a table, while they cleaned up your several wounds.  T’Challa made his way in.  You cursed under your breath.  When he saw you he froze.  You looked up at him.  He made his way over to you, and took the doctors place in bandaging you up.  The doctor looked less than pleased, but what was he gonna do?  It was silent.  VERY silent. To the point where you felt that if no one spoke soon, you would lose your mind.  Thankfully, someone did.

“Have you thought about my request?”  You looked down, to see T’Challa looking up at you.  Your face turned a shade of red.  “I-uh.  A little.” You confessed.  He raised an eyebrow.  “Have you come to a decision?”  He inquired. You looked down, biting your lip. “Come to my quarters, to discuss in privacy.”  He offered. You looked around at the people, and nodded.  You were beginning to stand, when he picked you up, and carried you to his room.  “I can walk, your majesty.”

“You have an injured leg.” He countered.  You shook your head, finding his concern endearing.  He set you down on his, large, bed.  He stood in the corner.  You sighed. “Okay.”  You took a deep breath.  “I would love to,” you started.  His face lit up, only slightly as you respectably raised a hand, signaling you weren’t finished.  His face contorted in a small frown.  “I don’t think I’m ready to be queen.”  You confessed.  There was silence.  “That’s it?” He questioned.  You furrowed your eyebrows.  “Yeah.”  He smiled. No, scratch that.  He broke out into a full grin.  “I can help you!”  He nearly shouted.  “I can show you how to rule, and it could be a learning experience for us both!”  He explained while waving his hands about in enthusiasm.  That’s something you noticed about him.  When he got excited, he would flail about, like he can’t control himself.  

Your eyes widened.  “Really?” He nodded.  You chuckled.  “Well, you gotta do it right then.”  You declared, pointing at the ground in front of you.  He smiled, and made his way over to you, getting on one knee, and pulling a box out from his nightstand.  “Will you, Y/n L/n, do me the honor of being my wife?  My queen?”  You smiled. “Yes.”  You held out your hand, letting him slide the delicate ring onto your finger.  It was gold, with silver markings etched into it, and a y/f/c jewel on the top.  He stood up, held you up and spun you around, as if you were a child.  He placed you down on the ground, and melded his lips with yours.

This was going to be scary, but knowing he’s with you, you knew you would figure it out.

~And now, it is time to show the outside world who we are~

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A/n:  Get ready for the Black Panther imagines flood.  

Tag list:

[joyfullynervouscreator]

Song of Souls (five)

[One]  [Two] [Three]  [Four]  [Five]

The sacking of Eregion

Art by Kaaile on DA

They would hold the Glanduin until they had evacuated as much and as many as could be saved from Ost-in Edhil. The civilians – Eregion could not be held, not even if reinforcements from Lindon arrived in time, Glorfindel had agreed with her – and the wagons currently being filled were loaded with everything the Elves could not bear to leave behind; the ancient road along the Sirannon was already filled with carts and Elves carrying as many possessions as they could salvage. It was at once a frantic scramble and an organized chaos, Narví thought, walking through the airy archways.

She had sent Miri back to the mountain carrying a few of her own memories of Khalebrimbur – a hand-mirror he had once made that she had engraved with Dwarven runes to annoy him; a sketch he once drew of her working on the Doors; his favourite jeweller’s hammer – small things, really, but she had felt far too sentimental when she stood in his old rooms to allow herself to leave emptyhanded.

Erestor estimated that it would take another fourteen hours to empty the city completely, so they would attempt to keep the Enemy at bay for fifteen as a minimum. Eregion did not possess many warriors, and Durin’s spare gangbûh had been marched as swiftly as possible to reinforce their numbers. Narví had faith that they could hold the land between Sirannon and Glanduin for at least half a day once they begun the retreat; the Elven bows would hopefully aid in keeping loss of life at a minimum, but none of the defenders had doubts that they might easily be facing their last hours in Middle-Earth. By the time the last of the rear-guard made it back to the Stair Falls, all the Elves ought to be safely inside Khazad-dûm, leaving only archers and those Dwarrow who would man the ballistae Durin had ordered constructed along the Gate Stream to protect their retreat. The gorge through which the Gate stream ran was narrow and easily defensible; they did not anticipate any enemy forces getting through all the way to the Doors for at least another day – if not more.  

“Can you hear them, Khalebrimbur?” Narví whispered, looking out of the window in the tower-room he had used as a conservatory, the sun slowly sinking behind her. “They are afraid – with good reason – but they have hope, now; can you hear them, wherever you are?” She tried not to wonder where exactly that was. His body could be anywhere, of course, and she had not heard his voice again since that day in the Mountain – was it really only three days hence? – but if the Valar were kind, it would have found its way to the Halls of Mandos. Narví hoped it had; the thought of his soul wandering the earth, lost and slowly forgetting all that it had once been… was unbearable. Even more unbearable than the knowledge that she would not see him again until the Remaking; at least, she had some hope she might find him again in the new world her kin would create, would see him once more, listen to the silly songs he made up when he was happy in his forge or watch him to that odd thing his people called dancing, all wavy limbs and twirling. Narví smiled to herself; that’s how she would think of him, think of him dancing with his friends and family in the Halls of Mandos – maybe he would be reborn, get to re-join his mother – think of him being happy.  

“My Lady,” Erestor interrupted her thoughts quietly. Narví turned. The Elf had dressed in full armour, a pair of twin blades – Narví recognised Khalebrimbur’s work, though the weapons looked old – strapped to his sides. On his shoulder, the star-and-holly sigil of Eregion had been fashioned into a cloak pin; she had a similar belt buckle at home, though her star was not the House of Fëanor’s symbol, but the collection of seven stars that heralded her own line.

“Erestor,” she replied, “I have told you to use my name.”

“Yes… Narví.” The Elf looked a little sheepish. Narví cast about for a different topic.

“I did not think you were a warrior?” she really hadn’t; Erestor had always been happier among scrolls and histories. He glanced out the window, looking at the wagons still being pulled towards the shelter of the Mountain.

“Not for many years, Lady Narví,” he admitted, Narví let the title slide; the Elf’s eyes seemed locked on something far away in both memory and distance. “It’s been many a summer since I last took up arms to fight the Enemy; but I shall do so once more… defend what I have cherished, even unto the end.”

“It is not the end, mellon,” Narví murmured. “We will stand victorious.”

“So much faith, in such a small body,” he murmured, but Narví did not take offense; Erestor had always been a little peculiar that way, “though, perhaps you are right. Still, I do not think we shall ever see the like of Eregion again.”

“Khalebrimbur would scold you if he heard you say so,” Narví replied, moving towards the stairway. Erestor fell into step beside her. “Renewal is the Elven way, I have always thought. You will build a better Eregion, one that is more defensible than this one, because you will be less naïve in its construction; you will know that the Enemy has not been defeated.” Moving down the stairs, she barely heard Erestor’s sigh, but when she looked up at him once more, the Elf was smiling faintly. Narví shook her head; Erestor might be pompous and somewhat pessimistic, but he had loved Khalebrimbur dearly, and she knew how much it hurt the Elves who had settled here to abandon this land where they had been happy for almost a thousand years.

“As my Lady commands,” he swore, bowing to her, and Narví heard the ring of an oath in the words. “Then let us draw steel together, Narví, in the name of Eregion.” Turning on his heel, Erestor strode from the tower, heading towards the golden shimmer that was Glorfindel, still in the courtyard giving orders.

 “You’re sending Erestor to the foothills?” Narví asked; that had not been the plan earlier, but looking at the maps Glorfindel had spread out on a table in the middle of the courtyard, pointing out the positions to his captains, Erestor’s marker had been moved.

“No!” Erestor replied, staring at Glorfindel, who looked up briefly, piercing Narví’s soul with the strength of his gaze.

“Yes, Erestor,” he said and Narví wondered when she had become so skilled at reading Elves as to notice that his calm demeanour was a screen for deep anxiety, “I need you to command our forces there, stop the Orcs from crossing the mountainsides and getting behind our lines.”

“Don’t-” Erestor began to protest, but Glorfindel held up a hand, silencing him. Narví kept her mouth shut.

“You’re taking the flank, Erestor,” he continued, running the tips of his fingers over Erestor’s fist where it lay clenched on the table. “Please.” Erestor pulled away violently.

“He would stay with you,” Narví murmured, watching Erestor stride off in what was not quite a run, “I though you meant to keep him at your side.”

“He will be safer in the flank,” Glorfindel replied quietly. “Erestor is a good fighter, I know, but I can’t…”

“You can’t bear to see him hurt, watch him fight for his life without trying to get between him and his enemy, aye, I know, Lord Elf.” Narví did not look up when the Elf gasped, keeping her eyes on Erestor’s lithe form, mounting his horse with ease. The dark-haired elf did not look back as he set off. “For your love is as plain as the gold in your hair.”

“You are perceptive, Princess,” Glorfindel murmured. Narví shook her head.

“No, Glorfindel,” she chuckled, “but you look at him the way my brother used to look at his wife when he still believed her beyond his reach.”

“It is… uncommon… among my kind, to love someone of your own sex,” Glorfindel continued, still staring after Erestor. “I did not expect to find such love when I was sent back from Valinor.”

“When did you arrive here?” she asked, turning to face the despondent elf.

“In Middle-Earth? Near a century ago. In Eregion? Only two decades,” he admitted.

“And you have not told Erestor what dwells in your heart, I wager,” Narví added, surprised by the glow that appeared in the Elf’s cheeks, staining the tips of his ears pink.

“No,” Glorfindel sighed.

“You will.” Narví laced her voice with command, as though she were speaking to a recalcitrant noble. Glorfindel chuckled. “Promise me.”

“You never told…” he began, but she interrupted him easily.

“No…” Narví sighed, “but I know what it is to wish you had said something. Before it was too late.” Giving him a shrewd look, she smiled gently, trying to mitigate the sudden fear in his ancient eyes. “You have fewer obstacles in your path than I had… And Erestor… he loves you, too.” The golden-haired elf seemed frozen beside her, a sudden breeze blowing his long hair into his face. Narví sighed.

“We should be off, too, my lady,” Glorfindel murmured, breaking the silence by picking up his helmet and securing his hair beneath it. Casting one last look at the house where she had spent so many happy days, Narví nodded.

“Aye, so we should,” she agreed, accepting the hand that helped her onto his great stallion.

  Standing on the hastily constructed earthworks they intended to use as barricades, Narví felt proud of her kinsmen. They hadn’t had much time, but these mounds of earth they had built along the south bank of the Glanduin stretched all the way to the foothills where the river cascaded down from the snowmelt of the Silvertine and made a natural barrier; the orcs would not be able to cross the rocky crags to get behind the line of defenders. Reinforced with sharpened young trees – she had sent a silent apology to Khalebrimbur when she ordered them to cut down as much wood as they needed from around Ost-in-Edhil, but Narví knew he would have approved – the earthworks now stood chest-high to an elf, and by the time the first volleys had been fired, the archers could take position behind the Dwarven vanguard and continue firing, while the axes hewed down the foes determined enough to get over the walls.

“Baruk Khazâd!” someone called, bowing to her when he recognised her.

“Khazâd ai-izdnu!” Narví replied, to great cheer. Beside her, Glorfindel pretended not to be listening, but she had caught the impressed look on his face when he saw the battlements they had managed to create in such short time. “It is our war-cry,” she explained. “In battle, we believe in prophesizing to our enemies.” Looking up, it was obvious that the Elf did not understand. Narví smiled. Khalebrimbur had once explained how Elves called upon names – either those of a higher power or heroes of the past – for courage in battle, but her people had never believed in that. “Baruk Khazâd,” she explained, twirling her broad-axe with one hand and watching the way the late afternoon sun glinted off the sharpened edge, “the Axes of the Dwarrow. Khazâd ai-menu; the Dwarrow are upon you.” Nodding at the soldiers they passed on their way to their position, Narví repeated the words several times before they got there. “Of course, our enemies do not understand our tongue – for the words are sacred and created by the Maker,” Narví continued, “but it is a terribly impolite way to address someone in our language.” Glorfindel chuckled.

  Night had fallen. Swiftly and seemingly from one moment to the next, they were under cover of unnatural darkness, dwarven eyes staring wildly at the roiling mass of bodies they would be facing. Narví did not understand why they hesitated, why they waited, why the Orcs did not attack… and then she saw it.

“No!” she didn’t hear herself cry out, her eyes wide and staring at the grisly sight moving closer to her. “KHALEBRIMBUR!” she screamed, but Glorfindel’s hands held her back, stopped her running off and hewing down the fiends that had dared treat her elf like that.

Like a horrifying parody of a banner, pale flesh had been pierced by long spears and raised up above the advancing enemy. Dark hair hung in snarls, lank and lifeless, half-way obscuring the face she knew so well. Blood had dried in streaks from wounds too numerous to count, rivulets outlining the muscles and sinew. The head lolled on the neck, boneless, broken, and Narví stuffed her fist in her mouth to stop herself screaming, the metallic taste of copper strong in her mouth as she tried not to sick up, staring at the evidence of old torture. Some of the wounds were scars, she could see, stark white and bright pink, injuries that had healed over well before whatever final blow struck his life from this earth. “Khalebrimbur…” she whimpered, wanting to close her eyes, wanting to hide from this vision and pretend it had not happened, pretend he had died in his sleep, like her father, full of days well-lived and surrounded by kin and loved ones. Around her, Dwarrow and Elves alike were snarling; if the Enemy – she would never again dignify him with a name – had thought to strike fear in their hearts with his ‘banner’, he had managed only to fan the flames of righteous fury. Around her, Narví saw vengeance shining in eyes that had been darkened by fear and doubt, saw the need for revenge rally those who had not thought war would ever touch them again.

“A Eruchîn, ú-dano i faelas a hyn an uben tanatha le faelas[1]!” Glorfindel called, as a single voice began singing. Narví did not understand the words, but the Elves around her seemed to stand straighter.

“Baruk Khazâd!” she cried, hearing her call to arms echo along the line, until the Dwarven army was chanting with one voice, a sound that she could feel rumble through the earth beneath her feet. “Khazâd ai-menu!”

“Tangado a chadad![2]” Glorfindel added, and the archers raised their bows as one; Narví felt distantly impressed with their coordination, even as her eyes remained glued to the corpse of Khalebrimbur. “Hado i philinn![3]” Glorfindel’s arm fell, a blur of gilded steel in the corner of her eye and Narví felt the rush of air as the arrows sped past her. A few of her own kin had crossbows, but they were not as swift to reload as the Elves, whose continuous firing was quickly dropping scores of Orcs.

 He heard her scream. There had been no words in his nothingness for some time, and the sound cut through his soul like knives of fire had once bit into his flesh. This was the sound of heartache, the sound of despair, and he almost did not dare consider what would have made Narví cry out such a denial.

“Khalebrimbur!” His name. It echoed in the void around him, like wolves howling in deepest winter. She was crying out for him?

“Narví!” He called, trying to reach her again, trying to tell her that he would be there, that he would make it better somehow, take away whatever hurt she was feeling and make her smile again. No sound escaped him, as the scream continued to sound around him, battering his ears like the ringing of bells and growing louder with every repetition.

 Glorfindel had stopped her leaping past their defences, stopped her going directly for the standard-bearer with his grisly trophy, but by the time the orcs reached their barrier and began to break upon the blades of the defenders like waves upon the shore, Glorfindel was right there with her.

“Baruk Khazâd!” Narví bellowed, fury in every syllable; her cry echoed by those around and behind her. “KHAZÂD AI-MENU!!”

In her hands, her axe was a living thing, hacking at flesh and biting through armour like it was mere scrap metal. Narví smiled grimly. Behind her, her personal guard were dealing out death like there was no tomorrow, and beside her, Glorfindel shone golden, as though the sun had lifted her head to pierce the night and the Enemy’s clouds just to catch in his hair. The Orcs recoiled from the sight, as much as they did from his sword, which seemed to be an extension of his arm, of his will to see them all pay for what had been done to his friend. As he swung, he sang, words Narví did not understand, but which filled her with curious joy, as though his light was touching her soul. It did not abate her fury, did not soothe her rage, her utter despair and agony unceasing as she felled orc after orc, cut down foes without counting.

Taking the standard-bearer’s head was satisfying, Narví’s teeth bared in a visceral snarl as she hacked the spears to pieces, yanking every spike of metal from the body of her Elf, barely even noticing that Glorfindel was killing every orc that got in range, keeping her safe as he had promised.

Picking up the corpse in her arms, her axe clutched in her hand as she carried him bridal-style back towards their earthworks, trusting the golden elf and her guards to watch her back and clear a path for their retreat, Narví didn’t even hear herself whispering soothing words into ears that could not hear her, telling him that it would all be alright, she would take care of him, keep him safe.

Narví’s tears did not fall, her anger burning too hotly for grief to become water in her eyes.

“It’s alright, Izgilê,” her voice murmured, “I’ve got you, everything will be fine. I am here, I’ve got you.”

Celebrimbor would have sworn he could feel a metal-covered hand stroking his hair, as he listened to the sound of her voice; it would have been soothing, he thought, if not for the knowledge of what she was carrying, the knowledge that she would see all that had been done to him; the image of his last years as a physical being also the last image she would have of him.

Weeping with eyes that conjured no water, Celebrimbor sank down onto the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees and hiding his face.

Please don’t remember me like that, my Narví, he whispered, but the plea made no ripple in the void.

 [1] O Children of Eru, Show them no mercy, for you shall receive none! [2] Prepare to fire! [3] Release arrows!

@life-is-righteous @pandepirateprincess @mainecoon76  @sassytyphoondetective

[lilacmoon83]

Once Upon a Snowing

I’m having massive Snowing withdraws and I’m sure I’m not the only one, so have a Snowing AU.

AN: This is very AU. Cora gets her revenge on Queen Eva much sooner. An enchanted charm puts Leopold under her spell and she marries him shortly after Queen Eva's mysterious illness takes her life. Regina and Snow grow up as sisters who fear their mother. Snowing and StableQueen Once Upon a Snowing

What Do You Think?

Snow White didn't really remember her real mother. She died when Snow was just two and her father married Cora shortly after. The new Queen was cruel to Snow and even her own flesh and blood, Snow's step-sister Regina. But the two girls were close as could be. Cora was cruelly grooming Regina for the Throne someday, but she had little interest in it. Young Snow followed her big sister everywhere, including the stables. Snow liked the stables as much as Regina. Daniel was always very kind to her and Regina smiled a lot around him, much more than Snow ever saw her smile in the castle when she was forced to have lessons with Cora. But Snow also liked going so she could see David, who was Daniel's very young apprentice. David came to them from a farm one day, broken and sad. On a journey, Cora had crossed a small farm while visiting the equally as cruel warlord Bo Peep. When Bo Peep reported that this small farm was indebted to her, Cora decided to permanently take care of the problem. David's parents were murdered in front of him, but her evil stepmother decided that the boy would make a good servant and had him taken back to the palace. Fortunately, he was put in Daniel's care, as Daniel was very kind to him and took him under his wing like a big brother. Snow's love for the stables carried on to her teen years and her love her David only grew as well. Today was a good day too. Cora and her father were traveling, leaving them in care of the staff. So it was a day spent in the stables and then in the meadow. Regina rode her prized steed, as Daniel conducted a lesson. David and Snow brushed her pony, with light banter between them. "Lancelot says I'm pretty good, I guess. Said I'm a natural with a sword," David said, as they talked. "Of course...you're going to make a wonderful Knight someday," Snow said, casting her gaze downward, hoping he didn't see her burning cheeks. She didn't know what was wrong with her lately, but she got funny feelings in her stomach when she was around David, like butterflies were fluttering around inside her. And her heart always did a funny flippy thing when he smiled at her. "Come on Snow, we both know I'll never be allowed to be a Knight. I'm just a stable boy," he replied. "You have never been just anything and we both know it," she replied. "Oh really?" he challenged. Snow blushed. "Really. I was going to say you were charming, but you're not being very charming right now," she complained. He smirked. "My apologies, Princess," he said formally, as their faces were only inches apart. Snow swallowed thickly and then pressed her lips to his. Regina said first kisses were special, but love was magic. She said Snow would know true love when she found it, for she would feel magic. And Snow felt magic that first time she kissed David when they were only fourteen. To have a first kiss that was also true love was special, indeed.

The years passed quickly, seeing both Snow and Regina grow into beautiful young women, while Cora grew more cruel and evil. Her father no longer doted upon Snow as he once had, for he was so far gone under Cora's control that he had become nothing more than a figurehead beside the Queen that ruled with an iron fist; nothing more than a puppet on his own Throne. Snow and David's love flourished into their young adult years, a perfectly kept secret, much as Regina and Daniel's own love. Snow was coming of age now, but like Regina, she showed no interest in any of the royals or nobles Cora presented for them. Cora was less concerned about marrying off Snow, for she didn't want the girl to have the Throne that was rightfully hers, but Regina was a different story. In fact, she was meeting with King George about a union between Regina and his son Prince James on that very day. Snow couldn't be less interested in meeting some stuffy King and his pompous son. She snuck out of the palace, a regular occurrence, and to the stables. She peered into the barn and spied her beloved grooming their favorite stallion. She watched him for a few moments, marveling at him, as she often did. Escaping with him for a few hours was the only thing on her mind. She snuck up behind him and put her hands over his eyes. "How about you take a break from all this hard work, handsome," she purred. He smirked and turned to face her, before picking her up and spinning her around. "For you? I'd do anything," he replied, as their lips met in a passionate kiss. "Then take me somewhere...anywhere but here," she pleaded. He frowned and then noticed the bruise on her arm. "Snow…" he uttered in concern. "It's nothing...I know better than to talk back to Cora," she said sadly. "I hate her…" he spat. She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about my step-mother. I want to get away, even if it's only for a few hours," she replied. He smiled and kissed her again. "Say no more, my love," he said, as he saddled the horse and mounted the stallion. Offering his arm, Snow took it and he pulled her up. She settled behind him and locked her arms around his waist. He took the reigns and they galloped off into the forest together.

"Mother...what have you done?" Regina cried in horror, as the King lay dead in his bed. Cora turned to face her with an evil smirk. She was holding Snow's jewelry box, which had the bloody knife inside. The same knife which she had just plunged into her husband's heart. "You mean what your sister has done. This is her jewelry box, after all. Your sister has murdered her own father and committed treason against the crown," Cora stated. "Snow did not kill him! You did this!" Regina cried. "For us darling. I can't have that little wretch deciding that someday she would like to assume her birthright and take the Kingdom from us, now can I?" Cora asked nonchalantly. "So you're framing her for murder?!" Regina exclaimed. "Lower your voice and go get rid of those rags you're wearing. King George and his son will be here soon. It's time for you to meet your future Prince," she ordered. "Mother...I do not want to marry Prince James," Regina refused. "You will marry a Prince and we're about to be rid of that wretched stable boy you've been sneaking around with," Cora stated. Regina's heart dropped into her stomach. "What do you mean?" she asked, fear creeping into her voice. "His execution is being carried out as we speak. His apprentice too," she replied. "Mother...you can't kill Daniel! Please Mother!" she pleaded, as she pulled on the door handle, but it would not budge. "It's already done," she stated coldly, as tears poured down her daughter's face. "And David? What will become of him?" she squeaked. "The same," she stated. "What did David ever do to you?" she cried. "Besides cavorting with a Princess far above his station? Nothing really, except I was very intrigued when I realized he is identical to Prince James," she replied. "What?" Regina asked in disbelief. She nodded. "Imagine my surprise when I saw Prince James. I can only assume they were separated at birth. Everyone in the inner circle knows James was adopted and I can't risk that he or the King see that wretched stable boy. I can't have anyone jeopardizing your future, darling," Cora stated. Regina sobbed and pounded on the door. "Please mother...please!" Regina cried. The door burst open and two of her Black Knights marched in. "Is it done?" she asked coldly. "We executed the one called Daniel, Your Majesty. But the other one was not in the stables," he stated. Regina doubled over, sobbing at the loss of her beloved Daniel. "Yes...Snow has run off with her wretched lover again. They're in the forest. Send the Huntsman. Tell him to kill them both, but bring me Snow White's heart. I want that precious pure heart as my personal souvenir," Cora ordered. "Yes My Queen. We shall send the Huntsman at once," the Knight said. Regina sobbed, as she gazed out the window. "Run Snow...you and David have to run," she thought silently. She knew her sister couldn't hear her, but she implored the words nonetheless. "Stop your blubbering. I'll send the handmaiden to ready you for this evening's banquet with our guests," Cora said, as she stormed out.

David tied their horse up to a branch on a tree that hung over a beautiful stream and the horse dipped his head to get a drink. He looked over at Snow and felt his breath catch, as it often did when he looked at her. She was so beautiful...and he was hopelessly in love. He knew she felt the same, but he still had much trepidation about their relationship. She was a Princess and he was a stable boy, a servant. He had nothing but the clothes on his back and the only thing he owned was his mother's ring. She had placed it in his hand upon her last breath, as he cried over her. He wanted to put it on Snow's finger, but he knew he had no right. She loved him, but she would never be allowed to marry someone like him. Cora would force her to marry a Prince, probably one from a far off Kingdom so she could be rid of her. That broke his heart. The thought of her being married off to some undeserving royal, who would probably treat her like an object infuriated him. He turned to her, as he felt her hand on his arm. "You were a million miles away," she mentioned. He smiled at her. "Just thinking about how much I love you," he said, with a touch of melancholy. "And that makes you sad?" she asked. "No...I just know that we can't really be together, not openly anyway," he replied. "David...I love you. You're my Charming. I mean, do I have to hit you with a rock to get you to believe it?" she joked. He chuckled. "No...I know you love me. But we both know it's not that easy. Your mother will never allow it," he said. "Step-mother and if she thinks she's marrying me off to some Prince twice my age to be his trophy, then she has another thing coming," Snow said haughtily, as she grabbed his collar and kissed him. He was surprised by her boldness at first, but then quickly melted into her. A twig snapped and they pulled apart, as their horse neighed loudly. A man now stood in the clearing with them, a knife in hand. David pushed Snow behind him, intending to guard her with his life. "You're the Queen's Huntsman," Snow uttered. "I am," he stated. "She's sent you to kill us," Snow realized. He nodded. "Why?" David demanded to know. "I don't believe she needs a reason to kill a lowly stable boy," he said. "As for the Princess, she plans to reveal that the Princess is responsible for murdering the King," he stated. Snow gasped and he held her in his arms. "My father is dead?" she cried. He nodded. "I have orders to bring your heart to the Queen," he said. "I'll never let you touch her!" David hissed. "If I give myself up to you, will you let David go?" Snow asked. He looked at her, horrified. "Snow!" he cried, as she held his face in her hands. "She wants proof that I'm dead, but she'll never know the difference if you get away. You can be free from her. You can live and I'll be okay with that," she said, choking back a sob. "No...I won't let you die for me. I won't let her do this! She took my parents! Do you really think I'll just let her take you from me too?" he shouted, as tears streamed down her cheeks. "True love means sacrifice...we both know that," she cried. He was crying to now, as they held each other. "Enough…" the Huntsman growled. He had a job to do and if he didn't do it quickly, these two were going to make it impossible. Snow kissed him passionately. "Let him go...and I'm all yours," she sniffed. "No...Snow, please don't do this!" David pleaded. The Huntsman poised the knife and shoved David away, as he tried to get between them. Snow closed her eyes and waited for the pain, but to her surprise, the Huntsman dropped the knife at her feet. "You two need to run...go far away where she can't find you," the Huntsman said, as they looked at him, stunned. "Go now!" he snapped. David scrambled to his feet and grabbed her hand, as they quickly mounted his horse. "What will you tell her?" Snow asked. "I figure something out. I'll buy you as much time as I can. But you two need to leave the Kingdom and do so quickly. Good luck," he said. David took the reigns and they took off. Snow held onto him and his heart ached for her, as he felt her tears soaking the back of his shirt. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, but he had to get them to safety first. "I have a friend...I haven't seen him since I was a child, but he's from Arendelle. That's well out of her reach," he called to her. She sniffed and lifted her head. "That's so far...how will get there?" she asked. "The Harbor at Longbourne...we'll find a ship headed for there and hide on it," he replied. "Stowaway?" she asked in aghast. "Our faces will be all over the Kingdom soon. It's the only way," he replied. She nodded and rested her head against his back, holding onto him tightly. He was all she had now, but that was okay, because he was everything to her. She just hoped Regina would be okay, for she would miss her sister deeply. Regina would understand though...she'd want them to get away.

Cora stared at the glowing heart in the box and then down at the Huntsman that knelt before her. "You take me for a fool, Huntsman?" she hissed, as she picked the heart up. "You try to pass off the heart of a steer as that of Snow White?!" she roared. "Guards! Take him to the dungeon and then find Snow White! I want her brought to me...alive!" Cora screamed. Regina stood dutifully beside her and hid her pleased smile. They had gotten away. Perhaps there was hope, after all. And perhaps she could find a way to defeat her Mother too.

Snow kept the hood of her cloak up, as David dealt with a buyer for their horse. They were sad to let him go, but they couldn't take him with and they needed the money. She was going to sell her jewelry too, for she cared little about things like that. Charming was what was truly precious to her. But they had agreed that it would be better to sell it once they arrived in Arendelle. If they sold it here, they knew it would be recognized as the stuff of royalty. "We got more than I thought we would and that man said that there's only one ship going to Arendelle. It leaves in twenty minutes so we need to hurry," he said, as he took her hand and they were off to the Harbor. "What's the name of the ship?" she asked. "The Jolly Roger," he replied wearily. A pirate ship. If they got caught, they wouldn't have to worry about Cora, but they didn't have much choice. "We're going to make it, Snow. But there's something I want to do first," he said, as he stopped and she felt her heart flutter, as he cupped her cheek. "I love you and I know I have no right to ask a woman of your station this, because I have nothing to offer you but my love and a life on the run now," he said. "Charming...you know I have never cared about any of that," she replied. He took a deep breath and she gasped, as he got down on one knee and held up his mother's ring. "Will you marry me?" he asked. She beamed and held out her hand. "What do you think?" she replied. He smiled and slipped it on her ring finger, before standing up and kissing her passionately. She held his arm and they hurried off to the Harbor. Once they made it to Arendelle, they would be safe from Cora's reach and begin a new life together…

Yes, there will likely be a sequel to this one as well. ;)