#great knights were the only one to have the 'unicorn' like horn. followed closely by dark knights which have 2 horns

[lululeighsworld]

when you want a lil charm of your fave fire emblem character with their mount, no one designs them cuter than UniDragonShop!!

a Gunter charm commission from this past Emblemcon 💜✨

[cts-ryu-writing-desk]

The Last Magic In the World

Here is a little bit of a break from my usual smutty writings and working on something a little more whimsical. I have wanted to do something like this with a unicorn for a while now. I didn't know how I wanted to work on it this one came pretty close.

Hope you guys enjoy this one!

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

The world was once a magical place. Great mages channeled the energies of the land through them to enforce their will over the natural law. Yet over a thousand years ago, the magic faded from memory. Now in the isolated kingdom of Silvaros dwelled the last the world knew of great mages. Their magic never died out.

But now was the time for an ancient ritual. It was to be carried out in an enchanted forest with the border of the castle's land. The forest was dense with a magical miasma turning wayward invaders and trespassers away. Only once every eighty years did the miasma fade for their ritual to commence. The mages ventured deeper into the forest, the key to their ritual - the vibrant and lovely Princess Filianore.

Princess Filianore was led into the boundary of the forest she was always told never to cross. She was dressed in a beautiful white gown, large and flowing she felt out of place amongst the tatter robes and tarnished armor of her entourage. She was led under the guidance of two of the palace's mages, followed by only one knight to protect them. Tension crackled in the air. Though the sun sank behind the trees, the forest glimmered with an otherworldly glow.

As they approached the altar, whispers seemed to echo all around them.

"Your Highness," the voice was from the first mage, "You must wait here, we cannot assist you any further."

"Am I going to die?" Her gentle voice quivered

"No, my princess. Should the ritual be refused? You will be returned to the palace." the knight spoke out

"And if I'm chosen?" Filianore asked worriedly

"Then we are unsure if you will return." The second mage said

Dread showered over the youthful Filianore.

“I'm sorry princess," The knight said, she could hear great sorrow in his voice.

The entourage that led her to this altar had left.  Filianore's heart was racing. She had only ever heard whispers and rumors of what lay within this enchanted section of the forest. Her hands were shaking. She grasped them together in a prayer-like gesture.

The altar behind her, built of ancient stones long since weathered over the centuries. She could see it cloaked in green slowly being overtaken by the forest. She took deep breaths, each exhale quivering in her dread. Her mind filled with questions: was this really what she was born to do?  Would this be where her story ends? She pondered her destiny.

The softest rustle of leaves behind her filled her with dread. Should she look? Was she supposed to stay in this position? She could hear numerous footsteps getting closer to her. She closed her eyes tightly trying to keep them shut. The breathing of the creature as it came closer. With what little courage she could stand to muster, she peeked. And then she saw the visage of a horse.

White fur, appearing aged and wizened. A frail mane, a brilliant dull glow, and a horn atop its head. Her heart was filled with relief. She was gazing at a unicorn.

Filianore stared in awe. Never had she envisioned such a magical creature to be so grand, imposing, and yet so full of grace even in its appeared old age. She could hardly utter the words. "You're real," 

The unicorn neigh softly as if to show approval.

Filianore felt compelled. She reached out her hand. The Unicorn met her hand gliding its muzzle against her palm. Filianore was lost in such a magical moment. She could feel the unicorn's magic reach into her.  It was like a torrent through every inch of her body. 

Filianore knew of the stories: of how unicorns would make themselves known to pure maidens. She breathed a sigh of relief nearly in tears.  The unicorn's horn glowed a soft blue. Filianore got to her feet. The tip of the unicorn's horn glowed. It drew a great deal of magic at the very tip of its spiral horn. Bowing its head lightly, placing it near her lower stomach.

Filianore felt its magic coursing through her. As the magic coursed through her it filled her mind with the story. It was a story even the mages and her kingdom never knew.

The unicorn was the last son in a long regal equestrian line. Her ancestor, the founder of the kingdom, Godwin the Conqueror, hunted and slew the unicorns to near extinction. It was through Godwin’s firstborn daughter that the pact was made. She willingly came to this place before the stone altar dwelt there. This virgin princess offered herself to continue the progeny of the unicorn and by doing so secure that magic remained in their kingdom. Every eighty years a virgin maiden from the royal line would be brought there to be chosen. Only someone so pure could have brought such a pure creature back from the edge of extinction.

 It was always when the unicorn was near the end of their life. If the maiden were pure without a touch of sin to her heart, they would be chosen to uphold this now ancient agreement. For as long as there was at least one unicorn, then there would always be magic in the world. Thus leading to the great mages of her kingdom. The First Princess would only return a message, that a princess is to be brought to this forest, pure in body, heart, mind, and soul, should this be kept there will always be magic and peace within the kingdom. Any who would return would feel their minds lost in a fog if ever they tried to recount such a magical encounter. 

The visions playing in her head ceased. The wizened unicorn stood in front of her. Tears gently rolled down her cheeks. Filianore could feel the weight building in her lower stomach.

With the unicorn’s magic, Filianore could sense the life growing inside her, planting its roots and beginning to bloom. The intensity of the magic coursing through her took her breath away, and she closed her eyes, her body trembling with anticipation. 

Then, without notice, the magic stopped. Her eyes fluttered open to find the unicorn backing away, watching her with a dark wellspring kike a curtain of a starless sky. Filianore felt magic fill her womb, stirring before beginning to grow. A strange calm swept over her.

Contrary to the panic and dread that she experienced earlier. Filianore didn’t feel an ounce of dread. The magic of this unicorn swept through her, deep within her, she could feel it. A small presence of this new life quickly grew within her womb. In Filianore's heart, she could feel a deep and unfathomable love growing as she witnessed the baby in her growing belly. A peaceful and soothing feeling washed over her; she knew it to be real as she placed her hand against her pregnant belly. She could feel her skin getting tighter, canyons forming beneath her fingertips as her skin stretched to accommodate the foal. Filianore’s belly grew rounder by the minute, she truly was beginning to look pregnant now. She quickly outgrew her gown and her swelling belly tearing through it. The young foal needed to grow a lot before it could be ready to be born.

The foal was growing completely in a matter of moments. Her body was not prepared to handle such weight. Gently she was brought to her knees and her stomach continued to grow. 

The unicorn remained nearby, its eyes peering deeply into the depths of Filianore's soul. A feeling of warmth consumed her heart like a flame as she embraced the gravity of the moment. The unicorn lowered its head, nuzzling her protruding stomach gently. Filianore had rapidly undergone nearly a year of gestation, which could only mean the foal would be arriving soon. 

Feeling the unicorn brush against her bare pregnant belly, made the foal inside squirm. Her skin stretched out. But never did it break, tear, or show signs of damage. The magic that put the foal there was to accommodate the foal and bring no harm to her. This great weight in her womb gave Filianore a feeling of comfort. This was vastly different from what she expected. Magically bearing a child of such a pure creature was a far cry from the death and ruin she perceived it to be. 

Filianore began to feel the foal descending lower. She felt no pain as labor began. She could feel the foal pushing its way out of her womb and down the narrow corridor of the birth canal. The strong magic of the foal's father aided the foal forcing its way through the tight passage. Filianore gasped.

She felt every movement, every instance of it sliding out of her, descending further and further as its hooves started noticeably poking out against her taut skin. This was not solely without feeling. She felt a strong sensation overwhelm her: the need to push. In and out, she breathed. 

Filianore focused on her lower stomach region. Each muscle tensed and pulled. She tried to push down with all her might. Filianore could feel the foal moving faster. She could feel the nose poking out. Filianore continued to push until she got to the rest of the body. The adult unicorn already checking out the new young foal slowly stood as the birthing was nearing the end. 

Filianore struggled to push going red in the face but ultimately her struggle was rewarded. The body was now free and so too was the foal, Filianore looked down at her once round belly to see it was now deflated. Filianore watched in blissful delight seeing her newborn unicorn foal trying to stand. The foal came to her, instinctively knowing that she was his mother. She carefully wrapped her arms around the foal. Instantly in love with it. She could feel the magic radiating off the newborn foal. With this, the ritual was now complete.

The elder unicorn nudged the newborn and Filianore towards the forest. It was time to retreat to the depths of the forest. With a gentle hand against her newborn foal, Filianore looked around. She was leaving the altar, and her life as a princess behind. She was now a mother, her duty to her foal. Indifferent to returning to the palace, she wished to be like that first princess long before her. Filianore wanted nothing more than to keep such a pure and beautiful creature in the world. This birth did not take her virginity, she could bear another. She wished to bear another. Filianore dreaded what the world might be like without the unicorns, without magic. Her heart could not stand to dream of such a world. It was a last wish by Princess Filianore 

Filianore left the altar with her foal and its father, her heart wanting to fill this forest with a herd of unicorns again. Her body was more than capable of doing so.

[frostmarris]

Jailbreak

KakaSaku, KisaSaku, ShikaSaku - Fantasy Au

summary: A witch, a knight, a dog trainer, and an apprentice mage. Great minds think alike.

notes: gift fic for petrikore for the Sakura Haruno discord server's 6 month anniversary exchange!

there's uh,,, a lot more lore and world building that I thought up that I didn't end up including in the fic lol. Maybe I'll continue one day?

Enjoy!

: :

The hall is silent except for the crackling of flames and the whispers of onlookers. The torches perched equidistant along the polished stone walls of the grand hall hold their flickering fires behind fine metal cages, twisting and curled in elegant loops that glow red when kissed by the flames. The court is full, fine silks and satins and lace and pearls crowded together between the towering columns that lined either side of the main path from the entrance to the throne. The noblemen and women keep clear of wide path, necks craving to see over each other and the occasional muffled tap of tailored shoes against marble floor joining the crackling and whispers. Royal guards are placed periodically down the sides of the wide walkway to hold the line, either to keep the members of the court back or to protect them from something else.

All eyes are on the pair of grand doors opposite of the throne, the carved wood aged but well-maintained and the metal lining reflecting the light of the torches. Dancing shadows are cast over the painted carvings of forest creatures - foxes chasing rabbits, a mother doe grazing with a fawn, wolves running as a pack, birds soaring overhead, a hunting party on horseback following a lone stag. In the center, standing atop a green hill, every blade of grass meticulously carved, is a white silhouette of a strange beast - the single horn in the center of its forehead pointing to the heavens and touching a fallen star. The paint and carvings mimic the light radiating from the star, stretching out over the other creatures and bathing them in its ethereal glow.

A chorus of footfalls grows steadily louder from behind the carved wood and the whispers fall silent, leaving only the crackling flames to accompany the low groan of the old doors as the unicorn is split in twain.

The metallic ringing of armor scraping against armor and the sturdy thuds of leather boots against the marble floor soon drowned out the flames, but the entourage of royal guardsmen is ignored in favor of the woman  trapped in the center of the pack. Two men stand on either side of her, just a step behind, with their hands on their hilted swords and their keen gazes never leaving her profile. Ahead of her walks the Captain, holding the iron chain attached to the heavy shackles encompassing her delicate wrists.

Her skin is rubbed red and raw under the sharp edges of the cuffs and her gown is torn and stained along the hem. A long sleeve ripped up to her bicep and a straight scratch along her left cheek, but she might as well have been dressed in all the finery and jewels of a queen with how the court stares in awe. 

She radiates… something. 

Something unseen and powerful and glorious that has breaths caught in lungs and eyes unblinking as she strides forward, the chain slack and her back straight. She stands with all the power and regal air of a royal lady of the court, as if she were here as a guest rather than a prisoner in chains. 

The deep green of her gown, velvet and hemmed with silver threads, sweeps over the marble like a curtain of moss, silent compared to the footsteps of the soldiers. Beaded starlight dappled lightly over her skirt gathers together in larger clusters towards the bottom hem, gradient of silver and white sparkles that catch the crackling flames with every movement. Her skirt trails behind her, tattered and torn, and the guardsmen take care not to step on it. 

They keep a wary distance from the woman, even though they must remain close - as if afraid to touch any part of her.

Hair the color of flowers only found in the royal garden cascades down the open back of her dress, brushing over unmarred skin and twisting in loose curls. Her head is held high and remains facing forward even as her eyes pass over the awed faces of the court. Eyes like the emeralds lining the King's crown and a face that is both hard edges and gentle curves, her stern expression unwavering and the smallest downward tilt to pink lips is the only inclination to her thoughts as she is led towards the raised dais of the throne.

The guardsmen and their charge stop at the first step of the platform and the hall falls silent once more, except for the soft rustling of fabric as the King shifts in his throne. Hard, aged, brown eyes stare into sharp green and the hall is filled with bated breaths, no person daring to speak or draw breath too loudly lest they draw the ire of either the King or the woman.

She stands tall and unwavering, refusing to break her gaze from the King's. Neither of them speak and the tension in the air grows heavy and thick, the crackling of the flames falling to a soft hush as well.

Then, her eyes flicker upwards and green-stained fingertips curl as her hands fist against the fabric of her gown.

The flames lick and rage against their delicate metal cages, growing bigger and brighter and hotter as her gaze falls on the single opalescent, spiraling horn mounted at the top of the King's throne, the jagged ivory base still stained red.

: :

Kakashi sees a ruby. 

It is placed in the center of her forehead, pressed into her skin rather than the metal of a circlet or crown, and it catches the flickering flames of the torches as she passes by.

The Guardian of the Forest, he'd heard them call her - a strange woman inhabiting the mysterious woods just at the edge of the King's claimed land. She kept the creatures of the forest safe, allowing neither hunter nor soldier to enter and discover its secrets. Tales of magical beasts mingling among common animals and an ethereal being dressed in leaves and moss who wandered its hidden paths.

They were bedtime stories and lullabies that all children who lived near the woods grew up hearing, their dreams filled with creatures of legend and fae that would whisk you away into the darkness if you walked too close to those tall, tall trees.

He couldn't recall any mention of pink hair and eyes like green fire, however.

Kakashi stands at the edge of the crowded court, one of his hounds sitting obediently his side while he stands mesmerized, catching glimpses of the strange woman as she is led towards the throne. 

He rarely ventured inside the castle anymore, preferring to spend his time in the kennels where he trained and tended to the royal hunting dogs. He'd had his fill of the court and politics and retired some years ago from his position as the Captain of the Guard. No more bloodshed, no more fighting - Kakashi had seen enough battles and men dying to fill several lifetimes.

Now, he took his place as the kennel master, making sure the hounds were kept happy and healthy between hunts and training pups for their eventual roles in the King's hunting parties. He spent a fair amount of time in the woods, but specifically those near the castle that were used for game and sport. Occasionally he ventured to other forests where townsfolk and noblemen hunted for their meals, but never to the great forest to the West, where white stags and black wolves and something otherworldly roamed.

Kakashi had been checking up on an order for new leather leads for the pack when he'd heard the whispers amongst the castle servants.

"A strange woman in chains caught by soldiers."

"A witch was being bought to the castle."

"The Guardian of the Forest had been captured."

So, he'd slipped into the throne room and kept to the edges of the great hall like many other curious members of the palace staff, unable to resist.

And he sees the woman, standing so tall and strong despite how the shackles dwarf her wrists and she barely reaches the shoulder of the guard next to her, soft and lovely and out of place in the court, and Kakashi insists to himself that there must be some mistake.

But then his hound whines and cowers and the flames lick at the metal cages of the torches, nearly grazing him as they seem to reach out in their rage, and the air grows cold, heavy and thick in his lungs.

And he knows that a mistake has been made, dire and dreadful.

: :

Kisame sees a sapphire.

It reminds him of his homeland, where the sea met the land and great waves crashed against towering cliffsides, carving back the rock and stone as it tried to reclaim what had once been under its care. Ocean spray and salt on his tongue, weathering his skin well before calluses and scars from training and combat. His gaze reading the horizon and tides and stars and the grand forests to the West only a legend for the children of seafarers and fishermen. 

He'd always wanted to see those green, green woods and trees as tall as cliffs, even though his heart sang for the water and seafoam. 

Kisame trained and worked and eventually found his place in the castle guard for the royal palace itself, his ocean home and those rocky shoals seen now only in his dreams. His heart yearned for both the sea and the woods he'd yet to witness, caught between both and unable to choose whether to return or venture onwards.

Now head of the King's personal guard, he dreams of both the past and the future - of before and more.

The Lady of the Woods, he'd heard whispered. 

First as a story-creature when he was a child - a magical woman who'd never seen the ocean or horizon or sky, only trees and their reaching arms that hid away the stars and clouds with their canopies of leaves and vines. A being that spoke to the forest and bade the plants to follow her commands. Both a prisoner and a warden, where life was so unlike that of the coast and the inhabitants sounded alien and strange.

And now again, as he stands at his post to the right of the dais, armor glinting under the flames and his hand resting at his side, always just a moment away from reaching for his sword.

Kisame sees her as the grand doors open and the procession of guardsmen enter and his heart stops.

He sees the sunsets over the horizon that he misses, pink and lovely and breathtaking, and the greens of the great forest he yearns to see, cloaking a body with pale skin that had never known ocean spray or the harsh coastal sun.

Her eyes are more green than any leaf and they travel over the staring faces as she passes, unreadable and intense. The sapphire in the center of her forehead seems out of place amongst the greens of her eyes and gown and fingertips and the pinks of her hair and lashes and lips and Kisame stares like everyone else, something thrumming in his chest and in his ears.

Her eyes meet his own and he takes the smallest, sharpest breath, holding her gaze for what feels like hours, but he knows is only an instant, before her attention is turned to the King. Her anger is palpable and sweat beads at the nape of his neck and he doesn't dare take his eyes off of her.

Kisame is privy to more information than most, as he is always at his King's side, and he knows this woman has been brought here for heinous crimes - murder of soldiers, destruction of royal property, defiance against the King's will - but he finds himself unable to believe it.

She seems so delicate and frail, despite the strength behind her gaze. How could one small - lovely, beautiful, otherworldly - woman destroy an entire battalion? How could this woman have possibly uprooted a small fortress and crushed stone into rubble?

And then her gaze moves away from the king and to the horn mounted overhead and Kisame feels a chill unlike anything he's experienced in years.

The bite of ice in his veins and the suffocating pressure of water and drowning, no air left in his lungs and his heart heavy in his chest. 

His hand is on his sword before he even realizes it and he's stepped forward, just the same as all the guards and soldiers present. The flames behind him grow wild and unruly, but he feels no heat from their lashing tongues. 

Kisame's hand is on his blade but he can find no true desire to draw it, lost as he is in the Lady's gaze.

: :

Shikamaru sees an onyx.

He'd been restless all morning, a heavy pressure at the back of his skull and an unsettling feeling under his skin. He knew what would be happening today, had known for the week leading up to it, but he had no idea what to expect. And not knowing is one of his least favorite feelings. 

The Witch of the Moors.

She was a legend - an enchantress, a sorceress, a shapeshifter - who had only ever been glimpsed through trees and branches of those daring few who entered her woods. Ruby hair, onyx eyes, golden hair, topaz eyes, diamonds and sapphires and pearls and emeralds and so many conflicting stories that encompassed years and years and years. Wearing the forest like a gowns and cloaks and hallowed by starlight, the very earth listened to her command and the creatures of the forest both feared and adored her.

She wasn't supposed to be real.

If anything, it was just some reclusive witch hiding in the great forest to the West, driving away people who tried to enter.

But then the King had taken a hunting party to the forest and returned with the most glorious trophy, exposing his sins to anyone who looked upon the opalescent horn he'd mounted.

Shikamaru had been on edge ever since he'd seen the horn, still bloody and shining though slowly dimming as the King laughed and regaled his grand story. He'd wanted to leave, to lock himself away in his study and beg for forgiveness as he knew there would be dire consequences. But his teacher had a place on the King's council and, as his apprentice, Shikamaru must remain at his side. To learn and listen so that one day he'd be able to take his place as a royal advisor and mage to the King.

His fingertips were numb and his shadows restless, flickering at the edges and twisting underfoot as he stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back and his expression tired and every fibre of his being screaming for him to run.

The first omen came the next morning, a dark storm reaching across the sky like a clawed hand, the castle its final mark. Reports claimed that the storm stretched across miles and miles, no break in the black and charcoal clouds. Lightning crackled just under the surface, never striking the ground but filling the air with static and energy.

The storm originated from the great forest, with its massive trees and otherworldly legends, and reached all the way across the kingdom for the King himself.

He had the horn mounted to his throne that evening.

And during the night, he claimed someone - some thing - had slipped into his bedchamber and tried to kill him.

(Reports from the guards claimed that they had rushed to the King's chamber at the sound of his screams, to find him waking from a nightmare and a manic look in his gaze.)

The next day, he sent a small battalion of soldiers to the forest. 

Only one man returned, half dead upon his horse with reports of a bloodbath and screams and a witch standing on the rubble of what had once been an ancient watchtower.

The King consulted his mages and magical advisors and they came back with a potion, iron shackles, and a plan.

And now the Witch of the Moors had been brought to the castle to answer for her crimes and, again, all Shikamaru wanted was to run away.

The air is electrifying in the hall well before the doors finally open, the hair on his arms standing on edge but no one else seeming to notice the unrest in the atmosphere. Shikamaru stands to the left of the dais, at the back of the council and behind his teacher but with a clear view of the path to the throne.

The grand doors open and his blood sings.

A powerful force rushes through his veins, both chilling and burning all at once, and he hasn't seen her yet but he k nows she is there. There are whispers and hushed voices calling feather-soft into his ears, drawing patterns against his bare skin under his clothing and making him tense. His shadows writhe and twist and it's the only movement from him as he finds himself standing frozen-still, gaze straining as he waits for her to come into view.

Shikamaru finally, finally, sees petal-pink hair, green eyes brighter than any gem, and an onyx stone in the center of her forehead and he tries and fails to breathe.

Something is so terrible wrong and he can tell that his teacher feels it now as well as he tenses and inhales sharply through his teeth, but Shikamaru doesn't dare look away from the woman - he never wants to look away.

He feels her anger under his skin and in his veins and he knows she has every right to tear the castle itself down around them and rip apart anyone who stands in her way. He knows the only crime committed has been against her and, then and there, he resigns himself to whatever destruction she desires and knows that he will be leaving the castle by daybreak.

The flames roar and scream and rage and after things are calmed to simmering rather than overboiling and the woman is led away in her iron shackles, three minds simultaneously come to the same conclusion.

Tonight is the only night she will spend as a prisoner.

: :

Kisame brings her food.

He swipes the meal meant for her from one of the prison guards to hand-deliver it himself, using his authority as the head of the King's personal guard and claiming he wants a closer look at the witch, sharp steel in his gaze and his jaw tense.

The hardness of his expression melts away as he faces the door to her cell, high up in one of the tallest towers and far away from earth and soil. He meets her with a hushed voice and light steps as he enters, finding her still shackled at the wrist and kneeling at the far edge of the dark room. There is a single hole high above her, allowing a single ray of light from the setting sun to enter the cell.

She pauses in the midst of singing in a language Kisame doesn't understand and looks up at him, those emerald eyes practically glowing in the dark.

He carefully approaches her and slowly lowers to one knee, setting the food in front of her. Though her meal had originally only consisted of stale bread and water, he'd added a few fresh pieces of fruit that he'd swiped from the kitchen to the platter.

She meets his gaze and Kisame feels as if she is staring into his very soul, reading every thread of his being and slowly taking him apart, piece by piece.

And then her stern, indecipherable expression melts away and she offers him a near-smile, reaching out to touch his arm with her cuffed hands. He's never felt such soft skin against his own and he freezes, breath caught again before he bows his head in reverence and promises his return. Kisame unwillingly backs out of the cell and and doesn't look away from her until the door is closed.

He swipes the spare ring of keys mounted at the guard station after passing the original back to the prison guard, already making plans for a pair of horses and supplies.

: :

Kakashi brings her a blanket.

It's old and from his own home, so he's inwardly apologetic for any lingering dog-smells, but he would rather she have something of his than something belonging to the castle. 

It's still fairly early in the evening and he distracts the prison guards with Pakkun, the small dog grabbing their attention as he makes off with someone's coinbag and they chase after him. Kakashi slips through the shadows, unseen and unnoticed and well practiced at getting where he wants to go without being spotted.

He curses as he finds the spare ring of keys missing from its usual spot in the guard station and resigns himself to picking the lock, using skills that have gone unused for some years.

The sound of muffled singing stops just as he manages to unlock the latch and carefully push the door open.

She's kneeling in front of the far wall, hair he longs to touch and run through his fingers cascading down her shoulders as she watches him warily. Still slightly crouched, Kakashi stares at her for a long moment, forgetting why he'd come, before he's startled by a soft bark in the distance.

Pulled from his reverie, Kakashi glances over his shoulder before silently slipping into the cell. Her eyes narrow and he holds up his hands as a show of peace, smiling behind the cloth covering the lower half of his face. Green eyes stare and stare and he holds his breath for almost too long, relaxing when she finally seems to find what she's searching for in his gaze.

Kakashi speaks, softly and lightly and her tense shoulders lower, her head tilting and sending those soft tresses in further waves down her arm as he procures the blanket from under his belt. He holds it out to her and she hesitantly reaches for it, his boot brushing an apple core as he takes another crouched step forwards.

Soft, delicate hands touch his rough, weathered fingers and she gives him the smallest smile as she accepts his gift.

His heart is pounding in his chest and he nearly lets out a small laugh, but then he hears more barking in the distance, grimacing behind his mask. Kakashi promises to return and slips back out of the cell, listening to the click of the lock and casting the door one last look before disappearing into the shadows.

: :

Shikamaru brings her a candle.

He stashes it away in his pocket and heads towards the tower used as a secondary prison with a lie on his tongue and conviction in his veins. He claims that the other mages sent him to see the witch, showing off a vial filled with shimmering black liquid that, in reality, is just metal shavings and ink. 

He's led to her cell and watches as the door is unlocked for him, one of his shadows slipping into that of the prison guard to inspect the key as he enters the dark room, the sound of singing suddenly stopping. The sun has set and the sky has been dark for some time now, with the only light coming from the torches lining the hall outside the cell doors. The guard places a torch temporarily in one of the wall sconces and closes the door behind him, leaving Shikamaru with the woman.

She's bundled under a blanket and watching him with curiosity, something tickling the edges of his awareness and making him shiver, a buzz of energy under his skin. He stands there for a moment, holding her gaze, before walking forward and slowly dropping to his knees in front of her. Removing the candlestick from his pocket, Shikamaru gathers some of the energy in the air into his hand and passes his fingers over the wick, a flame lighting to life and flickering between them. The light dances across her face, catching in her eyes and the onyx on her forehead, and he waits with bated breath.

Then she chuckles and Shikamaru finds himself smiling, holding reaching to her left and using some of the melted wax to anchor the candle to the stone floor. When he looks back up at her, he's caught off guard by warm lips on his forehead and a spark of energy that rushes through him and makes his hair stand on end, his blood racing and roaring.

With hushed whispers, Shimamaru promises to return, retrieves the torch from the wall of the cell, and returns to his room to pack only the most important of his possessions.

: :

The next evening, after a tense day full of anxious thoughts and restless bodies, the commander of the King's personal guard, the kennel master, and the apprentice mage return to the prison tower.

Kisame and Kakashi arrive at the same door at the same moment.

They balk at each other, both searching for their next course of action and unwilling to harm each other. Kinda-sorta-friends and all that.

"Commander Hoshigaki…" Kakashi says, shuffling awkwardly with his lockpick hidden behind his back.

"Hatake…" Kisame answers back, just as stiff and tense.

A long stretch of silence passes between the men, muffled singing heard from behind the door next to them, and Kisame just barely shifts, the ring of keys hidden under his coat jingling at the movement and slipping out of their place in the picket he'd hurriedly stuffed them into. They hit the ground with a dull thud and both men look down, sweat beading on Kisame's brow as Kakashi’s eyes widen.

The knight grimaced, wondering if it would be quieter to knock him out by punching him in the face and knocking his head against the wall.

"...So that's where the spare keys went." Kakashi mumbles after a moment and Kisame's confusion is just long enough for the silver haired kennel master to sheepishly hold up his lockpicking tool and let out a nervous laugh.

Kisame opens his mouth to speak but is too dumbfounded to find words. They both silently shuffle their feet for a moment before a tired groan from the shadows has both men suddenly turning towards the source, a sword raised and a knife in hand within seconds.

Shikamaru steps out of the shadows, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and holding up the copy-key he'd made with the other. 

"Man, did we all have the same jailbreak idea..?"

The three would-be rescuers all stare at each other for a moment, Kisame resheathing his sword and Kakashi slipping his blade back into its spot on his belt as there's a chorus of awkward grunts and murmurs.

"One horse or two..?" Shikamaru asked after a moment, looking up at the much-taller Kisame. He'd only been able to get a single stallion, since he rarely left the castle anyways, and he doubted Commander Hoshigaki would be as unlucky.

"Two," Kisame admits, scratching at his cheek. "I've, uh, got them saddled and ready over by the West wall."

Shikamaru nods in approval but then Kakashi lets out a tired chuckle.

"Cart for me."

At their stares he sighs and shrugs.

"I've got dogs I'm taking with me, alright?"

The air is eerily quiet for a moment as the three men discuss their plans in hushed tones before Shikamaru suddenly tenses, static under his fingers as he sends the door a startled look.

All at once there's a rumble and a crash, the ground shaking and the sound of thunder filling their ears, coming from behind the cell door. The three men share startled looks before scrambling forward to unlock the door, a rush of fresh air meeting them the moment they throw it open.

The far wall of the cell has been blown apart, tree roots and branches digging into the floor and reaching into the room while the light of the moon dappled the darkness through the leaves. 

Kneeling on the thick roots with one leg outside of the tower is the witch, who looks back at the men for a long moment. Then, she grins, waves, and hops off the ledge, sliding down the length of a massive tree that had reached up toward the tower, branches and leaves curling away from her as she makes her escape.

Kakashi, Kisame, and Shikamaru stare at the place she'd been for a long moment before the latter finally speaks up.

"S-so, uh… do we follow her or take the stairs..?"

[jade-masquerade]

Jonsa Halloween Day 2: singing to the stranger, begging for his kiss (colors)

Written for @jonsa-halloween Day 2: Colors

The hall was awash with color, and from her vantage point at the back, Sansa could see it all.  

 The flicker of flames from the candles fashioned by House Waxley illuminated on the stone walls, autumn scents of rich nutmeg and cinnamon-roasted apple and mulled spice floating on the air. Pumpkins, the largest of all those grown in Westeros she’d heard, adorned the tables, flanked by squashes and gourds for the smallfolk to take home after they’d done their decorative duties. Strings of sewn leaves that matched the colors of those outside stretched from sconce to sconce,

 And in between, the crowds themselves were a vibrant departure from the plain dark cloaks and furs of grey and black. Whereas usually house sigils provided the only bits of color in a sea of monotony, now there was nary a sigil in sight, unless one counted Ser Hubert Hersy wearing outrageously oversized white wings and holding a chalice in hand or Ser Uther Shett dressed as a seagull.  

 The costumes of many women were even more elaborate. The likenesses of Shiera Seastar, Princess Nymeria, and Sharra the Witch Queen filled the hall, interspersed among horned unicorns and mermaids and wood nymphs. Girls of all ages wore the floating fabrics of Lady Alyssa Arryn, tears of shimmering blue and silver painting their cheeks, even while they were all smiles. Sansa would have once envied them their extravagant appearances, spending years coveting the bright yellow and blue of one of the branches of House Flint and the pretty violet lilies of House Fenn, bored by the dull white and grey of House Stark.  

 She smoothed over the dress she wore now, all dyed grey, a simple bodice that fit her snuggly and a skirt of wool flaring outward from the waist. Alayne would have looked down at such a drab shade, and truth be told, Sansa would have too, but that was the color of freedom now, of anonymity. With her darkened hair and her unadorned silver mask, she thought even she herself would be hard pressed to recognize herself in such a guise.  

The most flamboyant costumes of those up on the dais caught her eye—huge hoop skirts, towering hats, and embellished cloaks made of velvet and satin and exotic furs. Across the hall, seated among them, Alyssa Stone dazzled in Alayne’s silk dress of mockingbird gold and her ornate mask imported from Braavos. They looked similar enough, and in the darkness with the ale flowing freely, Sansa knew anyone would be hard pressed to tell the difference, yet she still worried the deception would be discovered.

 “I would die to be a lord’s daughter, even just for a night,” Alyssa sighed weeks ago as they sat sewing the garlands of leaves after Sweetrobin’s host of Winged Knights had exited the room with the little lord, each taking a bow before Alayne as they did so. 

“Littlefinger isn’t a lord here, not truly,” Sansa had said, sharper than she should have. “He’s only regent for Sweerobin.”

 “Close enough!” Alyssa said. The handmaid snatched Alayne’s mask from her wardrobe, which Littlefinger had gifted her with earlier that morning, and held it up to her face. “It was your suggestion for the feast to be a masquerade, after all…”

 It had not taken much more convincing than that, the mere inkling of an idea, and so when they’d dressed earlier this evening, Sansa had let down her hair in simple curls and Alyssa pinned hers up in elaborate twists anchored by a golden comb inset with glittering black diamonds, and when they’d emerged from her chambers, no one had been the wiser.  

 Once Sansa had dreamed of harvest feasts and masked balls, and while she still did revel in the magic of it all, in those dreams she had danced, she had fluttered her lashes at the knights who drew here interest, and she had shared sweet kisses with them. She had never imagined she would instead be trapped beneath the watchful eye of a man who called her daughter yet wanted her for himself or be pestered by an intended suitor who saw her as merely a conquest, with whom there would be no love, only desire until his interest waned. In those dreams, she had been among her true family, and in the comforts of her home, and she had always been Sansa, never Alayne.

And so for tonight she decided to call herself Jeyne, a common enough name not likely to arouse any suspicions, the name of her closest friend from Winterfell whose memory still pulled at her heart. Sansa vowed she would find her someday, once she escaped this place. Jeyne had shared those same dreams with her, and Sansa remembered the faces she’d pull whenever her friend sighed over Robb, how they had tittered together over Lord Beric Dondarrion, and how Jeyne had once squealed when Sansa admitted she wondered how Ser Waymar Royce most liked to be kissed, earning a sharp glare from Septa Mordane.

 Now, though, those intentions seemed positively innocent. Sansa would be lying if she said she had not thought of far more than gentle kisses nowadays and if she denied being curious about the things Myranda spoke of. She craved the brief, easy whirlwinds of romance the older girl and her handmaids shared in hushed whispers, to merely experience what exhilarations of youth had been stolen from her when they took her father’s head and Cersei’s demands turned her captive. She wanted a single night where she did not have to play this game, a moment where she felt liberated, no longer the little bird kept in a cage. She knew it was silly, maybe stupid even, but she could not help but hope for a kiss and perhaps more with a man she found dashing, a man who cared little or not at all if she bore a bastard name, a man who wouldn’t laugh at her blushing the way Harry sometimes did when she pushed away his insistent hands or turned her cheek to him.  

 The feast cleared quickly despite the many rounds, and soon the musicians struck up “Fair Maids of Summer” in celebration of the true end of the season. Sansa watched a couple dressed as Jonquil and Florian take the floor, another garbed as Lady Shella and her Rainbow Knight soon following. Alyssa danced with Ser Harrold, and the fact that it seemed he couldn’t tell the difference only confirmed what a dolt he truly was. They would giggle about this later, Sansa knew; Alyssa had become a true friend in the time they spent together, as true a friend as Alayne could have anyway.

 Sansa herself set her sights on the handsome knights and men-at-arms seated at the long tables on the floor and below the salt. Some she recognized from the tournament where Sweetrobin had crowned his Winged Knights, but Harry had filled her sights then, and most of them wouldn’t have dared to look askance at the daughter of Lord Baelish or cross Ser Harrold by intruding on his betrothed. She was no longer confined though; now she was free to choose, and she eagerly drank them in.

 The seven sons of House Sunderland all equally striking, even dressed as the seven drunken oarsmen. She admired Ser Cadwyn Egen and his riot of blonde curls, Ser Osbert Woodhull and his sweet smile, and how Ser Robbett Ruthermont so tall she would have had to crane her neck to glimpse his face if he held her in his arms. And then there were some things about them she liked for no reason at all it seemed: the way Ser Symon Crayne wore the collar of his shirt open to expose his chest, how Ser Landon Hunter looked exceptionally good in his tight huntsman breeches, what it would sound like for Jace Stone, a bastard son from one of the Templeton branches, to whisper in her ear with his deep voice.  

 She avoided Ser Morgarth and Ser Byron as she made her rounds. Ser Byron was good looking enough, but Sansa didn’t trust him more than her arm could reach, and the risk of recognition there would be too great anyhow. There were plenty of others, who came from lands afar and would return there after this night, and it did not take long until she was swept into the throng by Walder Upcliff.

 He wore a high-necked cloak and a white mask, and she could smell ale already on his breath. She tried to engage him in cordial conversation, but Walder seemed far more interested in glancing down her dress than meeting her eye. With his leering smile and the way his hands dug into her hips to hold her closer than she would have liked, Sansa was grateful when the song changed, and he evidently lost interest in the slow, mournful rhythm of “Fallen Leaves.”

 She participated in dancing the steps of the next few songs, a reel and a quick number where she spun from one partner to another, laughing breathlessly.    

 “Ser Andar,” she said, looking up at the knight with whom she’d had the fortune to finish the previous song. Ser Andar was every bit the picture of gallantry and comeliness, with his wavy golden hair, broad chest, and hands that spanned her waist. “It’s so lovely to see you this evening.”

 He frowned. “Beg pardon, have we met?”

 “Oh, I’m Lady Elesham’s handmaid. Jeyne,” she said, catching herself. “I admired your performance in the tournament of the Winged Knights. It’s a shame Lord Arryn did not choose you for his guard. I can think of no one more deserving.”

 He did smile at that. No matter how stoic he was, it seemed he enjoyed flattery as much as anyone else.  

 “You’re so strong,” she said, running her hands along the muscles in his arms.

 “It’s only sword work,” he said. “It requires none of the great effort needed to tend your lady, I imagine.”

 She giggled, reaching up to touch her hair. She found herself not minding so much if Ser Andar found it fit to study the bosom of her dress, and she found herself very much wantonly wishing to draw his attention to the curves of her body there.

 His attention seemed elsewhere though, either that or he possessed a remarkable streak of honor that no other man could manage to compete with, for he steadfastedly maintained his gaze on some point over her shoulder.  

 “Excuse me,” he said as the last chords of “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” faded, and he disappeared in the direction of one of Sweetrobin’s Winged Knights.  

 It was no matter, though. Sansa turned, and she whirled right into the arms of another.  

[dragon-fics]

HA: Ch. 6 Beginning the March

Chapter summary:  Zubeia and her forces begin their journey to cross the border. Heather is sent on a mission to bring a Moonshadow elf to Zubeia.

Prologue, Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3 , Pt. 4, Pt. 5, Pt. 6 , Pt. 7, Pt. 8, Pt. 9, Pt. 10, Pt. 11, Pt. 12, Pt. 13, Pt. 14, Pt. 15

Réalta shook his head, shaking his bridle and neck armour with a clatter. I don’t like this.

“It won’t be for long, Réalta. It will only be long enough for the mages to release Aaravos and the Moonshadow elves,” Heather reassured.

If they find Viren and can take the coins from him, Réalta contradicted.

Heather sighed. “If you know something, just tell me.”

I know just as much as you do, and I can see the future as clearly as you can.

Heather grit her teeth. “Thanks.”

Aaravos chuckled. “Unicorns, ever so powerful, yet ever so annoying.”

“On that, we agree, Sparkles.”

“Sparkles?”

Heather looked up at the caterpillar on Réalta’s saddle. He was under a foot long, looking down at Heather from her stead. “I thought it suited you.”

The caterpillar squinted at her. “Very well.”

She stood back, looking over Réalta in their matching Dragonguard uniform. She strapped her damaged bowblade to her saddle, the broken blade wrapped up in burlap so she could easily grab the useful blade. On the other side was her Dragonguard weapon, the sword-whip as she called it.

The caterpillar turns its head to to the barracks behind them. “Someone is coming.”

Heather tugged on Réalta’s girth. “I’m sure it’s no one too important.” She slipped Phil’s ghost feather out of her horn cuffs and tucked it into a pocket at the front of the saddle, so she could grab it easily when they stopped in Lux Aurea.

“Heather,” a voice greeted softly.

She paused what she was doing and turned around slowly. “How can I help you, sir?”

Scorchmark stood in front of her, tightening his jaw, just like he had been doing every time Heather looked at him.

“Heather.” He took in a breath. “I have been awful to you lately and I’m sorry.” They looked into each other’s eyes.

“I... understand. You were scared.”

“That wasn’t an excuse for me to stop being your father.”

Heather smiled sadly at him, hiding the swelling joy and heartache inside her. “Thank you, Pa—.”

“Heather!” Haco called. “We have to get going.”

Heather looked from Haco to Scorchmark. “I have to go.”

He inclined his head. “We’ll have a proper talk when you get back, alright?”

She nodded and hoisted herself on to Réalta. He placed the caterpillar on her red-accented shoulder-guard.

Scorchmark touched her leg. “I love you, my Little Bush.”

Heather took his hand and kissed it. “Love you too, Papa.”

Réalta started forward, walking towards the group of soldiers gathered by the barracks gates. Heather wiped her eyes of rising tears.

The caterpillar eyed her. “So, you do have emotions.”

“Shut up, Sparkles.”

They settled near the front of the crowd, close to Queen Zubeia, Prince Azymondias and the humans. Réalta shook his head again, his armour clattering together.

“Someone’s impatient,” mused Khonsu as he rode up beside them on Elara.

“We were up early training and making sure my weapon was in good shape,” Heather informed him, taking a sip of water from her canteen.

“Of course you were,” he sighed, stroking Elara’s lilac mane.

“So, you got invited to come to Katolis, huh?”

Khonsu smiled. “Can’t escape me, Scorchmarkdaughter.”

*-*-*-*

“Here we are, Lux Aurea,” Heather whispered to the caterpillar.

“Yes, I can see that,” Aaravos replied. “But I don’t think I’m very welcome here.”

“Because Of Queen Khessa? Or what you did with the Sunforge?”

“Hilarious. But it was all part of my prophecy, they even had it on their pillars about my corruption. They just didn’t listen.”

Heather glanced at the caterpillar as they came to a stop. “I’m having some regrets about our arrangement,” she mumbled. “I’ll leave you here then.” She leaned forward and slid off of Réalta. She placed the caterpillar on his saddle.

“Watch him carefully,” she instructed him as she pulled out Phil’s feather. Janai approached with several other Sunfire knights. She bowed to Queen Zubeia.

“Hurry, Heather,” Queen Zubeia insisted. “Take no longer than you have to.”

Heather nodded and jogged forward into the ruined golden city, accompanied by Haco. This was her third time in the city to have Phil reborn, though she had never actually lived there like most Sunfire elves had.

They swiftly made their way up to the palace and the Sunforge. The heat beside the sun nexus was intense, and the sun was bright as it reflected off of several mirrors facing the centre of the city.

“Hurry, it’s midday,” Haco hissed as they entered the Sunforge’s tower.

Heather walked towards the indentation beneath the giant glowing orb. She carefully placed Phil’s ghost feather in the bowl and stood back. A second later, a bright orange flame immersed the feather. It floated in the air as the flame became a burning orb. The fire dispersed quickly and in the centre of the bowl was a shimmering orange phoenix egg less than three inches long.

Heather gently picked up the egg, cradling it in her hands, and walked away. “Let’s get back,” she said to Haco, tucking the egg into the breast pocket of her sash.

*-*-*-*

Heather stroked Réalta’s neck as they stood amongst tall trees in the Moonshadow Forest. “And I have to go because?”

“I’m still banished and you’re the only one who knows how to get in,” Rayla retorted.

“It’s been four years, Rayla; I hardly know the dance anymore.” She crossed her arms. “I’m sure there’s a Moonshadow elf in the group who could get in just as easily.”

Haco and Petra from one to the other.

“What if you brought someone?” Petra asked Heather.

“Who?”

Petra shrugged. “Maybe a Moonshadow elf, like you said; they’d get in just as easily. All you’d have to do is guide them through the dance.”

Heather hummed, unsure.

“What about your Moonshadow elf friend? Eh... Khonsu?” Rayla offered.

Heather didn’t like that they were offering her solutions instead of a way out of this. She sighed. “Fine. I’ll bring Khonsu.” She trudged towards the rest of the group as they sat having lunch or tending to their mounts.

She approached Khonsu as he looked over his staff. “Hey, Su.”

“Heather.” He spun the staff in his hand and collapsed it until it was a few inches long. “How can I help you?” he asked as he tucked it away on his belt.

“I have to go get someone from the Silvergrove, and I want you to accompany me,” she informed him. “Will you come with me?”

Khonsu smiled and nodded. “Can I bring Elara?”

“Yeah, it’s a good bit of a walk anyway, so you’ll probably need her.”

Heather waited for them with Haco, Petra and Rayla. Khonsu led Elara to them. Heather hoisted herself onto Réalta.

“Try not to get into trouble,” Petra pleaded.

“Unless someone else starts it,” Haco grinned, putting his fist into his hand. Petra shook her head, unamused.

Khonsu mounted Elara and nodded to Heather.

“Right, let’s go.” Heather nudged Réalta forward, and they started down the narrow, overgrown path.

“Shouldn’t we follow the main path to the village?” Khonsu asked once they were out of hearing range.

“I know the forest better than the paths. And if we do get lost, I’ll just climb and see where we are from the village.”

“That sounds like an awful plan.”

“Have some hope, Khonsu,” Heather said with a smile. “Besides, this path joins up with the main one. If we stay to the left, we’ll find it.”

Khonsu hummed, unassured by her words. “If you say so.”

Heather pushed Réalta into a trot and stayed along the path until it forked in two directions. She slowed Réalta down and turned him down the left path. It was a short walk until they were on a much wider path with flattened grass.

“So, Phil’s gonna hatch tomorrow, right?” Khonsu asked; he didn’t like it when there was no talking.

“Yep, unless he decides to scare me.”

“At midday.”

“At midday,” Heather breathed.

“So who are we getting from the Silvergrove?”

“Ethari, my former guardian and the craftsman who made my bowblade.”

Khonsu nodded. “Right. It was the assassin you didn’t like, right?”

Heather turned to look at him. “Almost everyone in the Silvergrove is an assassin.”

“Point taken.”

Heather drew in a breath as they climbed up a tree root to the village. They stopped at the top of the root’s arch.

Heather and Khonsu dismounted.

“Ready?” Heather asked, getting to the starting position. Khonsu mimicked her with a nod. They elegantly danced their way through the positions until symbols glowed on the root beneath them and a bubble of magic formed and spread around them.

As they circled each other, the buildings and people appeared in the village.

“For someone who was so certain she didn’t know the moves, you danced quite well,” Khonsu complimented, leading Elara by the reins.

Heather walked with Réalta behind her. “Very funny.” She sighed. “Let’s get this over with.” She kept her head high as she walked, creating a barrier between her memories of this place and her current mind. She marched straight to the tree with Ethari’s workshop, barely even glancing at the ground.

Her mind and heart raced, worrying about what could happen;

A stone? A weapon?

No, not out in the open like this.

It never stopped them before.

I’m wearing my uniform. If they do, the price they will have to pay will be great.

Probably.

All her worrying led her to the workshop slowly. She brushed her hand against the egg in her sash.

Oh, how I wish you were here.

You have me, Réalta contradicted.

Heather sighed with a smile. That I do.

Her thoughts slipped into Aaravos’ mind again, powerful emotions weakened her mind’s barrier.

Relax, Heather. I can see no future where they do such a thing, Aaravos said to her.

Heather didn’t catch on about the leak. She just tried to stay calm. She stopped at the base of the stairs.

“You all right?” Khonsu asked, stepping forward to see if she was.

“Yeah, I just think we should leave Elara and Réalta here,” she responded, walking to Réalta’s saddlebag for Ethari’s message.

Khonsu looked up at the stairs. “Sure.”

They started up the stairs together, Heather holding the scroll for Ethari. She could feel Réalta eyeing her all the way up, even as she stopped in front of the door to Ethari’s workshop.

“You’ll be fine,” Khonsu assured, unsure what else to say.

Heather rapped on the door and stood back, awaiting the sound of movement inside.

“Give me a second!” came a muffled call from within. The sound of upcoming footsteps followed, and the door opened.

Ethari appeared behind the door. “Heather! It’s wonderful to see you. It’s been a while.”

She smiled and inclined her head. “That it has.”

Ethari looked to Khonsu. “I see someone’s copied my style,” he quipped.

Khonsu looked at his ensemble and then at Ethari’s. “It would seem so.”

Heather handed Ethari the scroll. “I carry a message from Queen Zubeia. She wishes for you to join us on our quest to the human kingdom of Katolis.”

Ethari took the message from her hand and unfurled it.

“The letter should disclose all details regarding the journey. We’ll wait for you at the base of the tree while you prepare.”

He read through the start of the scroll, distracted. “... Yes, I’ll meet you there.” He traipsed back into his workshop.

Heather walked back down the stairs.

“What about your bowblade?” Khonsu asked, walking with her. “Why didn’t you mention it to him?”

“I’ll mention it when he’s able to help, probably when we enter Xadia,” she replied.

“Well you better, I can’t listen to you complain about Bowie for any longer.”

“Bowie?” asked Aaravos.

Heather sighed as they reached the end of the stairs. “It’s what I call my bowblade, alright?” she hissed.

Aaravos hummed. “I’ve known no one to name their weapon before… then again, I’m not a soldier.”

“Some do, I guess my way of detaching my bowblade from the only wielder I know.”

Aaravos hummed.

Heather lifted herself onto Réalta and stroked his neck. “We just have to wait for Ethari now.”

[platypanthewriter]

A Strategic Proposal 5/6

Part One/Part Two/Part Three/Part Four/Part Five/Part Six

When Steve and Billy made it to the road, there was an outcry of ‘There they are!’, ‘Is it them?’ and ‘By the Wheel!’, and a thundering of shod hooves as a group of knights surrounded them.

Steve staggered to a stop, blinking in the gathering darkness. Robin was there, suddenly, and she yelled at the sky before swinging off her horse to run up and bang her fist on Steve’s chestplate.

“You didn’t wait for me!” she hissed, stepping back to survey the blackened patches up the side of his armor, the blood sprayed across it, and Billy raising his head from Steve’s shoulder. Robin rubbed the tears from her eyes without smacking herself in the face, and he envied her her leather armor, though he had to squint to see the edges of her, in flickering torchlight, in the midst of knights in steel polished like mirrors. “You could have died, you idiot,” she whispered, and smacked the flat of her hand across his metal shoulders again.

“It’s dead,” Steve told her, and she narrowed her eyes at Billy.

“Is he?”

“I may be alive,” Billy groaned. “Tragically.”

“You are alive,” Steve hissed at him. “And you’re going to keep on being so—”

“You’re so demanding,” Billy sighed, and Robin smacked his armor too.

“The Captain of the Queensguard fled in the night,” Robin informed Billy. “He robbed the queen of a national treasure and left her in the stables to round up a rescue for your rescuer.”

Billy started snickering, and staggered, dropping the helmet under his arm.

Robin scooped it off the ground. “She was in her robe and slippers,” she huffed, and Billy laughed harder, while Steve opened his mouth, then closed it, then glared.

“You were supposed to be attending to that,” he informed Robin, and she rolled her eyes.

“You may thank her when we return,” she told him, “—for packing the food we’re about to feed you.”

“Not sure I can eat if I’m dead,” Billy said.

Steve growled deep in his throat, and shook him until his armor rattled, and Billy laughed until he had to fall to one knee.

“I am delighted you survived,” Robin said dryly, “—particularly after I found Her Majesty stumbling around the barn, because your passage had caused the wind to blow out her lamp. I feared you intended to challenge a chimera to single combat to rescue your…” she trailed off, watching Billy cackle, and Steve try to haul him back to his feet. “...your fair maiden love.”

“Oh no,” Steve whispered, remembering that his queen had said something as he left, and might have tried to stop him. He imagined knocking her flying, and stopped yanking on his husband to cover his face. “...did I kick Her Majesty in the face?” he asked, full of dread, and Robin’s grin sparkled at him.

“I will leave some surprises to await you at the castle,” she said, and Steve groaned, imagining the queen of seven kingdoms with a black eye or broken nose because he’d ridden off with such urgency he’d forgotten water until two hours later, when he passed a stream.

“She will never let me forget,” he said numbly, and Robin’s grin widened. Steve suspected again she was some fae thing, befriending humans for her own amusement.

“Did you kick the queen in the face?” Billy asked, panting and smiling up, and Steve crouched next to him.

“It was only my hurry to find you,” he said. “And if I did—” Steve took a shaky breath, remembering Billy’s limp form on the ground, “—she will recover, and so will you, because I was just in time.”

Billy ducked his head, smiling, and Robin groaned into her hands.

“I will be sure to inform Her Majesty you consider a blow to her face no great loss,” she said.

“We’ve both done worse, sparring,” Steve told her, half listening, half watching Billy’s soft grin. He was kissing it before he even realized he’d leaned in, and Billy slumped against him in another scrape to their armor, sighing contentedly. Steve closed his eyes, ready to sleep in a pile of steel and husband.

“We brought a wagon,” Robin told them, and grabbed Billy’s other arm to haul him along. Steve staggered to his feet again, and another knight slid an arm around him—Steve was too bleary to recognize her armor. Once she tipped him onto the floor of the wagon, Steve surrendered the blood-sticky horns.

“One’s a chimera,” Steve explained, pointing at the curled brown one he’d broken off the dragon head, his tongue thick with exhaustion in his mouth. “One’s unicorn.”

“Obviously,” she nodded, raising her eyebrows, and he rubbed his face.

“It’s the...the long shiny one,” he mumbled,

“I will be sure to note that down,” Robin said gravely, patting his boot. Steve’s eyes started to close again.

“How were you so fast?” Billy asked, suddenly, tugging at the buckles on Steve’s breastplate.

“...training?” Steve mumbled, frowning blearily at him. “Training at swords?”

“No—” Billy frowned down at him, then out the back of the wagon. “No, I mean—”

“Saint George,” Steve sighed in relief as Billy lifted more armor away. “Guided my hand—”

“No,” Billy said, yanking at Steve’s gauntlet. “How did you arrive a full day ahead of them, if—”

Steve squinted at the stars. “...maybe they slept. I just changed horses.”

“You rode through the night.” Billy’s fingers dug into Steve’s skin for a long moment, and then he let go, his laugh wavering. “...yet you’re certain I’m alive,” he asked again, but his voice said he was teasing, and Steve groaned, and rolled to thunk his head against Billy’s armored thigh. He was so exhausted it was good as a pillow. He woke, briefly, as the wagon began to move, to feel Billy’s fingers stroking through his hair.

It wasn’t particularly restful sleep, half in armor, jostling over rocks and pits in the road, and Steve was thrilled to stumble out to laughter and hands yanking at his plate and mail, until he and Billy were shoved, armor-less, towards the winding, narrow back stairs through the watchtower to the keep, and their rooms. Billy kept leaning out windows, panting, and Steve pressed up next to him, feeling his husband solid, warm, and sweaty against him.

“We reek,” he whispered, and Billy snorted a laugh.

“I think we can be forgiven,” he whispered back, and Steve kissed him, relearning every sharp edge of his teeth, and the stubbly bunch of Billy’s cheeks as he smiled.

“I could have missed you,” Steve whispered, his breath catching. “If I hadn’t kicked my queen in the face, I might have been too late. Found—found only your armor—” he stopped because he couldn’t breathe, grabbing his husband in an embrace so tight he nearly tipped them back down the stairs. “You nearly died, you—”

“...how fortunate you kicked your queen in the face,” Billy whispered, shaking with laughter, but his face against Steve’s was wet and sticky with tears. “A true hero,” he whispered.

“...I think a true hero would have done better,” Steve sighed, but it was hard to think about the fallen, when his husband slumped tiredly in his arms. “Rescued more than his own husband. Kept searching—”

“You did,” Billy pointed out, rolling his shoulders, taking a deep breath, and taking a few more steps up the stairs.

“I didn’t,” Steve said, following him. He shook his head, and kissed their intertwined fingers. “I stopped looking, in case you—if it—it didn’t—in case I—lost you. I stopped to hold your hand.” his breath hitched again. “And I don’t—I don’t regret it,” he forced through his tight throat, and Billy yanked him into another kiss, their teeth smacking together and bruising Steve’s lip. Billy jerked back, hands up, but Steve stumbled after him to push him against the wall and lean in more slowly, letting his eyes fall closed to feel Billy’s breath against his mouth. “You’re alive,” he whispered, feeling Billy’s breath hitch. His lips were chilly, from the air in the windy stairwell. “You’re alive, you aren’t—you aren’t ashes, or bones and char, you’re alive—”

Billy hummed deep in his throat, sliding his hand up to muffle Steve’s words against his mouth. He turned his head, his lips parting, and they nearly fell down the stairs again before he yanked them the other way, laughing. “If this were heaven,” he mumbled, “—I would likely be able to kiss my husband without falling down the stairs.”

“Right,” Steve nodded, opening his mouth to wonder whether they could, in that case, fall down the stairs, and maybe it wouldn’t hurt. He shut it again, afraid Billy would test the theory.

The stairs stretched up before them, all different heights to trip up attacking troops, and they subsided into silence as they climbed, panting. Steve nearly fell again, and Billy leaned against the wall to catch his breath, but Steve yanked his hand, pulling him around the turn in the stairs and through the door to the hall, where the glazed windows were beaded with moisture from warmth.

On the carpet, Billy stumbled and fell to one knee. Steve staggered himself, stopping midstride, and waved to the guard at the nearest door, who laughed, shaking her head. She shoved her shoulder under Billy’s, hoisting him up, and Steve took his other side, despite her doubtfully raised eyebrows.

“Are you sure you’re helping, sir?” she asked, and he snorted.

“I can walk.”

“Can you?” she grumbled, as Billy glowered blearily at the floor, taking clumsy steps and overadjusting without the additional weight of their armor. He nearly pulled their Good Samaritan over onto Steve, growled, and shoved away as soon as he could grab for the door to their rooms.

“Thank you,” Steve told her, earnestly, and she shook her head, trotting back to her post. Steve leaned into their room to see Billy sitting on the floor. He looked away as Steve approached, and Steve stopped. “...Billy.” What ails you, he wanted to ask, besides the chimera’s poison, and—everything else.

After a long pause, Billy frowned over, and blinked slowly. “I came back,” he mumbled. “You brought me back.”

“...yes,” Steve said, uncertain. “Billy. If I put you in a bath...will you drown?”

“...do you want me to?” Billy laughed, and Steve sighed, and walked over to grab his husband’s face.

“As the captain of the Queensguard,” he said, rubbing his thumbs over Billy’s two days of beard, “—and your commanding officer, I forbid you from drowning.”

“Mutiny,” Billy whispered, smiling. “Mutiny on the high seas of the bathtub.”

“Would you like me to wash you,” Steve asked, feeling his husband shake with exhaustion, and leaning in to kiss his ashy, salty face, and press their foreheads together.

“Always,” Billy whispered back, licking his lips, and Steve laughed, half-carrying Billy to the washroom, where Billy tried to angle himself to fall in the bath with his woolens still on, and Steve nearly fell with him before yanking him back.

“Are you trying to drown us both, now?” Steve asked, half laughing, as he tried to unlace his breeches. “After we fought the chimera, and lived?”

“Killed the chimera, died of the stench,” Billy mumbled, tugging at his shirt. They sat leaning against the side of the bath, pulling at their clothes with weak fingers, until Billy laid back on the floor. “...let me sleep here,” he whispered, as Steve forwent the ties, and began trying to pull his shirt off over his head, where it stuck.

“Help,” he called through the cloth, and he heard Billy laughing at him. “My own husband, my love, please save me,” Steve begged, and Billy laughed harder, cackling as Steve tried to wriggle free, scooting across the floor and banging his head against something in his struggle.

“Bested by one last wily opponent,” Billy gasped, “—his shirt. I give you...the queen’s champion!”

“Help, you bastard,” Steve growled, laughing and squirming, and heard Billy crawl across the floor. Steve squeaked as Billy’s hand, cold in the steam of the room, smoothed up his stomach.

“Oh no,” Billy whispered, leaning so Steve could feel his warm breath through the cloth by his ear and upper arm. “...are you...helpless?”

“It’s caught on my head!” Steve squirmed, laughing, and then yelped as Billy started unlacing his breeches. “My head—” he told Billy, again, as Billy’s cool fingers bared the rest of Steve’s body to the air, sliding his legs free, and leaving only Steve’s arms, shoulders, and head wrapped in sturdy linen and wool.

Billy licked him, swiping his tongue across Steve’s lower belly as Steve kicked the air, swearing gibberish with his mouth full of shirt.

“Help!” Steve cried, louder, and Billy started laughing again.

“My husband is having his way with me!” he said, in an insultingly high-pitched imitation, kissing Steve’s thigh.

Steve writhed under him, nearly too tired for his prick to react...but not quite. “Hello,” Billy breathed, and Steve laughed.

“He is not having his way with me fast enough,” Steve groaned, his legs shaking with exhaustion as he tried to scoot himself closer, and Billy snickered, kissing up his thigh and just past the area Steve felt most urgent about to rest his bristly face against Steve’s stomach with a tired sigh.

Steve wriggled, growling, then paused to try and clear his mouth of cloth. “...and now you’re stopping?”

“I’m tired of chasing you,” Billy said softly, “—but I don’t want you to...be unable to leave.”

“I’m not!” Steve yelped. “I could rip the shirt! I want to be here—Billy—”

Billy ran his knuckles up Steve’s side, and Steve could feel him huff a silent laugh.

“If you’re too tired, I’ll wash you,” Steve said, finally, blowing the cloth away from his face, and drawing another breath of his own stale sweat. “But I would lie here all day in this rank undershirt to—to let you sleep there.”

Billy squirmed, and then Steve felt his husband’s arms sliding around him. “...we could sleep in bed,” Billy muttered, but Steve was finally lying down, and his toes weren’t freezing off, and his husband was half on top of him, and half asleep.

“Mmn,” he mumbled back, his eyes drifting shut.

Steve woke shivering, the toastiness of the enchanted tile under his back and his husband’s gentle breaths across his stomach unable to offset the chill of the air.

He sighed, squirming in the still-tangled shirt’s knotted ties, then caught them, finally, in his teeth, and managed to squirm enough to rip at them until he could squeeze his head out. The shirt was so snug the ties made a dull noise over his nose, catching under his nostrils and on his ears, and he rubbed them, sighing, his hands still caught in the inside-out cuffs. He flapped weakly in annoyance, naked with most of his shirt caught around his wrists and hands like he'd been tied up by ineffective but fashionable bandits.

Billy snored softly, squirming closer, and Steve froze, smiling down. The window was dark, and he squinted at it, wondering whether they’d slept an hour, or three, or the entire night and through the next day.

Steve yanked the ties around his wrists with his teeth, and forced his hand through and out. The skin of his hand turned white, then red, and he sighed at the insurmountable cliffside of the tub and laid back against the tile, patting his hand down to stroke the nape of his husband’s neck.

The rectangular white stones that made up the arches of the ceiling were plain, but pretty, he thought, staring up at them as he ran his thumb over the bumps of Billy’s spine, and Billy’s cheek warmed his hip.

It seemed ludicrous to be sprawled on the floor next to the bathtub with Billy’s arm over his legs, when that morning he’d been running to each crumpled pile of ashes and steel, praying aloud it wouldn’t bear the insignia of Hargrove House, with tears streaking his face.

His muscles tugged and stretched reluctantly as he sat up, yanking at the remaining cuff to turn it and bite at the ties, pulling them untied with his teeth rather than stop combing his fingers through Billy’s hair. His shoulder ached, and he rolled it, wincing as he bent to kiss his husband’s temple, and thumb across the salt on his husband’s cheeks from sweating in the poisonous fever.

A loud thunk from the outer rooms made Steve jump, and he turned, squinting in the faint light of the enchanted heat circle, his besleeved wrist hanging from his mouth by linen ties, as his squire’s head appeared leaning around the edge of the doorway.

“Oh, hullo,” he said, and Steve blinked at him.

“...Dustin,” he muttered, rubbing his face. "Help. Mmf. I can't get out of my shirt."

“They might be dead!” his squire yelled over his shoulder, and Steve spat his sleeve out as he heard a yelp and scrabbling sound from the next room, and Billy’s squire Max ran in, skidding to a stop just inside the door. She surveyed them, and punched Dustin in the shoulder, growling.

“What do you mean they might be dead,” she hissed.

“Oh, they’re about to be,” Dustin told her, shrugging and massaging his shoulder. “The Captain of the Queensguard ran off—without his knights—without his squire—to wave his sword at a sword melting monster—”

“It was a magic sword!” Steve hissed, covering Billy’s ear. “Ssshhh!”

“Oh yeah? What happened to your magic sword, Captain?” Dustin asked, waving his arms as he walked to the tub, and dipped a cloth in it.

“...it melted,” Steve admitted, sighing, and feeling Billy huff a laugh against his belly.

“And where were your knights, while your sword was dripping away like a candle—” Dustin asked, tossing the wet washcloth at Steve so it thudded solidly against his chest, and nearly fell on Billy before he grabbed for it. “Where was your squire, oh Captain, my captain? You can't even take your shirt off without me.”

Steve bit his lips together, wiping the washcloth over Billy’s cheek, and Max stalked over to glare down at her brother. “I had to find my husband,” Steve said, and Billy’s fingers twitched against his thigh.

“You brought him back,” Max said, and Steve nodded.

“I was just in time,” he said, clearing his throat as his voice cracked. “If—if I’d have waited, he’d have died.”

“We could have waited with you,” Max said, turning on her heel to grab drying cloths. “For news. We could have been ready to ride—”

Steve raised his eyebrows, scrubbing Billy’s cheek where he was trying not to smile. “You ran off...and I wouldn’t bring squires to fight a chimera—”

“This is why you fail,” Dustin yelled, stomping away. “I’ll bet you didn’t know they melted swords! You know who did know that?! Your squire.”

“Robin came with a dozen knights,” Steve told Max, grimacing. “—I rode ahead, but—”

“Stop pretending to be asleep,” Max hissed, throwing the pile of cloth at Billy, and he started laughing, curling around Steve’s legs. “Your horse lived,” she told him, and he brightened.

“Excellent beast,” he said, nodding, and taking a slow breath of relief as she matter-of-factly checked him over for wounds. Steve wondered whether Billy would be willing to trade squires.

She crouched next to Billy, her fists clenched. “Did it���how—how did it—how did it...with, uh...” she mumbled, uncharacteristically, and Steve remembered the close proximity of Hargrove House to the road the chimera had hunted.

“We slew it,” Steve told her, “—though it took the lives of...many knights. And travellers. It was in a cave in the mountain—”

“I slew it,” Billy said. “With the unicorn horn.”

“I called upon the power of Saint George,” Steve argued, laughing. “The sword’s enchantment—”

“Melted!” Dustin interjected, and Steve narrowed his eyes at his own squire, feeling backstabbed.

“—it—it did not simply—” he sputtered. “It joined with the saint’s holy light—”

“—the unicorn horn did not melt,” Billy told their squires, who both looked to Steve with expressions as though they believed Billy , and his mouth fell open in betrayal. “I saved your captain,” Billy singsonged, and Steve smacked him with the wet cloth. “Perhaps I deserve a promotion—” Billy laughed, spluttering.

“Yes, yes, he did everything himself, I might as well not have been there,” Steve huffed, and Billy pulled him close, laughing and pressing stubbly kisses to his neck. Max groaned, covering her eyes.

“I will always be there to save you, my captain,” Billy breathed, and Steve snorted, squirming around to kiss his mouth.

“Yes,” Steve agreed, grappling his husband close, so they clumsily fell against each other, all elbows. “Please don’t...don’t try to fight alone. Stay with me.”

“And bring your squire,” Dustin harrumphed.

“Yes,” Max put in. “Yes, why—how did—”

Billy glanced up at Steve, and grimaced, then back to Max.

“I survived.”

“I see that,” she hissed. “But— Billy—” She took a deep breath, pressing her fingers to her temples, dropping her voice to a whisper and glancing furtively between Steve and Dustin. “What happened with—”

“Max,” Billy grunted, pushing himself upright. “...all is well.”

“And filthy, and naked,” Dustin pointed out, and Steve glanced between Billy and Max, and sighed.

He grabbed the wet cloth Dustin had thrown into his chest, and began to scrub his own face and neck, wondering what he was missing.

Billy pushed himself to his feet, staggered—Max and Dustin both reached for his arm—and then steadied himself, walked over, and knelt to splash his head, shoulders, and arms in the tub.

“...do you want food,” Max asked hoarsely, and Billy laughed, wiping his face to grin at her.

“Traitor food,” Dustin huffed. “For traitors,” and Steve threw the now-sweaty cloth at him, ignoring his yell.

“Celebration food,” Steve said. “I could eat a whole brace of…” he trailed off, then grinned, crawling over to splash himself beside his husband. “I have an idea. We can—” he cut off, pushing his sopping hair out of his face as it dripped in his mouth. “Eugh. Please, yes, food, leave us food.”

Both squires’ noses wrinkled, and Steve’s smile widened as he wondered whether they imagined him eating chicken drumsticks off of his husband’s chest.

“I killed the chimera,” Billy whispered. “Your sword melted.”

Steve scooped water with both hands and sent a huge splash into his husband’s face.

“...yeah,” Max nodded, dragging Dustin away.

Once the children had fled, Steve leaned to kiss his husband’s face, squeezing him around the shoulders. “Remember the brandy,” he whispered, and Billy frowned, shaking his head. “The brandy for celebrations,” Steve mumbled against his husband’s warm, wet skin. “From our wedding.”

Billy flinched, and Steve kissed his ear, and his jaw, and his dripping curls.

“Ssh,” Steve whispered. “Ssh, no, it’s for celebrating, right?”

“...for our wedding,” Billy laughed a little roughly, and Steve wrapped both arms around him, and a leg, crouched together on the floor.

“I was wrong,” Steve whispered. “I was wrong to lie, I was wrong to—to not love you. At first sight.” He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe I should have prayed to Saint Valentine…”

Billy laughed, slumping against him. “Probably. Or told the truth, and sent me home—”

“No,” Steve shook his head. “No, no, you’d have left before—I wouldn’t have—” he took a shaky breath, burying his face in Billy’s curls, and ignoring that they were itchy, and still streaming water. “Billy, you—you lived less than two miles south of where—” he took a shaky breath around the rocks in his throat, weighing his chest down. “If you still lived there, I—I wouldn’t have known to bring you the unicorn horn. You would have—”

“I’d be ashes?” Billy laughed, and Steve wrapped his other leg around his husband as well, and began to shake with tears.

“Thank you for—for refusing to—refuse me,” Steve told him, fervently, biting back a strange gulping noise, and burying his face in his husband’s neck.

“...Captain Harrington,” Billy breathed, his voice unsteady. “It’s beginning to sound as though you mean that.”

Steve swallowed hard, trying to control his tears as he realized he was naked, his arms and legs bent around his husband like Tom Thumb had been captured by an amorous Frog Prince. He started laughing shakily. “Let me make up for wrongdoings with brandy,” he pleaded, kissing every part of Billy that he could reach. “Celebrate properly, this time.”

Billy nodded, smiling a soft, small smile different from his bared-teeth grin. Steve grabbed the cloth again, and dipped it in the tub, drawing it around Billy’s shivering knees and across his shoulders, until the edge of the cloth brushed against Billy’s side, and he yelped, scrambling away as he tried to muffle his laughter.

“Let me wash you,” Steve raised his eyebrows, waving the cloth, and Billy scuttled further away, like a crab. He was laughing helplessly, hugging himself, with narrowed eyes.

“Tickle me, you mean,” he tried to growl, endlessly smiling.

“I would never,” Steve whispered, creeping towards him, and Billy yelped, stumbling to his feet and running out to the bedroom. Steve leaned out of the doorway to see him crawl under the comforter, and tossed the wet cloth back in the bath. He stooped to pick up the drying cloths, his muscles burning and twinging as they stretched. “Fee fi fo fum!” Steve called. “I smell the blood of a Hargrovian!”

Billy threw the coverlet back from his face, laughing. “Oh no,” he called back, wide-eyed. “Are you going to eat me? Please have mercy, my capt—mmmf,” he snickered against Steve’s mouth, squirming like a cat as Steve wiped the water droplets from his neck and chest, and down his arms and belly.

“Come celebrate,” Steve whispered. “You lived, and I’m married to—” he pressed Billy further into the pillows with another kiss, “—the one I love most in the world—”

“How fortunate for you,” Billy mumbled, his smile small and soft.

“And he’s alive,” Steve whispered, letting his forehead fall gently against Billy’s, and closing his eyes.

“We killed a murderous beast,” Billy offered. “—before it killed again.”

“I wonder if it had been injured,” Steve said, shivering, and rolling off to find his woolens. “To attack travellers on the road. It knew knights would come. Why lair so near the road? There were plenty of caves—”

Billy took a shaky breath as he sat up, his fists white-knuckled in the blankets, and Steve trotted over to stir up the fire. “...I...I must tell—”

“Put a warm cloak on,” Steve advised. “And we’ll pretend they are fine blankets as we sneak through the halls.”

Billy watched him for a long moment before sliding out of bed to follow.

Part One/Part Two/Part Three/Part Four/Part Five/Part Six

[happinessisbeyondmylevel]

HA: Ch. 6 Beginning the March

Chapter summary: Zubeia and her forces begin their journey to cross the border. Heather is sent on a mission to bring a Moonshadow elf to Zubeia.

Réalta shook his head, shaking his bridle and neck armour with a clatter. I don’t like this.

“It won’t be for long, Réalta. It will only be long enough for the mages to release Aaravos and the Moonshadow elves,” Heather reassured.

If they find Viren and can take the coins from him, Réalta contradicted.

Heather sighed. “If you know something, just tell me.”

I know just as much as you do, and I can see the future as clearly as you can.

Heather grit her teeth. “Thanks.”

Aaravos chuckled. “Unicorns, ever so powerful, yet ever so annoying.”

“On that, we agree, Sparkles.”

“Sparkles?”

Heather looked up at the caterpillar on Réalta’s saddle. He was under a foot long, looking down at Heather from her stead. “I thought it suited you.”

The caterpillar squinted at her. “Very well.”

She stood back, looking over Réalta in their matching Dragonguard uniform. She strapped her damaged bowblade to her saddle, the broken blade wrapped up in burlap so she could easily grab the useful blade. On the other side was her Dragonguard weapon, the sword-whip as she called it.

The caterpillar turns its head to to the barracks behind them. “Someone is coming.”

Heather tugged on Réalta’s girth. “I’m sure it’s no one too(i) important.” She slipped Phil’s ghost feather out of her horn cuffs and tucked it into a pocket at the front of the saddle, so she could grab it easily when they stopped in Lux Aurea.

“Heather,” a voice greeted softly.

She paused what she was doing and turned around slowly. “How can I help you, sir?”

Scorchmark stood in front of her, tightening his jaw, just like he had been doing every time Heather looked at him.

“Heather.” He took in a breath. “I have been awful to you lately and I’m sorry.” They looked into each other’s eyes.

“I... understand. You were scared.”

“That wasn’t an excuse for me to stop being your father.”

Heather smiled sadly at him, hiding the swelling joy and heartache inside her. “Thank you, Pa—.”

“Heather!” Haco called. “We have to get going.”

Heather looked from Haco to Scorchmark. “I have to go.”

He inclined his head. “We’ll have a proper talk when you get back, alright?”

She nodded and hoisted herself on to Réalta. He placed the caterpillar on her red-accented shoulder-guard.

Scorchmark touched her leg. “I love you, my Little Bush.”

Heather took his hand and kissed it. “Love you too, Papa.”

Réalta started forward, walking towards the group of soldiers gathered by the barracks gates. Heather wiped her eyes of rising tears.

The caterpillar eyed her. “So, you do have emotions.”

“Shut up, Sparkles.”

They settled near the front of the crowd, close to Queen Zubeia, Prince Azymondias and the humans. Réalta shook his head again, his armour clattering together.

“Someone’s impatient,” mused Khonsu as he rode up beside them on Elara.

“We were up early training and making sure my weapon was in good shape,” Heather informed him, taking a sip of water from her canteen.

“Of course you were,” he sighed, stroking Elara’s lilac mane.

“So, you got invited to come to Katolis, huh?”

Khonsu smiled. “Can’t escape me, Scorchmarkdaughter.”

*-*-*-*

“Here we are, Lux Aurea,” Heather whispered to the caterpillar.

“Yes, I can see that,” Aaravos replied. “But I don’t think I’m very welcome here.”

“Because Of Queen Khessa? Or what you did with the Sunforge?”

“Hilarious. But it was all part of my prophecy, they even had it on their pillars about my corruption. They just didn’t listen.”

Heather glanced at the caterpillar as they came to a stop. “I’m having some regrets about our arrangement,” she mumbled. “I’ll leave you here then.” She leaned forward and slid off of Réalta. She placed the caterpillar on his saddle.

“Watch him carefully,” she instructed him as she pulled out Phil’s feather. Janai approached with several other Sunfire knights. She bowed to Queen Zubeia.

“Hurry, Heather,” Queen Zubeia insisted. “Take no longer than you have to.”

Heather nodded and jogged forward into the ruined golden city, accompanied by Haco. This was her third time in the city to have Phil reborn, though she had never actually lived there like most Sunfire elves had.

They swiftly made their way up to the palace and the Sunforge. The heat beside the sun nexus was intense, and the sun was bright as it reflected off of several mirrors facing the centre of the city.

“Hurry, it’s midday,” Haco hissed as they entered the Sunforge’s tower.

Heather walked towards the indentation beneath the giant glowing orb. She carefully placed Phil’s ghost feather in the bowl and stood back. A second later, a bright orange flame immersed the feather. It floated in the air as the flame became a burning orb. The fire dispersed quickly and in the centre of the bowl was a shimmering orange phoenix egg less than three inches long.

Heather gently picked up the egg, cradling it in her hands, and walked away. “Let’s get back,” she said to Haco, tucking the egg into the breast pocket of her sash.

*-*-*-*

Heather stroked Réalta’s neck as they stood amongst tall trees in the Moonshadow Forest. “And I have to go because?”

“I’m still banished and you’re the only one who knows how to get in,” Rayla retorted.

“It’s been four years, Rayla; I hardly know the dance anymore.” She crossed her arms. “I’m sure there’s a Moonshadow elf in the group who could get in just as easily.”

Haco and Petra from one to the other.

“What if you brought someone?” Petra asked Heather.

“Who?”

Petra shrugged. “Maybe a Moonshadow elf, like you said; they’d get in just as easily. All you’d have to do is guide them through the dance.”

Heather hummed, unsure.

“What about your Moonshadow elf friend? Eh... Khonsu?” Rayla offered.

Heather didn’t like that they were offering her solutions instead of a way out of this. She sighed. “Fine. I’ll bring Khonsu.” She trudged towards the rest of the group as they sat having lunch or tending to their mounts.

She approached Khonsu as he looked over his staff. “Hey, Su.”

“Heather.” He spun the staff in his hand and collapsed it until it was a few inches long. “How can I help you?” he asked as he tucked it away on his belt.

“I have to go get someone from the Silvergrove, and I want you to accompany me,” she informed him. “Will you come with me?”

Khonsu smiled and nodded. “Can I bring Elara?”

“Yeah, it’s a good bit of a walk anyway, so you’ll probably need her.”

Heather waited for them with Haco, Petra and Rayla. Khonsu led Elara to them. Heather hoisted herself onto Réalta.

“Try not to get into trouble,” Petra pleaded.

“Unless someone else starts it,” Haco grinned, putting his fist into his hand. Petra shook her head, unamused.

Khonsu mounted Elara and nodded to Heather.

“Right, let’s go.” Heather nudged Réalta forward, and they started down the narrow, overgrown path.

“Shouldn’t we follow the main path to the village?” Khonsu asked once they were out of hearing range.

“I know the forest better than the paths. And if we do get lost, I’ll just climb and see where we are from the village.”

“That sounds like an awful plan.”

“Have some hope, Khonsu,” Heather said with a smile. “Besides, this path joins up with the main one. If we stay to the left, we’ll find it.”

Khonsu hummed, unassured by her words. “If you say so.”

Heather pushed Réalta into a trot and stayed along the path until it forked in two directions. She slowed Réalta down and turned him down the left path. It was a short walk until they were on a much wider path with flattened grass.

“So, Phil’s gonna hatch tomorrow, right?” Khonsu asked; he didn’t like it when there was no talking.

“Yep, unless he decides to scare me.”

“At midday.”

“At midday,” Heather breathed.

“So who are we getting from the Silvergrove?”

“Ethari, my former guardian and the craftsman who made my bowblade.”

Khonsu nodded. “Right. It was the assassin you didn’t like, right?”

Heather turned to look at him. “Almost everyone in the Silvergrove is an assassin.”

“Point taken.”

Heather drew in a breath as they climbed up a tree root to the village. They stopped at the top of the root’s arch.

Heather and Khonsu dismounted.

“Ready?” Heather asked, getting to the starting position. Khonsu mimicked her with a nod. They elegantly danced their way through the positions until symbols glowed on the root beneath them and a bubble of magic formed and spread around them.

As they circled each other, the buildings and people appeared in the village.

“For someone who was so certain she didn’t know the moves, you danced quite well,” Khonsu complimented, leading Elara by the reins.

Heather walked with Réalta behind her. “Very funny.” She sighed. “Let’s get this over with.” She kept her head high as she walked, creating a barrier between her memories of this place and her current mind. She marched straight to the tree with Ethari’s workshop, barely even glancing at the ground.

Her mind and heart raced, worrying about what could happen;

A stone? A weapon?

No, not out in the open like this.

It never stopped them before.

I’m wearing my uniform. If they do, the price they will have to pay will be great.

Probably.

All her worrying led her to the workshop slowly. She brushed her hand against the egg in her sash.

Oh, how I wish you were here.

You have me, Réalta contradicted.

Heather sighed with a smile. That I do.

Her thoughts slipped into Aaravos’ mind again, powerful emotions weakened her mind’s barrier.

Relax, Heather. I can see no future where they do such a thing, Aaravos said to her.

Heather didn’t catch on about the leak. She just tried to stay calm. She stopped at the base of the stairs.

“You all right?” Khonsu asked, stepping forward to see if she was.

“Yeah, I just think we should leave Elara and Réalta here,” she responded, walking to Réalta’s saddlebag for Ethari’s message.

Khonsu looked up at the stairs. “Sure.”

They started up the stairs together, Heather holding the scroll for Ethari. She could feel Réalta eyeing her all the way up, even as she stopped in front of the door to Ethari’s workshop.

“You’ll be fine,” Khonsu assured, unsure what else to say.

Heather rapped on the door and stood back, awaiting the sound of movement inside.

“Give me a second!” came a muffled call from within. The sound of upcoming footsteps followed, and the door opened.

Ethari appeared behind the door. “Heather! It’s wonderful to see you. It’s been a while.”

She smiled and inclined her head. “That it has.”

Ethari looked to Khonsu. “I see someone’s copied my style,” he quipped.

Khonsu looked at his ensemble and then at Ethari’s. “It would seem so.”

Heather handed Ethari the scroll. “I carry a message from Queen Zubeia. She wishes for you to join us on our quest to the human kingdom of Katolis.”

Ethari took the message from her hand and unfurled it.

“The letter should disclose all details regarding the journey. We’ll wait for you at the base of the tree while you prepare.”

He read through the start of the scroll, distracted. “... Yes, I’ll meet you there.” He traipsed back into his workshop.

Heather walked back down the stairs.

“What about your bowblade?” Khonsu asked, walking with her. “Why didn’t you mention it to him?”

“I’ll mention it when he’s able to help, probably when we enter Xadia,” she replied.

“Well you better, I can’t listen to you complain about Bowie for any longer.”

“Bowie?” asked Aaravos.

Heather sighed as they reached the end of the stairs. “It’s what I call my bowblade, alright?” she hissed.

Aaravos hummed. “I’ve known no one to name their weapon before… then again, I’m not a soldier.”

“Some do, I guess my way of detaching my bowblade from the only wielder I know.”

Aaravos hummed.

Heather lifted herself onto Réalta and stroked his neck. “We just have to wait for Ethari now.”

[darksunrising]

Sola Gratia (13/?)

Masterlist

Rating / Warnings : No particular warning.

Fandom : Bram Stoker’s Dracula, BBC’s Dracula, various Dracula and vampire lore.

Part 13/? (3475 words)

Author’s notes : Final episode of Act II ! I’m taking a little break to work on the plotline and real life stuff, but trust that I’ll stay active, and will be back soon with more chapters !

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

The Dark Knight came up to me, and Leah gave me a knowing look. The fiend. I stood up, nervously glancing around me, and handed him my handkerchief. He took hold of it, and carried it to his helmet as to kiss it. The crowd cheered loudly. They must have thought it was part of the entertainment. I still felt the heat rise to my cheeks. Gods, maybe it actually was a calculated plot, damn Leah and her scheming. If I trusted the look of the 'Royals', over on the opposite bleachers, not everyone knew... He tied the scarf around the grip of his lance, and I could swear I saw two lights gleam into the darkness of the helmet. I sat back down as he left, feeling dozens of looks on me as I tried to maintain some composure. Act the part. Be a noble lady. Think... Catherine de' Medici. There.

Vlad had his horse come into place with ease, as I barely saw him touch the reins. His adversary, ironically, was wearing red, mounted on a white horse, and looked massive compared to the slender, elegant silhouette of the dark rider at the other end of the jousting lists. I couldn't help but feel worried. He supposedly didn't risk anything, but the lances were wooden, for hell's sake. That's just taunting the Devil. Or God, maybe, in his case. Taking a deep breath, I waited anxiously for the sound of the horn.

The riders spurred their horses. They passed each other, once, twice, and a third time. The Red Knight made a move, and I saw his lance miss Vlad by inches. Not miss, exactly, as I saw him lean slightly to the side. I could picture his smug smile. That poor guy had no idea what was coming. Turning back in a cloud of sand, glimmering in the air, they galloped to meet again. This time, Vlad ran his spear into the Red Knight's pauldron, nearly having him fall off his horse. He caught on at the last moment, and I could swear I heard Vlad laugh.

They waited a second at the end of the lists, the Red Knight making his shoulder roll, brushing off his coach as he apparently came to make sure he was alright. He sent his his horse full speed at the sound of the horn, his best efforts insufficient to avoid him the lance that crashed into his shield, throwing him back into the dust, almost into the stands, which had a few people stand back.

Without a second look for his adversary, Vlad untied the handkerchief from his lance, and raised his arm in the air in celebration, under the loud cheers of the crowd. He jumped down from the horse, giving the steaming beast an affectionate pat on the shoulder. He walked straight towards me, and took off his helmet. The dark waves of his hair cascaded onto his shoulders, prompting a few audible gasps. I could feel my heart close to beating out of my chest. He was a conqueror, a cocky smile on his lips, the sun playing on his hair and the gold on his armor. He discarded his gauntlets and gloves, leaving them behind in the dust, eyes locked on mine. I stood up, almost knocking over my chair, playing into the role I had been given. He dropped his helmet at my feet with a loud clang of metal, and knelt down. He held up the handkerchief, and I laid my hand on his, allowing him to rise. He gently placed the shawl on my shoulders, lingering along my neck, enough that I could feel my veins pulsing against the tip of his fingers. His eyes hadn't left mine since he took off his helmet, and even under the midday heat, I felt goosebumps spread all over my body. He trailed along my arms, and took hold of both my hands, which he kissed, still not breaking his gaze. My chest heaving, I understood a little bit better why ladies tended to faint more often in corset-wearing time periods.

He then stepped back, leaving the jousting area after a last look, a wink, and a hand gesture at a young groom, who rushed to pick up his discarded pieces of armor after him. A bit overwhelmed, I sat back down, as the presenter closed the event over the cheering of the crowd.

“He wanted it to be a surprise”, Leah told me, eyes glimmering.

“Well, it certainly worked.”

She laughed, and dragged me along to the contender's tents. I caught a glimpse of the Red Knight, armor off. His shoulder had a massive purple bruise, and I couldn't help but wince. I sympathetically smiled at him, and he responded with a little wave. A bit further along, in a white and blue tent, the groom was helping Vlad undo the last pieces of armor, and carefully packing them up in a suitcase similar to the ones that had been Leah and I's dresses. He noticed us and flashed us a smile.

“That was great, Vlad !”, Leah exclaimed, coming up to give him a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. “Damn, you didn't even break a sweat, did you ?”

“It takes a lot for that to happen”, he smugly replied, taking off his gambeson.

His shirt was open, and I found myself staring at his chest.

“Is everything alright, Eris, darling ? You seem a bit... hot”, he mocked, slipping on his vest.

“I'm fine”, I replied, looking away from both of them, as Leah seemed to revel in the whole situation.

He buttoned himself up, and I couldn't help but sneak a few peeks.

“Where did you learn to joust anyway, Vlad ?”, Leah asked, understandably curious.

“Well, I enjoy horseback riding, and the Middle Ages, what can I say ?”, he replied as the groom clasped on his livery collar.

The kid looked up to him in awe, which had me a bit suspicious. I narrowed my eyes at Vlad, and stepped closer to him, putting myself so that Leah couldn't see my gestures. I pointed at the boy with a nod, discreetly tapping on my neck. He took an almost wounded expression for a second.

“Eris, I care about my diet, I don't run around taking drinks from stable boys”, he whispered, falsely offended.

I hummed, not entirely convinced, and he draped himself in his cape.

“Aren't you guys hungry ?”, Leah asked, putting down the bracer she was trying on. “I'm starving, and I heard there's a huge buffet in the castle hall !”

“I have to say, I worked up my apetite”, Vlad replied, looking down on me.

I loudly sighed, and took his arm, following Leah outside.

~ ~ ~

The rest of the day was tiring, at least for me, as Vlad obviously didn't ever feel fatigued, and Leah was endlessly fueled by what could only be rainbows and kitten unicorns. Night started falling the sky taking vivid colors as we made our way to the town square, lit by candles and a large bonfire. A band was playing dancing music, and the air was filled with indistinct chattering and laughter. Leah holding onto my arm, Vlad taken in one of his heist stories, my heart felt so full, I was physically unable to stop smiling.

“Oh, I see something that needs my attention”, Leah suddenly exclaimed. “See you later, you two.”

She let go of my arm, freed a few strands of hair to frame her face, and cheerfully strolled to the bar. Her confidence astounded me.

“I like her”, Vlad told me with a little laugh.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Tell me, did you ever get to practice your dancing ?”, he asked, innocently.

“Oh, no.” I tried to get away. “I'm not dancing ! You got me once, but not twice !”

“Oh, I think I am.”

He caught my hand, and brought us close to the fire, indifferent to my protestation. Once arrived, he had me spin around, and brought me back against his chest. Feeling his breath against my neck, I forgot how to speak a second.

“Follow my lead, I promise I will be less... Boorish than last time.”

I groaned, and relaxed in his arms. I had to focus every fiber of my being not to trip on the pavement with my shoes, but Vlad actually supported me so much I felt half my weight was lifted off. I never liked dancing, to be honest. I had a terrible sense of rhythm, and it reminded me awfully of some family gatherings I'd rather forget.

With Vlad, it felt... Different. Not great, mind you, it still was a bit aggravating, but I started to understand why people like it so much. Vlad picked me up like I weighed nothing, and spun me around. I couldn't help but laugh, and he joined me. His eyes were gleaming with the light of the flames. The music faded out to a slower tune. Vlad slowly put me down, keeping a hand on my waist, the other looking for mine. I intertwined my fingers with his, letting him pull me close, trying to breathe away the erratic beating of my heart.

“I can hear that, you know”, he teased.

I pouted at him. “Then close your ears, it's embarrassing.”

“I would rather say endearing.”

I looked up at him. He wanted to look smug, but most of his expression was tender, calm. I could have looked into his eyes for hours, the deep blue, washed over with the bright gold of the fire. Every step, he kept me close, only letting me go to spin me around, slowly, only enough to make the skirt flare. It might have looked beautiful to watch, if we hadn't been the only two people there, dancing around the candles.

“I want you to feel safe, with me.”

His voice was gentle, his gaze, even more so.

“I do”, I told him, moving my hand from his shoulder to cup his face.

He closed his eyes a second, leaning into my palm. I brushed my thumb across his cheekbone. Cold, soft.

“I have come to... care a great deal about you”, he continued.

“I can see that happening, me being a giant, walking Bloody Mary”, I retorted.

“Do you always resort to humor when someone tries to be serious with you ?”

He was smiling.

“I just- I don't know how to respond to that-”

“Then don't.”

He let go of my hand, leaving it placed on his chest, and slid his into my hair.

“You're going to mess up the-”

“I don't care.”

Freeing his arms, he lifted me up. I was so close I couldn't focus on the details of his face. The tip of his nose brushing against mine, his breath, short, trembling. He was waiting, expectantly. Whispered my name. My feet hovering above ground, my heart beating so hard in my chest it was almost painful, I closed my eyes, and- got a phone call.

“It's Leah's ringtone”, I said.

She never called if it wasn't urgent. Vlad put me down, and I glanced around. She was nowhere to be seen, which would explain why she felt the need to call at that exact moment. When I reached my phone through the layers of fabric, it already stopped ringing.

“It's not like her”, I started, starting to get nervous.

“Eris, do not panic”, Vlad told me, his voice somewhat calming my nerves. “She was with someone, wasn't she ?”

I did get a glimpse at her, while we were still dancing. She was at the bar, chatting up a woman in men's period costume.

“Yeah, but not well. She had very long, silver-ish hair, I think. Fair skin.”

If it was possible, Vlad paled, and gripped my shoulders.

“Call her again, now.”

His tone beckoned urgency, and I obeyed immediately. She picked up fast, but her voice didn't greet me.

“She looks so pretty, don't you think ? Better run fast, before it flows out. Garden overlooks, ten minutes.”

The hanging up tone knocked the wind out of my chest, and I almost fell to my knees. Vlad enquired about the call. I didn't even reply, and ran to the bar, asking for a map of the city, almost hysterical. Someone handed me a folded over leaflet. I thanked him, and quickly tried to find my way around the maze of streets. Right, left, left, up stairs, big door, left, and straight across. I tucked the map in the lacing of my dress, and started running, Vlad following without question. I cursed when I almost fell, and slipped off the cursed shoes, running barefoot into the streets. Thankfully, most of the tourists were gone, and no one crossed my way.

“Tell me where to go, I can get there faster”, Vlad told me.

“Garden overlook”, I hissed.

He nodded, and next thing I knew, he vanished. I kept on running, cursing at the corset making my breath short. I don't think I ever climbed stairs that fast in my entire life, and hurried through the huge door, carved into the high walls surrounding the gardens. As I tried to work the handle, to find it locked. Fuck !

Considering the height of the wall, I looked around for another way in. Luckily for me, it wasn't higher than a dozen feet, and I was a decent climber. Hiking up my skirts, I  placed a foot on a ledge, and caught on to a space made by a missing brick. As I was almost halfway up, the door creaked on its hinges, and Vlad appeared in the frame.

“What in the name of all things Unholy do you think you are doing ?”, he cursed.

“Finding a solution !”

He urged me to jump down, and I did, leaving him to catch me. Not losing any time, we rushed into the gardens. Left, straight across. I finally found two silhouettes, standing next to the wall, on the overlook. I tried to cry out Leah's name, came out empty. As I arrived, she turned to face me, a look of utter incomprehension on her features. She was fine. Fine ! Panting, I tried to catch my breath. She let go of the other woman's hand, and rushed towards me, putting her hands to the sides of my face.

“Eris, what happened ? What's wrong ?”

What's wrong ? Leah, you- Oh. I can't speak. I tried breathing in, wheezing, and  started feeling lightheaded. Vlad's arms wrapped around me, and I noticed I was falling. Going limp, I looked over at Leah. Her lips were moving, yet I couldn't hear her words. I felt a cool hand slip under my bodice, a ripping sound, and air rushed to my lungs. I took a moment to take my breath back, and glanced around. Vlad was holding me, but his look was directed elsewhere. Sitting on the parapet, the woman stared right back. The more I regained consciousness, the more I could make out her features. She was athletic, tall, and had incredibly long, silver hair, gleaming under the moonlight. Her eyes were an icy blue, and her pupils were two tiny specs of light at the center of the iris. A glance, and she terrified me. As I took some of my strength back, I slipped my hand into my skirts, and pulled out my gun. Leah had an exclamation of surprise, and I directed the barrel directly at the woman.

“Oh, Eris”, she laughed. “You must be much more naïve than I thought, to think this would do you any good.”

She hopped off, and started walking toward us.

“And you, too cocky”, I replied, pulling the hammer back, finger on the trigger.

“Carmilla, stop.”

Vlad's voice was much darker than I had ever heard it. I had never heard him angry, and I never really wanted to. The woman, obeyed, standing at a respectable distance from us. I didn't lower my weapon, still leaning against Vlad for support. For once, Leah seemed completely speechless.

“What do you want ?”, he asked, seemingly calm, holding an arm around me.

“What do I want, Drac ?”, she purred, taking a step forward. “Well, for starters, some introductions. If I didn't know you better, I'd almost think you didn't want me meeting your latest pets.”

“Don't”, he snapped at her.

“Fine, your friends, if that's what you call your snacks, these days”, she sighed, shrugging.

“Carmilla, I am giving you one, and only one warning. Leave.”

I felt his hand clench.

“Leave ? I'm not here because I enjoy your company, especially when you're in one of your phases, Drac.” She crossed her arms over her chest, her face taking a deadly serious expression. “I'm here because the Council sends me, because they know I'm the only one who has the slightest chance of making you come to your fucking senses.”

“What I do in my free time is no concern of the Council, which I preside, might I remind you ?”

He spoke through his teeth, seething with anger. His arm coiled tighter around me, almost hurting me.

“That you presided, past tense”, she jabbed. “Since that stupid fucking incident, more than a century ago, you haven't gone to any meeting, any reunion, not even responded to any damn fucking letter ! I had to do your job, while you what ? Sulked and brooded in your castle, and flirted around with mortals ?”

“Do not push me, Carmilla.”

She ran her hands through her hair, grasping at it, and started pacing.

“No, I think I will push you !”, she shouted. “You left us alone, for your own selfish fucking reasons, and the moment you finally decide to get out of your what, ongoing midlife crisis ? You start wreaking havoc, and putting MINA back on our asses, when we spent decades putting them off track !”

“'Wreaking havoc' ? You call going to Renaissance faires 'wreaking havoc' ?”, he snapped with a dry laugh.

“I call butchering mortals by the dozen wreaking havoc !”

She was seething with anger, but her face betrayed a complete, and utter disbelief. She thought it was him too. Vlad seemed to have regained some composure, his grip on me softening as evidence.

“Does everyone here think I am some sort of rabid animal ?”, he asked.

He was met with silence.

“I don't, but again, I don't understand what the fuck is going on”, Leah intervened.

“Well, that's one out of three”, Vlad sneered.

“Are you denying it, Drac ?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I am neither an idiot, nor some kind of un-tamed blood-thirsty beast”, he snapped. “I haven't killed anyone in some time, actually, if that's of any interest to you.”

Carmilla seemed to consider Vlad's response. My hand was shaking from holding the gun so long. She threw her hands up.

“Fine. Let's say I believe you.” She stepped forward, glowering at me when I raised the gun again. “I've seen the pictures, I've been to half the scenes. No mortal was behind those murders.”

She suddenly looked worried, and Vlad softly had me lower the gun. A glance at him made me realize he had the same look, which was not reassuring.

“In truth, I wanted to believe it was you”, she admitted. “I didn't want to think about the alternative.”

“It is impossible, though”, Vlad flatly stated. “We made sure of it.”

“Alright, are you ever going to tell us what the fuck is going on ?”, Leah snapped, fists on her hips.

Carmilla turned towards her, lowly hissing.

“What is going on”, Vlad interrupted. “Is that the Elder is back.”

“The Elder ?”, I asked, not sure I really wanted a response.

“He created most of us”, Vlad explained. “I have no idea how old he is, could be millenia. He started going mad, wanting more power, and planned a human genocide.”

“He turned Vlad to be his most powerful weapon”, Carmilla continued. “The legendary Impaler, infused with the strength and unending life of immortals. As for me, I was made by one of the Elder's first creations. As I was apparently the only one figuring out that a world without humans let very little dinner opportunities, I knocked some sense into this one, and we murdered the Elder.”

“Not very well, it seems”, Vlad somberly commented. He held me a bit tighter against him.

“Well, at least, the reason why he came back now is obvious”, Carmilla stated, looking straight at me. “He found the perfect way to torture you.”

She took a pause, and looked up at him, a hint of disappointment behind her cold eyes.

“He finally found someone you love.”

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Taglist : @carydorse @angelicdestieldemon @bloodhon3yx @thewondernanazombie @battocar @moony691 @mjlock @thebeautyofdisorder @festering-queen @paracosmfantasy @lost-girl-inc

[unicorn-incorporated]

Only Gods Know How Unicorns Choose Their Knights (1/?)

((I’ve been reading the ‘How Best to Use A Sword” story, and I got inspired, so I wrote about a unicorn and a witch and invented a bunch of gods.  Like I do.  Shoutout to @underhandedpenguin for her great ‘verse.

Ariadne had been fourteen when she first saw the unicorn.  It was a glorious beast, shining white among the green foliage of Yuu forest.  She'd still lived with her mother, then--Training the littlest girl how to feel the earth and measure her herbs right and making tree roots grow into little figurines instead of helping with the household chores.  It just was a flash, but Ariadne would bet her life on the fact that she had seen a unicorn on that day.

She told her mother about it later that day, who smiled cryptically and told her a story of Idra, the forest's rumored unicorn protector.  Ari didn't find it to helpful; Idra had a tawny coat, not one of pure white.

"Unicorns are the only truly good creature, you know."  Her mother had smiled and placed her dish to the side.  "It was said that when you die they're the ones that judge your virtue."

"According to what faith?”

"The Cult of Jino, mostly."  Her mother looked slightly embarrassed.  "But followers of the Earth Mother and Jianti also had unicorns as creatures of judgement.  The only impartial creatures in the world."

Ari nodded, steadying her features.  "The Earth mother had many different faces depending on your region.  The followers of Pulga once caused the turning of an entire town to stone, and another sect that worshiped Hyra overwhelmed a city with vines and trees.  All harm caused by overexcitement, rather than malice.”

"And Jianati?"

"A moon goddess used as a symbol of prosperity in a dead kingdom in the east.  Was said to gorge herself on mortal pleasures during day so she could glow during night.  Followers disappeared when Yuell did a year before the old faiths died out"

"And what is Yuell connected to?"

"Jino."  Ari blinked a few times.  "Unicorns go back to Jino, don't they?  Either to their forest or to Jino."

"Remind me to tell you the tale of Jino and the Lilac.  But that's enough lore for the day."  Her mother ruffled her hair affectionately before turning back to the dishes.  

"Ma."  Ari called finally.  "Do we believe in Jino, here?"

"He wasn't a god."  Her ma assured.  "He was worse."

~ * ~

Ariadne was sixteen when she saw the Unicorn again while burning sage to purify her flute.  She'd been teaching the roots of her flower pots to depict Jino and the Great Web again and it always left the energy of her pipe feeling off. She’d been trying a few months, but the roots refused to show Jino in any form but playing his flute with eyes closed.  His character was far too nuanced to only have one acceptable form.

Ari didn't believe in most of the gods she worshipped: didn't believe that eating well on new moons was necessary to make the moon come back at all and didn’t believe that the earth she pulled her power from was one big woman, no more than she thought a woman that powerful would be letting the sky fuck her over like in the Hyra and Kei the sky god.  Ariadne preferred Tyrll, the tiger goddess, but her mother hadn't been enthusiastic the first time she dressed up in skins and went hunting in the night like an animal, so she'd toned down that faith to just sacrificing part of anything that she had to kill.  

Little Natalie claimed she wasn't little anymore, but as Ariadne was ten years older than her she knew better.  Still, it meant that any worship of Ne'Okna, the goddess of female pleasure, was not permissible in any place a little girl might let herself end up in, and that was everywhere.  

She'd brought the half completed artwork with her, hoping she'd be able to finish it if she could banish the discordant energy that interrupted her.  She'd already gotten the image of the Great Spider just right (a creature that Ma had assured her was a real God, of the old and minor sort that was boring except for the mortal that managed to slay it).

The unicorn came while she began Jino's form again, passing into the meadow to look at the distracted Ariadne like she was as fascinating as the unicorn would be to be Ari.  It struck a pose: horn out to stab the spider, hoof up to kick it's torso in.  Proud, radiant, and deadly.

The Unicorn held the pose even when Ari looked over, but whinnied and dropped it’s pose when she dropped her flute in surprise. In a flash the unicorn was gone again, leaving just a shadow of unusual magic behind.

When she told her mother about the fascinating scene she laughed but told her not to spread such silly fantasies in front of Natalie.  "You're near an adult, now.  You go telling the Great Coven that you think you've sighted undocumented unicorns and you'll get us into all sorts of trouble."

"Yes, mama."  Ari huffed.  “But I swear to Tyrll I saw it.”

~ * ~

Ari did not have to wait two more years to see the unicorn again.  When it came out of the trees this time she was already depicting it, teaching the silvery grasses by the Yuu river how to weave themselves into shapes.  The grass unicorn stood ready to attack, solid yet delicate enough that near anything could tear it to bits.   She noticed the unicorn as soon as it came this time but made no motion to greet it; just informed the grasses that the hair should be even lighter than the rest of the body and that the horn was a spiral.  

The unicorn seemed as pleased as a horse’s expression could manage, this time posing itself itself look like a creature of many mysteries rather than a creature of bloodshed—Or at least that’s how Ari’s muse read it.

She started on another grass sculpture and tried to recreate the feeling with intricate patterns and abstraction.  The unicorn watched until it realized that she was not making an equine figure and then left.  Ariadne watched it go, wrinkling her brow.  What is your obsession with your appearance?  She wondered. Conceit isn't exactly the height of morality.

She did not bother telling her mother of the unicorn this time, but did ask to hear a story about Idra.

“All places, especially forests such as this, have myths of times long past.  It is our family's job to collect these ancient stories and pass them through generations so they do not disappear."  Her mother began every tale like this, a reminder of the responsibility of the Liberakis lineage as educators and scholars along with that of the usual witch.  "But no lore of our forest is as sacred as Idra, the Unicorn of Ether.  Every forest has it's own unicorn, and that forest that loses its unicorn is the next to fall to darkness.  Most Unicorns are aloof and never seen but in times of great trauma, such as fires and deforestations.  Idra is one of the few exceptions.

"I have already taught you of how Idra came to this forest, rising out of the Yuu when the forest first realized it was alive.  But Idra has many other tales, the most important of which is her role in the Siege of the Quieri Library.  Witches did not always pass information exactly as we do now: long ago there was a gigantic library nestled in the branches of the biggest tree in the forest, home to a collection of records more complete than the libraries of the modern mage academy."  Her mother took a bundle of dried rosemary and began to dice it as she spoke.  "Inside was every spell a witch had recorded and every rite of every god, written in books without human intervention.  It was the ultimate place of knowledge, and all the witches of the world enjoyed it in harmony.

"Then came the Dolovai invasion."  She placed the rosemary in a metal bowl with a single twig of oak and lit it, the makeshift incense slowly filling the room.  This tradition was not inherently magical, but it had long been proven to Ari that she remembered things better while the smoke still hung in the air.  "And their worship of angels.  A priest of the dominant faith,” (Her mother never used the real name for the religion most followed as if it were a slur.) “heard of the library from a nonmagical performance of the ancient song The Ballad of Inquiry, one of the three great songs of Jino.  He learned of harmony between many gods still active in territory he thought he'd contained and ordered for the library be destroyed

"After years of searching he finally found this forest and the Quieri library was laid siege to for ten days and nights.  It is to this day the largest gathering of witches for one common goal: to protect our Great Library.  However, the priest's crusade did not come without magic users of it's own and soon people became disillusioned with protecting a resource that they may use once, and the unity started to break.  Eventually the remaining witches could not control the fires, and most ran away.

"However, representatives of five lines stayed: the Zenn, Poko, Hollow, Glittergold, and Liberakis families.  Then came Idra, running through the forest like a god reborn.  Idra did not stop the fire or save the library, but reached out with her magic and gave part of the knowledge to each family to be passed down through generations.  The Liberakis were given the task of preserving the old of faiths as they become swallowed by the Single God, so if He ever was to disappear the land need not be faithless."

Ari nodded, breathing in the rosemary.  "Ma, I have a question."

"Always, dear."

"What are the three great songs of Jino?"

"Always so curious about him."  Her mother laughed.  "The Ballad of Inquiry, a song to answer any question if performed correctly, The All Aria, a spell that can create anything if sung as a duet, and the Hymn of Yew, a forbidden song of necromancy that uses witchcraft to bring a person back to life."

"Isn't all necromancy forbidden?"

"Well, yes." Her mother conceded.  "But this song is worse.  It does not animate dead into a zombie, and it does not kill, but it interferes with local time and causes a dead person to return to a truly living state.  Even Jino couldn't cast it correctly, and all knowledge we’ve managed to retain says there was a terrible consequnce.”

“Unknown, huh?”  Ari thought about that for a bit.  “Is that why Yuell disappeared?  The Hymn of Yew went wrong?"

"That's one theory.  But an unpopular one, even among those who believe Yuell was ever real."

"Do we believe that?"

"Without a shred of doubt.  But it can no longer be found on mortal feet, and none that have attempted to teleport have returned.  Portals just collapse."  The last of the incense burned out, which meant it was time to end the sharing of lore.  "Well then.  Let's prepare food, shall we?"

~ * ~

The next time Ari saw the unicorn she created a near perfect replica from tree roots and and asked if it's name was Idra.  It shook it's horse head and looked out to the forest as if to say ‘No, but she's around.’

The forest had two unicorns, and that was said to be impossible.

~ * ~

The fifth time she saw the unicorn she chose to make a statue out of clay because that took a lot longer than making one from plants and she wanted the unicorn to stay.  It left almost immediately but soon returned pulling a giant block of the most beautiful white clay Ari had ever seen on a plank of wood.  It shimmered in the sunlight and practically sang of magical energy.

It pained her to waste it on yet another depiction of the unicorn, but she got to spend five hours with the beast.  When the statue was complete the unicorn instantly fired it into a beautiful stone statue.  Ari tried to approach the unicorn, but it ran away.

~ * ~

"Ma, can people ride unicorns?"  Ari asked one night after tucking Natalie into bed.

"It is said there is a secret caste of knights that ride unicorns.”  Her mother winked at her.  "But Idra isn't looking for one, so you'll have to settle for a horse."'

Ariadne got rather good at horse riding after that and had never enjoyed herself more.  She continued to make statues for the vain unicorn, sometimes using Otto as a model when the unicorn was absent.

She went to get her horse on an autumn afternoon and found it had numerous puncture wounds in the chest and the magic of a unicorn hung heavy in the air.  She did tell her mother about this, who assumed the stallion had been possessed and was glad it was gone and made a sacrifice to Idra at their shrine.  That night she told the story of when the entire Yuu dried up that night because a water demon drank it all and Idra made great flows of water from her horn to restore it.  

Next time Ari sculpted the unicorn she placed a saddle blanket on it.  The blanket quickly caught on fire, and Ariadne supposed that was answer enough.

~ * ~

The next time she saw the unicorn it was holding a full saddle of beautiful silver, and after the statue of birch was complete the unicorn fitted it itself.  When Ari approached to touch the beast, it bolted.

~ * ~

The first time the unicorn let Ari touch it was a year later, with just a single hand on it's head.  In exchange she enchanted her next statue to glow silver, which pleased the unicorn to no end.    

"What's your name?"  Ari asked finally, not expecting an answer.

Sage.  The 'voice' came out of nowhere, and Ari jumped back.  When she looked up, Sage was gone.

"There are two unicorns in the forest."  She told her mom eventually in the most serious tone she could manage  Her mom dropped her fork and looked Ari in the eyes.

"Ari, please."

"There are.  The second one is named Sage.  I've been meeting with it for years."  Ari insisted.  "I've made numerous statues."

Her mom paused.  "You're old enough not to tell me fictions.  There are two unicorns in this forest."  Her brow furrowed.  "That's not a good thing."

"I know."  Ari whispered.  "I'm going to ride it out of here, for my knowledge quest.  I'll leave as soon as it lets me mount it."

"You are around that age.  What will you study?”

“Unicorns.”  Ari looked her mother in the eyes, then.  “And the lost lands of Yuell.”

[readbookywooks]

Ned Land

COMMANDER FARRAGUT was a good seaman, worthy of the frigate he commanded. His ship and he were one. He was its very soul. On the cetacean question no doubts arose in his mind, and he didn't allow the animal's existence to be disputed aboard his vessel. He believed in it as certain pious women believe in the leviathan from the Book of Job - out of faith, not reason. The monster existed, and he had vowed to rid the seas of it. The man was a sort of Knight of Rhodes, a latter-day Sir Dieudonne of Gozo, on his way to fight an encounter with the dragon devastating the island. Either Commander Farragut would slay the narwhale, or the narwhale would slay Commander Farragut. No middle of the road for these two. The ship's officers shared the views of their leader. They could be heard chatting, discussing, arguing, calculating the different chances of an encounter, and observing the vast expanse of the ocean. Voluntary watches from the crosstrees of the topgallant sail were self-imposed by more than one who would have cursed such toil under any other circumstances. As often as the sun swept over its daily arc, the masts were populated with sailors whose feet itched and couldn't hold still on the planking of the deck below! And the Abraham Lincoln's stempost hadn't even cut the suspected waters of the Pacific. As for the crew, they only wanted to encounter the unicorn, harpoon it, haul it on board, and carve it up. They surveyed the sea with scrupulous care. Besides, Commander Farragut had mentioned that a certain sum of $2,000.00 was waiting for the man who first sighted the animal, be he cabin boy or sailor, mate or officer. I'll let the reader decide whether eyes got proper exercise aboard the Abraham Lincoln. As for me, I didn't lag behind the others and I yielded to no one my share in these daily observations. Our frigate would have had fivescore good reasons for renaming itself the Argus, after that mythological beast with 100 eyes! The lone rebel among us was Conseil, who seemed utterly uninterested in the question exciting us and was out of step with the general enthusiasm on board. As I said, Commander Farragut had carefully equipped his ship with all the gear needed to fish for a gigantic cetacean. No whaling vessel could have been better armed. We had every known mechanism, from the hand-hurled harpoon, to the blunderbuss firing barbed arrows, to the duck gun with exploding bullets. On the forecastle was mounted the latest model breech-loading cannon, very heavy of barrel and narrow of bore, a weapon that would figure in the Universal Exhibition of 1867. Made in America, this valuable instrument could fire a four-kilogram conical projectile an average distance of sixteen kilometers without the least bother. So the Abraham Lincoln wasn't lacking in means of destruction. But it had better still. It had Ned Land, the King of Harpooners. Gifted with uncommon manual ability, Ned Land was a Canadian who had no equal in his dangerous trade. Dexterity, coolness, bravery, and cunning were virtues he possessed to a high degree, and it took a truly crafty baleen whale or an exceptionally astute sperm whale to elude the thrusts of his harpoon. Ned Land was about forty years old. A man of great height - over six English feet - he was powerfully built, serious in manner, not very sociable, sometimes headstrong, and quite ill-tempered when crossed. His looks caught the attention, and above all the strength of his gaze, which gave a unique emphasis to his facial appearance. Commander Farragut, to my thinking, had made a wise move in hiring on this man. With his eye and his throwing arm, he was worth the whole crew all by himself. I can do no better than to compare him with a powerful telescope that could double as a cannon always ready to fire. To say Canadian is to say French, and as unsociable as Ned Land was, I must admit he took a definite liking to me. No doubt it was my nationality that attracted him. It was an opportunity for him to speak, and for me to hear, that old Rabelaisian dialect still used in some Canadian provinces. The harpooner's family originated in Quebec, and they were already a line of bold fishermen back in the days when this town still belonged to France. Little by little Ned developed a taste for chatting, and I loved hearing the tales of his adventures in the polar seas. He described his fishing trips and his battles with great natural lyricism. His tales took on the form of an epic poem, and I felt I was hearing some Canadian Homer reciting his Iliad of the High Arctic regions. I'm writing of this bold companion as I currently know him. Because we've become old friends, united in that permanent comradeship born and cemented during only the most frightful crises! Ah, my gallant Ned! I ask only to live 100 years more, the longer to remember you! And now, what were Ned Land's views on this question of a marine monster? I must admit that he flatly didn't believe in the unicorn, and alone on board, he didn't share the general conviction. He avoided even dealing with the subject, for which one day I felt compelled to take him to task. During the magnificent evening of June 25 - in other words, three weeks after our departure - the frigate lay abreast of Cabo Blanco, thirty miles to leeward of the coast of Patagonia. We had crossed the Tropic of Capricorn, and the Strait of Magellan opened less than 700 miles to the south. Before eight days were out, the Abraham Lincoln would plow the waves of the Pacific. Seated on the afterdeck, Ned Land and I chatted about one thing and another, staring at that mysterious sea whose depths to this day are beyond the reach of human eyes. Quite naturally, I led our conversation around to the giant unicorn, and I weighed our expedition's various chances for success or failure. Then, seeing that Ned just let me talk without saying much himself, I pressed him more closely. "Ned," I asked him, "how can you still doubt the reality of this cetacean we're after? Do you have any particular reasons for being so skeptical?" The harpooner stared at me awhile before replying, slapped his broad forehead in one of his standard gestures, closed his eyes as if to collect himself, and finally said: "Just maybe, Professor Aronnax." "But Ned, you're a professional whaler, a man familiar with all the great marine mammals - your mind should easily accept this hypothesis of an enormous cetacean, and you ought to be the last one to doubt it under these circumstances!" "That's just where you're mistaken, professor," Ned replied. "The common man may still believe in fabulous comets crossing outer space, or in prehistoric monsters living at the earth's core, but astronomers and geologists don't swallow such fairy tales. It's the same with whalers. I've chased plenty of cetaceans, I've harpooned a good number, I've killed several. But no matter how powerful and well armed they were, neither their tails or their tusks could puncture the sheet-iron plates of a steamer." "Even so, Ned, people mention vessels that narwhale tusks have run clean through." "Wooden ships maybe," the Canadian replied. "But I've never seen the like. So till I have proof to the contrary, I'll deny that baleen whales, sperm whales, or unicorns can do any such thing." "Listen to me, Ned - " "No, no, professor. I'll go along with anything you want except that. Some gigantic devilfish maybe . . . ?" "Even less likely, Ned. The devilfish is merely a mollusk, and even this name hints at its semiliquid flesh, because it's Latin meaning soft one. The devilfish doesn't belong to the vertebrate branch, and even if it were 500 feet long, it would still be utterly harmless to ships like the Scotia or the Abraham Lincoln. Consequently, the feats of krakens or other monsters of that ilk must be relegated to the realm of fiction." "So, Mr. Naturalist," Ned Land continued in a bantering tone, "you'll just keep on believing in the existence of some enormous cetacean . . . ?" "Yes, Ned, I repeat it with a conviction backed by factual logic. I believe in the existence of a mammal with a powerful constitution, belonging to the vertebrate branch like baleen whales, sperm whales, or dolphins, and armed with a tusk made of horn that has tremendous penetrating power." "Humph!" the harpooner put in, shaking his head with the attitude of a man who doesn't want to be convinced. "Note well, my fine Canadian," I went on, "if such an animal exists, if it lives deep in the ocean, if it frequents the liquid strata located miles beneath the surface of the water, it needs to have a constitution so solid, it defies all comparison." "And why this powerful constitution?" Ned asked. "Because it takes incalculable strength just to live in those deep strata and withstand their pressure." "Oh really?" Ned said, tipping me a wink. "Oh really, and I can prove it to you with a few simple figures." "Bosh!" Ned replied. "You can make figures do anything you want!" "In business, Ned, but not in mathematics. Listen to me. Let's accept that the pressure of one atmosphere is represented by the pressure of a column of water thirty-two feet high. In reality, such a column of water wouldn't be quite so high because here we're dealing with salt water, which is denser than fresh water. Well then, when you dive under the waves, Ned, for every thirty-two feet of water above you, your body is tolerating the pressure of one more atmosphere, in other words, one more kilogram per each square centimeter on your body's surface. So it follows that at 320 feet down, this pressure is equal to ten atmospheres, to 100 atmospheres at 3,200 feet, and to 1,000 atmospheres at 32,000 feet, that is, at about two and a half vertical leagues down. Which is tantamount to saying that if you could reach such a depth in the ocean, each square centimeter on your body's surface would be experiencing 1,000 kilograms of pressure. Now, my gallant Ned, do you know how many square centimeters you have on your bodily surface?" "I haven't the foggiest notion, Professor Aronnax." "About 17,000." "As many as that?" "Yes, and since the atmosphere's pressure actually weighs slightly more than one kilogram per square centimeter, your 17,000 square centimeters are tolerating 17,568 kilograms at this very moment." "Without my noticing it?" "Without your noticing it. And if you aren't crushed by so much pressure, it's because the air penetrates the interior of your body with equal pressure. When the inside and outside pressures are in perfect balance, they neutralize each other and allow you to tolerate them without discomfort. But in the water it's another story." "Yes, I see," Ned replied, growing more interested. "Because the water surrounds me but doesn't penetrate me." "Precisely, Ned. So at thirty-two feet beneath the surface of the sea, you'll undergo a pressure of 17,568 kilograms; at 320 feet, or ten times greater pressure, it's 175,680 kilograms; at 3,200 feet, or 100 times greater pressure, it's 1,756,800 kilograms; finally, at 32,000 feet, or 1,000 times greater pressure, it's 17,568,000 kilograms; in other words, you'd be squashed as flat as if you'd just been yanked from between the plates of a hydraulic press!" "Fire and brimstone!" Ned put in. "All right then, my fine harpooner, if vertebrates several hundred meters long and proportionate in bulk live at such depths, their surface areas make up millions of square centimeters, and the pressure they undergo must be assessed in billions of kilograms. Calculate, then, how much resistance of bone structure and strength of constitution they'd need in order to withstand such pressures!" "They'd need to be manufactured," Ned Land replied, "from sheet-iron plates eight inches thick, like ironclad frigates." "Right, Ned, and then picture the damage such a mass could inflict if it were launched with the speed of an express train against a ship's hull." "Yes . . . indeed . . . maybe," the Canadian replied, staggered by these figures but still not willing to give in. "Well, have I convinced you?" "You've convinced me of one thing, Mr. Naturalist. That deep in the sea, such animals would need to be just as strong as you say-if they exist." "But if they don't exist, my stubborn harpooner, how do you explain the accident that happened to the Scotia?" "It's maybe . . . ," Ned said, hesitating. "Go on!" "Because . . . it just couldn't be true!" the Canadian replied, unconsciously echoing a famous catchphrase of the scientist Arago. But this reply proved nothing, other than how bullheaded the harpooner could be. That day I pressed him no further. The Scotia's accident was undeniable. Its hole was real enough that it had to be plugged up, and I don't think a hole's existence can be more emphatically proven. Now then, this hole didn't make itself, and since it hadn't resulted from underwater rocks or underwater machines, it must have been caused by the perforating tool of some animal. Now, for all the reasons put forward to this point, I believed that this animal was a member of the branch Vertebrata, class Mammalia, group Pisciforma, and finally, order Cetacea. As for the family in which it would be placed (baleen whale, sperm whale, or dolphin), the genus to which it belonged, and the species in which it would find its proper home, these questions had to be left for later. To answer them called for dissecting this unknown monster; to dissect it called for catching it; to catch it called for harpooning it-which was Ned Land's business; to harpoon it called for sighting it-which was the crew's business; and to sight it called for encountering it-which was a chancy business.

[ask-de-writer]

The Knights of Justice (Part 1 of 3) : An MLP Fan Fiction

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

THE KNIGHTS OF JUSTICE

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

Cover Art by The Whisper Sisters, now Wind the Mama Cat

© 2014 by Glen Ten-Eyck

6842 words

Writing begun 08/27/14

All rights reserved.  This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may reblog the story.  They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.  I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

///////////////////////

Prologue: This tale takes place about 4000 years in the past of the modern MLP canon. During this time, Celestia and Luna are still fillies, though close to grown physically. The events here recorded are part of the foundation of the modern kingdom of Equestria.  Specifically, this tale begins what are now known as THE DAYS OF FORTRESS CANTERLOT and the founding of the Knights of Justice.

.

For more background information on the canon of this tale, please read:

De Writer and the Orb of the Ages

Hearthwarming Eve / Starvation’s Night

From Darkness to Dawn

Fortress Canterlot!

De Writer’s Tale (a narrative poem)

The Coming of Tam O’Canter and Heather Bloom O’Red Hoof to Ponyville

De Writer canon (part 1)

De Writer canon (part 2)

.

/////////////////////

The Great Hall of Camarg was in an uproar.  The King, with his Queen beside him had to raise his scepter to demand quiet.  That was enforced by the Herald's trumpet blast and call of, “Their Majesties demand silence!  It is understood that you have complaint to lay before them.  This shall be done in an orderly and civil fashion!

“This is a Royal Court, not a village commons!

“Baron Sir Salten, I believe that your business was first.  From what I am hearing in this unseemly clamor, most of you have similar cases to bring.

“Listen to Baron Sir Salten. If your case is similar to his, go to the left of the room.

“In this way, we can speed up this mess.”

The King of Camarg raised his wings impressively where he sat his throne and intoned, “Baron Sir Salten, what is it that has you here before me?”

The Baron doffed his steel chanfron helmet and stepped forward, limping a little.  “I shall be blunt, Your Majesty.  I have been robbed.  My guards were driven off, my tax wagon taken and emptied of all the casks of dried fruits, nuts, and grains that it carried.

“I led an expedition of armed force against the robbers and was driven away!  Salten needs assistance to stop this incursion!”

The King, Camarg II, of Camarg, tilted his head and gave Salten a hard stare.  While he was doing so, more than half of the Noble  Pegassi and Unicorns had gone to the left of the room.

Camarg II, King of Camarg did not hold his position by being entirely stupid.  He whispered to a page near him.  That pony retreated and returned shortly.  He handed the king a scroll.

He sat on his throne and reviewed the contents of the scroll carefully.  Several in the Court were reminded that this was not just show.  Camarg was literate.  He looked up with a small, tight smile and pronounced, “It appears that you are not being fully honest with me, Salten.  Your taxes were reported as fully collected and the Royal Levy taken.

“How then, can it be that you are robbed of the contents of a TAX WAGON?”

A number of those who had gone to the left, quietly sneaked back to the right side of the Great Hall.

“My Liege!  You are ignoring the important issue of Fealty!  I have been attacked and you must, by oath support me with arms!”

“Salten, Salten,” Camarg said dismissively, “Fealty works TWO WAYS.  You are to support Me by the Royal Levy in time of peace.  In turn, I am to support you in time of war or famine.

“YOU ARE FORBIDDEN to collect any tax without a Royal Dispensation, to be sure of the proper distribution of the Levy.

“I agree, in principle, that Salten needs armed support.  I will investigate FIRST this fraud of the taxes.  I was about to call you to Court, when you came on your own.  The villages of Roachmane and Tailswitch have both sent ranking burgers to complain of being taxed twice.”

“They do mention the force that defeated you.  Two pegassi, two unicorns and four earth ponies.  Not exactly an invading army.  

“According to the burgers, the unicorns of this force marked all the chests and casks by magic when they returned everything to the villages.  They advised the villagers to come to My Court for redress.  Again, not precisely the actions of a hostile force at arms.”

Queen Megan spoke softly from her throne.  “Salten, I have seen the reports and spoken to the burgers of Roachmane and Switchtail.  They say that when you were driven off, that you were trying to bring back the tax wagon to take what was not yours for the second time.”

Behind them, down the Great Hall, the removal to the right again became a near stampede.

The Queen put it simply.  “You are seeking to manipulate Fealty to gain Our help an unlawful collection of a Levyless tax.

“You seek to gain Our assistance in robbing both Us and your own tenants at the same time.”

Multicolored light from the stained glass windows shone on the left side of the hall, where no noble ponies were.

The Queen's sardonic glance took in that fact.  She declared, “We have received a goodly number of similar complaints.  They are all from villages on the side of the kingdom facing the Sunlord's old land.  There is a new power rising there.

“Far up a steep mountain side in that empty land is a mighty fortress named Canterlot.  The Sunlord attacked that fortress.  In only a few battles, he was not only defeated, he was destroyed.  We have not moved to try taking any of the land that was his.  It is now under the sway of the Fortress Canterlot.”

She stared down the nobles most known for their fractious and warlike behavior.  One, Count Wilton, squirming a bit under the Queen's pitiless stare, replied, “Your Majesties, perhaps we are being too timid here.  They must be severely depleted after defeating the Sunlord.  Now could be the advantageous time to strike and strike hard!  We have much to gain and little to lose!”

King Camarg gave him an amused and dismissive glance.  “Thought of, Wilton.  Investigated and decided against after receiving factual reports.

“We sent a delegation under truce to Canterlot.  They are ruled by two Princesses.  Besides finding that their standing army is over four times ours, our delegation discovered that the entire army is composed of volunteers, largely from the Sunlord's old forces.  They are also fanatically loyal to the Princesses.

“Those Princesses personally led the battles where the Sunlord was, first defeated and then, when he would not give up his tactic of murdering the wounded, they destroyed him.  Personally.  On the field of battle.

“More, they gathered the fallen, regardless of side, and did their best to heal all of the injuries of misfortune or war.  That is part of where the fanatical loyalty comes from.  They do not just lead battle, they heal its aftermath.”

Queen Megan picked up, “That healing is not limited to upper classes or warriors, either.  After the Sunlord was defeated, they sent their army back up his line of march.  Their orders, which were followed, were to help rebuild or repair houses, barns, byres.  To see what could be saved of orchards, vineyards and crops.  Wounded, sick or injured peasants were taken to Canterlot and healed if possible.

“To the Princesses in Canterlot, justice and fair treatment extend to all, even donkeys.” She shook her head at the bizarre notion.

Briskly, King Camarg replied, “That could be seen as a great weakness but I have to wonder about that.  Remember, Salten, the force that drove off your armored fighters was only four earth ponies, two unicorns and two pegassi. The puzzle is simple.  Why  more earth ponies than either of the groups that are capable fighters?

“Perhaps we can have our answer soon.  As we sent a delegation to Canterlot under truce, so also have they.  I had word that they have arrived a short while ago.”

The herald's trumpets blasted a fanfare.  The lead Herald called out, “Make Way for the Delegation from the Twin Crowns of the Equestrian Lands of Fortress Canterlot!” The large doors of Great Hall opened.

The delegation from Canterlot entered the throne room of Camarg.  They were led by a dark mare, easily as large and light of build as a horse.  Her color was hard to determine.  Black?  Dark blue?  Try the color between the stars of a clear midnight sky.  She had a horn, long narrow and straight, far longer than the horn of any unicorn pony.  Along her sides were folded the largest wings that any there had ever seen.

She wore a simple crown of gold, enameled with the same blue as herself and bearing the emblem of a crescent moon.  It matched her flank marks and the great pectoral necklace that she also wore.

Her mane and tail were long and flowing, the same midnight hue as herself.  They rippled like a wind blew them and there were stars to be seen in them, though the constellations were strange.  Her hooves on the stone pave, before she came to the carpet runner that led to the throne, were silent.

It was as if a dream had walked into the daylight of the throne room.  Behind her were two unicorns, one brown and one blue.  Two pegassi in war harness, Chanfron helmets doffed, followed them.

They followed the Dark Mare to the foot of the Throne dais.

There, the Dark Mare, knelt into a curtsy.  Both unicorns bowed.  Both pegassi curtsied.

Camarg was wise enough not to insult them by making them wait.  “Arise and be recognized.”

Courteously, the vision of a Dark Mare replied, “I do thank you, Your Royal Majesty.  My name is Princess Luna of the Equestrian Lands of Fortress Canterlot, Guardian of the Night, Keeper of Dreams and the True Embodiment of All Nightmare.  These, my followers are: my Foster Father De Writer, the inventor of that art which you find so useful.  Justice Truth Keeper, to whom a lie is impossible.  Wing Commander of our Royal Pegassi, Swift Feather and Wing Commander  of our Royal Pegassi, Bright Cloud.

“We are here at the invitation of your Royal Delegation to discuss proper bounds, boundaries and the enforcement of Just Law.

“If I may say so, your Royal Majesty, we have made a study of your Law and find it mostly fair and just.  It has but one great flaw.”

Camarg looked skeptically across at the disturbingly tall Princess, so unlike any creature of his experience.  He, on a throne atop a three step dais, was at her eye level.  His Queen Megan was also discomfited by Luna's size but wise enough to ignore it.

Sounding truly interested, she inquired, “And what, Princess Luna, is that flaw in our law?”

Luna smiled at her and Queen Megan found herself actually at ease with her strange visitor. Luna's reply was, “You were just dealing with that flaw when we arrived.  It is not the law that is at fault.  It is those entrusted to administer and carry out that law in a fair and just fashion.

“Your taxes, for instance, are reasonable and well divided according to the types of work done and crops that are raised.  Not only do those monies and goods support yourselves and your nobles, a portion is set aside for relief of your populace in famine or disaster.  All of this is wise and well designed.

“Baron Salten's unlawful tax expedition is an example of the  problem.  First, the Barons gather the tax, which is all properly accounted and your Levy taken.  Later, without your knowledge or authorization, a second tax is taken, solely for the benefit of the Barons and Knights of the Realm.  This second tax, they call the “Gleaning,” so that if, in speaking of it, they are overheard, it will sound innocent.

“On our way here, we did interrupt Baron Salten's unlawful gleaning.  Since both the Law and Honor of our Hosts, your Royal selves, were at stake, we took the liberty of disrupting the crime and returning the stolen goods to their rightful owners.

“My followers, here, begged me the boon of correcting this wrong and I granted it.

“If I have erred in this action, proper redress shall be made from the supplies of Canterlot.”

Queen Megan thought for only a second before replying, “The only error, there was not time enough to amend.  You had not Our Royal permission.  We here grant that the need of swift justice and honorable action were paramount.  You are forgiven that and thanked for your well carried out and restrained response.”

Luna bowed her head gracefully and said, “We thank you.  All that we have heard of your Honor and Grace are upheld by this.”

Baron Salten, outraged, bawled out, “They attacked us without cause!  We did no thing to them! When we came back, over fifty strong, to seek revenge for unprovoked attack, they drove us off!”

Bright Cloud began to chuckle and then laugh outright.

In moments, Swift Feather broke into a smile, grin and began to chuckle too.  King Camarg looked on, bemused for a moment and then requested, “Perhaps you can let us all in on the source of your levity?  It has been a mostly unpleasant session of Court so far and I could use a laugh.”

/////TO BE CONTINUED/////

[readbookywooks]

Tyrion

Chella daughter of Cheyk of the Black Ears had gone ahead to scout, and it was she who brought back word of the army at the crossroads. "By their fires I call them twenty thousand strong," she said. "Their banners are red, with a golden lion." "Your father?" Bronn asked. "Or my brother Jaime," Tyrion said. "We shall know soon enough." He surveyed his ragged band of brigands: near three hundred Stone Crows, Moon Brothers, Black Ears, and Burned Men, and those just the seed of the army he hoped to grow. Gunthor son of Gurn was raising the other clans even now. He wondered what his lord father would make of them in their skins and bits of stolen steel. If truth be told, he did not know what to make of them himself. Was he their commander or their captive? Most of the time, it seemed to be a little of both. "It might be best if I rode down alone," he suggested. "Best for Tyrion son of Tywin," said Ulf, who spoke for the Moon Brothers. Shagga glowered, a fearsome sight to see. "Shagga son of Dolf likes this not. Shagga will go with the boyman, and if the boyman lies, Shagga will chop off his manhood—" "—and feed it to the goats, yes," Tyrion said wearily. "Shagga, I give you my word as a Lannister, I will return." "Why should we trust your word?" Chella was a small hard woman, flat as a boy, and no fool. "Lowland lords have lied to the clans before." "You wound me, Chella," Tyrion said. "Here I thought we had become such friends. But as you will. You shall ride with me, and Shagga and Conn for the Stone Crows, Ulf for the Moon Brothers, and Timett son of Timett for the Burned Men." The clansmen exchanged wary looks as he named them. "The rest shall wait here until I send for you. Try not to kill and maim each other while I'm gone." He put his heels to his horse and trotted off, giving them no choice but to follow or be left behind. Either was fine with him, so long as they did not sit down to talk for a day and a night. That was the trouble with the clans; they had an absurd notion that every man's voice should be heard in council, so they argued about everything, endlessly. Even their women were allowed to speak. Small wonder that it had been hundreds of years since they last threatened the Vale with anything beyond an occasional raid. Tyrion meant to change that. Brorm rode with him. Behind them—after a quick bit of grumbling—the five clansmen followed on their undersize garrons, scrawny things that looked like ponies and scrambled up rock walls like goats. The Stone Crows rode together, and Chella and Ulf stayed close as well, as the Moon Brothers and Black Ears had strong bonds between them. Timett son of Timett rode alone. Every clan in the Mountains of the Moon feared the Burned Men, who mortified their flesh with fire to prove their courage and (the others said) roasted babies at their feasts. And even the other Burned Men feared Timett, who had put out his own left eye with a white-hot knife when he reached the age of manhood. Tyrion gathered that it was more customary for a boy to burn off a nipple, a finger, or (if he was truly brave, or truly mad) an ear. Timett's fellow Burned Men were so awed by his choice of an eye that they promptly named him a red hand, which seemed to be some sort of a war chief. "I wonder what their king burned off," Tyrion said to Bronn when he heard the tale. Grinning, the sellsword had tugged at his crotch . . . but even Bronn kept a respectful tongue around Timett. If a man was mad enough to put out his own eye, he was unlikely to be gentle to his enemies. Distant watchers peered down from towers of unmortared stone as the party descended through the foothills, and once Tyrion saw a raven take wing. Where the high road twisted between two rocky outcrops, they came to the first strong point. A low earthen wall four feet high closed off the road, and a dozen crossbowmen manned the heights. Tyrion halted his followers out of range and rode to the wall alone. "Who commands here?" he shouted up. The captain was quick to appear, and even quicker to give them an escort when he recognized his lord's son. They trotted past blackened fields and burned holdfasts, down to the riverlands and the Green Fork of the Trident. Tyrion saw no bodies, but the air was full of ravens and carrion crows; there had been fighting here, and recently. Half a league from the crossroads, a barricade of sharpened stakes had been erected, manned by pikemen and archers. Behind the line, the camp spread out to the far distance. Thin fingers of smoke rose from hundreds of cookfires, mailed men sat under trees and honed their blades, and familiar banners fluttered from staffs thrust into the muddy ground. A party of mounted horsemen rode forward to challenge them as they approached the stakes. The knight who led them wore silver armor inlaid with amethysts and a striped purple-and-silver cloak. His shield bore a unicorn sigil, and a spiral horn two feet long jutted up from the brow of his horsehead helm. Tyrion reined up to greet him. "Ser Flement." Ser Flement Brax lifted his visor. "Tyrion," he said in astonishment. "My lord, we all feared you dead, or . . . " He looked at the clansmen uncertainly. "These . . . companions of yours . . . " "Bosom friends and loyal retainers," Tyrion said. "Where will I find my lord father?" "He has taken the inn at the crossroads for his quarters." Tyrion laughed. The inn at the crossroads! Perhaps the gods were just after all. "I will see him at once." "As you say, my lord." Ser Flement wheeled his horse about and shouted commands. Three rows of stakes were pulled from the ground to make a hole in the line. Tyrion led his party through. Lord Tywin's camp spread over leagues. Chella's estimate of twenty thousand men could not be far wrong. The common men camped out in the open, but the knights had thrown up tents, and some of the high lords had erected pavilions as large as houses. Tyrion spied the red ox of the Presters, Lord Crakehall's brindled boar, the burning tree of Marbrand, the badger of Lydden. Knights called out to him as he cantered past, and men-at-arms gaped at the clansmen in open astonishment. Shagga was gaping back; beyond a certainty, he had never seen so many men, horses, and weapons in all his days. The rest of the mountain brigands did a better job of guarding their faces, but Tyrion had no doubts that they were full as much in awe. Better and better. The more impressed they were with the power of the Lannisters, the easier they would be to command. The inn and its stables were much as he remembered, though little more than tumbled stones and blackened foundations remained where the rest of the village had stood. A gibbet had been erected in the yard, and the body that swung there was covered with ravens. At Tyrion's approach they took to the air, squawking and flapping their black wings. He dismounted and glanced up at what remained of the corpse. The birds had eaten her lips and eyes and most of her cheeks, baring her stained red teeth in a hideous smile. "A room, a meal, and a flagon of wine, that was all I asked," he reminded her with a sigh of reproach. Boys emerged hesitantly from the stables to see to their horses. Shagga did not want to give his up. "The lad won't steal your mare," Tyrion assured him. "He only wants to give her some oats and water and brush out her coat." Shagga's coat could have used a good brushing too, but it would have been less than tactful to mention it. "You have my word, the horse will not be harmed." Glaring, Shagga let go his grip on the reins. "This is the horse of Shagga son of Dolf," he roared at the stableboy. "If he doesn't give her back, chop off his manhood and feed it to the goats," Tyrion promised. "Provided you can find some." A pair of house guards in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms stood under the inn's sign, on either side of the door. Tyrion recognized their captain. "My father?" "In the common room, m'lord." "My men will want meat and mead," Tyrion told him. "See that they get it." He entered the inn, and there was Father. Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, was in his middle fifties, yet hard as a man of twenty. Even seated, he was tall, with long legs, broad shoulders, a flat stomach. His thin arms were corded with muscle. When his once-thick golden hair had begun to recede, he had commanded his barber to shave his head; Lord Tywin did not believe in half measures. He razored his lip and chin as well, but kept his side-whiskers, two great thickets of wiry golden hair that covered most of his cheeks from ear to jaw. His eyes were a pale green, flecked with gold. A fool more foolish than most had once jested that even Lord Tywin's shit was flecked with gold. Some said the man was still alive, deep in the bowels of Casterly Rock. Ser Kevan Lannister, his father's only surviving brother, was sharing a flagon of ale with Lord Tywin when Tyrion entered the common room. His uncle was portly and balding, with a close-cropped yellow beard that followed the line of his massive jaw. Ser Kevan saw him first. "Tyrion," he said in surprise. "Uncle," Tyrion said, bowing. "And my lord father. What a pleasure to find you here." Lord Tywin did not stir from his chair, but he did give his dwarf son a long, searching look. "I see that the rumors of your demise were unfounded." "Sorry to disappoint you, Father," Tyrion said. "No need to leap up and embrace me, I wouldn't want you to strain yourself." He crossed the room to their table, acutely conscious of the way his stunted legs made him waddle with every step. Whenever his father's eyes were on him, he became uncomfortably aware of all his deformities and shortcomings. "Kind of you to go to war for me," he said as he climbed into a chair and helped himself to a cup of his father's ale. "By my lights, it was you who started this," Lord Tywin replied. "Your brother Jaime would never have meekly submitted to capture at the hands of a woman." "That's one way we differ, Jaime and I. He's taller as well, you may have noticed." His father ignored the sally. "The honor of our House was at stake. I had no choice but to ride. No man sheds Lannister blood with impunity." "Hear Me Roar," Tyrion said, grinning. The Lannister words. "Truth be told, none of my blood was actually shed, although it was a close thing once or twice. Morrec and Jyck were killed." "I suppose you will be wanting some new men." "Don't trouble yourself, Father, I've acquired a few of my own." He tried a swallow of the ale. It was brown and yeasty, so thick you could almost chew it. Very fine, in truth. A pity his father had hanged the innkeep. "How is your war going?" His uncle answered. "Well enough, for the nonce. Ser Edmure had scattered small troops of men along his borders to stop our raiding, and your lord father and I were able to destroy most of them piecemeal before they could regroup." "Your brother has been covering himself with glory," his father said. "He smashed the Lords Vance and Piper at the Golden Tooth, and met the massed power of the Tullys under the walls of Riverrun. The lords of the Trident have been put to rout. Ser Edmure Tully was taken captive, with many of his knights and bannermen. Lord Blackwood led a few survivors back to Riverrun, where Jaime has them under siege. The rest fled to their own strongholds." "Your father and I have been marching on each in turn," Ser Kevan said. "With Lord Blackwood gone, Raventree fell at once, and Lady Whent yielded Harrenhal for want of men to defend it. Ser Gregor burnt out the Pipers and the Brackens . . . " "Leaving you unopposed?" Tyrion said. "Not wholly," Ser Kevan said. "The Mallisters still hold Seagard and Walder Frey is marshaling his levies at the Twins." "No matter," Lord Tywin said. "Frey only takes the field when the scent of victory is in the air, and all he smells now is ruin. And Jason Mallister lacks the strength to fight alone. Once Jaime takes Riverrun, they will both be quick enough to bend the knee. Unless the Starks and the Arryns come forth to oppose us, this war is good as won." "I would not fret overmuch about the Arryns if I were you," Tyrion said. "The Starks are another matter. Lord Eddard—" "—is our hostage," his father said. "He will lead no armies while he rots in a dungeon under the Red Keep." "No," Ser Kevan agreed, "but his son has called the banners and sits at Moat Cailin with a strong host around him." "No sword is strong until it's been tempered," Lord Tywin declared. "The Stark boy is a child. No doubt he likes the sound of warhorns well enough, and the sight of his banners fluttering in the wind, but in the end it comes down to butcher's work. I doubt he has the stomach for it." Things had gotten interesting while he'd been away, Tyrion reflected. "And what is our fearless monarch doing whilst all this ‘butcher's work' is being done?" he wondered. "How has my lovely and persuasive sister gotten Robert to agree to the imprisonment of his dear friend Ned?" "Robert Baratheon is dead," his father told him. "Your nephew reigns in King's Landing." That did take Tyrion aback. "My sister, you mean." He took another gulp of ale. The realm would be a much different place with Cersei ruling in place of her husband. "If you have a mind to make yourself of use, I will give you a command," his father said. "Marq Piper and Karyl Vance are loose in our rear, raiding our lands across the Red Fork." Tyrion made a tsking sound. "The gall of them, fighting back. Ordinarily I'd be glad to punish such rudeness, Father, but the truth is, I have pressing business elsewhere." "Do you?" Lord Tywin did not seem awed. "We also have a pair of Ned Stark's afterthoughts making a nuisance of themselves by harassing my foraging parties. Beric Dondarrion, some young lordling with delusions of valor. He has that fat jape of a priest with him, the one who likes to set his sword on fire. Do you think you might be able to deal with them as you scamper off? Without making too much a botch of it?" Tyrion wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled. "Father, it warms my heart to think that you might entrust me with . . . what, twenty men? Fifty? Are you sure you can spare so many? Well, no matter. If I should come across Thoros and Lord Beric, I shall spank them both." He climbed down from his chair and waddled to the sideboard, where a wheel of veined white cheese sat surrounded by fruit. "First, though, I have some promises of my own to keep," he said as he sliced off a wedge. "I shall require three thousand helms and as many hauberks, plus swords, pikes, steel spearheads, maces, battleaxes, gauntlets, gorgets, greaves, breastplates, wagons to carry all this—" The door behind him opened with a crash, so violently that Tyrion almost dropped his cheese. Ser Kevan leapt up swearing as the captain of the guard went flying across the room to smash against the hearth. As he tumbled down into the cold ashes, his lion helm askew, Shagga snapped the man's sword in two over a knee thick as a tree trunk, threw down the pieces, and lumbered into the common room. He was preceded by his stench, riper than the cheese and overpowering in the closed space. "Little redcape," he snarled, "when next you bare steel on Shagga son of Dolf, I will chop off your manhood and roast it in the fire." "What, no goats?" Tyrion said, taking a bite of cheese. The other clansmen followed Shagga into the common room, Bronn with them. The sellsword gave Tyrion a rueful shrug. "Who might you be?" Lord Tywin asked, cool as snow. "They followed me home, Father," Tyrion explained. "May I keep them? They don't eat much." No one was smiling. "By what right do you savages intrude on our councils?" demanded Ser Kevan. "Savages, lowlander?" Conn might have been handsome if you washed him. "We are free men, and free men by rights sit on all war councils." "Which one is the lion lord?" Chella asked. "They are both old men," announced Timett son of Timett, who had yet to see his twentieth year. Ser Kevan's hand went to his sword hilt, but his brother placed two fingers on his wrist and held him fast. Lord Tywin seemed unperturbed. "Tyrion, have you forgotten your courtesies? Kindly acquaint us with our . . . honored guests." Tyrion licked his fingers. "With pleasure," he said. "The fair maid is Chella daughter of Cheyk of the Black Ears." "I'm no maid," Chella protested. "My sons have taken fifty ears among them." "May they take fifty more." Tyrion waddled away from her. "This is Conn son of Coratt. Shagga son of Dolf is the one who looks like Casterly Rock with hair. They are Stone Crows. Here is Ulf son of Umar of the Moon Brothers, and here Timett son of Timett, a red hand of the Burned Men. And this is Bronn, a sellsword of no particular allegiance. He has already changed sides twice in the short time I've known him, you and he ought to get on famously, Father." To Bronn and the clansmen he said, "May I present my lord father, Tywin son of Tytos of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport, and once and future Hand of the King." Lord Tywin rose, dignified and correct. "Even in the west, we know the prowess of the warrior clans of the Mountains of the Moon. What brings you down from your strongholds, my lords?" "Horses," said Shagga. "A promise of silk and steel," said Timett son of Timett. Tyrion was about to tell his lord father how he proposed to reduce the Vale of Arryn to a smoking wasteland, but he was never given the chance. The door banged open again. The messenger gave Tyrion's clansmen a quick, queer look as he dropped to one knee before Lord Tywin. "My lord," he said, "Ser Addam bid me tell you that the Stark host is moving down the causeway." Lord Tywin Lannister did not smile. Lord Tywin never smiled, but Tyrion had learned to read his father's pleasure all the same, and it was there on his face. "So the wolfling is leaving his den to play among the lions," he said in a voice of quiet satisfaction. "Splendid. Return to Ser Addam and tell him to fall back. He is not to engage the northerners until we arrive, but I want him to harass their flanks and draw them farther south." "It will be as you command." The rider took his leave. "We are well situated here," Ser Kevan pointed out. "Close to the ford and ringed by pits and spikes. If they are coming south, I say let them come, and break themselves against us." "The boy may hang back or lose his courage when he sees our numbers," Lord Tywin replied. "The sooner the Starks are broken, the sooner I shall be free to deal with Stannis Baratheon. Tell the drummers to beat assembly, and send word to Jaime that I am marching against Robb Stark." "As you will," Ser Kevan said. Tyrion watched with a grim fascination as his lord father turned next to the half-wild clansmen. "It is said that the men of the mountain clans are warriors without fear." "It is said truly," Conn of the Stone Crows answered. "And the women," Chella added. "Ride with me against my enemies, and you shall have all my son promised you, and more," Lord Tywin told them. "Would you pay us with our own coin?" Ulf son of Umar said. "Why should we need the father's promise, when we have the son's?" "I said nothing of need," Lord Tywin replied. "My words were courtesy, nothing more. You need not join us. The men of the winterlands are made of iron and ice, and even my boldest knights fear to face them." Oh, deftly done, Tyrion thought, smiling crookedly. "The Burned Men fear nothing. Timett son of Timett will ride with the lions." "Wherever the Burned Men go, the Stone Crows have been there first," Conn declared hotly. "We ride as well." "Shagga son of Dolf will chop off their manhoods and feed them to the crows." "We will ride with you, lion lord," Chella daughter of Cheyk agreed, "but only if your halfman son goes with us. He has bought his breath with promises. Until we hold the steel he has pledged us, his life is ours." Lord Tywin turned his gold-flecked eyes on his son. "Joy," Tyrion said with a resigned smile.