#ghostly and only visible in dim light/darkness

[quasarden]

Long time no Rufus. But back to playing him after a long (1.5 year) hiatus.

[shortnspidey]

WEIGHT OF THE SHIELD

Bucky Barnes X Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 6.4K

SUMMARY: At last, your chaotic schedules align, and you and Bucky are on the verge of stealing a rare moment of peace, only for the world to come crashing in with other plans.

WARNINGS: Captain America: Brave New World spoilers! So much fluff, witty banter, domestic!Bucky, Sam/Bucky/Joaquin reunion, platonic Joaquin x reader, Alpine makes an appearance, talks of injuries, slight angst but there's a happy ending!

A/N: Based on my Collateral Hearts series but can be read as a standalone! When I tell you guys my friend and I gasped so loud when Bucky showed up on our screen during the movie!! This fic is purely self-indulgent, enjoy!! <3

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Ever since Bucky had made the surprising decision to run for Congress, you'd seen less and less of him, his presence now more of a memory than a constant. The man who used to wake you up with coffee and smother you with forehead kisses and endless cuddles was now waking up to campaign briefings and policy meetings. To say you were experiencing major separation anxiety would’ve been a massive understatement.

You missed the casual intimacy of quiet mornings, his dry sarcasm, the way his vibranium hand would absentmindedly rest on your knee when you were watching movies on the couch. Kate had rolled her eyes more times than you could count, and Peter had started mysteriously “losing signal” every time you so much as mentioned your super soldier boyfriend. But you couldn’t help it. The absence carved into your life was too obvious, too deep.

Once inseparable, your time together had dwindled into quick phone calls between his media appearances, the occasional dinners that felt more like a strategic debrief than dates. And with your own calendar filling up with weekly visits to check in on Morgan and Pepper, while simultaneously keeping Stark Industries afloat, your worlds felt like they were running on parallel tracks that never quite met.

Which is how you found yourself curled up on the couch on a quiet Saturday evening, lazily scrolling through your phone, not even pretending to pay attention to Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince as it played in the background. The volume was low, the flickering light from the TV casting ghostly shadows across the room. You were still dressed in the oversized Henley that had once been his, the sleeves long enough to hide your hands.

Alpine, your newest companion, was curled at your side. Her sleek white fur shimmered like fresh snow in the dim light, and her piercing cerulean eyes seemed to study you with quiet understanding. You sighed, setting your phone on the coffee table with a dull clack. As if sensing the shift in your mood, Alpine let out a soft, plaintive meow. "I miss him too, girl." You murmured, scooping the cat gently into your arms. Her small body was warm against your chest, and you stroked her under the chin, comforted by the rhythmic purring.

Then, almost as if summoned by your longing, the familiar metallic click of the apartment door echoed through the quiet. Your breath caught. The door creaked open slowly, revealing a figure silhouetted in the hallway’s soft light. Only one person had a key to that door at this hour: Bucky was home. You carefully set Alpine back on the couch, your heart already thudding in anticipation. As Bucky stepped inside, his presence seemed to fill every corner of the apartment.

He was still in his dark jacket, the faint glint of metal from his vibranium arm catching the light. His hair was slightly windblown, face scruffed with a few days' growth, and the ever-present exhaustion clung to him like smoke. But the moment his eyes met yours, those tired, cerulean blue eyes something inside you seem to click back into place. His shoulders, tense from the world he carried, visibly dropped as he exhaled. He set down his briefcase and jacket by the door with a soft thunk.

“Hey, doll,” He called out, voice low and rough with fatigue. “Did you—oomph!” He didn’t get the chance to finish. You launched yourself into his arms, your body colliding with his, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, arms locking around his neck, grounding yourself in him. His hands instinctively found their place, one firm beneath your thighs, the other cradling your back. “You’re home.” You breathed, the words barely more than a whisper against his collarbone.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing in that unmistakable scent of worn leather, clean soap, and something purely Bucky. And for the first time in weeks, you felt whole. Bucky let out a quiet, breathless laugh against your shoulder, the sound muffled by the way your body was pressed tightly to his. He shifted his weight, adjusting his grip beneath your thighs to hold you more securely as he carried you further into the apartment, not even bothering to kick off his boots.

“You missed me that much, huh?” He murmured, voice laced with warmth despite the exhaustion. You scoffed softly, pulling back just enough to look at him, your fingers toying with the ends of his hair. "Choose your next words very carefully, Barnes." He leaned in without saying a word, pressing a kiss to your forehead, soft, grounding. Then one to your cheek, warm and slow. And finally, one to your lips.

That last one lingered, not rushed, not hurried, like he needed a moment to remember what you tasted like, to anchor himself in you again. It wasn’t passionate, not in the fiery, desperate way it sometimes was. This was something gentler, something deeper. Your breath caught in your throat, fingers still curled in his hair. Kissing Bucky Barnes never got old. It was always familiar, but never boring. Always electric, always a little bit new, like he was still discovering you, even after all this time.

When he finally pulled back, just a fraction, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes fluttered closed, his nose brushing against yours, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “God, I missed this. I missed you.” You smiled pulling him into another chaste kiss as he walked further into the apartment, still carrying you with ease. It was second nature by now, the way he held you as if you were an extension of him.

As he passed the couch, Alpine sat perched on the armrest, tail flicking lazily, blue eyes watching him with narrowed judgment. “Well look who’s giving me the side-eye,” Bucky chuckled with a smirk, slowing his pace as he approached the feline. “Hey, princess. You keeping my girl company while I’m off representing the world?” Alpine meowed in reply, a soft, unimpressed chirp. “I know, I know,” He chuckled. “I’m a terrible fiancé and an even worse cat dad.”

You snorted. “She’s not mad. That’s just her face, it seems to be a heritable trait.” Bucky ignored your teasing, leaning in, just enough so Alpine could sniff his jacket, then bumped his forehead gently against hers. The tiny gesture was so casual, so full of affection, it made your heart clench. Alpine let out a half-hearted purr before hopping down onto the couch cushion with a flick of her tail. “She sure holds grudges.” Bucky muttered, watching her settle into her new cat perch without another look back.

The longer you stood in the living room, the more Bucky’s posture began to ease his shoulders losing that quiet tension they always seemed to carry, like he’d finally let himself breathe in your shared space. The weight of the world didn’t vanish, but it lightened, just enough to make him look a little less haunted. “Ready to head to bed, Congressman?” You asked softly, your fingers slipping into his hair with an ease born of habit.

It had grown longer since he left, a bit wild and your hand combed through it gently, soothing. His eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment under your touch, and when they reopened, they were heavy-lidded with something softer than exhaustion. “I thought you’d never ask.” He murmured, the words brushing your skin more than they did the air. It was safe to say that whatever distance had existed between you while he was gone dissolved somewhere between the dim hallway and the bedroom door.

Clothes were shed, nighttime routines were done in parallel silence broken only by the occasional shared smile in the mirror. And then, finally, the world fell away as you both melted into the warmth of the bed. You weren’t sure who reached for whom first. It didn’t really matter. Before long, the sheets were a tangle around limbs you no longer bothered to distinguish.

Bucky’s bare chest was warm beneath your cheek, rising and falling with a steady rhythm, the thud of his heartbeat beneath your ear like a lullaby. Solid, real, home. “I can feel you fighting it. Go to sleep, doll.” He coaxed, voice thick and low, the kind of rasp that always gave you goosebumps. His vibranium fingers were woven gently into your hair, massaging in slow, grounding circles.

While his flesh hand traced lazy, shapes down the bare skin of your back. A truly lethal combination. It was terrifying how well he knew you. “But you just got home,” You protested, your voice barely above a whisper. You shifted closer, chasing his warmth like it might disappear if you let go. “Haven’t seen you in weeks.” He let out a soft breath half laugh, half sigh and pressed his lips to your forehead in a kiss so tender it made your chest ache. “We’ll have the whole morning together. I promise.” That promise wrapped around you like a second blanket, and your eyelids finally started to droop.

Sleep was seconds away from claiming you. That is until the shrill buzz of your cellphone shattered the quiet, cutting through the bedroom like a knife. You groaned, arm flailing out blindly across the nightstand, fingers smacking against your water glass, a rouge lipstick, your reading glasses, and finally your phone. Behind you, Bucky let out a sharp curse, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck. “If that’s Parker, I swear to-” You squinted at the screen. “It’s Sam.” You muttered making the super soldier beside you groan in annoyance.

“My point still stands,” He grumbled, his voice muffled against your skin. He tugged you tighter against him, trying to physically anchor you in place as you accepted the call. The moment you answered with a groggy, “Hello?” and rubbed the sleep from your eyes, everything changed. Bucky tensed instantly, his senses sharpening. He noticed the way your body stiffened beside him, your breath catching ever so slightly.

With his enhanced hearing, he could make out Sam’s rushed voice on the other end. He could hear your heartbeat accelerate, the subtle shift of your body as you instinctively curled into yourself. “H-he’s alive though, right?” You asked, voice tight and trembling. You were fully sitting upright now, biting at the edge of your thumbnail as your other hand twisted into the sheets. “Okay. Thanks for calling, Sam.” You ended the call with a soft click, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Bucky was already watching you, the concern in his eyes unspoken but loud and clear. “It’s Joaquin.” You whispered, voice small. You fiddled with your hands, something Bucky had seen you do countless times when nerves got the best of you. Without hesitation, he reached out, his warm fingers sliding into yours, grounding you. “What happened?” He coaxed squeezing your hands as a silent reassurance. “He got hurt, badly,” You, swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down.

“Sam said he’s critical.” The word tasted like iron on your tongue. Bucky was up and moving before you could take another breath. “I’ll call Happy. We’ll take the jet.” His voice was firm, already in motion as he reached for his phone, typing rapidly. You slipped out of bed on autopilot, your hands shaking as you pulled open drawers and tried to focus on getting dressed. But the panic was seeping in through the cracks, making it hard to breathe. “Y/N, sweetheart, look at me.” Bucky’s voice softened as he crossed the room, coaxing you to stop.

You turned to face him, your eyes wide and clouded with worry. “Torres is strong. He’s going to be okay,” He insisted, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. You wanted to believe him. God, you needed to believe him. But your chest still felt tight, your lungs constricted with dread. Bucky saw it in your eyes. He pulled you into his arms without another word. “Breathe,” He murmured into your hair. You did. Slowly. Reluctantly. But even as you melted into his chest, the anxiety still clung to you like a second skin.

It was all easier said than done.

It’s safe to say you had never launched yourself out of a car faster in your life. The second the tires screeched to a halt in front of the hospital’s emergency entrance, you were already throwing the door open, bolting toward the front desk. Behind you, Bucky had barely closed the car door before he was jogging to catch up. The hospital lobby was a blur, white walls, sterile lights, the low murmur of hushed conversations, and the occasional echo of overhead announcements.

All of it faded beneath the roar in your ears and the tight grip of fear coiling in your gut. Maybe it was the desperation in your voice. Maybe it was the unmistakable look panic on your face. Or maybe, just maybe, the woman at the front desk recognized the two of you. Whatever it was, she barely blinked before muttering the room number and waving you past security like you were made of glass. “Private surgical suite. Down the hall, last door on the left.” You didn’t wait for Bucky to catch up, you just ran.

Your chest burned by the time you reached the door. It felt too quiet. Too still. You slammed your palm against the sensor and stepped inside the dimly lit observation room, where a thick pane of reinforced glass separated you from what was happening on the other side. Your heart lodged itself in your throat at the sight. Beyond the glass, beneath the sharp surgical lights lay Joaquin, only he looked nothing like himself. He was pale, too pale, and so still.

His chest rose in shallow, uneven intervals, wires snaking from his arms and chest to beeping monitors, a surgical team clustered around him. Blood stained the sheets under his back and pooled in the folds of the gauze discarded nearby. You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath, until Bucky gently pulled you into his chest, grounding you in the moment. Then a voice, rough and familiar, cut through the stillness. “It’s a private room. Go away.”

You turned, recognizing it instantly, laced with exhaustion and something heavier beneath. Sam. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. His voice said everything. Bucky shifted beside you, his hand brushing yours, comfort, steady, always solid in moments like this. You glanced up at him, catching the flicker of pain in his blue eyes as he looked at Joaquin. “I missed you too.” Sam finally looked up at that, and for a second, his eyes betrayed something deeper.

He sighed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “I hate to admit it, but I’m glad you’re here. Both of you.” Sam took a slow step forward, his shoulders still tight with tension. Bucky stepped toward him too, mirroring the movement without hesitation. No words passed between them, they simply just embraced. The hug wasn’t fleeting, it lingered, both men holding on like they were trying to keep each other from sinking.

Bucky’s arms wrapped around Sam firmly, not as a formality, but like someone anchoring another from falling apart. He closed his eyes, just for a second. It wasn’t just comfort. It was shared sorrow. Guilt. Quiet understanding. The kind of hug only two people who had survived too much could understand. When they pulled apart, they stood side by side again, silently watching through the glass as machines continued to breathe for Joaquin. “Have they given you any news?” You asked, swallowing the lump in your throat.

After a beat, Sam’s voice came quietly, rough at the edges. “Doctors had to restart his heart. They don’t know if…” His words trailed, his jaw clenched tight. He closed his eyes, as if speaking it out loud made it real. Like saying it was inviting death into the room. Beside you, Bucky shifted, then gently squeezed your hand. You hadn't even realized you’d gone completely still, frozen in that moment. The warmth of his grip pulled you back to the present as your gaze flicked to Sam. Bucky’s voice came gently, but without hesitation.

“This isn’t your fault.” A breath escaped Sam at Bucky's words, half laugh, half resignation. His hands rested on his hips, then dropped to his sides, as if the weight of every failure had become too much to carry. “It makes me think of Steve,” He murmured. “How many alien invasions did he stop again?” Bucky glanced over, his mouth curling slightly, not into a smile, but something dry and knowing. “Two.” Sam gave a humorless chuckle. “Two, wow.” He shook his head.

“What made me think I could follow that? I should’ve taken the serum. Like Steve. Like you.” You looked up at Bucky. You saw the subtle twitch in his jaw, the way his shoulders pulled back at the mention of the serum. “Why?” He asked, but there was no accusation in his words, only concern. Sam didn’t answer right away. He just stared at Joaquin through the glass, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the quiet beeping of the machines offering the only sense of life

“Because this is all starting to seem much bigger than me.” His voice cracked with that last word. When he finally turned to face Bucky, there was no mask left. No performance. Just vulnerability, laid bare. “Ross wants me to restart the Avengers, Buck,” His voice was quieter now, broken around the edges. “But Joaquin’s in here. Isaiah’s still locked up. And Sterns…” His hands clenched into fists. “I had him. I had Sterns. Right in my hands. And he got away. He damn near pushed us to the edge of war because I wasn’t—”

Sam choked on the rest, the frustration boiling in his chest too thick to push through. You stepped forward instinctively, your hand brushing his arm in silent comfort, but Bucky’s voice broke in first. “Say what you need to say.” He offered, steady as stone. Sam lowered his head. His fingers twitched, then stilled. When he looked back up, something in his gaze had changed. "Steve made a mistake." There it was. A thick silence settled over the room. You felt your chest clench at the confession, and your head gave the smallest shake without even realizing it.

But Bucky didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t change. “No, he didn’t.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. “He gave you that shield, not because you’re the strongest, but because you’re you. You think if you had that serum, you’d be able to protect everyone you care about. But Steve had it, and he couldn’t.” His gaze softened. “You’re a human being, Sam. And you’re doing your best. Steve gave people something to believe in. But you, you give them something to aspire to.” Sam squinted at him, blinking like he hadn’t expected that.

“Did your speechwriters help you with that?” His gaze flicked past Bucky, to you. Like he was silently asking if you knew, if you'd call Bucky out for being that rehearsed. Bucky cracked a small smile, eyes lighting with a rare, dry humor. “They did, yeah. The ending. A little bit.” He leaned slightly. “Well, did you like it? Was it—?” Sam lifted his chin in mock evaluation. “No, no, it was good. Solid B plus.” For a moment, the heaviness lifted. The ghost of Steve, the pressure of responsibility, all of it faded in the flicker of something human and real.

Bucky broke the silence, letting out a small breath, his eyes drifting toward the door before returning to Sam. “Listen, I’ve gotta catch a plane.” He winced slightly. “Campaign fundraiser. It’s so stupid.” Both you and Sam followed his gaze back to the glass, to Joaquin who was fighting for his life. “He’s gonna be alright, man.” Sam’s eyes shone faintly as he reached out a hand. Bucky took it and pulled him in for one last hug. This one was quick, but just as purposeful.

“Thanks, Buck.” Sam’s voice came thick with gratitude, quiet but weighted, like a thousand unspoken things packed into two simple words. Bucky held on a second longer than necessary, hand on Sam’s shoulder firm, almost reluctant to let go. His gaze lingered a moment longer, expression unreadable, but his voice, soft, earnest, more than he’d ever say aloud. “I love you, buddy.” Before the silence could stretch too far, your voice gently cut through it. “Should I leave the two of you alone?” You were trying to smile. You tried.

The corners of your mouth pulled upward, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your arms remained tightly folded across your chest, not out of confidence, but to stop the tremble in your hands. You stood tall, the way you always did when everything around you was slipping, but each second pressed more weight onto your ribs, your throat, your heart. And then your eyes met Sam’s. The fragile composure you'd been clinging to like armor shattered. That carefully maintained wall cracked from the inside out.

It wasn’t just Joaquin, it was everything. The realization that the world was shifting again, too fast and too hard. The people you loved were hurting. Everything felt so uncertain. So fragile. Sam didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His gaze softened the second he looked at you, and then he moved. Without hesitation, he crossed the space between you and pulled you into his arms. Your fingers curled into the back of his sweater like you were afraid letting go would send you spinning.

“As much as this sucks,” You whispered, voice tight against the fabric of his shoulder. “If anyone can survive this, it’s Joaquin.” You felt Bucky move behind you before you heard him. The warmth of his hand pressed gently against the small of your back, steady and familiar. His touch was soft, but it reverberated through your entire body like a reminder: You’re not alone. You didn’t have to hold this pain by yourself. You pulled away from Sam and looked up at him.

And the moment your eyes found his, every ounce of restraint you had left slipped. Those blue eyes, always clear, always knowing, met yours with unshakable understanding. He saw it all. The fear. The exhaustion. The way your heart was breaking in slow, steady increments. And as always, he didn’t rush to fix it. He didn’t try to pull you away from it. He just stood with you in it. You leaned into him slightly, and he let you. His hand never left your back. Then, reluctantly, he cleared his throat and glanced down at his phone.

“I’ve gotta head out now.” His voice was gruff, quiet, like it physically hurt to say it. You turned toward him, fingers slipping into his, holding tightly as if you could delay time just a little longer. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, gentle, grounding. His eyes searched yours, and you could feel the conflict inside him. He didn’t want to go. Every fiber of him was screaming to stay, to be here in case something happened.

“Let me know when you land?” You asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper, but threaded with something deeper, something unspoken. Bucky’s eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, his thumb brushing against your hand where it rested in his. “Always.” With that confirmation, you rose onto your toes, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his blazer like you were trying to memorize the shape of him. He leaned in as you pressed your lips to his, and the moment stretched, not rushed, not desperate, but anchored.

One hand came to your side, cool vibranium grounding you, while the other ghosted up to your cheek, his calloused thumb grazing your skin as though trying to remember the warmth of you. You melted into him, letting yourself feel it, all of it. The love. The fear. The ache of separation already clawing at your ribs. When the kiss broke, he didn’t let go. He tilted his head and pressed his lips to your forehead, slow and reverent. The kind of kiss that wasn’t just affection, it was a promise. And then, reluctantly, he stepped back.

Your hand slipped from his, fingertips grazing until the last second. Without another word, he turned and walked out. His footsteps were heavy, but deliberate. A man torn between duty and the people he loved. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality. You stood there, rooted in place, staring at the space where he’d just been, like if you stayed still enough, maybe the moment wouldn’t end. Then, without a word, you reached out. Your fingers brushed against Sam’s.

His hand found yours instantly, strong and warm, like he’d been waiting for it. His grip was steady, grounding you the same way Bucky always did in his absence. The quiet strength of it reminded you that you weren’t alone. Side by side, you both turned to face the glass. Joaquin was still entangled in wires and attached to monitors. Machines breathed for him now, each gentle rise and fall of his chest a reminder that he was still there. Your gaze locked on the rhythm of it: up, down, up again. Not much, but it was something.

And for now, that had to be enough.

It was no surprise when Sam got the call. You saw it in his face the moment his phone lit up, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly, the way his eyes darted to Joaquin, then to you, like the weight of the world had settled right back on his shoulders. Duty called. Still, he hesitated. His thumb hovered over the screen as if the mere act of answering would tear something sacred apart. You reached for his arm, squeezing gently.

“Go,” You told him, the firmness in your voice masking the emotion tangled behind it. “I’ve got him. I’m not going anywhere.” Sam didn’t answer right away. He just stared at you, eyes heavy with worry and reluctant trust, before finally giving a small nod. “Text me the second anything changes.” He squeezed your shoulder as he passed, the weight of leadership draped over his shoulders like armor too heavy to ever fully take off. And then you were alone again.

You sank into the chair in the corner of the room, elbows on your knees, head bowed as your hands laced together in front of you. Minutes blurred into hours. Every tick of the clock echoed like a drumbeat in your skull. At some point, your head found the edge of the mattress. The tension in your body finally began to unravel, the adrenaline now fading into a gentle calm. Almost on autopilot, despite how much you fought it, your eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Then, mere seconds later, you heard the soft creak of the door.

You jolted upright, heartbeat skipping before you could place the sound. A nurse had entered, clipboard in hand, face unreadable. She paused, met your gaze, then gave the smallest of smiles. “He’s awake.” You blinked, unsure if you’d heard her correctly. The words felt surreal, like a dream spoken out loud. “What?” You breathed, already pushing to your feet. The nurse’s expression softened. “He’s awake and stable.” She repeated. That was all you needed. The chair scraped behind you as you moved, too fast and yet not fast enough.

Your heart thudded against your ribs, loud and relentless, nearly drowning out the hum of fluorescent lights and the soft beeping of monitors that had become a lullaby for fear. You sent Sam a quick text before pushing through the door. There he was. Laying in the hospital bed, propped slightly against a raised pillow. His skin was pale, pallid with the fatigue of recovery, but warm with life. A faint bruise bloomed high on his cheekbone, soft but angry against the otherwise smooth plane of his face.

His dark curls were tousled, slightly matted from lying on the hospital pillow, and his eyes, though heavy-lidded and glassy from sedation, found yours the second you stepped into the room. The rawness of what he’d been through showed clearly. Red marks crept up the side of his neck, where gauze had once been, his collarbone barely visible beneath the loose neckline of the hospital gown. There was a faint rasp to his breath, and his lips were dry, slightly cracked. But none of that mattered, because he was alive.

You watched as a kaleidoscope of emotions flickered across his face, confusion, relief, disbelief. And then a crooked smile formed, soft but real. “Hey, hermosa.” He rasped, voice hoarse but unmistakably him. His fingers twitched slightly against the edge of the blanket before lifting, reaching toward you. You crossed the room in two steps, sinking to the chair at his bedside, your hands finding his before he could drop it again. You laced your fingers with his, feeling the warmth of his skin, the slight tremor of his grip.

You crossed the room in two urgent steps, barely breathing, sinking into the chair beside his bed like the air had been knocked out of you. Your hands found his before he could let his fall. He didn’t resist when you leaned down, carefully avoiding the bandaged stretch along his collar and the tender bruising near his ribs. Your arms wrapped around him with the softest of pressure, and he accepted it, chin tilting just slightly into your shoulder. “You didn’t have to come.” He murmured once you pulled away, eyes refusing to meet yours.

There was something raw in his voice, guilt, maybe. You leaned back just enough to glare at him, still holding his hand like a lifeline. “Shut up, Torres,” You scoffed. “You’re one of my best friends. Of course I was going to come and see you.” His dark eyes lifted to yours, already glassy, already shining. He blinked a few times, fast and stubborn, trying to will the emotion away. But you saw it. The way his throat worked as he swallowed. The way his jaw clenched like he was trying to lock something inside. It reminded you so painfully of Peter.

That same twitchy, tough-guy instinct to not let it show. You could see the ghost of him in the way Joaquin's lips twitched, how he tried to mask his fear behind a crooked smirk. And just like with Peter, it only made your heart ache. “You scared the crap out of me. I thought I only had to worry about Kate and Peter trying to get themselves killed every five minutes. Not you too.” He chuckled, low and sheepish, like he knew you were trying to scold him but couldn’t quite argue with the truth.

“Does this mean you’ll finally fix my gear?” He asked, the corners of his mouth lifting again. “Maybe upgrade the safety protocols?” You rolled your eyes, catching the way his pout exaggerated slightly, classic Joaquin. “I see what you did there, Torres. Real smooth,” You tsked, unable to hide the affection in your voice as you squeezed his hand again. “Fine. I’ll do it. But only if you don’t tell Sam I caved.” He gave a tiny salute with two fingers, too tired for a full one, but his smirk was genuine.

It was good to see it again. The spark, the humor, the bit of golden-retriever energy that hadn’t been fully extinguished by the last few days of hell. But then, his smile faded, just slightly. His gaze drifted downward. Still holding your hand, his eyes caught on something. “That’s new.” You followed his line of sight, and flushed immediately. There it was, plain as day. The delicate diamond-and-gold band wrapped around your left ring finger, gleaming softly in the hospital light. “It is.” You confirmed, trying not to sound too breathless.

Joaquin’s eyes widened, and that lazy, familiar grin spread across his face. Before you could answer, another voice interrupted, familiar and laced with dry amusement. “She beat me to the punch, snooping around and finding the ring before I could even propose properly.” You turned instinctively, a rush of warmth climbing your chest. Bucky stood in the doorway, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his jacket, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes, though, were focused on you. He was back. Part of you wasn’t sure if he’d even made it out of the city, let alone halfway to the fundraiser.

You’d barely registered the hours that had passed. Seeing him again felt like your lungs remembered how to breathe. He walked over, settling behind you with a familiar ease, his flesh hand resting on your shoulder while his vibranium one brushed lightly down your arm. The weight of it, of him, anchored you again, the way he always did without even trying. “She blames it on our innocent kitten.” He added with faux indignation. You rolled your eyes but leaned into his touch, letting your head tilt slightly into his side. His body was warm, a contrast to the sterile coldness of everything else you’d been sitting in for hours.

Across the bed, Joaquin’s face lit up like a damn Christmas tree, the kind of grin that tugged at the edges of his healing bruises. “Look at you, all domestic,” He teased with a laugh that rasped in his throat. “Y/N, you’ve turned the world’s most deadly assassin into a simp.” You bit your bottom lip, struggling not to laugh. Bucky’s brow immediately furrowed, mouth twitching between confusion and offense. “What the hell is a simp?” He muttered, blinking down at you, before leveling a mock glare at Joaquin. “I can still hurt you, Torres. Watch it.”

“You can’t kick a man when he’s down.” Joaquin sighed dramatically, lifting his free hand with a wince. “Still tempting.” Bucky grumbled under his breath. You smacked his arm lightly, giving him a look that was more fond than scolding. “Be nice.”Bucky mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “No promises.” But his thumb absently started brushing slow, grounding circles against your arm, betraying just how at peace he was now that you were both here.

“How many people know?” Joaquin asked, glancing between you, his gaze flicking again to the gold band that still glinted faintly on your hand. You exhaled slowly, glancing at Bucky before answering. “A few,” You replied carefully. “We’re still figuring out the semantics of everything before we tell people about the wedding.” Joaquin arched a brow, smirking in Bucky’s direction. “I better be one of the groomsmen, Barnes. Seeing as I’m Y/N’s favorite.”

Bucky scoffed, folding his arms, but the corners of his mouth twitched with barely contained amusement. “What makes you think you’re even invited?” You elbowed him in the ribs, gently, but pointed. “Don’t listen to him. He’s still denying the fact that Sam’s going to be his best man, even though we all know he will be.” You declared matter-of-factly. “Damn straight,” Came a familiar voice from the doorway, laced with smugness. “If not, Tin Man and I here are gonna have a problem.” You all turned as Sam stepped inside, looking… well, alive.

Bruised and bandaged, his face marked with scrapes, and his arm held tightly in a sling, but still standing tall. Joaquin’s face lit up at the sight of him. “Cap.” Sam offered a grin, his gaze scanning over you, Bucky, and Joaquin like he needed to see it to believe it, like maybe, just maybe, the worst was finally behind you. Bucky groaned and dropped his face into the curve of your neck, muttering like a sulking kid. “He’s never going to stop calling me that, is he?” You smiled and ran your fingers through his hair, feeling his shoulders drop at your touch.

“Come on, Congressman,” You whispered near his ear. “Let’s let them talk. Besides, you owe me breakfast.” You turned to Joaquin and Sam, wrapping them both in one final, careful hug. Joaquin winced slightly but held on tight, and Sam, despite the sling, gripped you with his good hand. As you pulled away, Joaquin chuckled lowly, and you just barely heard Sam mutter beneath his breath. “Whipped.” You didn’t even bother to deny it, just rolled your eyes as you laced your fingers with Bucky’s, feeling the reassuring strength of his hold.

The moment the hospital doors closed behind you, both you and Bucky walked in silence for a few minutes, neither of you needing to fill the air. His thumb brushed the back of your hand with every step. You knew, without looking, that he was watching you just as much as the road ahead. That soft, almost boyish smile was playing at his lips, the one he only wore when it was just the two of you, safe, together, home. “You know,” He finally murmured. “You still haven’t said yes.”

You stopped walking, turning toward him, heart caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder. “To what?” His grin widened. “To marrying me. Sure, you found the ring, and yeah, we keep talking like it’s a done deal, but I don’t remember hearing the actual words.” You stared at him for a beat, then burst into quiet laughter. Bucky Barnes could be such a little shit when he wanted to. “You’re seriously asking me that now?” You whispered, stepping closer until your chests nearly touched.

Bucky didn’t smile this time, not right away. His expression stayed open, unguarded. You could see every crack, every memory, every fear still hiding in the corners of those cerulean-blue eyes. “Especially now,” His voice was barely audible, a breath more than a word. “Because I’ve lived through too many almosts, and you’re the only thing that’s ever felt certain.” Wordlessly, you reached up and cupped his face, fingertips grazing the scruff along his jaw, your thumb brushing beneath his eye.

He leaned into your touch instantly, like it grounded him. Like he’d been waiting for it, for you, since the day he got pulled from ice. Then you kissed him. Not the soft, casual kind you’d shared a hundred times. This was different. Slower. Deeper. A tether, a promise, a homecoming, all in one. His hands found your waist, then your lower back, pulling you flush against him. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, but was still terrified to waste a second of it. One hand slid up into your hair, the other stayed at your hip, thumb moving in slow, grounding circles.

When you finally pulled away, your breath was shaky, your foreheads resting against one another like a pause between heartbeats. Your lips hovered close to his, still brushing faintly as you whispered. “Yes.” You kissed him again. “Now.” Another kiss, softer. “And always.” Bucky didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. His arms tightened around you and he buried his face in your neck, exhaling like the weight of every war he’d fought had finally lifted. And just like that, the world felt quiet. Not because it was over, but because this, you, were what he'd fought to come home to.

And finally, he had.

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[madamabelladonna]

𝐀𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐀𝐟𝐚𝐫

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Young Lady Dayne, awaiting Jacaerys' lesson's end, enjoys tea with Princess Rhaenyra, who grants her access to the Royal Library due to her rare gifts. As she reads beneath the heart tree, a prince in green watches her, sparking jealousy within the eldest son of Rhaenyra. With Jacaerys' eighth name day nearing, their growing relationship seems to be all the court can talk about. 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Jealousy & Criston 'Rice Krispy' Cole 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Ser Ryak led you through the dim corridors of the Red Keep, his heavy boots scuffing against the cold, uneven stones. The predawn air hung thick with a damp chill, a sea mist that clung to your skin and settled like dew on your hair. It was a still, quiet hour, that mysterious time when the castle seemed to breathe in its sleep, the distant sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs the only indication that the world outside was still alive.

The mist wrapped around the castle like a shroud, casting a ghostly pallor over everything. The torches along the walls had burned down to embers, and their dim, flickering light barely held back the shadows. The wind from the bay swept through the open passages, carrying with it the salty tang of the sea mixed with the faint, sharp scent of the cold morning air.

You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, clutching the wooden bucket of carrots close to your chest. “My lady, are you quite certain you don’t require assistance?” Ser Ryak’s voice broke the silence, low and cautious, his eyes darting to the heavy pail in your grip. He was a tall man, with a lined face and sharp blue eyes that always seemed to watch you more closely than you would like.

“I can manage,” you replied, a touch of firmness in your tone, your fingers gripping the rough wood even tighter. You would not be seen as weak, not today. Merek had made it clear that Whisper was your responsibility now, and you would not allow yourself to fail. If it meant waking before dawn and trudging through the cold with a bucket of carrots, so be it. You had taken it upon yourself, and you would see it through.

The stables loomed ahead, their thatched roof barely visible against the gray sky. As you neared, the smell of hay and manure grew stronger, mingling with the scent of damp earth. The doors were ajar, a faint glow spilling out into the mist like a buoy. You could hear the muffled sounds of the horses shifting restlessly in their stalls, the soft clinking of metal against wood as they moved.

Inside, the stables were dark, save for a single lantern hanging from a beam. Its light flickered and danced across the walls, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to stretch and writhe like living things. The smell was stronger here, a pungent mix of straw, sweat, and the earthy scent of the horses.

The floor was covered in fresh hay, the sound of your footsteps muffled as you made your way towards Whisper’s stall. Whisper lay on her side in a bed of straw, her coat a dappled gray that seemed almost silver in the dim light. Her breathing was slow and steady, her sides rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.

Her head was tucked close to her chest, her eyes closed in sleep. You paused for a moment, watching her, a small smile tugging at your lips. There was something calming about the sight, something that eased the tension that had settled in your shoulders.

“Whisper,” you called softly, careful not to startle her.

Her ears twitched at the sound of your voice, and her eyes fluttered open, dark and deep, like pools of ink. She lifted her head, her nostrils flaring as she caught the scent of the carrots. Slowly, she rose, her muscles rippling beneath her skin as she stretched out her long neck towards you, her eyes bright with curiosity.

You stepped closer, holding the bucket just out of her reach, a playful smile on your lips. “Not so fast, girl,” you teased, your voice barely more than a whisper in the cool air. Whisper snorted softly, a sound of mild impatience, and nudged your chest with her muzzle, her breath warm against your skin.

Her large eyes met yours, and for a moment, you could almost swear she understood you, understood the game you played. You laughed, a soft, genuine sound that echoed in the quiet of the stable. “Alright, alright,” you relented, holding out your palm with a few carrots.

Whisper took them eagerly, crunching them between her teeth, her ears flicking back and forth in contentment. You watched her, feeling a warmth spread through your chest, a sense of satisfaction that had little to do with the task at hand.

You moved closer, reaching out to stroke her neck, your fingers tangling in her silvery mane. Whisper leaned into your touch, her body warm and solid against the chill of the morning air. She had begun to recognize you now, to see you not as a stranger but as something more—a friend, perhaps, or at least a familiar presence.

She nuzzled your shoulder, her breath hot against your ear, and you closed your eyes, just for a moment, letting the sensation wash over you. The stable seemed to hold its breath, the world outside fading to a distant hum.

You could hear the soft sounds of the other horses, the rustle of straw, the creak of wood settling in the cold. It was a small, enclosed space, but for a moment, it felt like the center of the universe, a place where nothing else mattered.

“Whisper,” you murmured again, almost to yourself. She flicked her ears, as if listening, her dark eyes watching you with an almost unnerving intensity. You wondered, not for the first time, if she could truly understand you, if there was some deeper connection between you and this horse that went beyond mere words.

The silence was broken by the sound of Ser Ryak clearing his throat. “The sun will be rising soon, my lady,” he warned, his voice low and respectful. “We should return before anyone notices your absence.”

You sighed, a small, reluctant sound, and gave Whisper’s neck a final pat. “I will return soon,” you promised her, though you doubted she understood. She nickered softly, as if in response, and you turned away, your heart feeling strangely heavy.

Ser Ryak waited by the door, his expression unreadable. You followed him out, glancing back over your shoulder one last time. Whisper was watching you, her eyes dark and unreadable, her ears pricked forward. You smiled, a small, private smile, and then turned back, stepping out into the cold morning air.

The sky was beginning to lighten, the first hints of dawn creeping over the horizon, painting the mist in shades of pink and gold. The wind had picked up, tugging at your cloak, and you pulled it tighter around you, feeling the chill seep through the fabric. You moved quickly, your footsteps light and swift on the cobblestones, Ser Ryak close behind.

The castle was waking around you, the sounds of servants beginning their morning chores, the clatter of pots in the kitchens, the low murmur of voices in the halls. You kept your head down, moving with haste, hoping to avoid any unwanted attention. The last thing you needed was questions about why you were up so early, why you had been in the stables.

Your chambers were blessedly empty when you returned, the fire in the hearth burned down to embers, the room cold and still. You tossed your cloak beneath the bed and kicked off your boots, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over you.

You fell onto your bed, the sheets cool against your skin, and closed your eyes, a tired but satisfied smile playing on your lips. You still had a few hours before Isla would come, and you intended to make the most of them.

But even as you drifted off, your thoughts lingered on Whisper, the feel of her warm breath against your skin, the sound of her soft nicker in your ear.

The air was warm that day, the kind of warmth that felt like a soft embrace, gentle yet firm, coaxing the skin into a subtle sheen of sweat. The sweet aroma of rooibos tea mingled with the delicate perfume of the garden blooms—roses, daisies, lavender—all blended together to form a picture of scents.

Birds sang in the Keep’s gardens, their cheerful notes rising like prayers to the gods, as the sun hung high in the sky, a blazing orb that ruled over Kingslanding with a relentless glare.

You sat with Princess Rhaenyra, the two of you alone at a small wooden table. The chairs creaked as you settled into them, savoring the quiet and each other’s company, finding solace in the rare stillness of the afternoon.

A tray of cakes and fruit lay between you, untouched save for a few crumbs—plum cakes drizzled with honey, slices of apple, and grapes, their skins bursting with juice. 

You waited for Jacaerys, who had gone off to the Dragonpit to see Vermax, his beloved dragon. You found solace in the calm, feeling the gentle breeze that whispered through the leaves, carrying with it the laughter of children playing somewhere nearby. 

In the moons since your arrival, you had grown close to Princess Rhaenyra and her family, finding a place here that surprised even you. You and Jacaerys had become inseparable, roaming the Red Keep like shadows of one another, your laughter echoing through the stone corridors. Even your brother, Merek, seemed to have eased his worries. 

The godswood incident had faded into distant memory, like a bad dream half-forgotten upon waking. Merek had taken to sparring with Ser Harwin Strong, the “Breakbones” they called him, a man of muscle and might who moved like a dancer despite his size.

The training yard had become his sanctuary, the clash of steel his new rhythm, finding purpose in the routine. Kingslanding, with its stench and squalor and intrigue, had become almost like home to the two Daynes, much to your surprise.

"I must say," Rhaenyra began, setting down her teacup with a gentle clink that seemed almost too loud in the stillness.

She leaned forward, resting her chin upon her hands, her violet eyes—so much like her mother’s—studying you with an intensity that made you shift in your seat. "Luke has grown under your guidance. You have become quite the teacher, despite your young years."

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, ducking your head in a bid to hide the blush. "Thank you, Your Highness," you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper. "Prince Lucerys is a fast learner. I fear he will surpass me before he reaches my age." A soft laugh escaped your lips, an attempt to deflect the praise with humor. But Rhaenyra did not laugh.

Instead, she tilted her head, her expression one of quiet contemplation. "Oh, we can’t have that now, can we?" she mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. For a moment, a flicker of worry crossed your face.

Would she bring in a new tutor, someone older, wiser, more accomplished, to replace you? You had grown to cherish your time with Lucerys and Jacaerys and feared losing it more than you cared to admit.

As if sensing your anxiety, Rhaenyra chuckled—a rich, warm sound that felt like sunlight breaking through a cloud. "No need to fret, dear one. I have no intention of separating you from my boys." Her words were a balm, and you felt your shoulders relax, the tension ebbing away like the tide.

She gestured to her handmaiden, Elinda, who stepped forward, carrying a scroll bound with red silk, the seal of House Targaryen gleaming in the sunlight.

Rhaenyra took the scroll, her fingers deftly untying the ribbon. "I have spoken to the King of your goodwill," she began, her voice light with excitement, "and he wishes to reward you for your efforts with his grandson." She opened the scroll, her eyes scanning the words written there, a smile playing at her lips as if she were savoring some sweet secret.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a wild, frantic beat. "P-pardon?" you stammered, unsure of what to expect, caught between hope and dread.

“The King has granted you access to the Royal Family’s Library,” Rhaenyra announced, holding the scroll out to you. “You may come and go as you please.”

For a moment, you could hardly breathe. At just seven summers, you had been given a privilege reserved for only the most trusted and learned in the realm. "Thank you, Your Highness. This is an honor," you managed to say, though your voice trembled like a leaf caught in the wind.

You took the scroll with hands that felt too heavy, as if it were made of gold and not parchment. "I… I don’t know what to say."

Rhaenyra's smile widened, her lips curling like the edges of a rose in bloom. "Say nothing at all, dear one. You have earned it." Her voice was as warm and soft as the breeze that stirred the petals of the garden flowers.

As you looked down at the slip of parchment in your hand, your own smile grew, blossoming like the flowers that surrounded you. The thrill that bubbled within you was almost too much to contain, the urge to race to Merek and show him the gift you had been granted nearly overwhelming. But you knew he was at the training yard, and you would have to wait. And you knew why.

One name lingered in your thoughts like a shadow.

Criston Cole.

The Queen Consort’s sworn sword, dark and brooding as a storm cloud on a summer's day. Of him, you knew little more than the stories whispered in the shadows of the Red Keep, tales of dishonor and betrayal, of his contemptuous treatment of Princess Rhaenyra and her children.

Merek had called him a "pompous prick" more than once, a slight grin twisting his lips whenever he spoke the words. And more often than not, Ser Criston would challenge your brother to sparring matches, a ceaseless endeavor to test if Merek was truly worthy of bearing Dawn, the ancestral sword of House Dayne.

You’d often catch Ser Criston’s cold, appraising eyes upon you and Jacaerys whenever you passed him in the corridors of the Keep, his gaze as sharp and unforgiving as a blade. For a Dornishman, he was strangely rigid, his sense of honor sharper than any steel. Sometimes, you worried that life at court might turn you into something equally stern and unyielding, as if the castle’s cold stone walls were creeping into your very soul.

His arrogance was boundless, like the vastness of the Narrow Sea—frowning upon the heir to the Iron Throne was one thing, but questioning your brother’s worthiness to wield Dawn? Unforgivable.

No, you did not like that man. Not at all.

Then there was “Crispin Cole,” as Lucerys liked to call him, despite your many efforts to correct the boy. Jacaerys would often encourage his little brother’s jests, his laughter a bright, lively sound that seemed to fill every corner of a room with its light.

Your relationship with the young princes had flourished in your time here, a bond forged in the fires of shared glances, whispered secrets, and childhood mischief. With Jacaerys especially, you had grown close.

The two of you would often take walks along the beach, the sea air tangling your hair, or wander through the gardens where flowers of every hue and fragrance bloomed in wild abundance. It had become a comforting routine—waiting for him after his lessons, seeing his familiar form approaching with a grin, Lucerys trailing behind, his smile just as wide.

But speaking of Jacaerys, you were pulled from your thoughts by the soft sound of Rhaenyra's amused cough. She seemed to see through you, catching the spark of excitement dancing in your eyes, the rabbit hole of contemplation you had wandered into. "I do believe Jacaerys should be back from visiting Vermax soon," she remarked with a knowing smile, her violet eyes twinkling with unspoken mirth.

"Why not head over to the library and find something to read while you wait?" She leaned in a little closer, the conspiratorial light in her gaze almost playful, and gave you a wink.

You nodded eagerly, unable to suppress your delight. “Thank you, your highness,” you replied, offering a quick curtsey. “I will not disappoint.” Rhaenyra waved a hand, dismissing you, her lips curling in a smile that was both fond and faintly amused, as if she could see into the future from now. 

You shuffled into the Royal Library, excitement thrumming through your veins. The air was thick with the crisp, leathery scent of old books, and you breathed it in deeply, savoring the smell of history and knowledge that stretched far beyond your years.

This place was everything you imagined it would be—a sanctuary of knowledge and wisdom, a vault of secrets. Jacaerys would return soon, so you figured it best to start with something small. 

You wandered from shelf to shelf, fingers grazing the spines of the ancient tomes. The choices were overwhelming, each title seeming more intriguing than the last. Finally, you decided to let fate decide for you.

Closing your eyes, you continued to meander around the shelves, oblivious to the watchful gaze fixed on you from a distance. 

Eventually, you stopped and reached out, your hand landing on a random book. “The Tongue of the Horse Lords,” you murmured to yourself, turning it over in your hands. Cracking it open, you quickly realized it was a beginner's guide to learning the Dothraki language. A smile tugged at your lips. You’d always wanted to learn another language besides the common tongue.

High Valyrian would have been your first choice, of course—it was the mother tongue of the Targaryens, Velaryons, and even the Celtigars. But many high-born lords and ladies knew it, so it wasn’t exactly a rare skill. Dothraki, though… now that would be something different. A good read, you decided, tucking the book under your arm.

A glint of silver caught your eye, a flicker in the corner of your vision.

You turned quickly, but whatever it was had vanished. The sensation of being watched settled over you like a cold mist. You hesitated, glancing around the room, but there was no one—at least, no one you could see.

“Hmm… Strange…” you muttered, half-hoping for a reply. But the only answer was the faint whisper of a draft brushing through the room. You shook your head, deciding it was just a trick of the light. Clutching the book tighter to your chest, you headed for the door.

The open halls of the Keep greeted you with a breeze, tugging at your hair. “I promised Jace I’d meet him at the godswood,” you reminded yourself. The godswood had become your place, the spot where you’d meet after his lessons or your tutoring sessions with Lucerys. It was a peaceful corner of the Red Keep, a slice of greenery amidst the stone and mortar.

Your mauve dress swished around your ankles as you made your way to the godswood, your thoughts still lingering on the strange flicker of silver in the library. You glanced over your shoulder once, twice, but nothing was behind you except the quiet shadows of the early morning.

Brushing the odd feeling away like a speck of dust, you slipped through the arched entryway and into the godswood. The air was cool here, heavy with the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. The soft rustling of branches overhead was the only sound, mingling with the distant murmur of the castle beyond the wall of trees.

Here, the world seemed hushed, the canopy casting dappled shadows across the ground. The heart tree, with its pale bark and carved face, loomed in the center of the grove, its red leaves rustling like whispers of an old song.

You made your way to the base of the weirwood, the ancient tree towering above you, its carved eyes seeming to watch you as you moved. Settling against its thick trunk, you shifted into a comfortable position, feeling the rough bark press against your back. The weirwood's roots twisted like old bones around you, giving you the sensation of being both sheltered and observed, held in the embrace of something far older than the Red Keep itself.

Opening the book, you began to read, tracing the unfamiliar letters with your fingertips. The first few pages were simple enough—basic phrases in Dothraki, the language of the horse lords across the Narrow Sea.

You sounded the words out softly, your breath clouding in the cool morning air. “M’athchomaroon,” you whispered, your tongue stumbling over the guttural sounds. "Respect to you." It was strange to shape your mouth around the words, but oddly satisfying. You repeated the phrase again, more slowly, letting the syllables sink into your memory.

You made a mental note to ask Merek to find a proper tutor for you—someone who could help you with pronunciation and grammar, someone who knew more than just the basics this book offered. This wasn't for any formal education, just a pursuit born of personal curiosity. To learn a language so different from your own, to understand the people who spoke it—there was something thrilling in that thought.

The godswood was silent except for the whisper of leaves and the occasional caw of a distant crow. You found comfort in that stillness, letting it envelop you as you continued to read, sounding out the phrases with careful deliberation. "Thira anni," you murmured.

"My sun and stars." It was a phrase that spoke of deep affection, a fondness as fierce as the riders who spoke it. You couldn't help but wonder if the Dothraki felt their words as deeply as they sounded.

Leaning back against the weirwood, you took a deep breath, feeling the cool, rough bark press against your spine. You allowed yourself to imagine, just for a moment, what it might be like to stand on the vast grasslands of Essos, to ride across the open plains with nothing but the wind in your hair and a language on your lips that no one else in the Red Keep could speak. It made you feel bold, different—a small spark of adventure kindling within your chest. 

As you repeated the words again, slower this time, you felt the weirwood’s presence—ancient and steady—watching over you like an old friend, the red leaves above stirring softly as if whispering their approval.

A rustle in the leaves caught your attention, and a smile touched your lips as you lifted your head toward the approaching footsteps. "Took you long enough," you began, ready to chide Jacaerys for his tardiness. "I was waiting for y—" The words died on your lips when you realized it wasn’t Jacaerys standing before you. 

The boy who appeared was older than you by a few years, though not by many. His hair was a shade of silver so bright it almost seemed to glow in the dappled light of the godswood, and his eyes—a deep, vivid violet—marked him unmistakably as a Targaryen.

He stood half-hidden by a bush, his expression wary, his hands fidgeting at his sides. He wore a tunic of deep green, the color of House Hightower. Too young to be Prince Aegon, you quickly realized this must be Prince Aemond, the second son of Queen Alicent.

Aemond’s gaze flitted nervously from you to the ground and back again. He swallowed, his throat bobbing with uncertainty, clearly unaccustomed to these sorts of encounters. He had been in the Royal Library, practicing his High Valyrian, when he noticed you.

His days usually consisted of lessons, reading, and dreaming of dragons, often alone. He would have been at the Dragonpit if he had a dragon to visit—if only his egg had hatched instead of turning cold and dead like stone in his cradle. His birthright felt like a broken promise, a void he was desperate to fill. 

He had heard the door to the library open and close and dismissed it as a maester's passing, only to look up and see you wandering among the shelves, a small figure lost in a sea of ancient tomes. He was surprised to see another child there, especially one so intent on the books. His nephews were far too busy bonding with their dragons to bury themselves in reading, and his brother Aegon had no love for such pursuits. 

"I—I saw you in the library," Aemond stammered, his voice soft, almost hesitant, as if he wasn't sure you’d want to hear him. He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. Up close, he could see you more clearly: the way the light fell on your face, the way your eyes scanned the pages of your book.

You seemed at home here, calm and sure in a way he envied. "I… I thought you looked… interesting," he added, though his voice caught on the last word, as if he weren't quite sure it was the right thing to say. 

He shifted on his feet, unsure of what to do with his hands. "You were reading… Dothraki," he murmured, glancing at the book in your lap. "It’s… not a language many choose to learn." Aemond spoke quietly, as if he feared his voice might shatter the tranquility of the godswood.

You could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the way his fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic. He had been drawn to you without quite understanding why, as if the godswood itself had pulled him here. 

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “It interested me,” you replied simply, lifting the book to show the cover. “And it seemed like no one else would bother.” You smiled gently, noticing how his shoulders relaxed, just a little. "What were you reading?" you asked, trying to draw him out of his shell.

“High Valyrian,” he answered, a flicker of pride in his voice. “It’s… It’s our tongue, our true tongue.” There was a brief, almost imperceptible glint of hope in his eyes, as if he were reaching out, yearning for something—a connection, perhaps, or just understanding. 

You nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could teach me a word or two,” you offered, and for the first time, you saw Aemond’s lips twitch into a small smile. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

A start.

“Wren!”

You turned at the familiar call of your nickname, a name Jacaerys had chosen for you on a whim, saying it suited you. You never asked why, but you didn't mind—it made you think of the little bird, quick and curious, flitting about the gardens. 

Jacaerys approached, his dark curls bouncing slightly as he moved with purpose. You didn’t notice the way Aemond’s fist tightened at the sight of his nephew, but you felt the sudden tension in the air. Jacaerys’s gaze landed on Aemond, his expression hardening slightly, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?” he asked, a hint of challenge in his voice. 

To Jacaerys, Aemond was always just… there. Always standing in some corner, always watching, always so quiet. It was unnerving, but Jacaerys hadn’t given him much thought—until now. Something about seeing Aemond standing there with you didn’t sit well with him. 

Jacaerys strode forward, his eyes locked on Aemond’s, his hand outstretched to help you up. He never broke his gaze, sizing Aemond up as if trying to decide whether he was a threat. Aemond stared back, unblinking, his face an unreadable mask. 

Aemond tolerated his half-sister's sons at best. His mother, Queen Alicent, had made it her mission to keep her children away from Rhaenyra’s, whispering in their ears all sorts of things about their half-sister and her sons, things that shaped Aemond’s view even if he never voiced them aloud.

He knew better than to openly question the legitimacy of Rhaenyra's sons, especially not in front of King Viserys. But that didn’t mean he didn’t think it. 

Jacaerys pulled you to your feet, his hand firm in yours, then shifted, stepping in front of you, as if to shield you from Aemond. He placed himself between you and his uncle, his stance protective, his chin lifted in silent defiance. Aemond’s eyes flicked to your face, and then back to Jacaerys, his jaw clenched tight, the tension crackling in the space between them.

Aemond’s mouth opened slightly as if he were about to speak, but then he hesitated. You watched him, noticing the flicker of uncertainty in his violet eyes. He looked young then, younger than you expected—a boy caught between pride and some silent longing. The same look he’d worn in the library, staring at the books he could read but didn’t seem to love.

“I only wanted to see what she was reading.” Aemond finally said, his voice almost a whisper, as if afraid it might break if he spoke too loudly. He turned his gaze to you again, something softer in his eyes.

Jacaerys didn’t relax. He kept his posture tense, his shoulders squared. “She doesn’t need you watching over her,” he replied coolly, still keeping himself between you and Aemond. You could feel the heat in his words, the simmering edge of protectiveness. This had been the first you have seen of it, “Jace…” You held his hand, “Be kind.” whispering a plea in his ear.

Aemond’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked as if he might say more, but then, instead, he turned his head slightly, his gaze moving past you and Jacaerys, to the Weirwood tree looming above, its red leaves rustling softly in the breeze.

He had always been fascinated by the godswood, though he’d never say so aloud. There was something ancient about it, something unspoken and holy, and he felt that whenever he stood beneath those blood-red leaves.

“Doesn’t matter,” Aemond muttered, his gaze returning to you, just for a moment. “I’ll leave you to your… study.” His voice was tight, controlled, as he turned to leave, his green tunic blending into the shadows of the trees. But before he took a step, he paused, hesitating again. “You… You shouldn’t be alone here. Not without someone who knows this place,” he added, almost like an afterthought.

Jacaerys scoffed. “I know this place well enough. And she has me,” he said firmly, his tone dismissive. “Go back to your lessons, Uncle.”

Aemond’s eyes flashed at the word, ‘Uncle,’ a reminder of his status, his place. “As you say,” he murmured. His face went cold, the expressionless mask sliding back into place. He turned away, his steps light and quick, almost too quick, as if he couldn’t get away fast enough.

You watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of emotions—pity, perhaps, for the boy without a dragon, the one who seemed so lonely despite being surrounded by people. But you also felt a warmth blooming in your chest at Jacaerys’s side, his presence like a solid, reassuring wall against the world’s uncertainties.

Jacaerys let out a breath he’d been holding and turned to you, his face softening into a smile. “Come on, Wren,” he said, his voice gentler now, his hand still resting on your arm. He guided you away from the godswood, his steps light and quick as if eager to leave the encounter with Aemond behind.

You followed, but a frown creased your forehead. “You didn’t have to be so rude back there, Jace,” you said, your voice holding a hint of reproach. Aemond didn’t seem to mean any harm. He was just… awkward, for lack of better words.

Jacaerys shrugged, his shoulders rising slightly as if to brush off your concern. “It’s not that I don’t like him,” he said, his tone dismissive. “It’s just… he’s different. And he’s always got this way of standing in the corner, watching us. It’s unsettling.”

You bit your lip, glancing back toward the godswood where Aemond had disappeared into the shadows. “But you have to admit, it’s not entirely his fault,” you said softly. “He’s always been on the fringes, hasn’t he? With the way things are at court, I imagine he feels isolated.”

Jacaerys’s expression softened, though he remained guarded. “Maybe,” he conceded. You could understand Jacaery’s reproach to a certain degree. Given that House Targaryen has been divided into two factions, Black and Green, the bad blood between Jacaerys and Aemond, both their mother’s sons, comes as no surprise.

As you walked together, the cool post-meridiem air brushed against your cheeks, and the sky above was turning shades of deep blue and gold. The quiet of the Red Keep settled around you, the hum of the city distant but ever-present.

Jacaerys guided you to the dining hall, where the warm glow of lanterns cast a comforting light. “Come on,” he said, his tone brightening. “Let’s forget about the godswood and enjoy the evening. I promised you a story, remember?”

You smiled, letting the conversation drift to lighter topics as you entered the hall. The evening stretched ahead, full of promise, and you felt a sense of contentment as you settled into the comfort of Jacaerys’s company. The troubles of the day seemed to melt away, if only for a while, as the warmth and laughter of the dining hall embraced you both.“I brought you something.”

He stopped in the middle of the hall. “I brought you something.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth.  “For you,” he said, his eyes bright with anticipation.

You took the bundle, unwrapping it carefully, to find a small, carved wooden bird—a wren, its delicate wings outstretched as if in mid-flight. It was finely crafted, and the wood was smooth under your fingers.

Your heart swelled at the sight, and you couldn’t help but smile up at him. “You made this?” you asked, touched by the gesture. He nodded, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “I thought… well, I thought it could keep you company,” he admitted, looking almost shy. “When you read.”

You laughed softly, feeling a wave of affection for him. “Thank you, Jace,” you said, holding the small bird close to your chest. “It’s perfect.” He grinned, his face lighting up, and for a moment, the tension that had hung in the air seemed to melt away.

The godswood was quiet again, the only sound the soft rustling of the leaves and the distant call of a raven somewhere high above. Jacaerys sat down beside you at the base of the Weirwood, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Now, what were you reading?” he asked, peering at the book in your lap.

“The Tongue of the Horse Lords?” He chuckled, “Dothraki? Why would you want to learn that?”

You shrugged, a teasing smile playing at your lips. “Perhaps I’m planning a trip across the Narrow Sea. Or maybe I want to surprise everyone when I curse them in a language they can’t understand.”

Jacaerys laughed, his arm slipping around your shoulders. “I’d like to see that,” he said, his voice warm. “And if you do decide to go to Essos, you know I’d go with you.”

You leaned into him slightly, “Do you think Vermax will grow large enough to carry two riders?” you asked, your voice a soft murmur. Your eyes remained fixed on the path ahead, but your thoughts were with the dragon.

Vermax was still young, his scales the color of deep green sea glass, his eyes like embers. But you wondered now if he would grow big enough, strong enough, to bear the weight of two, to carry you and Jacaerys both across the sky, far from this place with its whispered rivalries and bitter feuds.

Jacaerys’s lips curled into a small, amused smile. "Perhaps,” he replied, a hint of laughter in his tone. “Vermax is still growing, and who knows what size he’ll reach? Dragons are unpredictable creatures.” There was a glimmer in his eyes, one of mischief and wonder. “But I think he could bear us both if I asked him to. Dragons know when they are needed. They sense it… like we do.”

You slipped your arms around Jacaerys’s arm, pulling him a little closer as the two of you continued to walk through the godswood, your steps crunching softly on the fallen leaves underfoot. “I can’t wait!” you exclaimed, your voice bubbling with excitement.

The thought of you and Jacaerys, riding Vermax together, flying across the skies to far-off places, seeing lands you had only ever heard about in songs and stories— it was a dream that sparkled in your mind, bright and vivid. The idea of traveling together, especially at your young age, filled you with a sense of adventure that made your heart race.

Jacaerys chuckled, a warm sound that matched the smile on his lips. “Where should we go first, do you think?” he asked, looking down at you with an eager glint in his dark eyes. “Maybe the Free Cities? Or the Summer Isles?” He spoke as if the whole world was open to you both, as if no walls or rules could ever hold you back.

The mention of distant lands filled your head with images of bright markets, exotic spices, and strange, beautiful places where no one knew your name. But another thought soon surfaced, one that brought you back to the present.

“Your eighth name day is coming soon,” you reminded him with a grin, watching as his expression shifted to one of surprise and then a touch of delight. “A grand feast, a tourney… I imagine King Viserys will make quite a celebration for his first grandchild.”

Jacaerys rolled his eyes playfully. “Another tourney, more knights prancing about,” he said, though you could see the hint of pride that flickered in his gaze. He was growing into his princely role, even if he liked to pretend otherwise. He was a boy who was slowly learning the weight of the crown that might one day rest upon his head.

Resting your chin lightly on his shoulder, you leaned in closer, feeling the comforting solidity of him beside you. “Do you want anything special for your name day?” you asked, voice soft with genuine curiosity. “A sword? A new cloak, perhaps? A book on dragons?” You tilted your head slightly, the question hanging in the air like the last leaves of autumn, waiting to fall.

Jacaerys looked thoughtful, his brow furrowing slightly, his eyes narrowing as he pondered. “A gift?” He seemed to savor the word for a moment, as if tasting its possibilities. “I don’t need anything grand… but perhaps…” he said softly, a rare, almost wistful tone in his voice.

“A dance?”

Your face contorted into an exaggerated expression of contemplation, your eyes narrowing just slightly before you nodded, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “I think I can manage that,” you whispered.

Jacaerys’s eyes remained fixed on yours, his expression softening. He turned his head just enough that his dark curls brushed against your cheek, the brief contact sending a shiver through you. His gaze was earnest, the kind that spoke of trust placed in something precious.

“Good,” he murmured, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the leaves around you. “I look forward to it, Wren..” The nickname made your heart flutter, a warmth spreading through you like a small, secret joy.

You had always liked that he called you that, a name that felt light and free, like the bird itself, flitting from branch to branch, never staying in one place too long. It was a name that suited you, in this moment and in his company, where everything felt a little less heavy and the world seemed a little more open.

It had not gone unnoticed in the halls of the Red Keep that young Lady Dayne had earned a place of prominence within the Royal Family. Though new to the court, the Dornish girl had quickly caught the attention of many, not least of all the Crown Princess Rhaenyra and her sons, who seemed particularly fond of her.

The courtiers whispered about it with raised eyebrows and knowing looks, their voices hushed but insistent in the shadowed alcoves and echoing corridors. But what set tongues wagging most was the unmistakable closeness between Lady Dayne and Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra's eldest and the heir to Dragonstone.

They spoke of how the boy, usually so reserved in the presence of strangers, seemed to soften when Lady Dayne was near. He laughed more freely, his dark eyes alight with an unguarded joy that seemed rare in a young man who bore the weight of such high expectations.

He was often seen walking with her in the godswood or lingering overlong at her side during lessons in the library, his attention more on her than on any maester’s teachings. There was speculation, of course. Lady Dayne had become a favorite subject of idle talk, her every movement watched with keen interest by those who thrived on court intrigue.

The courtiers noted her bright laughter, her easy manner, and how she moved through the palace as if she had been born to its halls, despite her Dornish blood. Some wondered if there was a purpose behind the Princess's fondness for the girl; others questioned if the girl herself had ambitions beyond what seemed so innocent and childlike on the surface.

And yet, whatever schemes or machinations the courtiers imagined, none could deny that there was a genuine affection between Lady Dayne and Prince Jacaerys. It was there in the way his gaze sought hers across crowded rooms, how he seemed to lean into her words as if she spoke with a wisdom beyond her years.

It was there in the way she seemed to calm him with just a touch, a quieting presence amid the storm that often surrounded him. It was a bond that seemed to defy the usual coldness of court alliances, a friendship that bloomed against the backdrop of political tension and whispered accusations.

Even the Queen, Alicent Hightower, had taken note, her green eyes watching the pair with a mix of curiosity and something darker, something guarded. She did not miss the way Jacaerys’s gaze lingered on Lady Dayne or how his smile widened in her presence.

If Lady Dayne was aware of the scrutiny, she gave no sign. She moved through the court with an easy grace, her expression open, her laughter free. She seemed untouched by the whispers, unbothered by the endless eyes that followed her, as if she had grown used to such attention or cared little for the judgments of those who hid their secrets behind courtly masks.

Yet the murmurings persisted.

Some wondered if a betrothal might be in the making, a match that would strengthen Princess Rhaenyra's claims by tying her house to the ancient and noble blood of Starfall. Others thought it impossible—that the realm would never accept a union between a Targaryen prince and a girl of Dornish descent, no matter how favored she was by the Princess.

For now, the court could only watch, and wait, and wonder at what lay beneath the surface of this growing friendship—and whether it might change the course of the realm in ways that no one could yet foresee.

So it did not come as a surprise to the court when you were invited by Princess Rhaenyra to sit in the Royal Box for the tourney in celebration of Prince Jacaerys’ name day. The Royal Box, a place of high honor, was traditionally reserved for the royal family, the Velaryons, and members of the Small Council.

To be granted a seat there was to be acknowledged as more than just another highborn guest; it was to be included in the inner circle of power, to be seen by the realm itself as favored by the future Queen. You reclined on the plush loveseat, the delicate fabric cool against your skin, as Lucerys settled with a contented sigh, his head resting on your lap.

The tent around you was a sanctuary from the bustling energy of the tourney grounds, where the roars of the crowd and the rhythmic beat of drums created a distant but persistent backdrop. Outside, the noise of the tourney was a cacophony of excitement and tension, but within the tent, a comforting calm reigned.

Lucerys, eyes half-closed, let out a soft yawn, his breath warm and steady against your legs. His sleep-rumpled hair and the faint smile on his lips spoke of a sleepy contentment, even as he mumbled incoherent words, drifting between dreams and wakefulness.

The ungodly hour of the morning had come far too early for all of you, dragging you from the warmth of your beds and into the chill of dawn. The carriage ride through the crisp air outside Kingslanding had been a blur, and now, here in the tent, time seemed to stretch in its own lazy rhythm.

“Why is Jacaerys taking so long?” Lucerys grumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric of your gown. Impatience edged his tone, the frustration of being late mounting with every passing minute. The tourney had been set to start in the morning, and as the moments ticked away, the spectacle outside waited for no one.

You absently smoothed Lucerys’s hair, offering a soothing touch to help him stay calm. “I’m sure he’ll be out soon,” you said softly, trying to ease his growing impatience. Your own excitement was tempered by the worry of being late, and you couldn’t help but glance toward the screen where he was getting dressed, hoping for a glimpse of Jacaerys.

The tent itself was a haven of rich textures and colors—a stark contrast to the grittiness of the tourney grounds outside. Silk banners in deep crimson and gold adorned the walls, their luxurious fabric shimmering softly in the filtered light.

The scent of cedar and fresh straw lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of roast meat and spiced wine that hinted at the feast to come. It was a far cry from the raw energy of the tournament field, where knights clashed and lances shattered in a display of strength and skill.

As you waited, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney's beginning—an occasional cheer from the crowd, the sharp crack of a lance meeting its target. The excitement outside was almost tangible, seeping through the tent walls and stirring a restlessness in your own heart. You glanced again at the entrance, the flutter of fabric heralding the arrival of Jacaerys.

The screen finally parted, and Jacaerys stepped out, his cheeks flushed with the combined exertion of dressing and the thrill of the day. He was dressed in a crisp black shirt, buttoned up neatly, with a vibrant red vest emblazoned with intricately embroidered golden dragons. His eyes sparkled with a mix of embarrassment and excitement as he took in the sight of you and Lucerys.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Jacaerys said, his voice carrying a hint of apology and a touch of playful exasperation. He moved toward you with an easy grace, his attire swishing with each step. His presence seemed to light up the room, dispelling the lingering tension.

Lucerys’s face brightened at the sight of his elder brother. He scrambled off your lap and bounded toward Jacaerys, his earlier irritation melting away in the warmth of family affection. “Finally!” Lucerys exclaimed, his tone a mix of relief and impatience.

You rose from the loveseat, smoothing out the folds of your gown and offering Jacaerys a reassuring smile. “You look splendid, Jace,” you said, your tone light and encouraging. “Now let’s not keep the entire tourney waiting.”

Jacaerys took your hand in his, guiding you confidently through the tents that were also set up for other noble houses. You clutched Lucerys’ hand tightly with your other, careful to keep him close as the three of you made your way toward the arena. The ground was soft and uneven, and you lifted the hem of your gown to avoid the risk of mud splashing up.

“I’ve got your back,” Lucerys piped up from behind you, his small hands reaching out to lift the back of your skirt, ensuring it wouldn’t drag through the muck. His gesture was both earnest and endearing, a show of his determination to help despite his young age.

You turned to him with a grateful smile, your eyes reflecting your appreciation. “Thanks, Luke,” you said, the warmth of your gratitude evident in your tone. The three of you quickened your pace, Jacaerys leading the way.

As you hurried through the shifting crowds and past the scattered tents, the sounds of the tourney grew louder—cheers and the clash of armor creating a symphony of excitement. Each step quickening with elation as you approached the arena.

However, that excitement was abruptly dimmed by the sight of a certain knight striding past. Ser Criston Cole, clad in his polished armor, was preparing for his own participation in the event.

Jacaerys stopped abruptly, his expression darkening as he fixed his gaze on the knight. Criston Cole’s eyes swept over the three of you with a look of disdain, his posture radiating an arrogance that was as palpable as the clamor of the approaching tourney.

“Young Prince, should you not already be in the Royal Box?” he drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. The tone was unmistakable—an attempt to belittle Jacaerys under the guise of polite inquiry.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the audacity of the knight. It was well-known that Criston Cole had ingratiated himself with Queen Alicent, and his inflated sense of self-importance had become a tiresome fixture at court. His haughty demeanor was as grating as it was predictable.

Not wanting to be anymore later than you already were, “And don’t you have a tourney to get ready for, Ser Crispin?” you retorted, your voice carrying a touch of sharpness. The nickname was a deliberate slight, a way to remind him that his favored status did not entitle him to look down on others. The words hung in the air between you, a challenge to his presumed superiority.

Jacaerys shot you a grateful glance, though his own gaze remained fixed on Ser Criston. The knight’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing further, his expression a mix of irritation and calculation. With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and continued on his way, leaving the three of you to resume your hurried path toward the arena.

You three reached the Royal Box, a grand structure elevated above the arena, offering an unrivaled view of the proceedings below. The box was an opulent display of House Targaryen’s heraldry, its banners fluttering with a regal grace. The three-headed dragon, embroidered in red on a field of black, rippled in the breeze, a constant reminder of the Targaryen legacy that presided over the event.

As you entered the Royal Box, a hush fell over the assembled guests, their murmurs ebbing into a sea of quiet anticipation. The space was a grand display of Targaryen opulence, with banners of the three-headed dragon fluttering above, casting their shadow over the esteemed company within.

King Viserys occupied the central position, his regal presence augmented by the grandeur of the box. His face, lined with the weight of many years and decisions, was nonetheless softened by a subtle smile as he surveyed the festivities below. Beside him, Queen Alicent maintained an air of grace despite the snobbish wring on her face.

Her gown, a masterpiece of intricate embroidery, matched her poised demeanor. Her children were scattered nearby: Aegon, already showing the effects of too much Arbor Red, slouched with a vacant stare; Helaena, fiddling nervously with her fingers, lost in her own world; and Aemond, who sat apart from the rest, his expression a mask of quiet contemplation.

Princess Rhaenys, known as the Queen Who Never Was, was ensconced in a seat of prominence. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, took in the scene with a mixture of pride and critical appraisal. By her side was her husband, the formidable Corlys Velaryon, his presence as commanding as his reputation. His gaze swept over the assembly with an air of both authority and quiet anticipation.

The Small Council members were present as well, their faces a study in formality tinged with restrained eagerness. They whispered amongst themselves, casting occasional glances towards the arena below, their expressions reflecting the gravity of their positions.

Completing the distinguished lineup were Rhaenyra Targaryen and her husband, Laenor Velaryon. Rhaenyra’s posture was straight and proud, her eyes alight with the excitement and weight of the day’s significance. Laenor, ever the supportive consort, stood by her side, his demeanor a blend of reserved elegance.

You, Jacaerys, and Lucerys shuffled to your seats amidst the curious eyes of the assembled nobility. Lucerys settled on Jacaerys' left, his youthful face bright with the thrill of the day’s events, while you took the seat to Jacaerys' right, your presence creating a subtle stir.

The whispers of the court grew louder, a low hum of speculation and intrigue weaving through the Royal Box. As you settled into your seat, the murmurs of the crowd seemed to acknowledge the significance of your place among the royal family.

To many, it appeared as though you were already being groomed for a more prominent role, a sign of your growing importance within Princess Rhaenyra’s inner circle. The eyes of the court lingered on you, reflecting a mixture of curiosity and speculation about the young lady who had captured the Princess's favor.

As the heralds called for the first joust to begin, you felt the eyes of the court upon you—Lady Redwyne whispering behind her fan, Lord Beesbury nodding thoughtfully, and even Queen Alicent herself casting a quick, measuring glance your way.

To some, your presence in the Royal Box might be an audacity, an unexpected elevation of a girl from Dorne; to others, it was a sign of favor, a new piece in the game that was ever unfolding in the halls of the Red Keep.

From your seat, you could see the bright colors of the tourney ground, the lords and knights resplendent in their armor, their horses prancing and snorting with eagerness. The trumpets blared, and the crowd's roar rose like a wave as the first pair of riders charged toward each other, lances poised. 

Jacaerys leaned closer, his dark curls brushing your cheek as he whispered, "I don’t see your brother." His gaze swept over the line of knights preparing for the tourney, searching for a familiar face. You followed Jacaerys' gaze, sweeping over the bustling field and crowded stands until your eyes found the familiar lavender banner of House Dayne.

There, in a separate box, sat Merek, looking every bit the noble he was. He was dressed not in armor but in ceremonial attire—a deep indigo tunic adorned with the silver star of Starfall, chosen to mirror your own gown, which shimmered in a shade of tropical indigo. A goblet of wine rested casually in his hand, his posture relaxed, his expression serene as he observed the unfolding spectacle.

A flicker of guilt pricked at your conscience. Though Merek had insisted you sit with the royals, it felt somehow wrong to leave him alone, even if he did not seem to mind. You and Merek had always been close; his presence had been your shield and your strength.

But he had offered you his usual playful grin earlier, urging you to enjoy the festivities with your friends. Still, the pang of regret lingered, a quiet ache of longing to be at his side, sharing in the day’s excitement.

As the Sword of the Morning, Merek could have easily joined the ranks of the knights below, his skill with a blade and reputation for honor were more than enough to secure him a place among the competitors. Yet, such theatrics were beneath him.

House Dayne valued honor and loyalty above all else, just as the Starks did in the North. In many ways, the Daynes were seen as the Starks of Dorne—both houses with a proud heritage dating back to the First Men, their values shaped by the same ancient traditions of integrity and duty.

“Merek doesn’t participate in tourneys,” you whispered to Jacaerys, your voice low, intimate, meant for his ears alone. “He sees them as a waste of time and honor. He prefers the real battlefield over one made of painted lances and staged glory.”

Jacaerys glanced again toward Merek’s box, where your brother now raised his goblet in a quiet salute, catching your gaze from across the field. A small smile tugged at your lips, and you lifted your hand in response, a silent promise that you would find time to join him later.

The crowd's noise swelled, and the heralds’ trumpets cut through the air like a knife, announcing the commencement of the tourney. The knights on their steeds began to line up, their armor glinting under the pale autumn sun. You could feel the anticipation rising like a tide, filling the air with an almost palpable energy. Lucerys shifted restlessly in his seat, excitement sparking in his bright young eyes.

Jacaerys leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against yours, a light, reassuring touch amidst the growing frenzy of the crowd. “Mother says I should cheer for Ser Harwin, but I think I’ll cheer for Ser Erryk instead,” he whispered, a playful grin spreading across his face. “I’ve heard he’s the better rider.”

You chuckled softly. “Why not cheer for both? Or better yet, place a bet and see which of them proves you wrong.”

His grin widened. “A bet? With you?” He feigned shock. “Let me guess, the loser will have to forfeit their lemon cakes for a moon.” You leaned in closer, your voice a conspiratorial whisper. “I promise not to take all of them… just a few.”

Jacaerys laughed, and for a moment, the weight of his name and all that it bore seemed to lift. He looked every bit the boy he still was, his youthful face bright with mirth. You felt a warmth spread through you, glad to see him at ease, even if only for a short while.

From across the box, you could feel the sharp gaze of Queen Alicent upon you, her eyes flicking between you and her sons. Aegon was already half-slumped in his chair, flushed with wine, while Aemond sat with a stoic expression, his singular focus on the field below. Helaena seemed lost in her own world, whispering to herself, her hands weaving through the air in some intricate pattern only she understood.

Aemond's sharp gaze found yours, his expression neutral at first, his lips thinning slightly as if deciding whether to acknowledge you. But when you offered a small wave, a subtle, almost reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He returned the gesture with a discreet wave, his movements careful, quick, so as not to draw too much attention.

His smile faded as he turned back to the tourney, his posture straightening under the ever-watchful eye of his mother, Queen Alicent. You could sense the tension in him—the weight of expectations and the constant scrutiny from those around him. You’d seen that guarded look in his eyes before, a mixture of judgment and restraint, the way he seemed to always be preparing himself for the next challenge or judgment.

You turned your attention back to the field, the knights now charging at full speed, lances aimed and armor clashing in a vivid display of strength and skill. 

King Viserys rose from his seat, his hand resting heavily on the arm of his chair as he steadied himself. The crowd hushed, their voices falling silent in anticipation. He stood tall, his golden crown catching the sunlight, reflecting a brilliant gleam that danced over his worn features.

Despite the lines etched into his face and the signs of age weighing on his shoulders, his eyes still held the spark of authority, a sovereign who had seen much and ruled through even more. He lifted a hand, signaling for the crowd's full attention.

His voice, though not as strong as it once was, carried across the tourney grounds with a commanding presence. “Lords and ladies, knights and squires, good people of Kingslanding,” he began, his voice a deep rumble that reached every corner of the arena. “Today, we celebrate the eighth name day of my beloved grandson, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. In his honor, we gather to witness the valor and might of the realm's finest knights.”

A cheer erupted from the stands, a wave of excitement and anticipation rippling through the crowd. Viserys allowed a smile, nodding in approval at the response. He continued, “This tourney shall not only be a test of strength and skill but a testament to the bonds that hold our great houses together. Let us remember that even in competition, there is unity, and in our unity, there is strength.”

His gaze swept over the gathered nobles, lingering for a moment on Queen Alicent, whose expression remained unreadable, and then on Princess Rhaenyra, who met his eyes with a look of quiet pride.

“May the Seven watch over each of you, may the best among you prove your worth in honor and courage, and may the gods grant us a day of sport to remember.” He paused for a heartbeat, his face softening with a touch of affection as he glanced toward Jacaerys, who stood beside you with a small, eager smile on his lips.

“And to my grandson,” Viserys added, “May your name day bring you joy and may your future be as bright as the flames of your ancestors.”

A louder cheer rose from the stands, the crowd clapping and shouting their approval. The sound of drums began again, a steady beat that quickened the pulse of those in attendance. Viserys lifted his cup of wine, a gesture mirrored by the lords and ladies around him. “Let the tourney begin!” he declared with finality, his voice strong and resolute.

At his command, a flourish of horns erupted, signaling the start of the event. Knights on their steeds trotted to their positions, banners flying, lances in hand, ready to charge down the lists. The tension in the air was palpable, a mixture of anticipation and excitement that hung over the field like a storm about to break.

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Dauntless

Ep-14 "Fear" simonghostrileyxfemalereader

It was Ghost's turn now, as he stepped forward, his usually unshakable composure now visibly strained. Four stood beside him, his face impassive, before nodding to Ghost. With a quiet, almost imperceptible motion, Four injected the serum into Ghost's neck.

The moment the needle pricked his skin, Ghost's body stiffened slightly, and then he closed his eyes. His jaw clench as if bracing himself for something.

The world around him seemed to fade as his body relaxed. The simulation had begun.

He was in Berlin again. The familiar, intense surroundings of the train tunnel engulfed him. He was back in the heart of that mission, the one where everything had gone wrong. His mind had transported him to that dark moment, and you could see it on his face.

In the simulation, the distant sounds of gunfire and the roar of the train engines filled the air, but it wasn't the chaos of the battle that had him frozen in place.

The air was thick with the stench of gunpowder and metal, the dim fluorescent lights overhead casting eerie, flickering shadows. The train tracks stretched into endless darkness, the silence pressing down on him like a heavy weight.

His boots scraped against the gravel as he took slow, deliberate steps forward, his breath steady but his gut twisted with unease. The station was abandoned, except for the faint, ghostly glow of light coming from the platform ahead.

Ghost climbed up onto the platform, scanning his surroundings with the precision of a soldier. His instincts screamed at him, something was wrong.

Then he saw it.

Soap.

Lying there, motionless.

A pool of blood seeped from beneath him, staining the cracked tiles in dark, spreading tendrils. Ghost's breath caught as his feet carried him forward on their own.

Then, he saw something that made his stomach drop.

Himself.

A second Ghost knelt beside Soap's lifeless body, his hands covered in blood, pressed against a wound that no longer bled. His mask was smeared with red, his shoulders shaking with a grief that couldn't be swallowed down.

Ghost stood frozen, staring at his other self as if looking into a warped reflection.

The kneeling Ghost raised his head, locking eyes with him.

"You let him die, Ghost."

The words came out flat, hollow, but they sliced through him like a blade.

Ghost took a step forward, his chest tightening. "No... I-"

"You let him die," his other self repeated, voice colder this time, dripping with quiet accusation.

Ghost barely noticed that he was stepping closer until his boots nearly touched the pool of blood. He wanted to reach out, to touch Soap, to prove to himself that this wasn't real.

But then-

Soap's eyes snapped open.

Ghost's breath stilled.

For a long second, the only sound was the faint buzzing of the station lights.

Then Soap inhaled sharply, a rattling, painful sound. His eyes, clouded with pain, flickered up to Ghost.

"You left me to die, Ghost."

Ghost took a step back. His heart slammed against his ribs.

"You left me to die," Soap rasped again, his voice strained, shaking with something between anger and despair. His fingers twitched against the cold tile as if trying to reach for him.

Ghost shook his head. "No, Johnny, I tried-"

"You let me die."

Soap's voice rose, filled with something raw, something broken.

"You let me die, Ghost."

"No." Ghost clenched his fists, his breathing turning shallow. "I didn't-"

"You let me die."

Soap's body convulsed. His voice echoed, multiplying, the words bouncing off the station walls in an overwhelming, deafening chorus.

"You let me die. You let me die. You let me die."

Ghost's vision blurred. The world around him tilted, the walls of the station closing in. His ears rang, drowning out all thought, all reason.

"No!" He clutched his head, his knees hitting the bloodstained floor.

But the whispers didn't stop.

Soap's lifeless eyes burned into him, his mouth still moving, repeating the same damning words over and over again, "You let me die."

"No, no, no!" Ghost muttered, his hands shaking, voice breaking under the weight of the fear. He felt helpless, powerless, and the weight of loss crushed him with every second.

The sounds of the fight around him seemed distant now, the only thing in focus was Soap slipping away. He could feel his own chest tightening, his breathing growing erratic. Losing Soap... was a fear so deep it felt like a wound in his very soul.

And just as quickly as it had started, everything went dark.

Ghost's eyes snapped open, and he gasped for air, his heart racing in his chest. He was back in the room, safe, the simulation fading into nothingness.

Four stood nearby, watching him closely. "You okay?" Four's voice was quieter now, understanding the toll the simulation had taken on Ghost.

Ghost took a long breath, swallowing hard as he regained his composure. "Yeah," he said, his voice low, but steady. "Just... too real for a second."

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of dread. "I can't lose him," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. The fear was still there, gnawing at him, but now he knew he had to keep moving forward.

And somehow, he would.

Four's voice broke through the haze of Ghost's thoughts as he slowly stood up, his expression unreadable but tinged with understanding.

"You will learn to face your fear. You will have to," Four said, his words steady and firm, as if this was part of something bigger, something necessary.

Ghost's chest still heaved with the remnants of the simulation, the images of Soap's lifeless body flashing in his mind. It felt raw, too real, like a wound that wouldn't heal. But Four was right. This was part of it, part of training, part of survival.

The silence between them was thick. Ghost's fists clenched, his knuckles white from the tension that still radiated through him. He knew Four was right. The simulations didn't give mercy. They only gave opportunities to confront your darkest fears and push through them, or be swallowed whole by them.

Ghost nodded, though the weight of it settled deeper in his chest. There was no escaping it. Not anymore.

He would face it again.

And next time... he would make sure he didn't lose anyone.

Ghost came out of the simulation room, his steps heavy, his breath unsteady. His shoulders were tense, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. There was something different about him, something raw, something haunted.

You stood up from your seat as soon as you saw him. "Wha, what happened?" you asked, your voice cautious, laced with concern.

But he didn't answer.

He just walked past you, his gaze fixed straight ahead, as if he didn't even see you. His movements were stiff, mechanical, like he was trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

You frowned, worry gripping your chest as you hurried after him.

"Ghost?" you called again, but he kept walking.

The dormitory hall was dimly lit, the hum of the overhead lights buzzing faintly in the silence. He pushed open the door to his bunk and sat down on his bed, elbows resting on his knees, he took his mask off, his fingers tangled in his hair. He pulled his knees up to his chest, his head bowed, his body folding in on itself like he was trying to disappear.

You hesitated in the doorway before stepping inside, crossing the room carefully. You knelt in front of him, watching the way his chest rose and fell with unsteady breaths.

"Ghost... are you alright?" you asked softly.

He didn't look at you at first. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscles twitch beneath his skin. His eyes, when he finally lifted them, looked distant, lost in something you couldn't see.

"I lost him," he whispered, his voice rough, barely above a breath. "I lost Johnny all over again today."

You felt your heart sink.

Soap.

Ghost's best friend. His brother.

You swallowed, unsure what to say. The weight of his grief pressed into the space between you, thick and suffocating.

"Ghost..." you said his name softly, but he just shook his head.

"It was like watching him die all over again," he said, his voice raw, like he'd been trying to hold it in for too long. "He was right there, and I, I couldn't do anything. He looked at me, and he kept saying it... over and over again..."

You didn't have to ask what it was.

"You let me die."

The words probably echoed in his head even now.

You reached out, hesitating for only a moment before placing your hand over his. He was cold.

"You didn't let him die, Ghost," you said gently. "You know that, right?"

He exhaled shakily, his grip tightening around his own wrists. "Doesn't feel that way."

Silence stretched between you. You knew words alone wouldn't be enough to erase what he had seen, what he had felt.

But you weren't going to leave him to drown in it alone.

So you just stayed there, kneeling in front of him, your hand resting over his, grounding him, reminding him that he wasn't alone.

Ghost's fingers twitched beneath yours, but he didn't pull away. He just stared down at your hand over his, his breathing still uneven.

You squeezed his hand a little tighter, grounding him. "He's not gone forever, Ghost," you said softly. "He's watching over you. Everyone will remember him."

Ghost let out a slow, shuddering breath, his shoulders rising and falling as if he was trying to steady himself.

"He's still alive in your heart," you continued, your voice gentle but firm. "As a good memory."

His head tilted slightly, his gaze flickering up to meet yours. There was something vulnerable in his eyes, something you rarely got to see.

A muscle in his jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue, to push back against your words. But he didn't.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes for a brief second, as if trying to hold onto what you said.

"Maybe," he muttered. His voice was quiet, but there was no anger in it, just exhaustion.

You offered him a small, reassuring squeeze, feeling the tension in his fingers slowly easing.

"You don't have to carry this alone," you whispered.

Ghost let out a low sigh, finally letting his grip loosen, his hand resting beneath yours. He didn't say anything, but he didn't need to.

For now, it was enough.

You slowly lowered yourself onto your knees, positioning yourself between his legs, your hands resting gently on his thighs as you leaned in. His body was hunched forward, his arms wrapped around his knees, but you could see the way his fingers trembled slightly, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him.

Without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a firm embrace. His body tensed against yours, muscles coiled tight as if resisting the comfort you were offering. But you didn't let go. You held him closer, your warmth pressing into him, your cheek resting against his chest as you whispered,

"I'm with you... You're not alone."

Ghost tensed at first, his body rigid under your touch. But you didn't let go. You held him tighter, resting your cheek against his chest, feeling the slow, uneven rise and fall of his breaths.

"I'm with you..." you whispered. "You're not alone."

For a moment, he didn't move, as if he didn't know what to do with the comfort you were offering. Then, slowly, you felt the tension in his shoulders ease. His arms hesitated before wrapping around you, his grip firm but uncertain, as if he wasn't used to this kind of closeness.

His breath was warm against the top of your head, and you felt his heartbeat, steady, strong, but guarded.

"You don't have to say anything," you murmured, your fingers gently pressing into his back. "Just let it be, for now."

Ghost exhaled, the sound low and heavy, and for the first time since leaving the simulation room, he allowed himself to just be.

And in that quiet moment, you knew he wasn't carrying his grief alone anymore.

The entire day, Ghost had barely spoken a word. His usual commanding presence had been replaced by a quiet, simmering storm beneath the surface. You could feel it-his silence wasn't calm. It was restraint.

You sat beside him at lunch, watching him pick at his food but never taking a bite. The tension clung to him like a second skin.

Then, out of nowhere, Eric bumped into your table, his ever-present smugness radiating off him like a stench.

"I've seen your simulation, Ghost..." he drawled, his lips curling into a sneer.

Ghost didn't move, but you saw his fingers tighten into a fist on the table.

"You're not as strong as you pretend to be," Eric continued, his voice thick with mockery. He tilted his head, studying Ghost like a predator playing with its prey. "Who was that, huh? Johnny...?" His smirk widened. "Your boyfriend that you lost?"

Ghost went rigid.

A deadly silence settled over the cafeteria. Every Dauntless initiate, every member sitting at the surrounding tables, turned their heads.

You barely had time to process what was happening before Ghost exploded.

With one swift motion, he grabbed Eric by the collar and slammed him onto the lunch table with a force that rattled trays and sent cups spilling over.

A roar tore from Ghost's throat, raw and primal, shaking the very air around you. His gloved hand clamped around Eric's throat, pinning him down as Eric choked, his smug expression twisting into one of panic.

"I'll kill you, you son of a-"

"Ghost! Enough!"

Four's voice rang out as he, along with several initiates, rushed forward. Strong hands clamped down on Ghost's shoulders, trying to pull him back, but Ghost was locked in, his grip unrelenting, his breathing ragged with fury.

Eric clawed at Ghost's wrist, his face turning red as he gasped for breath.

Four yanked at Ghost's arm, his voice firm. "Let. Go."

You shot up from your seat, heart pounding. "Ghost, stop!"

For a moment, he didn't hear anyone. His world had narrowed to the man beneath him, to the blinding rage consuming him.

But then, as Four and the others pried him away, Ghost's grip finally loosened. He shoved Eric back with one last push, sending him stumbling as he gasped and coughed, hands clutching at his throat.

The cafeteria remained deathly silent, everyone staring.

Ghost's chest heaved as he glared down at Eric, his fists still clenched, his body vibrating with barely contained wrath.

Four stepped between them, his voice low but sharp. "That's enough."

Eric coughed, his lips curling back into an almost deranged grin. "Touched a nerve, didn't I?" he rasped.

Ghost took a step forward again, but you grabbed his arm, holding him back. He was still breathing heavily, but at your touch, his muscles tensed... then slowly eased.

Four's gaze flicked between them before he turned to Ghost. "Walk away."

For a long moment, Ghost didn't move. Then, without another word, he yanked his arm from your grasp and stormed out of the cafeteria.

The moment he was gone, murmurs broke out all around.

Eric straightened, rubbing his throat, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he watched Ghost's retreating form.

You turned to follow Ghost without hesitation.

[stellarcat]

(not so) Fun Fact: Slasher’s soul has cracks which were mended with determination. You’ll have to keep reading to find out how he got ‘em ;)

previous

next

Chapter XX

“heh, didja really think you would be able-“

Frisk tightened their grip on the knife and lunged forward.

Sans was...not dead though? His eyes fluttered open, faintly glowing as he stood motionless. Through his blurred vision, he saw the kid frozen in place, their soul glowing a bright red, gripped by Chara’s ghostly power.

"NOW!"

Sans didn’t waste the opportunity. He summoned every ounce of strength he had left, slamming Frisk into the wall and pinning them with sharp bones. He staggered closer, glaring at the human as they gasped for breath, coughing up blood on the floor. But then—

Frisk struck out with the knife, piercing his side. They pushed themselves up, weak but still determined, a sinister grin spreading across their face. Bleeding heavily, they rummaged through their pack, pulling out the last slice of butterscotch-cinnamon pie. Shoving it into their mouth, their wounds began to heal.

They turned to Sans, who was struggling to keep standing, and let out a dark chuckle.

"Better luck next time, freak~"

With Sans out of the way, Frisk continued their march toward Asgoreks Throne Room.

The skeleton collapsed behind one of the columns in the Judgment Hall, clutching his wound as dust began to spill from him. He felt his form fading, his body deteriorating with every shallow breath. He leaned back against the cold stone, his eyelights dimming.

Chara’s voice shattered the silence.

"No... No no no nO NO NOO! It should’ve worked! I had control of their soul AND reset power! WHY DIDN’T IT WORK?!"

Sans gritted his teeth, trying to push through the pain, but it was too much.

"...it’s... it’s okay, kiddo... this...this was the closest we got to them... guess we’ll try... next time...”

Chara’s form flickered in and out, their panic mounting.

"No! There won’t be a next time! It has to be now or never!"

Despite Chara’s desperate words, Sans closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable. He was hopeless. Helpless. Dust was already starting to coat his gloves.

Then, through his eyelids, he saw it—a blinding red glow. His eyes snapped open, seeing Chara standing before him, their translucent form trembling like a dying flame, barely holding together. They were gently cupping his soul, the cracks slowly filling up with a red substance.

"c-chara...what are you doing?"

Chara’s voice was soft but steady, though they were visibly falling apart.

"What I should’ve done a long time ago."

Sans tried to reach for them, his voice strained.

"n-no, i-it’s pointless—"

"It’s not. That slice of pie? It was their last healing item... now’s the perfect time to strike."

“b-but didn’t you say i could melt?!”

Chara hesitated, their confidence faltering for the first time.

"I...I don’t know. Technically, too much determination melts monsters... but the thing is... I don’t have a lot. Just enough to stay alive. And maybe... maybe that applies to you too."

Sans shook his head, his voice breaking.

"Chara, don’t! we’ll find another way! i... i don’t wanna lose any more good people—"

Chara’s flickering form floated closer, their expression softening.

"I’m not good. This mess is my fault... since the day me and my brother have died. But now... this is my chance to make things right. To help you fix the trouble I caused."

They paused, their figure dimming until only a faint outline remained.

"H-Hey... Avenge the monsters for me, okay?"

Sans reached out weakly, but it was too late.

“...’course kid...”

With a final flicker of light, Chara disappeared, their remaining determination surging into Sans’s soul. He gasped as the heat burned through him, filling the cracks and coursing through every inch of his body. The pain was unbearable, but as the glow stabilized, he opened his eyes.

And for the first time, Sans was filled with DETERMINATION.

[dannyphannypack]

Happy Holiday Truce @ghozteevee !

I'm so sorry about the wait! I'd say the holidays got away from me, but I think procrastination is pretty true-to-form for me. Something I'll definitely work on in the New Year. I really hope it's still January 3rd for you!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little story <3 I took some inspo from two of your prompts: post identity reveal family outing and sibling bonding. The sibling bonding is in the first quarter or so, the parental bonding is in the last bit. Also, the conclusion definitely ran away from me! Very Brother Bear vibes up in here. I hope that's okay!

Enjoy! :3

Word Count: 3280

Danny gasped awake with a shiver, barely catching the green of his eyes as it caught on the shiny, canvassed ceiling of their tent. His breath fogged in front of him, visible in the quickly dimming glow. It served as a warning of what he already knew had awoken him, but it was nice to get the confirmation anyway: there was a ghost nearby.

He rubbed the crust from his eyes as he allowed his brain time to wake up the rest of the way. The good news was that it didn’t feel like anything overly powerful. The bad news was that if it tripped his Ghost Sense, then it was powerful enough—and more than likely causing havoc, because it was clearly feeling some big emotions and those emotions usually amounted to some brand of anger. It also felt distinctly feral, and given their locale, it was safe to bet it was an animal spirit of some kind. Those could be especially unpredictable, and he wasn’t in the mood.

Danny looked over at the sleeping bag where his sister slept—seeing in the dark hadn’t been a problem for a long time, with or without the aid of glowing eyes—and he watched the slow rise and fall of her chest as she quietly snored. Now, whether or not to wake her was the question. The Ghost Assault Vehicle would be the safest place for her if things went haywire, but undoubtedly she’d be worried and clingy and want to help, which he also wasn’t in the mood for.

Ultimately, though, safety overruled whatever annoying sibling feelings she might stir up. Danny dislodged himself from his own sleeping bag and crawled across the floor to her, the waterproof fabric beneath him making rustling noises all the way.

“Psst,” he whispered, setting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Jazz.”

“Whazzat?” she asked, jerking. “Danny?”

“Hey. There’s a ghost.”

Her eyes blew open. “Like, here? Now?”

Yeah, maybe he could’ve handled that better. “Not yet,” he amended. “But I’m heading out. You should probably get in the Gav, just in case.”

“The G-A-V, Danny, not the ‘Gav.’” It was an old argument, one they hadn’t really argued over in years. Danny figured that Jazz probably found it endearing now that she was out of the house and missing him for most of the year. She sighed as she sat up and reached for the ground, hands fumbling towards her glasses. “You’re going alone? At least tell Mom and Dad first. And help me with a light, please.”

Danny summoned a ball of ectoplasm and sent it floating up towards the domed ceiling, where it lit the whole tent in a dim, soft blue. He grimaced. “I was kind of hoping you’d do that.”

Danny’s parents had been informed of his little secret only a week ago, and all-in-all it had gone down pretty well. The timing had been strategic, of course; Danny was going off to college at the end of the summer, and his parents needed to know why their newest ghostly ally would be disappearing from Amity for the entire school year (barring holidays and emergencies, if all went well). Going to college was a failsafe he knew he hadn’t needed, but wanted anyway—seeing alternate timelines where his parents were accepting of his after-school activities was very different from actually experiencing it in his own, after all. They’d reacted much as expected, though. Surprised. Excited. Sad. Guilt-stricken.

Jazz looked at him with something that bordered on pity, and it made him squirm. “I can if that’s what you really want, Danny,” she allowed. “But you know why I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Okay, no need to get all mopey about it,” Danny deflected, clambering up to his knees (the tent wasn’t tall enough to stand, which kind of put a damper on his whole ‘stoic’ front. Not that he’d admit that). “It just…still feels weird. But I can do it!”

Jazz raised her hands in fake surrender and fought a smile. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a big boy now, I got it.” She unzipped her sleeping bag and cast the cover aside. “I’ll go hide. Though…if it’s big enough that you needed to wake us up, maybe you should do more than just let them know.”

“Like?” Danny asked, just to be obstinate. He knew what Jazz was hinting at.

Jazz rolled her eyes. “Like ask for help, you big dummy.”

Danny sighed. It’d be the first time working with them since…“I don’t know if we’re at that level yet, Jazz.”

“You were before you told them,” Jazz pointed out with a raised brow.

“It’s different,” he stressed.

“Okay, well, different or not, you need to tell them you’re leaving, at the very least.” Jazz crawled over her sleeping bag towards the door and unzipped it with a practiced, fluid motion. “After you,” she said with a dramatic gesture towards the dark campfire and forest beyond.

Danny grumbled as he passed, and once out of the threshold he let the ectoplasmic ball lighting the inside of the tent wink out, just to hear Jazz’s indignant “Hey!” from behind him. Seconds later he heard (and saw) her flashlight click on behind him; ectoplasm-powered and too big for its own good, Danny was sure that thing created its own light pollution. He refused to use it on principle.

Danny walked the short trek to his parents’ tent and crouched to get the zipper, deciding against intangibility just in case one of his parents was awake enough to notice a shadowy silhouette phase through the wall. On the other side, Jack snored with the force of a train engine; Danny could swear it was rattling the zipper out of his hands as he fumbled with it.

The inside was dark, but Jazz’s flashlight outside cast long shadows across the floor. Danny moved out of the way so that the light could hit his parent’s faces; Danny knew his mother would have in ear plugs, so this was really the only safe way of waking her beyond shaking, which Danny knew from experience could be…startling, sometimes.

He watched her brows furrow before her eyes squinted open. She rubbed at her eyes with one hand and took an ear plug out with the other. “Danny? What happened?”

“Um, there’s a ghost,” Danny said (muttered, more like). “I was gonna go—”

“Hold on, I can’t hear you,” Maddie said, turning to shake her husband. “Jack, wake up. Danny needs something.”

“Whazzat?” Jack yelled, in much the same way as Jazz. Like father, like daughter. “What happened?”

“Uh,” Danny said, feeling tenser now with both their attentions on him. “There’s a ghost.” He pointed north. “Half a mile that way, maybe. Getting closer. I was gonna go deal with it, but I told Jazz to get in the RV just in case.”

Maddie frowned. “You were gonna go deal with it? By yourself?”

Danny glanced behind him, where Jazz was giving him a thumbs up from across the campsite. “Um, no,” he lied, turning back around. “You guys can come. If you want. You don’t have to.”

“Of course we want to, Danno!” Jack shouted. He had positively lit up, like grogginess wasn’t and had never been an issue for him. “I’ll go get the Fenton Grappler!”

“Do you know what kind of ghost it is, sweetie?” Maddie asked, still watching him. “What equipment do we need to bring?”

Danny hadn’t thought that far ahead. “It’s an animal, I think. It feels pretty feral. It’s not that strong, either, but—”

“Animal spirits can be unpredictable,” Maddie said, echoing Danny’s earlier considerations. “Alright, we’ll bring the capturing gear.” She paused. “If…that’s okay?”

Danny almost laughed; he’d never heard his mom sound so unsure when it came to ghost hunting. “That sounds good, Mom,” he said. “I’ll go get my boots on.”

— — —

Danny led the way through the timber with his parents, feeling a little silly in human form but unwilling to change nonetheless. It was nice to walk, sometimes, even when flying would be quicker and less taxing. And he could pass his feet intangibly through those pesky fallen branches and thorny bushes, so really it wasn’t all that worse than strolling down an Amity sidewalk. There was, he told himself, no other reason he might want to stay human in this scenario. He certainly wouldn’t feel uncomfortable otherwise.

“Are we getting close, honey?” Maddie asked after helping Jack over a rotted trunk.

The irony wasn’t lost on Danny; he’d asked the same question on the RV ride there. He felt around in his chest, feeling for the speed at which his core buzzed it’s steady warning, the strength of the tug. “Nearly there,” he promised.

“That’s a real neat trick, Danny-boy,” Jack praised. Danny could hear the smile in his voice. “You know, I always wondered how Phantom heard wind of a ghost faster than we did. Didn’t I, Mads?”

Danny kicked at some dead leaves and sticks at the ground, embarrassed. “That ghost alarm you guys developed works similarly. It maybe doesn’t have quite the range, though.”

Maddie hummed, contemplating. “And that’s what woke you up tonight?”

“Yeah.”

Maddie reached out to set her hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He closed his eyes before he turned to face her, bracing. If he hadn’t caught on to the concern in her voice before, he was definitely feeling it now. “How often do ghosts wake you up?” she asked, quiet.

Danny opened his mouth to lie and then thought better of it. That was a habit he was determined to break with his family, whether they’d like the answer or not. “Once or twice a night,” he admitted, slowly. When Maddie made a pained noise, he quickly added, “Usually it’s nothing to worry about, though, so I just go back to sleep. Like, at least half the time.”

She bit her lip. Guilty. “You shouldn’t have had to deal with that, hun.”

“Can we not do this?” Danny pleaded. These were the kind of conversations he’d been trying to avoid for the past week. “It’s my fault for not telling you guys, not your fault for not noticing.”

“We know that’s how you feel, Danny,” his mom allowed. She shared a glance with Jack from over her shoulder. “But we can’t help but feel like some of that lies on us, too. For noticing the clues but not acting on them in the ways we should have.”

“We want to know now, though,” Jack said, coming up behind his wife. “Warts and all.”

“Is this an intervention?” Danny asked, nervous. It felt like his core was constricting in his chest. “Because I get enough of that from Jazz.”

“It’s not an intervention,” his mom denied, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s just…Why haven’t you turned into Phantom yet, Danny?”

Danny wasn’t sure if he heard that right. It felt like the conversation had spun 180. “What?” he asked.

“This isn’t exactly an easy hike, sweetie,” she said. “Mostly uphill, through brambles and across fallen trees.”

“It’s been fine,” he argued. “I’ve been phasing through most of it.”

“If we were Tucker or Sam, you would have flown us there,” Maddie finished, and, well, he couldn’t deny that logic. “So why haven’t you?”

Danny frowned. “I didn’t think we were at that stage yet.”

“We’re not on a date, Danny; we’re your parents,” she sighed, shaking her head. “There is nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you. I changed your diapers; I should know.”

Danny frowned. If she had said that two weeks ago, before they’d known, he might not have believed her. He did believe her this time, but it was marred by something else—this aching, squeezing feeling in his chest, riddling his core with fear and anxiety and confusion and—

Oh. That wasn’t from him.

“Look out!” Danny yelled, grabbing hold of his parents and shoving them to the ground. His shield came up just in time: a glowing black bear, absolutely massive for its species, came barreling down upon it, scratching and growling and baring sharp, sharp teeth with saber-toothed tiger levels of length. He flinched against its strength but held steady, keeping his hands in front of him to feed ectoplasm into the bubble that surrounded them.

Perhaps realizing that its efforts were futile, the bear backed away, roared once in warning, and then took off running in the opposite direction, taking a moment to pause awkwardly at a hollowed tree stump before disappearing over the hill.

“Okay,” Danny breathed, allowing the shield to dissipate. There was that conversation out the window. He was almost grateful for it; he’d always been better at fighting than he was at talking, and staying human during this battle was quickly becoming a moot point, anyhow. “Alright, here’s the plan: you guys follow from back here, and I’ll fly up and cut it off from the front. Sound good?”

He was about to run off then, but Maddie grabbed his chin and twisted him to face her. Her eyes scanned over him faster than Danny could even blink, checking for injuries at a near-inhuman speed. 

Once he got over his shock at being grabbed, he started to squirm. “Mom, stop. I’m fine,” he murmured, trying to turn away to hide the way embarrassment was quickly flooding his cheeks with red.

Once satisfied, Maddie nodded and placed a chaste kiss to his forehead. “Be safe,” she commanded in a no-nonsense voice, like he’d be grounded for a week if he came back injured. Then, she finally let him go.

“You too,” he said, turning away. Squeezing his eyes shut, he transformed—focusing on the way his core bloomed outward instead of the stares on his back—and took off into the air.

Going on a bear hunt. He was sure there was a kid’s song about that.

Danny followed the tug in his gut from the sky; it was even stronger now that he’d transformed and they’d gotten…acquainted, for lack of a better word. He couldn’t shake that weird anxious worry in his gut—the one that seemed to be emanating from the bear in waves—but he could fight through it, and that’s what mattered.

Animal spirits were all instinct and emotion, wrapped up into something tight and cohesive that ectoplasm wouldn’t have trouble latching onto. Usually that something was governed by anger, which, as far as Danny knew, was the strongest emotion in a living animal’s arsenal. Human spirits could end up governed by that too, but there was more nuance to the reasoning behind anger with a person: jealousy, revenge, even loneliness could rearrange into different flavors of the same base emotion. It was easier to assuage because of its complicatedness; when there was a direct physical link to someone’s anger, there was something to solve.

It was more difficult to get angry animal spirits to move on. They were angry at everything and nothing all at once. The whole world fueled their anger, and so there was little that could calm them down.

Fear, though…He’d never met an animal spirit governed by fear, or worry, or whatever anxious instinct this bear’s ectoplasm was releasing. Maybe he could turn this into a happy ending, for both him and the bear. He hoped he could, anyway.

Danny dived down in front of it, and from the way it twisted backwards and picked up its pace in the direction opposite of him (the direction towards his parents), it seemed the bear could sense him, too. He went intangible and picked up the pace, letting trees and leaves fly through him at a dizzying pace. Finally, the forest opened into a little clearing, and Danny threw up a green wall at the end of it, where the bear was trying to escape. It skid to a halt so fast it left deep gashes in the dirt, dropped something fuzzy and black from its mouth, and turned to face him.

Danny froze. There, curled beneath the ghost bear’s legs, was a single cub. It peered out from behind her, oblivious to the danger and curious as to the reason for their night’s interruption. More importantly, it did not glow like it’s mother. It was still alive.

Mother Bear growled a warning at the same time Danny’s parents started crashing through the brush nearest her. “Stop!” he shouted out, holding out a hand despite his parents not being able to see him. “Uh, stand down!”

“Danny?” His dad called. “What’s going on?”

Mother Bear was looking increasingly frantic. Panicking a little himself—whether from the emotions that he was accidentally leaching off her or the situation, he wasn’t sure—Danny made a split-second decision and thrust a dome over the top of her and her cub. It would shield them from any sudden bear attacks, true, but it also served as makeshift protection from any Fenton weaponry.

He trusted his parents not to shoot him. He wasn’t sure if he trusted them not to shoot Mother Bear.

“It’s safe now!” Danny called to his parents. “Um, leave your guns outside the clearing! And walk slowly!”

Danny was almost surprised to hear them listening. He didn’t know why. He had to stop doubting them.

“Oh,” Maddie said when she breached the tree line. Mother Bear rotated to face her and Jack as they stepped out, gnashing her too-long teeth and backing further over her cub to put it safely beneath her belly. It peeked out from beneath her paws. “It’s…a mother.”

She sounded shocked. Danny concurred.

“Come over here,” Danny told his parents. “Behind me. I’m gonna try something.”

He stepped forward as his parents came around the dome. Mother Bear watched them walk until they’d settled behind Danny, and already he could feel that fear worry stress easing, just from having all potential predators in-sight instead of surrounding her.

“Danny,” Maddie warned when he took another step forward. “Bears are extremely protective of their young.”

“I know,” Danny murmured, keeping his voice low. He inched forward, getting lower to the ground as he walked. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Mother Bear snarled statically, touching on Ghost Speak but unable to form full coherence. Worry, is what Danny was able to read from it. Worry. Baby. Danger.

Danny switched tactics, changing to Ghost Speak as he set his hands gently against the wall of the dome, emanating as many calming emotions as he could summon. Calm. Safe.

She flinched, but her teeth were shortening, growing less sharp. Baby Bear yawned beneath her, a kind of squeaking hum. Almost like a puppy. Like Cujo, maybe.

Calm. Safe. Danny promised, at the same time voicing sentences in English above the Ghost Speak’s static: “It’s okay. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt him. You can let go. I’ll protect him. It’s alright.”

Mother Bear swayed, grew smaller. Promise. She growled. Staticked. No-nonsense voice. 

Promise. Danny responded.

Baby Bear nuzzled into Mother Bear, and she licked at his cheek as her body grew brighter and began dissipating, moving on. Baby Bear purred and purred.

She looked at Danny. Looked behind him, where his parents stood. Mother? she asked. With the emotions clogging her speech finally gone, he could actually understand her.

Danny nodded. “Yeah. That’s my Mom.”

Good. Mother Bear hummed, closing her eyes. Safe.

She disappeared, her glowing green fragments scattering on the wind.

Danny turned around to face his parents, and for the first time noticed that they were both crying. That was okay. He was crying, too.

He cleared his throat. “So. Anyway. Where’s the nearest Animal Sanctuary?”

[inquisitornocturn]

𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖔𝖘𝖆 𝖎𝖓 𝖗𝖚𝖇𝖊𝖔, 𝖘𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖓𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖔

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 3 - 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔬𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔢𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰

⫸ pairing: Cazador Szarr/f!high elf reader

⫸ tags: no y/n used etc, POV second person, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, psychological childhood trauma, fluff.

⫸ story summary: Accompanying your father, the General of Baldur's Gate, has always been a duty that bores you near to death, but for first time you feel completely unnerved as you come to Szarr mansion. The family's patriarch is a strange man and so is his wife and son. Son, who seems unperturbed by anything, until he's left alone with you that is. Then and only then, Cazador shows emotion and what kind of a threat he is. You realize soon - behind those dark eyes there's something dangerous lurking and your future soon becomes inescapably intertwined with his.

work contains illustrations, credit at the end

⫸ word count: 8,631

⫸ author note: yay, happy to give another chapter, do enjoy♡~

⫸ chapter list: [link]

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” ― Kahlil Gibran

1104DR

60 years later

“Are you listening to me?” Your father’s voice makes you snap out of your thoughts and you look at him, the dim light of candles is making his face appear rather ghostly, showing his age more than you’d like. A reminder that he’s not going to be around forever. A man of nearly six hundred years is definitely not at his prime anymore, even with his high-elf lineage, and when you see shaded creases on his face where years ago there were none, your heart aches for a brief moment.

“I am.” You respond simply and sigh, propping your chin on a heel of your palm.

This has been going on for several hours. Your father and his main troop, which of course means you as well, have been on a march for four days now. This time your scouts found a village that has been abandoned not that long ago, so the General decided to camp there for couple nights. But his teachings and lectures do not stop just because you carry the rank of a Captain in your own right. Seems like being your father and your commander at the same time gives him even more reason to lay out lessons for you.

“I’m not sure that you are listening. What is it on your mind, daughter of mine?” He asks and moves from the wall where the map of the land is pinned and walks closer, his leather shoes silent on the cobblestone floor and his hand on your shoulder is firm and warm, the heat of a palm quickly seeping through your shirt.

Rising your eyes to your father and meet his pale, silvery gaze. You gently smile, raising your hand and placing it over his.

“Nothing dad, I’m just tired from the march. All of us are.” You lie, of course you lie, because you cannot tell your father that what actually is on your mind and it’s a man who you can’t wait to sneak away to. You don’t even know which house he chose to reside in, but yours are next to your father’s, which you hope isn’t the best option there is for the rest of the evening.

“Tired? Your horse is maybe tired, but you shouldn’t be.” He teases gently, lifts his hand from your shoulder and caresses your cheek with a smile. “Are you sure it’s just tiredness?” General Sylven frowns ever so slightly, creases in his face deepening as he looks at you with worry but you just nod.

“Yes, I’m just sore. Say what you will, but I refuse to believe that your ass is not sore from sitting in a saddle entire day. And at your age too.” You give him a pointed, teasing look and your father pauses, then laughs loudly.

“You remind me of your mother.” He chuckles and steps away from you, walking up to a bottle of wine and pouring some for himself and another glass for you. His face suddenly becomes solemn and you see it clearly even if what’s visible to you is his profile.

“You miss her, don’t you?” You ask in a quieter voice and stand up from an old, creaky chair, then walk to him and place your hand on his in which he holds the glass meant for you. He always serves you in the same way.

Cradith pauses then looks at you and nods slightly with a sad smile.

“Every single day.” He admits and offers you the glass which you take. When your gaze rises to him again, you see pain etched in his features. His eyes fill with pain and the elder elf sighs as the look of those same silvery eyes becomes downcast in shame. “It’s my fault, what happened to her. I should’ve protected her better. I should’ve protected both of you better.” Cradith whispers and you quickly put the glass aside, stepping closer to your father and trying to catch his eyes with yours.

“Dad…” you pause and quickly cup his face with your palms, making him look at you at last. “It wasn’t your fault. It just happened. Things just happen. You didn’t know what would happen, you didn’t-“

Suddenly, you are pulled into a tight hug and father’s arms wrap around you firmly. He’s not crying, but you hear and feel his breathing against your shoulder against which he presses his forehead. You hug him back, gently and trying to be comforting, your palm strokes white hair cascading down his back.

“It’s alright, dad.” You whisper because you don’t know what else to say. Because you hurt too.

Because you remember too.

You remember that night. When the screams of your mother woke you when you were still barely older than a toddler. When you ran to your mother’s room, thinking that she hurt herself on accident and wanting to help. You remember how heavy your bare feet felt on the carpet as you turned a corner and saw the door open, as you saw the lights come up in the room, illuminating the shadowy figures that you couldn’t make out just yet. And your mother’s words, angry and loud, yelling to let her go. The sound of fabric ripping and her furious scream. More voices, mocking, telling to gag ‘the wretch’ before she starts biting.

You walked closer, the gilded room of white and peach opening up in front of you now like a poisonous flower. You didn’t recognize these people, all men dressed in black and brown. Slowly approached the open bedroom to finally see your mother, her gown, the bigger twin of yours, ripped and bloody, her naked body grasped at by hands of three men and pushing her into the bed while the fourth one stood by the side, brandishing a dagger in her direction. You called out to her then, confused, innocent, naïve. You never had to fear or hide before, nobody was ever a danger before, your mother and your father always stood tall, like two guardian statues, the cornerstones of your life. The image began to crack then as your mother’s panicked eyes finally saw you, her feral screams immediately becoming pathetic pleas. Pleas not to hurt you, not to touch you, and promises that she will do anything, that she won’t fight. The pain in your mother’s voice told you something was amiss and you started crying.

The men didn’t like it. The one with the knife quickly strode to you, but your mother’s scream stopped his dagger before it descended upon you. And so the man stood then behind you, his heavy hand on your shoulder and his blade against your throat, telling you not to close your eyes.

You remember with agonizingly clear detail how the three men raped your mother right in front of your eyes. First with their bodies, then with whatever tools they could find in the room. Laughing and drinking the wine that was there too, the heavy hand never leaving you, the cold metal forever pressing against your skin, and your tears, so hot on your face. It felt like they will never stop.

And then you remember screaming, calling for your mother. You remember her last, sad and battered look cast onto you and her last words. Be strong, my daughter, mother loves you. And knives that plunged first into her eye socket, silencing her forever. Knives that then plunged into her body so many times, like a flurry of brush strokes that you’ve seen painters do.

Blood.

So much of it.

They left then. Laughing, leaving you where you are, frozen and crying, calling for your mother, desperately wanting her to wake up. Long after the heavy footsteps faded you finally moved, getting closer to the bed, seeing that the blood soaked through it and now was spreading underneath it. To reach your mother you had to step in it and it still felt warm, but you didn’t care as you climbed into the bed and cradled your mother’s abused, destroyed body, letting your tears absolve her face from the crimson of brutality that took her away from you. You begged her to come back until your voice became no more than a whispery croak.

That’s how your father found you. You don’t remember the rest. You only remember the mourning rites and the funeral. The casket was closed, half of Baldur’s Gate attended if not more. You remember looking down at the coffin in the ground, your father’s hand on your shoulder and your tears falling onto the dark wood, just like they fell as you held her that night.

You remember.

But you wish you didn’t.

Cradith’s shoulders slump as painful memories stop flashing in your head and you open your eyes, looking ahead of you, at the map pinned to the wall, tracing rivers and roads with your eyes, trying your best not to let memories of that tragedy spin in your head like unwelcome pests.

“I’m sorry.” Your father mutters and you sigh with relief, seems like it was just a moment of weakness and your father is not going to fall apart in your arms.

He raises his head and sadly smiles at you, then presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Your mother would be proud of you.” He whispers and steps back, releasing you from his embrace.

“Dad, I-“

“You can go.” General turns his back to you and you pause, wanting to ask if he’s okay, if maybe you should stay, but you know your father better than anyone. So you sigh again and nod to his back.

“I’ll see you in the morning.” You say softly and turn to leave the room until his voice stops you by the door.

“I love you.” You hear and turn to see your father looking back at you, his eyes gentle and his smile reassuring. “Me and your mother, we both do.”

Your heart is squeezed with emotion and you nod to him again, smiling too, but finally you leave, you have to, you don’t want to think about that night anymore.

When you close the door behind you, you stop, inhaling then exhaling and lifting your eyes to the dark sky peppered with blinking stars. It’s beautiful and warm, the kind of night you would go for a long walk, especially after the old scar of your mother’s death began hurting again so easily.

But no, you can’t, you promised to meet Cazador the moment your father released you from his end-of-the-day lecture.

Except you don’t know where is.

Your gaze shifts from the sky and onto the run-down houses that mostly now have lights in them, majority of soldiers bunking together in groups to stay out of the weather that can turn dark and rainy any moment, and you make a tentative step forward, then glance at the small house on your left, the one you picked to reside in while you’re here.

What was the village called? Rolligan? Something like this. Not that it matters, villagers fled this quiet haven when hordes of goblins started pillaging the surroundings. That’s who you and your father’s army is after. The Duke can’t have his trading routes being disturbed or destroyed, so he sent his army to chase the damn creatures who seem to be growing in force with every field report you get from scouts.

A force to be reckoned with. But so is Baldur’s Gate’s army.

Still, for tonight it’s calm, pleasant even and no battles on the horizon just yet. You begin walking, looking around and trying to discern which house Cazador could’ve picked. Obviously not the big ones, those were claimed by groups of soldiers and knights, he, just like you, most likely settled with something private, being a high-ranking commander just like you.

Your footsteps are quiet as you pass the narrow streets, all of them empty except for a soldier or two, relieving themselves behind decrepit corners of shacks. The village itself is not that big and most of the army is still sleeping in tents, pitched in the surrounding area, but you are sure that a man like Cazador would not sleep in a bedroll with the rest of foot soldiers if he can help it, and his rank does demand that he elevates himself among the rest, just like you and your father. Still, you feel like your search is futile because you start circling the village, glancing at smaller houses with lights in their windows until you finally feel like giving up.

With a sigh you pause, look around once more and decide to head back to the house your bedroll is resting on an old, but sturdy bed, so you head there, listening to the sounds of chatter and crickets filling the air. Someone laughs somewhere, a group of voices join it soon after. Men telling jokes, nothing to pay attention to. A gasp escapes you the moment you feel your wrist being grabbed and your entire body being pulled to the right, through the doorway and into the darkness.

The moment the door closes it becomes pitch black and whoever pulled you in, drives you backwards until your back presses against the wall. You don’t have time to resist, too stunned to be attacked like this in the middle of the camp and then-

A kiss?

A scorching kiss steals the rest of your breath away, strong fingers grip your waist and a firm body presses against yours. You grasp at the sides of this attacker only to recognize it immediately. So many times you felt this same form, naked and warm, under your touch.

You relax and kiss back, feeling a smirk pull at Cazador’s lips when you do, his fingers, ever so nimble, begin to search for a path under your shirt and he stops kissing you to whisper.

“I thought you won’t come by.” He teases and you can barely make out his face in this darkness, because he clearly covered the windows. For privacy, what else.

“I think you would’ve found me if I didn’t find you.” You whisper back and despite feeling glad to be in his embrace, the strands of horrific memories still linger in your mind, pressing down upon you like a warhammer, heavy and unrelenting.

“You would need to do more than just go back to your little shack to escape me.” Cazador’s tone is arrogant, it always is, and you can’t help but love it.

Yet when he kisses you again, expecting you to show same passion he’s feeling, his fingers tracing against your skin under shirt, you cannot find it in you to rouse your desire. You continue for a while, but eventually turn your head away.

“Not tonight.” You whisper, feeling a sting of guilt for saying so, but Cazador’s fingers stop and a strand of long hair slips from behind his ear when he motionlessly looks at your face.

Without a word he pulls a hand from under your shirt and grasps your chin, making you look back at him. Even in the darkness of the room you can see his serious, maybe even concerned look, but you can’t be too sure, it’s so hard to see even though he’s so close.

“What’s wrong?” He asks and you swallow, wondering if you should tell him the truth or just lie. Or maybe even say nothing at all, but before you make up your mind, Cazador releases your chin, his other hand also retreats from under your clothes and he steps back.

Wordlessly he turns his back to you and begins walking around, a small orange flame appears at the palm of his hand, the one wearing his family ring, and you watch as the elf lights candle after candle, illuminating the room at last. Five candles are enough to reveal Cazador’s lodgings. It doesn’t have much, just like other houses: a sturdy table, a banged-up chair, a fireplace, couple windows that are now covered with discolored rags and a bed that looks somehow better preserved than yours. His bedroll is there, so is another and couple extra blankets. He surely prepared to have you here tonight and you smile, finally pushing yourself from the wall and walking to the table, noticing a plate and a metal cup near an empty bottle of wine.

“You set yourself here quite nicely.” You acknowledge and pick up a piece of bread still left in the plate, putting it in your mouth.

For some reason it’s hard for you to look at Cazador. You feel that the moment you do, he will ask what’s on your mind and you’re not sure if you’re ready to tell him that bloody tale. Despite fighting by his side for decades now, despite sharing a bed with him whenever you both can, you still find it hard to tell him some things, and Cazador is definitely keeping things from you too. He almost never speaks about his family, but you are now sure that Donnela is his mother and that she’s Lord Varitan’s sister. This alone makes you understand why Cazador might not be too keen to speak about his family.

The light in his palm gets snuffed out, you notice that by the change of glow behind you and you hear his footsteps as you chew on the tiny piece of bread you picked up, reaching for his wine cup that still has some of crimson in it.

“We do what we must when we forsake comforts of palaces for duty.” Cazador responds, you feel him pick up a strand of your hair and hold it between his fingers while you bring the cup to your lips and have a sip, then another, emptying it.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” You respond, knowing that this conversation is shallow, neither of you ever enjoyed small talk like this, but the tension is there and your heart still aches. Old scars in your soul still throb as if licked by fire.

“What happened with the General?” Cazador now asks straightforwardly and you linger for a moment before putting down the metal cup and allowing yourself to be turned by his hands.

When you look at his face again, unhidden by the shadows, you see the same dark eyes that look so inquisitively at you every time you try to avoid speaking about something. Sometimes he lets you remain silent, sometimes he makes you speak, but as his hand rises and his fingertips trace against your right cheek, you can tell that he’s worried. Or at least you can see as much worry as he is willing to show. You never met a man who could hide his emotions as well as Cazador does.

“Father, he…” you sigh, your eyes drift from his face to his chest, on the embroidered black shirt, letting your gaze trace the patterns there, soothing you. “It’s about my mother. He… He felt the guilt again.” You try to explain the best you can without going into too much detail, because you know he must’ve heard what happened or at least some of it. Murder of your mother was something entire Gate lived through, in a way.

Cazador doesn’t speak, he just pulls his fingers away from your face and suddenly, unexpectedly, embraces you. Your face becomes buried in his chest as his strong arms wrap around you, holding you firmly, almost painfully so, but you find comfort in his strength. You sigh again and close your eyes, putting your arms around him too, pressing your palms against his back, suddenly feeling so small against him. Not because of his height that is usually towering over you, but because your very soul shrinks in this moment, reducing you to that little girl with bloody feet and her mother’s mutilated head in her lap.

“I want you to tell me what happened that night.” Somehow Cazador knows what exactly is bothering you and that it is not your father getting a bout of guilt, but the event itself. You shake your head slightly, not wanting to talk about it, not wanting to put it in words.

You never spoke about it to anyone, not even your father.

In response Cazador’s arm leaves you and grips your chin, making you look at him. His eyes bore into yours and you press your lips into a thin line, really not wanting to talk about it, but his utterly calm expression nearly already disarms you.

“Come on now, dear, you will feel better if you do. Don’t you trust me?” Cazador asks and you hate how he destroys your defenses with the tiniest manipulation trick, because yes, of course you trust him.

You love him.

Decades fighting at each other’s side, decades sometimes fighting even each other, years and years in the army as you both learned and climbed the ranks, becoming two of the most trusted soldiers at your father’s command. If there wasn’t a romantic bond, then a strong platonic one would’ve formed anyway. But that moment in your father’s room, when Cazador pulled you there and made you cry for him, that moment was only the beginning of secret exchanges of glances and smiles, of hidden touches and passed notes, of private trysts. Beginning of a relationship that started with blood and blades then became gentle touches and whispered prayers of each other’s names.

It became something softer but exciting as you two still taunt and tease each other, it became something filled with trust as you stand in the battlefield back to back, it became everything. And with years passing by, the arrogance began to simmer down, gentleness taking priority when it’s just the two of you. At this point you are sure even your father knows, no matter how oblivious he has become to the matters of heart since your mother’s murder. But nobody says anything, nobody addresses it, so you and Cazador continue to do what you two know well how to – keep it private and keep it safe.

You pause, letting your mind run through countless memories, countless kisses, countless caresses and you sigh, your shoulders slumping in defeat.

“I do trust you.”

“Well, that wasn’t so hard, hm?” Cazador hums with a smile and releases your chin, but his eyes quickly snap to the door when you both hear couple passing soldiers, very obviously drunk, as they are discussing their favorite courtesans back home. You’re not phased by the talk, but Cazador frowns ever so slightly and sighs. “Come.”

With a palm on your lower back he guides towards the bed, his expression serious and maybe even slightly somber, making you wonder what’s going on in his head, as you have many times before. Cazador does not share his thoughts easily and you learned to accept that, but that doesn’t curb your curiosity whatsoever. You wonder if there will ever be the time when you two talk to each other freely, without guarding unspeakable secrets, whatever they may be.

“Sit.” Cazador’s tone is a bit stern than what it should be but you don’t mind, you are both too used to commanding soldiers day in and day out, so you just sit down and watch him squat in front of you, ever so careful not even kneel on the dirty floor lest his pants get stained, and he takes one of your legs, beginning to undo leather straps of your boot.

“What are you doing?” You ask, slightly surprised by his behavior, but Cazador doesn’t look up, just continues on with the task as his long hair falls on both sides of his face since he’s bent over.

“You’re staying the night.” He responds calmly and you frown, thinking that he still wants something more intimate, because that was his plan after all, judging from how he kissed you earlier. So you bend down too, trying to swat his fingers away from your boot.

“I’ll go back to my own bedroll. General is unprotected without me nearby.” Your argument is a completely reasonable one and correct too, but Cazador just impatiently slaps your fingers away with one hand, making you scoff in offense when you straighten your back and begin rubbing the skin that immediately begins to throb.

“He’s completely surrounded by his army. He’ll be fine. But you’re staying with me tonight.” Cazador’s tone is firm, strict and you move your jaw with rising anger, watching him finally unclasp the straps and take off the shoe from your left leg, then immediately start working on another.

“Cazador, I don’t know what you think will happen tonight but I’m not in a mood.” Your words are as unyielding as his own, but he doesn’t respond, at least not right away.

He only speaks up when your other boot is put with the first one and he stands up, straightening his back and looking down on you. Elf’s hand reaches and caresses your loose hair gently, then moves alongside your jawline.

“I expect you to tell me what happened that night and after that I don’t want you to sleep alone.” He finally explains and your heart feels like it’s being squeezed with hot fingers. Your expression changes from anger to hardly disguised sadness and you nod.

“Alright, I will.” You exhale heavily and stand up again, now beginning to unbutton Cazador’s shirt while he pulls at the laces of yours.

As you undress him and as he undresses you, you begin telling him the story. The one that left such deep mark on you which is ready to bleed at the first probe. You begin with your voice level, your words calm, but as you continue, as you tell him about coming closer to the room, you start losing your composure. Your voice begins to quiver, your words become choked and you resort to a whisper because you feel the unrelenting strangulation of your emotions around your throat, which is threatening to erupt with sobs and tears.

Cazador lets you speak, he doesn’t hurry you even when you pause while trying to remove his clothes, pieces of yours finding their way onto the nearby chair much faster than his. By the time you’re just in your undershirt you’re still struggling with the clasps of his boots, bent down and sobbing, not seeing your own fingers through the tears. He doesn’t interrupt, just remains standing silent and still as you tell him of the men who raped your mother, how they taunted you as you were forced to watch. He says nothing when you stop speaking, struggling to take off his shoes and with a choked grunt finally managing to get them off. He lets you tell your story at your own pace while undressing him, because he knows it will help you finally tell the truth of what happened. You always preferred to have your hands busy.

By the time you take off his pants with more struggle than it usually is, your chest is heaving and your face is wet from your tears. But the moment you drape Cazador’s pants onto the same chair your clothes went to, you feel his fingers grasp your chin, and only your chin, making you lift your eyes to him. You can see him, the sharp angles of his face and his expression blurred by your tear-filled eyes. Your lips tremble and the moment of throwing dirt over your mother’s coffin was the last thing you finished describing.

Almost with curiosity in his eyes, Cazador steps closer and leans over you, turning your face at an uncomfortable angle so that he can remain looking at your face. Tears spill from the corners of your eyes and your vision clears at last.

Then you see a small smile on his lips, a genuine one.

“You look beautiful, my dear.” Cazador whispers with actual admiration in his voice and at first you feel surprised, but then you laugh.

“You’re a freak.” You push his hand off your chin and try to move an arm towards your face, intending to wipe the tears on a sleeve but the elf pushes it away and cups your face with two warm palms.

“Can you blame me? Usually I see you crying while you’re moaning with my-“

“Cazador!” You raise your voice, half amused and half even offended that he’s talking about sex after you just shared your most traumatic memory, but if you have to be honest with yourself, both of you have seen horrors of war, yours is just one tragedy among many, and he was never the most empathetic man.

Strangely enough, you do feel better, lighter, for telling him the truth and every detail. You didn’t realize until now what kind of burden it was, weighting on your shoulders for so, so long.

“Oh come now, don’t be shy. You’re a strong Captain! A future leader of the Baldur’s Gate army! And you only cry when I make you.” Cazador grins, his smirk is sharp and arrogant but his actions speak of softness as he proceeds to gently wipe your tears away.

“You’re an asshole.” You murmur but let him dry your face with his fingers, making him chuckle.

“Ah, just like-“

“Don’t you dare.” You can’t help but laugh now too and he glances up to your eyes, giving you a sly grin.

“There, you’re laughing now.” He says, releasing your face and you pout ever so slightly. You’re too easy when it comes to him, slipping not unlike silk between his fingers at a whim. “Come, lie down with me, I’m sure you’re tired. And I’m sure the General is fine too.” Cazador briefly wipes his moist hands on the sides of your shirt and finally lifts it, pulling it over your head before you can protest.

Completely naked now, just as he is, you watch a small smile on his lips as he passes you, tossing your shirt with the rest, and gets into bed, the old piece of furniture creaking under a weight it has forgotten for who knows how long, a year or two, maybe more, then he throws one of the blankets open in an invitation for you. His wonderfully black hair is draping over his shoulders and firm, trained chest.

He’s a vision you cannot resist.

Eagerly now you get into the bed, smiling, your heart much lighter, your burden lifted, and you snuggle up to Cazador, letting him cover you both with the blanket that he keeps open until you get comfortable. It takes a moment or two longer before you both settle. You rest your head in the crook of his shoulder, one of elf’s hand around you, the other – resting on top of yours after you lay it on his chest. Underneath your palm you feel warmth on his skin and a distant beating of a heart, its calm and even thrums that begin to soothe you, lull you into a sense of safety.

You don’t want to disturb the moment, the peace and the relief you’re feeling inside. Somehow, you don’t know how, he knows that you don’t want to speak about what you told him. Somehow he knows that all what you needed was to tell the story.

“Thank you.” Despite your desire to remain as you both are, quiet in this tiny, candlelit cabin, you want him to know that he helped.

“Rest now.” Cazador whispers, his fingers gently squeezing your hand and you close your eyes. For once in your life you are sure that meditation tonight will be easy for you.

When you rise from your rest next morning, you find yourself as you lain last night, still in same position, and Cazador is awake too. You lift your head to him, curious.

“Good morning, did you sleep?” You ask with your throat feeling slightly dry. Behind the soiled rags over the windows you notice the dawn coming, beginning to paint the sky in pink and orange. Years of being in the military trained you to always rise on time, before the day breaks.

“I did.” Cazador responds and you wonder what his meditations were about, but that’s something either of you rarely share.

Yours are usually about your childhood, running through the fields of flowers and arms of your mother, and your father, as they hold you, rise you up or soothe you. Only several decades ago some of those meditations have become of him, Cazador, the Szarr heir that conquered your heart and in your surrender gave you his. You wonder if he thinks about you too during his rest.

“I’m parched.” You murmur and slip out of his embrace, walking to the table and pouring wine into the cup. Only one candle remains burning, but with light quickly becoming brighter with every minute, you don’t feel like you need more.

When you turn to come back to bed, you watch Cazador prop his back against a pillow as he sits up and smiles, his eyes sweeping over your naked form.

“You’re the prettiest cupbearer I have ever seen.” He teases with that cocky grin of his and you scoff with a smile, then walk back and climb in, handing him the metal cup. Cazador pauses, eyeing your naked upper body since you tossed the blanket over your legs, and finally takes it, having a sip. “We’re starting some sort of celebration early?”

“I don’t know where you keep water, don’t be coy.” You gently chastise him and snatch the cup from his hand, now taking a sip too.

“One of the worgs from yesterday’s encounter snatched my waterskin off my horse. Haven’t had a chance to find another.” He watches you drink the wine and when you empty the cup you turn around and place it on the floor near the bed, momentarily feeling Cazador’s fingers trace over your back, over your scars there, all of them received in fights.

“I didn’t get a chance to see you fight yesterday.” You turn back to him, propping up the travel pillow and leaning against it with your side, your eyes resting on elf’s face and Cazador suddenly laughs.

“Oh you didn’t, hm? It was a sight, my dear.” He gestures now, as if trying to paint a picture with his hands. “They came at my men, trying to flank us from the left. I’m sure they were coordinated by that band of goblins we’re chasing. I heard the General and you got the second band of them coming from the front. Stupid, disgusting creatures.”

Cazador keeps talking and you listen to him attentively, because you did miss his performance, fighting alongside your father when the attack came, lost among the blood and guts. He gestures, now describing how he commanded his soldiers, showing a particular swing that he found satisfying and you absentmindedly take a strand of his hair, beginning to braid it. You gained this habit only recently, after you saw some of the half-elves in the camp braid each other’s hair before going to ambush thieves on the road ahead. At first Cazador resisted, trying to tell you to stop your stupid girlish things, but you insisted so now he allows you to do it, but only if you undo it before you both have to appear in front of your men.

And this time it’s like he doesn’t even notice that you’re braiding a strand of his long, silky hair. Cazador’s hands are painting you a picture of a short battle that lasted no more than ten minutes. His ring casts a short flash when it catches the light from the candle when he gestures and you smile, nodding to him from time to time, seeing in your mind’s eye how he fought, knowing exactly how each movement looked, you’ve seen them so many times before after all.

“The howls they made!” He laughs, delighted by the creatures suffering under his sword. “What a music to my ears! I listened to them in my meditations last night.” Cazador finishes and looks at you, paying attention at last and his bloodthirsty grin softens, watching your fingers run along the black strands. “You’re doing it again.” He murmurs and you nod to him with a smile on your face. “Sometimes I doubt you pay attention.”

“I do. You bathed in their gore. I saw you after the battle you know.” You give Cazador a pointed look and he sighs, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, I guess you have.” Then he pauses, as if remembering and leans closer to you with a smirk. “I saw you too, gloriously drenched in blood, your eyes wild and ablaze from felling your foes.” A whisper that’s hot on your lips when he leans closer and closer and you smile in return.

“There are many such bloody baths before us.” You reply in a whisper too and stop braiding, knowing he will kiss you.

And he does, his lips on yours in an instant, his tongue demanding access which you grant with no reluctance. You feel his hand ghost over the side of your face and settle on your naked shoulder, pulling you closer to him, leaning you backwards, wanting to move you on your back. Yes, you two have time for this, even if it’s going to be quick.

Then, a knock on the door.

“Commander Szarr! There’s a courier for you! From your family!” A familiar voice announces, one of his soldiers, and Cazador lifts his head glancing up at the door then deeply frowns. He never liked being interrupted and right now it’s no different.

“Fucking courier.” He swears under his breath and you raise your eyebrows at the outburst but say nothing, just watch him push himself up and get out of the bed.

Swiftly he pulls up his pants and walks to the door, elf’s fingers quickly working to undo the braid you left in his hair before he opens up. While he exchanges words with the soldier, you grab his shirt from the chair of clothes and throw it on, just in case the man peeks inside by accident. You’re not too worried to be ‘caught’, not anymore, but you’re not in favor of any random person seeing you naked. That privilege is reserved only to Cazador.

When the door is closed and Cazador turns to you, you notice a scroll in his hands and then get a better view of it, seeing the wax stamp seal as he returns to the bed, stopping by the edge of it but not sitting down. His eyes briefly dart to you, then with a serious expression he snaps the seal in half, unrolling the scroll. You kneel in the bed, getting closer and looking at the contents of the message but you don’t recognize the letters. You guess it must be Kozakuran, language of the land Cazador hails from. You have no knowledge of how to read it.

But you do watch his face: the color leaves his skin, his fingers pale as they begin squeezing the parchment to the point it shakes in his hands, the furrowed brow gives his face such murderous expression it would make even the toughest enemy falter before charging. You’ve seen that look before and you are afraid of it yourself, although it hasn’t been cast in your direction.

Neither it is now, but Cazador’s jaw grinds for a moment longer, his eyes sweeping over the lettering and then he crumples the parchment in his ring hand, squeezing so hard his knuckles turn white.

“What is it?” You ask and you reach up, wanting to touch his face, to tame his anger, you’ve done it in the past, but this time the elf just snaps his eyes at you for a moment before walking to the still lit candle and putting the parchment to it. As it catches the flame, he lets it drop into the plate nearby.

“I’m going home.”

“Home? What do you mean home? What happened? For how long?” The questions begin tumbling from behind your teeth as your need to immediately know what’s going on raises to the highest degree. You scramble out of bed, walking to him, your barefoot feet being the only sound in the small house. “Cazador…” You gently approach him, place a hand on his shoulder as you stand by his side and for a moment you think he will snap at you, you’ve seen his volatile moods before when things didn’t go the way he wanted them to, but this time he just inhales, then exhales, calming himself.

“I’m going home. My father demands I return, permanently. He believes I’ve learned what I can at the army.” Cazador explains without looking at you and you freeze.

Home… Permanently…

“But-“

“We always knew that my assignment here was only temporary.” Cazador cuts you off, his words sharp and his tone angry, but when he looks at you, you see that his anger is not at you. He’s angry because he doesn’t want to leave.

“Why now? We’re literally on a march.” You search his eyes for something, reassurance maybe, a promise that this is not the end that your heart feels breaking over.

Cazador sighs again and turns to you, his palms finding perches on your shoulders and you let your own hand drop from his to your side while you wait for him to speak. It takes him a moment, his eyes sweeping over your face as if he’s trying to memorize every feature of it.

“I’m not sure why now. I have a suspicion, but it’s unfounded for now.” He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment and you can’t hold yourself back, you step to him and embrace him, your arms wrapping around his waist. You feel Cazador’s arms hug you in return, his palms resting on your back and the side of his face presses against your hair. “I can’t decline, you know that right?”

“I know. I know all too well that my father can’t oppose it either. That was the agreement from the very beginning, but… your leave will be a loss to the army.” You whisper, inhaling his scent, and Cazador smiles against your hair then pulls back just enough so that he can look at your face.

“Just the army?” He tries to give you his signature arrogant smirk, the one that always informs people that he sees everyone below him, but this time it fails, resembling more like a forced grimace. Sadness is hiding behind it.

You try to smile too, to keep up the charade but can’t. Your face becomes a mask of sorrow and while you’re not about to cry, your whole chest aches with the thought of being apart.

“You know it’s not.” You quickly move your hands to cup his face with your palms and bring it closer, kissing him with desperation. “Promise me we’ll meet. That every time we’re in Baldur’s Gate at the same time we will meet. Promise me, Cazador.” Words come tumbling out like a plea for mercy before you can stop, whispered in hushed words against his lips while you feel his arms squeeze you tighter. You have your eyes closed, because if you see pain his eyes you won’t able to stop yourself from collapsing under the sudden despair.

“I promise, you know I will.” Cazador whispers back, his kiss is not meant to silence you but to claim last moments of affection he can before he has to prepare to leave.

“You’ll stay in the city, yes?” you ask while elf’s lips kiss your cheek, then your temple and still hold you so tightly against him.

“I should, yes. I’ll try.”

He stops and you open your eyes, seeing him so close and realizing that from this day on you don’t know when you will see him again. Grief stirs in your chest like a beast ready to devour you, but you push it away, not giving into desperation that threatens to consume your mind. Not all is lost, you know that, you repeat that to yourself.

“Cazador-“

“My little soldier.” He suddenly smiles, surprising you with his words. He hasn’t called you that in a very long time. “We shall meet again, I assure you that.” Cazador looks gentle as he speaks and the vice in your chest relents, easing its grip. With your thumbs you rub the sides of his face, drinking in the feeling of his skin under your touch.

“Of course we will.” You hear yourself speak and your voice sounds stronger than you expected it to be. You even smile as you move your hands ever so slightly and cup his ears, giving them a gentle rub, seeing Cazador’s eyes widen for just a moment before he chuckles.

“Ah yes, for a moment I have forgotten what kind of woman you are.” He says and when you keep rubbing you see a gentle blush appear on his face and the tips of his ears. “You’re not going to let me leave with my dignity intact, are you.” Elf teases and you smile wider, because you prefer it this way. You prefer smiles over tears, you prefer hope over despair. Even if things are sometimes difficult, like right now. You shove the sadness deep into the pit of your soul, you won’t let it become you.

“As if you had any to begin with.” You tease, making Cazador laugh and he shakes his head slightly, trying to get rid of your fingers on his ears that are still working to change his mood. With how tightly he has you pressed against him, you begin to feel his length hardening.

“Foul woman, what did I do to deserve to get entangled with you.” He chastises and you finally release your grip on him, letting your palms rest on his shoulders as you smirk.

“The one you said you’ll marry one day?” You whisper and kiss him, feeling him return the kiss, leaning into it so hard, you are forced to bend backwards while his fingers dig into your flesh through his own shirt clad over your naked body.

When he pulls back, Cazador looks at you, his eyes unreadable before he speaks.

“I only said that so that you stop protesting when I want to fuck you.”

You scoff and laugh, for a split second believing him because of how serious his expression is now and you deliver a gentle, but poignant knee blow to his groin, making Cazador hiss with mild pain and straighten his back before releasing you. You raise an eyebrow at him before his hand shoots up and grabs your jaw firmly, his eyes angry for a moment.

“You…” Szarr heir pauses as he looks into your eyes, then the fury dissipates and he just looks utterly bemused. “You’re going to be the most annoying wife in the history of whole godsdamn Faerûn, woman.” He pushes your face away in a dismissive gesture but you just laugh.

“Yes, yes, I heard that before.” You wave your hand at him and receive a glare from under his eyebrows before he steps towards you and yanks his shirt over your head, retrieving it.

“Dress up before your daddy sees what a voluptuous woman his little girl has grown up to be, only to belong to me.” Cazador smirks. Here it is, that sly, arrogant grin you know so well, and you give him a smirk of your own, not impressed by his threat.

“Next you’ll threaten to fuck me in front of him.” You turn your back to Cazador and start picking up your clothes from the pile on the chair, sensing when he comes closer and proceeds to pick up his too, following your suit and dressing up.

“You know that I could, my dear. Don’t tempt me. Little farewell gift to the old General Sylven.” He taunts and you try not to chuckle because that would only encourage him.

“Simmer down, Lord Szarr, you’ll ruin your reputation.” You glance at him as you pull up your pants and he sees the humor in your eyes then smiles a bit softer.

“You’re right, as rare as it happens, you are right this time.” Cazador sighs and you give him a look with a laugh.

“You’re not going to be missed any time soon with this attitude.”

“This attitude made you fall for me on your knees with your mouth ready to worship.” He shoots back and you gasp with a louder laugh now.

“You are a pain in the ass, Szarr.” You pull your shirt over your body and just as your head is about to emerge from the pool of fabric, you feel arms around your waist and your body pulled against Cazador’s.

“I’m suspecting you’re into it since you are not exactly staying away from me.” He teases and you know he’s annoying on you purpose, just like you annoyed him earlier. Leaving with smiles, not tears.

“Maybe I am. Maybe you’ll get to find out next time we meet.” You smile, then it falters and you look at him without joy now, unable to pretend. “Write to me.”

“I will.” Cazador’s eyes sweep over your face one more time before they return to your eyes.

You feel like he’s about to say something you really should pay attention to and you even stop breathing for a moment. You wait, a second passes, then another, your heart beats louder and louder in your ears before Cazador inhales deeply, then slowly exhales.

“You’re mine, little soldier, mine alone. Never forget that.”

With that the elf presses his lips against yours in one last scorching kiss. You don’t know how long it lasts but you wish it would forever. When Cazador pulls back, his expression is collected, serious and then you’re released from his arms because he needs to start packing.

“I’ll see you in a bit.” You tell and he nods in response, not looking at you anymore. You will meet him again before he leaves, in your father’s presence, he has to be informed after all, and you shouldn’t be the one to do, that was understood even without you two discussing it.

So you sigh lightly and leave the tiny house, looking around as you go but noticing no one to witness your not-so-secretive departure. Yet your feet feel heavy as you make way towards the house you were supposed to spend last night at.

You don’t want him to go and you wish you could stop Cazador from going, but you know you can’t. Still, the smirk of Lord Varitan’s lips and the blazing fury of Lady Donnela’s eyes resurface in your memory like you just have seen them. Something about the two of them always deeply unsettled you and you know how much Cazador hates even talking about home, let alone either of his parents. He never said why, but you gathered hints of discipline, punishments and unspeakable cruelty towards him and one another.

With a quick shake of your head you dismiss these thoughts. No, not now. You’ll have plenty of time to think of this seemingly impossible puzzle of a family when Cazador is nowhere near, when his embrace is not there to reassure at the end of every day.

And your heart aches. So much.

You have no choice but to ignore it and hope that next time you see him is not too far in the future.

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

⫸ end note: thank you @sadist69 for a wonderful illustration♡~

[the-fiction-witch]

Noises

Media - Wolf Hall The Mirror And The Light (Mild Spoilers) Character - Rafe Sadler Couple - Rafe X Reader Reader - Lady Y/n Rating - 15+ (Mentions Of Love Making Noises) Word Count - 903

The cacophony echoed in Rafe's ears, each sound resonating with an intensity that fanned the flames of his frustrations. But Rafe's resolve remained unwavering; it was his duty to respond to the king's every whim, no matter how sickening he found it.

The king was in his bed chambers, enjoying his new young queen. Henry moaned, grunted and groaned as he consummated his marriage with Katherine Howard, the girl was less than half his age, and thrusted into this hellish position by the lust and greed of those around her.

Rafe pited the girl, but he felt helpless. Deep down, he understood that he was complicit in the very dilemma that ensnared her. Tomorrow, he would have to present a report to the lords, detailing the sounds echoing through the castle walls and everything he would witness in the light of dawn. His observations would serve as undeniable confirmation that her marriage had indeed been consummated, thus binding the innocent Howard girl to the king until his fickle affections inevitably withered.

As horrific as her fate sounded, Rafe grappled with the grim truth that the stability of the realm depended on this information. The delicate balance of power, the intricate dance of politics, and the very foundations of Europe rested precariously on these developments.

The sounds only grew louder, more frustrated. The scent in the air of the king’s rotting flesh even though the heavy wooden doors that stood between them.

The corridor was utterly dark, A sliver of pale moonlight seeped through the lead-lined window at the end of the long hallway, casting ghostly shadows that danced across the cold stone walls.

But Rafe was not alone.

Beside him stood Lady Y/n, equally enshrouded in the dimness, both of them lingering on the threshold of the chamber. While he awaited the summons that might never come, she too remained a captive of the night, straining to hear any indication that the new queen required her presence.

Rafe stood with the heavy wooden door behind him, The Lady Y/n beside him. Occasionally, he found his gaze drifting toward her. The occasional glimmer of moonlight caught her features.

The Lady Y/n was a solid few inches shorter than Rafe himself, a French hood as was once again the court style, with only a single loose strand that peaked out from the band. Her chest covered by a white cotton partlet that cradled a silver locket. The Shoulder straps around the square neckline of her conical, thick and heavy against her, a soft light green with some gentle textures. The Farthingale skirt barely visible but it too a similar green. She briefly met his eyes,

So he forced a smile to his lips.

Y/n forced a similar smile back to him,

Just then the King let out a loud and gutteral groan beyond the door,

Y/n put her hand infront of her mouth to hide her giggle,

Rafe tried to give her a glare but couldn’t help but agree it was funny, “You should not giggle at the king like that, My lady.”

“Of course, Forgive me Lord Sadler.”

“It is alright, frankly I’d prefer not to listen to the king’s… nightly exercises at all.”

“Nor would I,” she nodded, “But. It is out duty.”

“Unfortuantly so.”

“…Perhaps we could discuss something more pleasing?”

“Yes.” he nodded, “that would be very appreciated.”

“Should we… Discuss Polotics?” She suggested,

“Ughh.” he cursed, “Do not get me started. One day the king demands I send a representative to Spain or the Holy Roman Empire and the next he demands I burn the library of all its books. It is exhausting.”

“Seems impossible,”

“Very impossible to satisfy.”

“He certainly does sound impossible to satisfy.” her eyes met the door,

They both shared a brief laugh,

“I do not envy you, My Lord Sadler.”

“Nor I you.” he nodded, “But, I think we can both agree we should count out blessings, that we get to be not to be envious of Katherine Howard. I weep for any woman forced to ensure the kings bedroom whims.”

Y/n nodded in agreement, “Yes, however, we will be the ones dealing with them after this.”

“…True.” He sighed,

“I do pity Katherine. She is a mouse, caught by the tail by a vicious cat unable to see her utter doom.”

“It’s unfortunate but it’s true.”

“You worked for Cromwell?”

“I did.” he nodded still feeling empty since Cromwell’s execution,

“While the battles with Queen Anne raged?”

“I was,” He nodded, “Witnessed more of their drama than I’d have wished to.”

“Did… he ever treat her with kindness?”

Rafe pondered for a moment, “Before they were wed.” He nodded,

She nodded, “You joined the king’s service when he wed Queen Jane didn’t you?”

“I did. Regrettably.”

“Was he… this way?”

“No, He loved her, endlessly.” he nodded, “I wonder sometimes if perhaps his cruelty was why she was taken from him…”

“Perhaps, a payment for all he’s done.” she agreed, “At least Anne of Cleeves escaped his wrath.”

“She was lucky.” he nodded,

Before they could say another word the king moaned long and sound finally the work was over.

Y/n began to softly clap,

Rafe laughed softly and joined her in the small applause,

“Well done, your highness.” she laughed,

“Splendid work.” He laughed, “Our work is done.”

“Finally.” she nodded,

“May I walk you to your chambers my lady?” he offered his hand to her,

“You may My Lord Sadler,” she smiled happily taking his hand and the two scurried off into the dark corridors.

[hearthtales]

ok i’m adding her. small child. please observe her

(very rough character info and backstory!)

A thoroughly lost will-o'-the-wisp.

Name: Unknown (when the wisp appears as a child, she will call herself Cara when asked, but she always sounds uncertain, as though the name actually belongs to someone else)

Age: Has existed for a long, long time

Pronouns: she/they/it

Residence: Filigrees’ Curiosities

One day, a scruffy-faced stranger trudged into the shop — trailing dirty footsteps behind him — and set an item on the owners’ counter. It was a jar filled with mud and bog-weeds from an Irish bog. He offered to sell it to them. He called it an oddity they couldn’t refuse. At first, the skeptical owners considered the man more peculiar than his offering, but he went on to claim he’d caught a will-o'-the-wisp and stuffed it in there. He couldn’t prove this, of course, especially since there wasn’t the slightest flicker of light from within the jar. Still, he insisted he wasn’t lying.

The owners’ curiosity won out in the end (as it often did when it came to peculiarities). After negotiating the price to a more reasonable sum, they bought the jar. (The man seemed relieved to be rid of it, which later struck the owners as a bad sign in retrospect.)

It rested on a shelf there, dark and dull, unchanging aside from its boggy smell worsening over time. The owners begrudgingly admitted they may have made an unwise purchase. Their discontent only grew when a clumsy visitor knocked the jar from the shelf and it broke on the floor. Pungent mud oozed onto the carpet. Hugh could never quite get the stain out.

They tossed the shattered remains of the jar in the rubbish, cleaned up the mess, and considered the matter done with. At least, until a small, ghostly form began appearing in the halls. A wisp, one might say.

Sometimes it appears as a flickering light, floating in midair. Sometimes it appears as a creature, glowing and silent. Sometimes it appears as a child.

Sometimes it leads visitors to items that intrigue them the most. Sometimes it lures visitors down strange halls and into watery rooms where weeds tug at their legs and their shoes sink into mud.

Regardless, the owners can’t make it leave, so they’ve added it to their list of troubles.

—

The wisp has existed for centuries and has learned to mimic several forms over time. Regardless of form, it is always visibly inhuman. Each form appears ghostly and wavering, like blue-white flame reflected in water. The features of each form are fluid and indistinct. Child, rabbit, moth, or simply a palm-sized flicker of ghostly light shaped like a matchstick flare. The wisp’s light dims and brightens depending on the day and its “mood” (though its emotions are much fainter echoes of the emotions of a human).

A ghostly child with a patchwork dress and mussed hair woven into two thick braids down her back. The edges of her form are always a bit wispy.

[jesterbenedicte]

The Eclipsed Symphony

Genre: Dark Fantasy, Cyberpunk, Occult Horror

*In the heart of New Elysium, a city suspended between the corporeal and the cosmic, shadows wove their dark tapestry across the neon-drenched streets. Here, amidst the techno-futuristic sprawl, the lunar eclipse was not merely an astronomical event but a harbinger of chaos, a symphony written in the language of the unknown.

Chapter 1: The Rhapsody of Eclipse

Vesper Kane, a cyber-sorcerer with eyes that reflected the city's synthetic glow, stood at the precipice of the abandoned opera house. Once a beacon of artistic grandeur, now it lay forgotten, a relic suffocating under layers of grime and time. Vesper's leather trench coat flapped in the wind, a canvas of shifting colors and electric veins. He was here on a mission, but not one dictated by the mundane—the eclipse had stirred something far older and more malignant.

“Vesper Kane,” a voice whispered from the shadows, slithering into his ears with the seductive allure of a forbidden melody.

He turned, his gaze locking onto a figure cloaked in a shroud of spectral mist—Noa, an enigmatic figure from the underbelly of the arcane. Her presence was both a blessing and a curse, a reminder of powers that should remain undisturbed.

“Are you here to witness the symphony or to stop it?” Vesper asked, his tone both intrigued and wary.

Noa’s eyes gleamed with an eldritch light. “The music of the eclipse is not for mere mortals, Vesper. But the cosmic harmonies are entangled with our fates tonight.”

Chapter 2: The Echoes of Forgotten Aria

As the eclipse began, the city fell into a surreal silence, broken only by the distant hum of neon and the occasional, distorted sigh of the wind. Within the opera house, the air grew colder, each breath a visible puff of mist. The grand chandelier, once a symbol of opulence, now hung like a ghostly relic, its crystals refracting the dim, otherworldly light.

In the center of the stage stood a figure not of flesh and blood but of echoes and shadows. The Conductor, an ancient being whose music could unravel reality itself. His baton was an obsidian wand, thrumming with an eerie rhythm that seemed to resonate with the heartbeat of the cosmos.

“Welcome to the final performance,” he intoned, his voice a tapestry of time-worn echoes.

Vesper’s heart pounded. This was not merely an occult ritual but a conduit to realms beyond human comprehension. The Conductor's symphony was a crescendo of chaos, a complex weave of notes that promised both transcendence and destruction.

Chapter 3: The Dance of Dissonance

The eclipse reached its zenith, casting a shadow that warped reality. The boundaries between dimensions blurred, and the cityscape morphed into a living tableau of surreal and nightmarish visions. Streets twisted into impossible angles, and buildings bled colors unseen by human eyes.

Amidst this turmoil, Noa began to chant in an ancient dialect, her words a counterpoint to the Conductor's melody. Her spellwork was delicate and fierce, a dance of light and darkness, weaving a protective barrier around Vesper and herself.

“This is not just a performance,” Noa said, her voice a trembling thread in the void. “It’s a battle between creation and obliteration.”

As they fought to maintain the fabric of reality, the Conductor’s symphony surged, each note a blade seeking to rend the veil between worlds. The air crackled with eldritch energy, a cacophony that threatened to tear the very essence of existence apart.

Chapter 4: The Silence Beyond the Notes

With a final, wrenching note, the symphony ended, and the eclipse began to wane. The city slowly returned to its semblance of normalcy, the oppressive atmosphere lifting like a shroud. Vesper and Noa, exhausted and scarred, stood amidst the remnants of the opera house.

“We’ve merely postponed the inevitable,” Noa said softly, her eyes reflecting the last vestiges of the cosmic light.

Vesper nodded, understanding that the battle was not won but merely delayed. The symphony of the eclipse was a prelude, a haunting overture to a greater cosmic ballet.

As they walked away from the opera house, the city seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Yet, beneath the neon façade, the echoes of the night’s performance lingered, a reminder of the thin veil separating reality from the abyss.

Translate:

Глава 1: Рапсодия затмения

Веспер Кейн, кибер-колдун с глазами, отражавшими синтетическое сияние города, стоял на краю заброшенного оперного театра. Когда-то маяк художественного величия, теперь он лежал забытый, реликвия, задыхающаяся под слоями грязи и времени. Кожаный плащ Веспера развевался на ветру, холст меняющихся цветов и электрических вен. Он был здесь с миссией, но не продиктованной обыденностью — затмение пробудило что-то гораздо более древнее и зловещее.

«Веспер Кейн», — прошептал голос из тени, скользя в его уши с соблазнительным очарованием запретной мелодии.

Он повернулся, его взгляд остановился на фигуре, окутанной пеленой спектрального тумана — Ноа, загадочной фигуре из недр арканы. Ее присутствие было одновременно благословением и проклятием, напоминанием о силах, которые должны оставаться нетронутыми.

«Вы здесь, чтобы стать свидетелем симфонии или остановить ее?» — спросил Веспер, его тон был одновременно заинтригованным и настороженным.

Глаза Ноа сверкали жутким светом. «Музыка затмения не для простых смертных, Веспер. Но космические гармонии переплетены с нашими судьбами сегодня вечером».

Глава 2: Отголоски забытой арии

Когда началось затмение, город погрузился в сюрреалистичную тишину, нарушаемую только далеким гулом неона и редкими искаженными вздохами ветра. Внутри оперного театра воздух становился холоднее, каждый вздох — видимым облаком тумана. Большая люстра, когда-то символ роскоши, теперь висела как призрачная реликвия, ее кристаллы преломляли тусклый, потусторонний свет.

В центре сцены стояла фигура не из плоти и крови, а из отголосков и теней. Дирижер, древнее существо, чья музыка могла разгадать саму реальность. Его палочкой был обсидиановый жезл, гудящий в жутком ритме, который, казалось, резонировал с сердцебиением космоса.

«Добро пожаловать на финальное представление», — пропел он, его голос был гобеленом изношенных временем отголосков.

Сердце Веспера колотилось. Это был не просто оккультный ритуал, а проводник в сферы за пределами человеческого понимания. Симфония Дирижера была крещендо хаоса, сложным переплетением нот, которые обещали как трансцендентность, так и разрушение.

Глава 3: Танец диссонанса

Затмение достигло своего зенита, отбросив тень, которая исказила реальность. Границы между измерениями размылись, и городской пейзаж превратился в живую картину сюрреалистичных и кошмарных видений. Улицы скручивались в невозможные углы, а здания истекали цветами, невиданными человеческим глазом.

Среди этого хаоса Ноа начала петь на древнем диалекте, ее слова были контрапунктом мелодии Дирижера. Ее заклинания были тонкими и яростными, танец света и тьмы, сплетающий защитный барьер вокруг Веспера и ее самой.

«Это не просто представление», — сказала Ноа, ее голос был дрожащей нитью в пустоте. «Это битва между созданием и уничтожением».

Пока они боролись за сохранение ткани реальности, симфония Дирижера набирала силу, каждая нота была лезвием, стремящимся разорвать завесу между мирами. Воздух потрескивал от сверхъестественной энергии, какофонии, которая грозила разорвать саму суть существования на части.

Глава 4: Тишина за пределами нот

С последней, мучительной нотой симфония закончилась, и затмение начало угасать. Город медленно возвращался к своему подобию нормальности, гнетущая атмосфера развеивалась, как пелена. Веспер и Ноа, измученные и покрытые шрамами, стояли среди остатков оперного театра.

«Мы просто отложили неизбежное», — тихо сказала Ноа, в ее глазах отражались последние остатки космического света.

Веспер кивнул, понимая, что битва не выиграна, а просто отсрочена. Симфония затмения была прелюдией, навязчивой увертюрой к большему космическому балету.

Когда они уходили от оперного театра, город, казалось, вздохнул с облегчением. Однако под неоновым фасадом все еще звучали отголоски ночного представления, напоминая о тонкой завесе, отделяющей реальность от бездны.

[starrynightscape]

Midnight Reckoning: The Haunting of Shadows

In a small, isolated house on the edge of a dense, dark forest, a boy named James lived with his single mother. The recent loss of his father in a tragic car accident weighed heavily on his young heart. His closest friends, Alex and Chris, were the only ones who truly understood the depth of his grief. On one stormy Friday night, they had gathered for their usual sleepover, a tradition that included staying up late, sharing horror stories, and playing video games until the sun rose.

The evening had started with a sense of anticipation and camaraderie. The wind outside howled like a chorus of lost souls, and the rain beat relentlessly against the windows, creating a chilling backdrop for their eerie tales. Shadows danced in the dimly lit room, and the atmosphere grew more and more unsettling. Their flashlight was the only source of light, casting eerie shadows on the walls, intensifying the spooky ambiance.

During one of James's stories, they heard two distinct taps on the window. Alex chuckled, trying to dismiss it as the sound of a bird or a tree branch. "Just adds to the ambiance, right?"

"Yeah, Chris," James added, "you're the one who wanted more chills for our stories, right?"

But the taps came again, more deliberate and louder this time. Chris couldn't ignore it any longer. "Okay, this is getting weird. I'm gonna check it out."

He approached the window cautiously, his heart pounding, curiosity mingling with unease. As he peered outside, his eyes widened in terror. Right in front of the window, a ghastly figure floated, its eyes boring into his soul, as if it could see every hidden fear and regret in his heart.

Frozen with fear, Chris's voice caught in his throat. He tried to step back, but his legs gave way, and he crumpled to the floor, fainting from the sheer terror of what he had seen.

"Chris!" James and Alex screamed, rushing to his side.

Their friend lay unconscious, his face drained of color. Panic welled up within them as they realized that something from outside had attacked Chris. They struggled to revive him as he slowly regained consciousness, recounting the horrifying apparition that had caused him to faint.

The night had taken a terrifying turn, and they were no longer telling stories for entertainment; they were living one. Shaken but determined, they decided to barricade the window and stick together as they navigated the horrors that had intruded into their lives.

As the night progressed, the room grew heavier with fear, and the storm outside seemed to mirror the tempest that had swept into their lives. Eerie shadows flickered on the walls, and a sense of dread hung in the air, a constant reminder of the supernatural presence that had violated their sanctum.

As the hours crawled by, they watched over Chris, who remained visibly shaken by the spectral encounter. They exchanged whispered speculations about the entity that had appeared at the window, pondering its origin and intentions. The room had transformed into a fortress of terror, and they couldn't help but wonder what other horrors the night had in store for them.

And then, just as dawn broke, a voice whispered, "James…"

The voice was hauntingly close this time, and James knew it instantly. It was his father's voice, beckoning to him. In the dim light of the early morning, a ghostly figure, the likeness of his father, stood before them, his eyes filled with longing and sadness.

"Dad?" James whispered, unable to believe his eyes.

Tears welled up in James's eyes as he realized what was happening. His father's spectral presence had come to reconnect with his son, to be with him once more. Trembling, James reached out, and their hands met in a spectral embrace.

The friends watched in awe as James and his father shared a final, heartfelt conversation. The bond of love and understanding flowed between them, and their voices trembled with emotion. The emotional reunion cast a bittersweet glow on the room as the sun began to rise, its first rays casting long shadows on the walls.

With the first light of dawn, the room was filled with a profound sense of closure and connection. The friends realized that their night of terror had brought about an astonishing revelation. The bond between father and son had been mended, and the unresolved grief that had haunted James had been transformed into a moment of healing.

As they looked around at the aftermath of their harrowing night, they knew they had been through something truly extraordinary. Their friendship had been tested, and they had emerged stronger, ready to face the unknown together. They were left with a haunting and unforgettable tale of love, loss, and the enduring connection between a father and his son, a story they would carry with them for the rest of their lives.

[harmonyhealinghub]

The Abandoned Train Station Shaina Tranquilino October 25, 2024

It was nearly midnight when Paul stumbled upon the old train station. He had missed the last bus out of town, and with no cabs available, walking seemed like his only option. The night air was chilly, and the looming silhouettes of twisted trees added an oppressive weight to the darkness.

The station was unlike any he had seen before. It looked as though it had been forgotten by time—its once grand facade crumbling, with rusted signs dangling precariously from their posts. A solitary bench stood beneath a flickering light, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cracked pavement. There were no signs of life. The ticket booth was boarded up, and cobwebs draped over the long-abandoned kiosks like funeral shrouds.

But the schedule posted on the wall intrigued him. "12:15 AM" was the next train—he checked his watch, which read 11:57 PM. The thought of a late-night train in such a forsaken place seemed strange, but he was desperate to leave.

Paul sat down on the creaky bench, his breath visible in the cold air, and waited. The silence was thick, almost unnatural, broken only by the occasional groan of the wind through the cracks in the building’s structure.

Then, he heard it.

At first, it was subtle, like a distant murmur. Paul tilted his head, thinking it might have been the wind playing tricks on him. But then it grew louder, more distinct—whispers.

He looked around, trying to locate the source, but saw nothing. The voices seemed to rise from the ground itself, seeping up from the tracks, winding through the air like a cold, slithering breath. He could make out words now, hushed but insistent.

"Leave... go... it's coming..."

Paul’s heart began to race. He stood up, peering down the tracks. In the distance, there was nothing but darkness. He glanced at his watch again—12:05 AM. Still time before the train, but the whispers grew more frantic.

"Run... you must leave... now."

His skin prickled with fear, yet something kept him rooted to the spot. The rational part of his mind insisted that he was just tired, his imagination running wild after a long day. He forced himself to sit down again, telling himself it was just his nerves.

But then, the station seemed to change.

The temperature dropped sharply, the cold biting into his skin. The once faint light from the lampposts flickered, then dimmed. The wind stilled, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake. And then, from the darkness of the tracks, came the distant echo of a train horn.

Paul felt a shiver crawl down his spine. He strained his eyes, peering into the void, but saw nothing. The whispers returned, louder now, more insistent.

"Run... it's not real... don't let it take you..."

He stood up, his feet feeling heavy as lead, every instinct in his body screaming for him to leave. But before he could take a step, he heard it—the unmistakable sound of a train approaching. The soft rumble of wheels on metal, growing louder with each passing second. Yet, no lights appeared on the horizon. No familiar glow of an engine breaking through the darkness.

It was then that Paul realized the truth.

The whispers weren't warnings—they were pleas.

The rumbling grew deafening now, the air around him vibrating with a force that rattled the windows of the old station. But still, no train appeared. Only the growing cacophony of sound, the rushing of wind, the screeching of wheels that never arrived.

Paul backed away from the platform, his eyes wide with terror. A strange fog began to rise from the tracks, swirling and thick, obscuring the ground beneath. And then, through the mist, he saw it.

A train—a ghostly, skeletal thing—its windows shattered, its once polished surface now corroded and blackened by time. It didn’t roll in but appeared, as if summoned from another world. The air was thick with the scent of rot and decay. Figures moved inside, shadows of passengers long dead, their hollow eyes staring vacantly out into the night.

Paul stumbled backward, the whispers now screaming in his ears. "Too late... too late..."

The train screeched to a halt, though its wheels never touched the rails. The door slid open with a tortured wail, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. And from that abyss stepped a figure—a conductor, dressed in a tattered uniform, his skin hanging loosely from his bones, eyes gleaming like polished coins in the dim light.

"Ticket, please," the figure rasped, its voice a dry, deathly whisper.

Paul turned to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. The fog clung to him, rooting him in place as the conductor drew closer. The scent of earth, damp and freshly disturbed, filled his nostrils.

"Ticket... please..." the conductor repeated, his skeletal hand outstretched.

Paul's heart pounded in his chest. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The whispers were a deafening roar now, drowning out everything. "You can't leave... not anymore."

With one last desperate effort, Paul broke free, stumbling away from the platform and into the night. Behind him, the train let out a piercing whistle, and the fog rolled in thicker, swallowing the station, the train, and the conductor in one final, suffocating wave.

He ran, the ghostly sound of the train's wheels chasing him through the night. He never looked back. By the time he reached the edge of the town, the station had disappeared entirely, as if it had never existed.

But the whispers stayed with him—faint, barely audible—but always there.

Warning him.

And reminding him that the next train... would be his last.

[fairylandblog]

Asrai, British Water Faeries

In British folklore, especially in the folklore of the British Isles, the Asrai are faerie figures that are deeply rooted. People often associate them with the eerie beauty and mystery of nature. These mythical creatures, often depicted as delicate, airy water nymphs or fairies, possess a magical and fragile beauty. They have a strong connection with the water they inhabit. People often describe them as enigmatic and ancient entities, residing deep within lakes and rivers, shielded from human noise and activity. Asrai possesses a delicate yet exquisite appearance. People frequently say that their skin is clear and pale, and that it almost shimmers like the water in which they live. Typically, depictions of these creatures feature long, flowing hair that emits a shimmering quality, enhancing their alien appearance. This sparkling quality in their skin and hair adds to their ethereal look, making them look beautiful and ghostly, like they are part of the water.

Their nature and actions are just as mysterious as the way they look. Asrai are very shy and difficult to find. They only come out at night, or in the dim light of dawn and dusk. People believe them to be here in the middle of the day, when the world hovers between light and dark. They often emanate an eerie, alluring air, seemingly charged with a mysterious energy that both attracts and repels those who come into contact with them. One of the saddest and most moving parts of their story is the Asrai's vulnerability to sunlight. People claim that exposure to the sun's rays will cause an Asrai to die and melt into a pool of water. This makes their fragility stand out even more and adds to the idea that they come from a world that humans can't fully understand. Furthermore, their sadness stems from the fleeting nature of their beauty and grace, which anything as simple as dawn can strip away.

Folktales about Asrai often depict meetings with these people as brief and filled with emotions. People who fish may catch a glimpse of an Asrai while they're out at sea, but she'll disappear into the depths before they can get close. The stories brim with longing and sorrow, as the Asrai remain elusive, eluding capture or ownership. Some versions of the stories say that a person could catch or keep an Asrai, but any efforts to do so always end in tragedy. Asrai's ethereal nature can't handle being in the mortal world, which ends tragically for both the captor and the hostage. The Asrai, with their sad, short-lived beauty, are strong representations of how the mysterious and unattainable are always changing. They show the delicate balance between the visible and invisible worlds and remind us of the deep secrets that exist in nature. Their stories make us feel both amazed and sad, and they make us think about the fragile beauty of the world we live in and the places we can't see. These mysterious water fairies continue to captivate people's minds. They are a moving reminder of how fragile and short-lived the beauty of both the natural and supernatural worlds is.

[piplup335]

Contest submission #3! (Murder Party, Roblox)

contest submission #3, but this one was Halloween themed lmaoaoao relatively sure i either wrote this in September or October, because i don't remember the exact month of the contest ;-; but yea this was the first and only contest I ever won in the discord server so yeaaaa enjoy!

⋯⇋ ૮(•͈⌔•͈)ა ⇌⋯

"Explain it again. Why did you think this would be a good idea?" Leaves crunched under four pairs of shoes. A pair of brown boots a bit torn from her job, fancy black court shoes which were nicely polished, neon pink shoes which, in the dark forest, stood out from the bleak atmosphere, and a pair of grey sneakers, which glowed a faint green with ever step the wearer took. The full moon peaked out from the dense clouds, and Mark could have sworn he heard a wolf howl. Glancing up, the moonlight shone on his mask, a spark of light shining off the beak of his smooth, black mask. He sighed. "We're almost here, friends." A woman groaned. She had brown hair which was nicely curled on regular basis, and donned a blue coat with a pair of brown pants, slightly lighter than the colour of her boots. "Define 'almost here'. You said that around 20 minutes ago, and we're still walking! Did we get lost or something?!" Mark sighed. "No. As a young child, I used to tell the direction of my parents' house by the direction of the moon, regardless of the moon phases. Full moons like today are easiest, so there's nothing to be worried about." "Says the person who decided to carry a CHAINSAW along," a green haired man said, "and you're telling us not to worry?" "Hector, I have to! I vowed to bring the heirloom back to the mansion whenever I visited! After all, my father entrusted me with the chainsaw..." A pink haired woman turned to Mark, her pigtails matching the bright colour of her shoes.

"Oh, you mean your dad, Jack? He was a pretty famous serial killer then. Even went by a feared name, too- Jack the Ripper!" Mark flinched at the mention of his dad's name. "Yeah...he's the guy who taught me everything I know..." The woman, Pansy, grinned. "He was definitely the pride of the family, huh? Being a famous killer and all that?" "...I don't want to talk about my dad-" "...but-!" "ALRIGHT! No buts- I think we're here!" Selene exclaimed, turning in the direction of a looming shadow. There, a mansion towered over them. The once feared mansion, now old and run-down, the blood red paint having worn off with time and not a single light in the building, the house just seemed so...dead. Just like Mark's ancestors... Walking up to the door, the once golden bell that acted as a doorbell was now oxidised and darkened, the once glistening shine of the metal replaced by a dull hue of yellow. The metal hung loosely off a rusted chain, squeaking and groaning as it swayed in the wind. "Yes, friends...we're here."

As the aged oak door creaked open, the dim moonlight shining in from the door shone on a barely visible figure, the only trace of him being a ghostly green glow. The figure shook his head, angrily muttering to himself. "That...disappointment of my son is back here, huh? Always sticking around with his friends...since young, I warned him that his friendship with them would be his downfall, but he didn't listen...and he's here with the fools too? Did he not learn?" He turned to a portrait on the wall. "My old friend...you were a nice guy. I don't know where you are right now, but I do thank you for your presence in the Wish Ruins to knock some temporary sense into my pathetic excuse of a child.* Feeling a familiar presence next to him, the figure knew that his old friend was there. "Good luck...Bob."

"So this is the place? Creepy...could we go ghost hunting here sometime?" Pansy glanced around in curiosity as Mark trudged on in front of the gang. "Maybe a tour, too? A quick one? Pleaseeee?" Mark groaned. "Fine...but just this once." Pansy was practically bouncing in excitement at this point, excited to explore all the rooms in the mansion. Serene sighed. "Deja vu..." Hector typed away on a tablet, seemingly not caring about the current situation. His glasses were attached to the tablet by the side using a wire, a focused aura surrounding him. His emerald eyes were fixated on something on the tablet, but as his eyes skimmed through the contents of the tablet, a frown slowly formed on his face...

"...and this is where my bedroom was." It had been 30 minutes since the tour started, and they were halfway through the entire mansion. Serene was starting to get interested in the mansion, while Hector still concentrated on the text in the tablet, occasionally sighing and tapping the tablet in an irritated manner. "Oh, this is so cool! Even then all your stuff was focused around red, huh? That must be one of your favourite colours, is it not?" Pansy was hopping around, opening and closing every drawer she could find. "Wait, what's this...?" Opening one of the bedside drawers, Pansy spotted a note. It seemed to be worn and tattered, but the ink used to write it still glistened in the faint moonlight... Mark grabbed it, glancing at the eight letters inscribed on the note. 'Backyard.' Mark frowned. Should he trust the note? It seemed to be recently written by an unknown individual, but the intriguing case made him want to find out more. Folding up the note, he shoved it in his pocket and turned towards the trio. "Let's do this." As they were about to walk out, Hector called out to them. "Stop, hang on a second." Unplugging his futuristic glasses from the tablet, Hector put them on, a faint green light emitting from them as they winked to life. Looking around, Hector silently gasped. "Oh, no...the situation is worse than it seems." Pushing a button on his glasses, the light dimmed significantly, a faint glow still coming from them. Hector turned to his friends. "This is the first and only time I've ever created a program for my glasses which didn't work as intended. I was able to check for the presence of other parties, but I'm unable to identify the person due to unfamiliar trac-" "Wait," Serene interjected, "there's another person here?" Hector sighed. "No, there are two people here...and from my data, they don't seem friendly." The trio went silent. Two people in their presence, and none of them know who the two were "Just...proceed with caution..." Mark tried to keep a confident demeanor, but the concern and worry was evident in his face. He turned around and walked out, the others following him.

"Well...here it is..." Serene, Pansy and Hector glanced around. There was nothing to be seen, just a plain open field illuminated by the moonlight. They walked to the middle of the vast field, still keeping their guards up. Just then, they heard faint laughter. It was not in a friendly or a joking manner, it was...malicious. The group quickly glanced around, but could not pinpoint the source of the laughter...until they looked up. A figure stood on the roof, glancing down at them. He donned a black cloak that faded to white at the ends. A spotless, grey shirt highlighted his features, and a pitch black pair of pants covered the rest of his skin. Pure white gloves covered his hands, contrasted by a pair of sleek, black court shoes. His entire outfit was monochromatic. But his most prominent feature? A mask. A black and white mask with the design of a sheep's face engraved on it, barely visible from the shadow that was cast over his face. A rather misleading image, considering what he was. After all, he was a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Leaping down gracefully, the man's cloak trailed behind him as he landed on the ground, doing a bow to the group subsequently. "...how did he-" Pansy's question was quickly disregarded with a waveof the man's hand. "Greetings. I am but a servant of your father...Mark." Mark's blood froze at his words. He remembered this man now- he was an assistant of his father, a harbinger of evil. The bringer of despair, inflictor of pain...he went by so many names, for so many murders he had assisted "Jack The Ripper" with...but he truly went by one name, and one name only. Bob.

"You...Bob...what are you doing here, and why?" "I am an assistant to your father, and am simply carrying out the task he assigned to me prior." Mark was startled. "Isn't Father dead? What do you mean?" "Well," Bob started, "it's not that difficult to see, but i get why a narrow-minded dimwit like you wouldn't understand. You know how ghosts usually become, well, ghosts? They do so if they have an important but incomplete task in life. Jack's dream was to watch you grow, to use the heirloom to inflict the wrath of our family on the world!" Mark could have sworn that, if he could see it, the man's expression darkened. "But you didn't. Since young, you hung out with that pathetic group of lower-class imbeciles. Did he not tell you that they will be your downfall? Even in the Wish Ruins-" Mark gasped in surprise. "Wish Ruins? How...do you know about that incident?" Bob laughed. He laughed and laughed, a bone-chilling sound that resounded around the entire field. "You really are such a fool! Didn't you see the sheep that lined the walls of the battlefield and think of ME?!" That the entire plan was orchestrated by me? You severely underestimate my intelligence! I simply replaced your map to lead you to my ancestors' sanctuary! A few tweaks here and there, and you were none the wiser...but enough of this." Dashing towards them, the man unfolded his arms from his back to reveal an unknown object, holding it in front of him and ready to strike. A sharp pain in Mark's head, and everything faded to black. "It's...dark..." Mark woke up in a dark, limitless void. He quickly reached behind him and wielded the chainsaw he carried on his back like a weapon, ready to defend himself. Paranoia struck him as he walked on, having no sense of direction or what lay before him. "After so many years...we meet again...my pathetic son." A low, gravelly voice snapped Mark out of his thoughts as a figure materialised in front of him. "Father...?" "I trusted to you carry on the family's legacy. Our tradition of being a serial killer. Your om and grandparents had such high hopes...but it was all to waste. I shall show you how this should truly be done." Sprinting towards him, Mark felt a sharp pain before his entire body went numb. He could not feel anything. He looked forward...but saw his body, standing upright and gripping the chainsaw with a newfound determination. "Father! No!" Jack turned to look at him, the once amber eyes now a crimson red. "I'll show you how this is done, you failure." A lamp switched on, the dim light revealing the old training room his father used to spend days on end practicing with him, mentally torturing Mark and forcefully shaping him into a killer. The light shone on the figures of three people across the room. His friends. They glanced at Mark. Well, what was left of him. He was now an empty shell, harbouring the soul of his late father. Jack turned, the crimson red eyes now filled with bloodlust. Jack's soul, now in Mark's body, opened his mouth to speak, his low voice speaking in an enraged manner. "I will end you all for the way you've ruined my son." Twirling the chainsaw in his hand, he darted towards Serene and slashed at her, who barely dodged the attack in time. Jack quickly regained his composure, glancing at them and pointing the chainsaw at them, a vicious grin present on his face. Serene gasped. "Oh no..." Jack snickered. "Hm, I like you bunch. For a ragtag bunch of idiots, you're pretty good at this." "Well, let's dance, shall we?"

⋯⇋ ૮(•͈⌔•͈)ა ⇌⋯

alright, that's it for Murder Party contest submissions! next is a random story I wrote at 2am in the morning last year, idek what it is but ima post it here anyway ;-;

[swordluck]

Anri watched him in silence, her gaze steady and open-hearted.  The flourish of his shrug, the quicksilver smirk, the easy dismissal in his gait –  a performance, perhaps. 

Maybe he played at indifference, kicking glass aside like he had not a care in the world, surveying the ruins of civilisation with all the idle detachment of a man browsing shopfronts.  Nick moved like a gambler long accustomed to bluffing his way through life, playing every hand with the ease of someone who no longer feared losing – and why should he?  The world had already folded and still he stood, smirking in its wreckage, slipping through the cracks, broken glass underfoot. 

Her mouth curved ever so slightly downward, as though she had bitten into something under-ripe and sour.  Uncharitable.  She was being uncharitable, judging him for his threadbare charm, his blithe irreverence. 

Her gaze followed the artful motion of his hands, the way they dragged down his face in exasperation, as if wiping away whatever thought had so visibly troubled him.  And then, with something like resignation, he relented.  The once white jacket was shrugged off with careful nonchalance, a persona discarded.  The rumpled dress shirt followed, unbuttoned and untucked, peeled away to reveal the shape of him – lean and weathered, all sharp edges and old marks, faded histories scrawled in flesh.  

On his right side, the shadow of tomorrow’s bruises already spoiled beneath the surface, but it was not the only injury that gave her pause – it was the rake of shallow scratches across his chest, telling but not nearly as damning as the dark blossom of a love bite at his throat.  Bold, defiant, brazen as war paint.  

Anri arched a brow, lips pressing together in something caught between amusement and incredulity as she stepped closer.  Fingers, cold and unsteady, hovered just above his ribs.  Aware, too aware, of the rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of him in the dim chill of the store, the scent of smoke and faded cologne clinging to his skin like something ghostly, something lost.  

Before the world ended, Anri had never thought much about hands.  They had always been just that – hands.  Now, in the half-light, she found herself staring at her own, at the grime beneath her nails, at the faint tremor that had settled into her bones since fever had made its home in her.  

“Sorry to be the one to break your winning streak,” she murmured, letting the words hang in the air long enough for him to catch the jest beneath them.  

Her gaze flickered, not unkindly, to the marks again, then back to his face, unreadable save for the rumour of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.  

“At least one of us is still finding some fun in all this,” she mused, finally pressing the tips of her fingers to the furrows of his ribs. 

Gentle but firm, she searched for the tell-tale tension of something worse than bruising.  Beneath her touch, Nick was warm, the heat of exertion clinging to his skin.  A creature of smoke and silver, of poker chips and bitten tongues – though she did not know it, might never know.  A man who had learned long ago that survival was just another game, and he would play it until the deck ran cold.

Terminal.  That pulled a breath of laughter from her, shapeless, barely there.  

“Well, they’re not broken,” she murmured, her voice quieter than she intended.  Soft, almost lost in the hush of the store’s ruin.  “But you’ll feel it soon enough, if it isn’t aching already.”

Withdrawing, she clenched her fingers into her palm as though to capture whatever memory of warmth had settled there.  The fever made everything feel unreal, dreamlike, as though she might blink and wake to find herself somewhere else, someone else – but no.  The world had burned, and she was here.  And so was he.

“I’d recommend rest, ice, pain relief – but, you know…”

A dry, mostly humourless tilt of her lips.  

“We won’t be going anywhere tonight, at least, so take a seat.  I have tablets in my bag.  No condoms, though – so if you plan on making a habit of doing the deed, do be careful.  Pregnancy and STDs are still a thing, end of the world or not.”

Hey, he tried. Features pulled to match his open-handed shrug. Brief, and comically exaggerated, mirroring her terse fluster. Harsher perhaps: suit yourself. Oxfords overturned speckles of cracked glass, two strides taken towards the edge of the barren aisle closest to the counter. The shelves were short enough that he could quite easily peer over to inspect the others — see that little else of interest was immediately obvious. Of course, all the good shit was taken day one of this hitting the streets. Probably by susceptible people who weren't even gonna make it anyway. Damn, what a waste… and what a terrible thought. He was no stranger to cruel pragmatism in the first place, ruthlessness from a man like him rewarded more often than not, be it by the criminal underbelly or by society's alleged prim and proper. Funny that. Ironic that it had taken the apocalypse, the world's lawless free-for-all for Christ's sake, for it to start actually erecting roadblocks in his life, driving the wedge between himself and his more tenderhearted teammates deeper every time he carelessly ran his tongue. He had gotten better at defusing his urges to just say shit, do whatever he damn well felt like. He found that it was surprisingly smoother when he eased his grip on the reins — let his allies run their hands over his teeth and resisting the urge to bite down.

— if your friends won't mind.

He had to wrestle the beginnings of a snarl creasing between his brows and nose at her wording, disguised by the gesture to rub his palm down his nose and mouth. Jesus Christ.

"Ahh, trust me. Those cream puffs? They'd be more upset if you didn't wanna come."

He looked back over to her with a dismissive wave of his hand, curling smirk pausing when he noted her expectant lingering. She was serious about checking him. Thin lips split on an uncooked excuse, aimlessly lingering on platitudes of assurance... why?

"… Sure."

After a parting glance the opposite way, he came back over to her, shrugging his white jacket off to drape over the counter, untucking his dress shirt to begin unbuttoning it: he had gotten better at accepting help too. It felt weird to be without the weight of his suit now — a second, oversized skin that he had stolen to hastily slip his way amidst the ranks of the riverboat's guests. A wolf in sheep's clothing, or something like it… now, that wool was all he had to keep himself warm.

No comment was made to the shallow scratch marks over his right pectorals… nor that stubborn hickey that still bloomed angrily over the left side of his neck. Hey, she had asked to check. His shirt went to join his suit jacket, gun placed on top of both as he rotated both palms to lean back on the counter and get a better view of his injury. He could see his right side had notable inflammation — the predecessor to deep bruising he was sure to see by tomorrow. How bad it was beyond that? He'd just be guessing. He frowned, sucking between his teeth at the twinge his slight stretch invited.

"How's it looking, Nurse Anri? Terminal?"

[whirligig-girl]

Guzcomic 9 (It’s back!)

Next Part: [Link]

Previous Part: [Link]

First part: (Link)

More of Eaurp Guz: [Link]

Mirror on Archive of our Own: [Link]

transcript and bonus background-only images below the cut:

Transcription:

Page 1:

Exterior shot of the Cerritos, as if from the perspective of a spacewalker towards the back of one of its warp nacelles, looking up at the saucer section. Its two main impulse engines are visible and glowing red, but the one on the right (starboard) is dark in the middle third of its length. A ringed gas giant is visible in front of the Cerritos, quite far away, with both a regular multi-gapped debris disk and a larger, ghostly rainbow ring farther out. This gas giant has previously been visible out the window from the mess hall in previous scenes, albeit from a different angle. The gas giant and the Cerritos are lit from two directions, from the right by a golden light source and from the left by a white light source.

Guz: And that's when I ran to the tubes, and got lost.

Rutherford: Is Tendi okay!?

Guz: The photonic pulse charges weren't radioactive, if that's what you mean.

Page 2:

Close up exterior shot of the Cerritos, zoomed in on its impulse engines. We can see tiny Guz and Rutherford through windows on the dark terraced section of the Cerritos impulse engines, and we can see a row of six dark impulse engine nozzles and a row of six bright glowing impulse engine nozzles. Towards the right is a red dwarf star, shining like a bright golden-orange sun, with a few planets visible near it.

Guz: I really gunked up with her, didn't I?

Rutherford: I doubt it. The rocket launch was an accident, and she's usually pretty patient with outbursts and meltdowns... I mean, you know--Probably! Because she's a medic.

Page 3:

Seen from inside a Jeffries Tube with a full-wall-length pair of windows (the same we saw from the outside on the last page.). We're looking out on the Cerritos' engineering hull and warp nacelles, with the impulse engines to the right. A pair of dim white suns can be seen out the window as well. Inside the Jeffries Tube, Rutherford is looking out the window and Guz is looking at Rutherford with a serious expression. The light from the gold sun, white sun, and red sun shine over Guz's shiny surface on her head and hair.

Rutherford: Look at that! One of the six impulse clusters is dead!

Guz: Then it's worse than I thought. Come on. We're almost there.

End transcript.

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