#hemming black-briar

[umbracirrus]

Oh boy, I love it when new characters come into existence-

[argisthebulwark]

Did I Find You, Or You Find Me?

summary: Due to forces outside of your control, you've found yourself stuck in an arranged marriage. f!reader, no y/n used. feat: Brynjolf, Miraak, Vilkas, Farkas, Arnbjorn warnings: they're long lol. alcohol consumption, not super healthy relationship dynamics, a bit suggestive a/n: i meant to put some more fellas in here but tumblr was struggling to load this draft so i'll have to do a part two masterlist

Brynjolf

Born as the middle daughter of the Black Briar family you are fully aware of their interactions with the Thieves Guild. You've watched your mother meet with Brynjolf, catching glimpses when you're instructed to carry in stacks of paperwork or clearing away empty wine bottles after a long negotiation. His flirtatious remarks remarks leave you breathless, never going further than a shared smile or brushing shoulders in the hall.

As a middle child, you've often found yourself in an odd position - you're an adult and are expected to handle many responsibilities, yet still infantilized by your siblings. Often forgotten between Sibbi and Ingun's rebellions and Hemming's single minded dedication to the family, you're expected to pick up the pieces without making a fuss.

"We need to solidify our ties with the Thieves Guild." Mother's sharp voice interrupts your dinner. You nod along, picking at your potatoes and planning out the rest of your week. "How old are you now?"

"Twenty four."

"Oh, good!" The excited tone of her voice rouses suspicion. You peek up at your mother, heart ramming against your ribs - she's never taken an interest in your life before. This can lead nowhere good.

You can only hope that silence will make her forget you. Her schedule is usually so full that you're allowed to exist out of her eyeline - taking a few extra moments in the market to flip through some books or visiting Ingun in the alchemy shop to chat. There is joy to be found in those small moments when you escape from her calculated gaze.

Of course this doesn't happen. Before the week is out you find yourself standing in the Temple of Mara, heart in your throat and siblings snickering from the pews. The handsome thief is gentle when he holds your hands, voice a bit shaky as he reiterates every vow back to the priest.

Returning to the Ratways feels odd. You part from your family, ink drying on the many contracts as Brynjolf - your husband - leads you through the Cistern. You feel a bit like you're floating as the events of the day settle on your mind. Panic chokes out all rational thought - who will ensure that the animals are fed and organize the contracts in your absence?

"I'm sorry - this all happened so fast, you may need to show me around once more when my mind stops spinning." You can't recall half of what he's pointed out and your feet are aching. You gulp, staring up at Brynjolf's kind eyes.

"Don't worry, lass." That soft grin makes your heart race when he shows you the private quarters, a small room branching off from the tavern. "We're in the same boat, you've got me."

With each day that passes, that knot in your chest lessens. The anxiety shrinks as you settle into your new life, finding the lack of routine comfortable - no list of chores awaits you, no one calls for you to sit in on meetings. After twenty four years of responsibility it is terrifying to realize that no one expects anyone from you.

Despite all the initial fears you find yourself flourishing. Far from your mother's prying eyes you discover that you enjoy hearing stories from the other thieves, Vex and Delvin teaching you a few tricks and Tonilia offering to scrounge up a set of armor. No longer are you Maven's daughter or Hemming's sister - you are yourself.

Brynjolf maintains a respectable distance, never straying too far but making no moves toward romance. He acknowledges that your partnership is just that - an agreement set forth by others, it is not a true marriage. He joins you for dinner each night, finding himself eager to hear about what you've done that day.

"What did you mean back then?" You finally ask, surprised at how steady your voice has become. Brynjolf's gaze still makes your heart flutter but you no longer feel the need to shrink away from it.

"By what, lass?"

"When you said we're in the same boat."

"Ah." He leans closer, voice conspiratorially low. Your cheeks flush when his fingers dance over yours, barely a touch. "Well, I'm guessin' you weren't exactly excited by the prospect of marrying a stranger, yeah?"

"It wasn't my first choice."

"Wasn't part of my plan, either." You hate how your stomach drops at the admission. Of course you're aware that he hadn't truly wanted you, but that knowledge does little to soothe the sting.

"Delvin's too old and Vex hates dealin' with your mother." His eyes drop to where your fingers have twisted together, the toes of his boots brushing yours. "I didn't plan on it bein' me but I couldn't stomach the thought of anyone else marryin' you."

The weeks blend into months, changes in your life slow but steady. Brynjolf sets aside time each week to teach you how to wield a dagger. Your beds scoot closer and you stay up later talking, candles burning down to nubs while you share every little shred of yourselves. He tells you of this the people he's lost and you share the desperation you've always felt for more, blushing when he jokes about the fulfilling life of a thief.

Your confidence continues to blossom the longer you're away from your family, brave enough to disregard a direct summons from your mother. Somewhere she is steaming, Hemming probably cursing your name at her side. It's freeing to realize how little you care.

"Proud of you, lass." Brynjolf grins when you bounce up to him, excitedly recounting how cool it felt throwing her letter in the fire. His hand is warm when it cups your cheek. "How should we celebrate?"

A bit drunk on your newly found courage, you kiss him. You've thought about it for months, stomach fluttering when you first noticed the way his eyes linger on you. It's quick and your lips tingle a bit when your husband chuckles, already leaning in for another.

Miraak

"All of our efforts to reign in Miraak have failed." Arngeir's eyes pin you in place. Your ass is going numb from those stone seats but there's no escaping this conversation. "Dragonborn, the Jarls continue to call for action."

"I have tried everything to defeat Miraak."

"Yet we remain unsuccessful." Biting your tongue barely contains the multitude of protests. Your body bears scars from the many times you've faced Miraak and his cultists, brain addled by the ages you'd spent combing through Apocrypha's twisting hallways.

"Miraak has a clear interest in you." Borri chimes in, voice hoarse from lack of use.

"He speaks the truth, Dragonborn." Arngeir concurs. "We have formulated a new plan. The Jarls have approved, as have many leaders from Solstheim."

"Wonderful." You grumble, hauling yourself to your feet. Might as well start preparing. "What is this new plan of attack?"

"You will offer yourself to Miraak."

"Your plan is to sacrifice me?" The shrill tone of your voice echoes off the stone walls. "How will my death resolve anything?"

"Not as a sacrifice. As a bride."

Despite your many protests, it seems that Miraak could not pass up an opportunity to get under your skin. He agrees to the proposition - you become his partner and he scales back the attacks on civilians. The rage becomes almost mind numbing. You cannot believe that this plan is being enacted, that your elders are offering you up for the mere promise of peace.

When Arngeir bustles you out the door he instructs you to slay the First Dragonborn. His voice is stern when he informs you that you will not be welcomed back to Skyrim's shores until Miraak is dead. The old men don't listen to a single protest that passes your lips, somberly shaking their heads and claiming that this is the last resort. Their trust is placed in you.

There is no ceremony, no hint of romance - just your stack of books and a bout of seasickness as you're ferried to Solstheim. Cultists meet you at the dock, Raven Rock entirely silent as too many pairs of eyes watch them escort you to Miraak's palace. You walk with your chin held high and pray that no one notices the fear simmering just under your skin.

Miraak's glare tracks each move you make as you prowl through his manor. You keep your distance, intent on finding some hidden weakness that will break him without rousing too much suspicion. You circle one another, neither willing to break the peace and strike first. Even when you are alone he maintains some sort of mask - always obscuring at least half of his face, never giving you a full view.

Meals are silent except for thinly veiled threats. Doors to both bed chambers are locked and barred each night. You find comfort in his library, sprawling shelves holding volumes thought long lost and safe from the mind bending power of Apocrypha. On days when you grow too exhausted to search you tuck yourself away into a secluded corner of the library and read until your eyes can't focus.

"You do not have to hide." Miraak's deep voice shocks you out of your reading. He eyes the stack of books at your side and you feel terribly vulnerable. "This is now your home as much as it is mine."

Clearly displeased with your lack of response, he huffs and walks away. Your brain struggles to catch up - the usual nasty tone of his voice was gone, something almost kind about the way he'd spoken to you. It's disconcerting.

Thankfully, you are too preoccupied with your assignment to notice how deeply he burns for you. You do not see the heat behind his glare or the tension in his body when you drift too near, barely keeping a leash on the gut wrenching desire.

Miraak finds it quite easy to convince himself that he detests you - the flipping of his gut is mere disgust and your permanent place in his dreams is blamed on that damned prophecy. You are too distracted sniffing around for clues to notice how deeply and shamefully he wants you.

"What is it you seek?" His voice nearly stops your heart. Blade aimed for his chest you whirl around, scolding yourself for lowering your guard enough for him to get so close. You pause, gaping at the face he's hidden behind masks for months and fight back the horrible wave of attraction.

The crooked nose, stubble trailing up his jaw, dark eyes glaring down at you. Grey streaks are visible where his hair's pushed away from his forehead. A scar drags through his lower lip, drawing far too much of your attention. Grinding your teeth against the way your cheeks blush, you summon every ounce of vitriol you can.

"None of your business."

"Incorrect. You are in my study."

"What I am searching for does not regard you."

"Doubtful, little dragon." You curse your heart for flipping at that pet name. Miraak's grin is nearly a snarl when he leans closer, unable to keep himself away from you any longer.

For one night, he will release his self control. He will make himself vulnerable if it means he can get a bit closer to you.

Vilkas

As the eldest daughter of a Jarl, your duties never cease. Keeping an eye on your siblings, watching the advisors in preparation for your role, learning from wizards and teachers and warriors alike - it is endless. From a young age you'd intended on caring for your beloved city of Whiterun whether you acted as Jarl or advisor, content with putting in the work for your future.

"We need a foot in the door with the Companions." Proventus' words had roused no suspicion at the time - he'd said similar things about the guild before. "They are unregulated, acting entirely separate from us."

"This is true." Your father had turned to you, heart in your throat at the prospect of proving yourself. You'd fine tuned your political knowledge over the past few years and finally, an opportunity to prove yourself to his court. "Can you be trusted with this task?"

You had no clue what you were agreeing to. You'd anticipated a cordial relationship, that you would be acting as a emissary. You expected to form a diplomatic relationship with the Companions. You'd met a few warriors for training but the prospect of working with them was intriguing, their reputation was equally vicious and respectable.

You try to keep it together for the first meeting. Kodlak Whitemane is intimidating but you stand tall beside your father, chin held high and sword strapped to your side. It has never tasted blood but the advisors had insisted upon you looking your best, presenting yourself as a capable fighter.

Kodlak's warriors appear cleaned up, though you notice the scars - tattoos swirl between the gaps in their armor and wary eyes watching every shadow. The one at his side looks ready to implode; hand wrapped menacingly around the hilt of his sword and dark eyes sweeping over you with barely contained disdain. He sneers, clearly seeing through your carefully placed facade. Your stomach drops when he stands only a few paces from you, arms crossed over his broad chest.

The meeting moves too fast to follow. Kodlak and your father speak in hushed tones, all the other advisors cloistered around them. Notably, you are left out - they must be bartering on your behalf, right? Why else would you be left out of the conversation? Three Companions stand at your side, each appearing equally annoyed.

"May I ask why your folks seem displeased?" You whisper to the man at your side, the one who appears less standoffish than the others. Soft brown eyes blink back at you, a short laugh badly disguised as a cough.

"Surprised you're takin' this so well. We had bets on you running out."

"What?"

"Aela thought you'd last through the discussions. I thought you'd bolt as soon as you saw him. And Vilkas, well he refused to make a bet." The man laughs again, a hand extended toward you. Your head is spinning when the dark haired man walks off in a huff, his anger radiating through the hall.

"Vilkas?"

"Yeah." You follow where he points out the man now shouldering his way into the circle of advisors. "Your new husband."

Despite his initial vitriol, Vilkas is annoyingly formal. He speaks to you as a member of the court - stiff and respectful. He spends little time in your company, taking every assignment offered by his elders to get him out of the city.

You can't say it isn't hurtful. Your union was one of mutual convenience for your families but to see your husband so clearly uninterested wounds you. Your conversations are brief, each focused entirely on whatever business Kodlak has with your father.

You hold your chin high, remaining in your father's home and listening to the advisors fret. Your visits to Jorrvaskr are not unpleasant but there is a notable lack of progress - Aela and Farkas are friendly, Athis slowly warms to you, but it is abundantly clear that they all view you as an outsider. Vilkas can barely remain in the hall, his brother kindly making excuses on his behalf.

Sleeping in your childhood bedroom as a married adult feels strange, though you console yourself with the knowledge that it is not a real marriage. No rings or tender words had been exchanged. It was merely a contract signed by Kodlak and your father on your behalf. You drift off to sleep with the image of Vilkas in your head, wracking your brain for what can be done to smooth things out.

"Hey."

Scrambling for the knife under your pillow, you barely manage to swallow the scream building in your throat. With the blade quivering in your hand you aim it toward your attacker's chest. Vilkas' dark eyes glare down at you, hair mussed and usual armor missing. You blink a few times when turns toward the door.

"Can't sleep. You coming?"

"Coming where?"

"Anywhere but here."

He hardly says a word when you stride out of Dragonsreach. He scoffs at the way you sneak past the guards, dagger still gripped in your hand. You follow him down the chilly steps until you're seated on a bench, backs to the Gildergreen.

"Sorry." He grumbles, dropping his cloak around your shoulders. "Bet you're freezing."

You're too stunned to question it. The cloak smells of him and you find yourself burrowing deeper into it, the first kind move he's made. Vilkas sits at your side, glaring out at the starry sky for what feels like hours.

"What is happening?" You finally ask, glancing over at him. You catch his striking profile, outlined by the silvery moonlight of late night; the sharp bridge of his nose and harsh brows, the lips that look surprisingly soft when they aren't grimacing. Your stomach flips when his eyes slide to you, though they appear uncharacteristically kind.

"Needed to get out for a bit." He shrugs, heaving a sigh. "Figured you could use a break from that place."

It's hard to predict when he will seek you out. Vilkas only appears in the dead of night, often the night before he departs for an assignment. You wander through Whiterun, enjoying the emptiness of the town while he tells you of his recent missions. You are giddy each time he refuses your attempts to return his cloak, wrapping it around your shoulders to walk aimlessly at his side.

Not wanting the conversations to be one sided, you soon find yourself sharing more. Stories of court and your siblings feel boring in comparison but Vilkas seems interested. He remembers names remarkably well, asking after your brother's injured arm weeks after you'd brought it up.

It takes months for you to broach the topic of your future. You've grown comfortable in his company, no longer unsettled by the intensity of his gaze. He is still far from a husband but there is something like friendship blooming between you, an attraction that squeezes at your heart each time he smiles at you.

"I just want to be free." You admit, gazing out over the horizon. As you've spoken the sunrise has begun, rays of pink and orange reaching out to steal the night. You have to return to Dragonsreach soon before everyone else wakes. Despite that reasoning you find yourself leaning into Vilkas' shoulder, heart fluttering when he accepts your touch.

"Free?" He snorts, chin resting on the top of your head. "You're the Jarl's kid, you can do whatever you want."

"I've never made a choice for myself - I didn't even get to choose my husband." Clearly the lack of sleep has loosened your tongue. Vilkas chuckles, a sound that never fails to warm your heart.

"That's fair." He sighs, staring over your shoulder at Jorrvaskr. He's sure that the others have already awoken, chest tight with the unending duties threatening to drown him. "Someday, when we're done solving everyone else's problems, we'll get out of here."

Farkas

Since an early age, you've been warned to stay away from the Companions - their shimmering armor and heroic deeds are inviting but they do not live like you do. Their beast blood is a secret held only by those in the highest ranks, hidden away from the rest of their guild. You've never understood the secrecy but abide by your parents' warnings, heeding the wisdom of your pack.

Numbers have dwindled over the years. Tales told around the long table recount times when your pack commanded Whiterun's rolling plains, hunting and celebrating to their hearts' content. Each generation shrunk - the beast blood not passing on to younger generations and civilization encroaching upon the wilds. Handfuls of families have splintered off, some moving to new Holds while others joined larger packs.

You're fairly certain your hearing must be failing - after ages of warning every wolf off from dealing with the local guilds, your grandmother grimaces around those unbelievable words.

"What?"

"We can no longer survive on our own." She reiterates, your ears ringing. "These lands have been overhunted and new farms claim acres of land every day. Now with the Silver Hand moving into Whiterun," she sighs, gathering herself. Tears prick at your eyes when she rests a wrinkled hand on your shoulder. "Our family has entered an agreement with the Companions."

"Okay." You're struggling to wrap your head around this change but you'll manage - the pit in your stomach for months could finally cease. You know that food sources are growing scarce and numbers are falling but you're still a bit lightheaded at the finality of her statement.

"We've assured their continued support. They cannot back out of this deal."

"How? What do we have to give them?"

"You and some of the others will be married to the younger members of their inner circle."

It's like a punch to the gut. Your marriage is still a handful of years off but you will never forget about it - wondering each day if this is your last before being shackled to the Companions for the rest of your life. Your first meeting happens during a celebratory dinner, your heart in your throat as Kodlak presents the members of his pack.

One boy glowers across the hall and sneers at anyone who dares to speak to him. His brother stands nearby, a friendly smile on his face when Kodlak's hand lands on his shoulder. You can only pray that you aren't partnered with the unpleasant one.

"I'm Farkas." The kind boy introduces himself, calloused hand warm against yours. It takes a moment to remember your name - thankfully, your grandmother pats your shoulder and speaks for you.

"Nice to meet you." You choke out, terrified to be staring into the face of your future husband. His smile comes easily, dimples in his cheeks eyes radiating kindness. Light brown hair is braided out of his face and a broadsword is strapped across his well muscled back.

You spend the night awaiting the horrible stories your elders passed down to come true - that the Companions will shame your way of life or scoff at the state of your hall, but they are amiable. A bit reserved but they do nothing to earn your distrust. They share food and drink hauled down from their hall, listening intently to the stories told by your parents.

Farkas fits in too well. Even after Kodlak and the others stop visiting, contracts signed and goods exchanging hands, Farkas keeps coming. He shows up on your mother's doorstep with an armful of food and brings your siblings presents on their birthdays. Each time he appears you're shocked - this was sold to you as a marriage of convenience, one to fully unite your families. The grin on his face when he teaches your brother how to properly swing a sword or his willingness to help clear the dishes after dinner make you wonder if he was told something different.

Even as the season of your intended wedding approaches you cannot scrape up any distaste for him. You find your heart fluttering when Farkas rolls up his sleeves to help your father chop firewood or falls onto your bed at your side, curiously eyeing whatever book you're reading. You've both grown into a comfortable friendship, choosing to not speak of what awaits you only a few months away.

"Wanna go for a walk?" Farkas offers, eyes sliding your way. Even after all these years he still makes speech difficult, the friendly smile causing your brain to stop functioning. He's asked the question dozens of times but there's something loaded behind his words that makes this feel different. He's so careful when he holds your hand, clearly giving you space to shake him off.

Farkas follows the same path as always around local farms, a pleasant expression on his face but you feel the nerves radiating from him. Perhaps you've just got enough anxiety for you both.

"What's wrong?" You blurt, unable to contain the nerves any longer. Eyes sparkling in the moonlight Farkas turns to you and you're certain the whole valley can hear your heart ramming against your ribs.

"I want to marry you." His voice is uncharacteristically serious.

"That's been arranged since we were kids."

"No, I mean for real." Farkas insists, chilly fingers tracing the shape of your cheek. You've been close to others but nothing has felt like this, no one else has set your skin ablaze with a simple touch.

"I need you to know that I'm not just doing this because Kodlak said to. I want to be here with you, with your family - I want you."

It takes a few minutes to digest that - he wants you. Farkas is patient when you work through that, fingers tightening around yours as he awaits an answer. Butterflies erupt in your stomach when you finally voice the feelings you've ignored for years.

"I want you, too."

Kissing him is so easy, it feels natural. He smells like home; the hands cupping your face are stained from helping your parents cook and the scent of your fireplace clings to hair you'd tied back. Farkas kisses you like it's the first time he's taken a breath, needy and desperate. His nose brushes yours before he's pulling back, that comforting smile rousing butterflies in your gut.

The wedding you'd spent years dreading surpasses all your expectations. Farkas cries the moment he sees you, tears streaming down his cheeks when he pledges each day of his life to yours. You pointedly ignore all the vows regarding duty and tradition - you love this man. You've fallen in love with him slowly and without realizing it, loving him a bit more each day you've spent with him. He speaks of his love for you and respect for your family, summoning fat tears in your eyes when he kisses you.

"Thanks for lovin' me." He murmurs into your hair, crushing you to his chest.

Arnbjorn

"You should do it."

"Absolutely not."

"It's the best way to ensure the survival of both our Guilds!" Delvin insists, that smug look on his face. He thinks he's already won. "If we don't come to an agreement, our groups are bound to cannibalize each other. Our customer base and services are too similar."

"All good points."

"Every Jarl is out for our blood and both of our Guilds have recently lost leaders." It's annoying how correct he is. Delvin nudges the ale toward you, clearly urging you to consider. "A partnership would solve nearly all our problems."

"And why can it not be a business partnership?" You ask, accepting the drink. "Your relationship with the Brotherhood has stood since before I even joined the Guild, has something caused you to doubt it?"

"Unfortunately." Delvin's expression sours at that. "Their new leader."

You agree to a meeting with their new leader, expecting the Listener - they've visited a few times when the Brotherhood needed Delvin's aid, most recently during their move to Dawnstar. Your friendship is easy but holds no attraction, certainly nothing that would tempt you into a marriage.

"The Listener isn't their official leader." Delvin corrects you at the last minute, the group of shadows entering the Flagon. "It's the old leader's widower."

He stands before you, intimidatingly tall and muscled. Unimpressed eyes shamelessly comb through the crowd of thieves, white hair braided away from a handsome face. Delvin's elbow nudges yours and your face burns when you stumble over your introduction, clearing your throat before the conversation begins.

It's rough. Their leader, Arnbjorn, clearly lacks his former partner's knack for negotiation. You'd only encountered Astrid a couple times before her death but remembered her way of speaking, calculated with a constant threat in each word. Arnbjorn is much more straightforward, the Listener and Nazir looking a bit uneasy at his side.

"I have no need of a wife." He speaks plainly, earning a glare from his companions. "My hands are full running the Brotherhood and looking after the recruits."

"My thoughts exactly." you concur, though the conversation spirals away from that point once again.

Gods, you feel like this is never going to end. Hours pass and Delvin's sheet of notes has become illegible. The Listener is predictably quiet, taking in everyone's words while Delvin and Nazir hash out the details - where barriers for contracts should be, how to notify the other, who can recruit in what regions. After far too many drinks their words devolve into an obnoxious drone.

You aren't entirely sure anyone notices when you excuse yourself. Maybe a breath of fresh air will clear your head. You're certain that the sun has risen and quite possibly fallen once more since the negotiations had begun, shuffling your way through the Cistern in search of the outdoors.

"Hey."

Two strong fingers grab your elbow just as you're about to climb to freedom. You turn, sucking in a deep breath when you realize that you're cramped into the secret passageway with Arnbjorn. His cheeks are flushed - he's had even more drinks than you, leaning on the wall for support.

"What?" You try to sound sure of yourself despite the distracting closeness of his body. It's troubling how handsome he is. Arnbjorn blinks at you, sucking in a deep breath before speaking.

"I didn't want you to think my protests have anything to do with you." He clears his throat, obviously struggling to speak so plainly. "It's just - my wife passed away. You're very pretty but I have to think about the Brotherhood."

"I understand." You breathe, unable to ignore the way his eyes seem glued to your mouth. He leans a bit closer and you can smell him, smoke and pine and you fight back the wave of attraction.

Kissing him is foolish. You know this. It is a dumb mistake that you cannot stop yourself from making, closing the tiny distance between you. His lips are warm and god, the large hand curling around your waist and drawing you closer feels divine. His body presses to yours, crowding you against the stone wall until you can feel every delicious inch of him.

"Oh gods -" Delvin's voice shatters the moment. You're shrinking back, Arnbjorn stumbling a few steps away but it's too late. Your face burns when Delvin and the Listener's stares pin you in place. "Well, looks like our problem solved itself."

Marrying him is strange. Arnbjorn is stiff and standoffish, barely grumbling when the arrangements are drawn up. It's hard to forget that kiss, heat creeping into your cheeks every time the memory emerges. He's not unkind, just unwaveringly professional.

"If you're not interested in your wife," the client's words are slurred when he nudges Arnbjorn. "Mind if I take a swing?" A few too many celebratory drinks have been shared after your first successful joint contract. He stares intently at you, arousal pounding through his veins at the sight of you wearing Brotherhood armor.

"What?" The wave of sheer rage catches him off guard. Arnbjorn glares down at the drunken lord, anger building when the man leers toward your group of thieves. He's restrained himself for so long, ignored the way your eyes linger and seek him out because of his damned principles - but he will not allow this.

"You clearly don't want her. No harm in someone else gettin' a chance, right?" The man grumbles into his goblet. "After all the coin I handed out for this job -"

All conversation ceases when Arnbjorn bolts out of his seat. Before you can ask what's wrong he's stalking toward you, fingers gentle but insistent when they grip your chin and tilt your lips toward his. His kiss is full of heat, brain flooding with unabashed arousal as your husband's hips press firmly into yours.

"What's this all about?" You pant, cheeks burning bright red when his nose brushes yours.

"Don't worry about it." Arnbjorn grumbles against your lips. He'll let his reservations slip for this evening of celebration. He tells himself that he will rebuild all those walls in the morning, allowing himself this one night as your husband.

[chernabogs]

Threnody

Inc: Malleus x Reader, with a lil bit of Lilia parenting Warnings: Existential crisis, anxiety mentions, allusions to death, dabbling in insecurity, post-blot coping WC: 2.9k Summary: There is trivial difference between storms of a Fae’s misery and those of a Fae’s joy—both are adorned in catastrophe for those caught within.  Part 1

The gasps of spring’s last moments found closure under summer’s blade as she sliced through the tolerable weather into that of stifling, uncomfortable heat. Despite the way it made his skin itch beneath his uniform, or the way it left an aroma of sweat and humidity on those he surrounded himself with, Malleus was apt to linger on the Isle of Sages for slightly longer than necessary this time. Of course, Housewardens were always the last to leave anyway—someone had to make sure the dorm rooms were cleared out and prepared for the coming fall. 

Last to leave, first to arrive. 

Even then, there was more motivation than the years before for him not to depart so hastily back to the cooler, darker halls of Black Scale Palace for all of three months. Motivation which was presently situated on one of the couches of the Diasomnia lounge, basking in the fresh air from the open windows as Malleus arranged the last of the disarrayed cushions to his liking. 

Yours had come to be a strange relationship in the aftermath of his uncomfortable realization post-overblot. He had bit his tongue like a man cursed and ensured that you had not caught wind of the idle thoughts turning in his mind as he had observed you, so patient and so giving, sitting next to the cot he had been delegated to in that medical ward. 

Your idle chatter had been efficient at keeping periods of silence from stretching for too long. Those periods of silence would have been the trigger to make him shoot off his mouth at you, ejecting his revelations like a psalm that no one was ever meant to read. 

… He wanted you. He wanted you, so much so that it ached in his body …

Such thoughts were akin to ones that a man in torment would have, writhing between the battle of want and learned conservativeness. 

He had admittedly avoided you for a week upon being released. His excuses were mainly that he wished to focus on the reparations duly owed to everyone that had been caught in the prison of his insecurities. Internationally, he had a script written for him by some of the more political of Briar Valley, apologizing for his actions and ensuring he was taking the steps to never fracture again. Privately, he fumbled over words in the dark to the three he had hurt the most, his voice breaking as fingers twisted the hems of his sleeves. He had been more nervous asking forgiveness from Silver, Sebek, and Lilia than he felt speaking to an international stage.

He had not asked for forgiveness from you, despite the fact that you and Grim had been on the forefront of this conflict, alongside the Shroud brothers and STYX. Your presence by his bedside had felt like absolution already granted, and so to plead for it would be a waste of fragile breath in the end. 

“Have you marred the cushion enough?” A teasing tone snaps him sharply from his ruminations as he pauses, his mind sluggishly returning to the present. He holds the couch cushion in his hand, its form warped from the original due to his constant pushing and remodelling. Malleus clears his throat before dropping it unceremoniously and nudging it with his knee. 

“It was due for some rearrangement.” His voice is less light as he assesses the rest of the dorm before his gaze drags itself back to you. The sunlight dapples across your skin as you watch him, the faint smirk on your lips doing little to hide the tiredness that rests in your eyes. Like him, you too have fought battles this year. It was selfish to bemoan his own hells when you have been in levels far deeper. 

“Sometimes you seem more meticulous than Riddle. I should be thankful I don’t need to memorize a rule book for Diasomnia as well.” You still continue to poke fun even as you observe him with a sharp stare. This is a look he has grown familiar with since his overblot. Perhaps born of concern, or perhaps born of paranoia, but you have been dissecting every comment he’s made as of late in a more clinical fashion. 

Malleus does not deign to give you a reply as he drifts around the lounge, readjusting candles or shifting books ever so slightly on the table. He wouldn’t say he’s overly anal about how things operate, but he does appreciate a sense of order. He has dealt with enough chaos this past year that the thought of more feels like a weight on his back. It’s when he enters his third lap of the room that you speak up again.

“Malleus.” His name slips from your lips like a lure, causing his attention to move from the lounge to your form once more. The smirk is absent from your lips as a sterner expression rest on your face. He still enjoys the sight of it. Smiling, stern, or despairing—he struggles to find flaws in your complexion. “Is there something on your mind? You seem quite restless.” 

That terrible impulse to speak true rears its ugly head once more as deeper thoughts bubble up to his tongue. Want, want, want, want—

His upper lip curls into an expression he doesn’t mean to give—disgust—and he see’s the consequence of this by the hurt that flashes in your eyes. He turns to face away as an ugly feeling embraces his body.

... You cannot speak with them, or hold them, or tell them how much they mean to you ...

“Nothing, Prefect. I’m merely thinking about what still needs to be done.”

_______________________________________________

There is trivial difference between storms of a Fae’s misery and those of a Fae’s joy—both are adorned in catastrophe for those caught within. The skies above are a roiling mass of grey as the scent of rain perfumes the air. Malleus observes it with fraught silence as he taps painted nails along the windowsill. That ugly feeling is still wrapping its arms around his body. He has showered several times, scrubbing his skin until it was raw in an attempt to remove the heat and the unseen slickness that is holding him hostage. The failure to do so has set him in a foul mood—one that the entire world can now sense.

This can be easily written off as a last spring storm, intending to make the season’s death a performative one. At least, those who have not been alive for several hundred years would think so.

He can feel a gaze on the back of his neck for a while before he finally rolls his eyes and decides to address the elephant in the room.

Or, more accurately, the bat.

“If you intend to surprise me, you’re doing a poor job at it,” Malleus mutters wryly as he finally looks back to the shadowy corner. Red eyes glint in delight before being accompanied by a white smile as Lilia moves to stand by his side.

“I was trying to surmise if I would be allowed to approach, or if you’d try to fry me with a lightning bolt first.” Lilia clasps his hands behind his back as he leans forward to look at the skies above. His expression is quite relaxed for someone fully aware of the turmoil going on in the man next to him. Lilia’s brush with death in the recent months had caused him to be more open-minded to the possibility. “You’re going to make move out day a very unenjoyable experience if you keep this up.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Malleus’ voice is dry as he taps his nails again, his attention fixating on the skies. The ugly feeling churns alongside the clouds above and for a moment it makes him feel satisfied to see a physical reflection of his state.

“Malleus.” There’s a sharper, more paternalistic tone now behind Lilia’s words. Malleus can feel the disapproval rolling off of him the longer they stand here in a stubborn silence. In the aftermath of the blot, Malleus had agreed to be more communicative of his moods to his family, and so it’s with a reluctant grunt that he speaks again.

“I don’t feel good.” His words are just as sharp as Lilia’s as his expression darkens. “I don’t know why.”

“Have you visited the medical ward?” Lilia’s hand flits out to touch Malleus’ forehead, as though checking to see if he’s feverish. The gesture causes the prince to scowl and move his head back. “Oh, come now, don’t get moody with me. I’m concerned.”

“Is it concern, or do you just wish to fuss over me?” He grumbles back as he bats his guardian’s hand away. “I haven’t visited the medical ward, no. I’m not too sure if there’s cause to do so.”

“Then at least tell me what you’re experiencing. Perhaps I can provide some insight.”

Lilia would be the most probable to give some sort of answer. Malleus knew the cause already, but his denial of the fact makes him speak up regardless. “I feel... unclean. Hot. Restless. There is a twisting sense of anxiety in my stomach that has made sleep quite evasive as of late, and it only is growing with each passing day. It’s as though I’m afraid of something—but I have yet to discover what.”

Lilia frowns as he looks from the window to Malleus. There’s a seriousness to him that comes from those many, many years of experience. “Is that so? And is there something you think of that seems to make this feeling grow?”

Malleus’ jaw clenches at the question as memories briefly flash in his mind. Sunlight dappling on skin, lips curled in a faint smirk, and idle chatter at a hospital bedside.

“Malleus?” Lilia’s voice is softer this time. Malleus knows that in this moment, he is playing traitor to his own thoughts. He looks to his guardian, and his silence is all the answer the other man needs.

“Am I ill?” He asks, and it’s when Lilia’s expression becomes one of faint sympathy that the ugly feeling becomes clearer.

“... no, not ill.”

Lilia’s repetition of the same answer he gave Malleus so long ago feels like cruel irony in this moment. Malleus barks out a laugh before waving dismissively at the other, who takes his cue to vanish away.

Not ill, no. But foolish, most certainly.

_______________________________________________

Ramshackle is no longer a dorm of ruins. The school year and your tender care has given it new life, something that many may have thought would never occur. No longer can he hear floorboards rotting or cement cracking under the weight of time. Although he mourns the loss of such precious tribute to the end, the prospect of rebirth is invigorating all the same.

He draws to a stop by the iron gates and takes a deep breath, looking to the dorm in silence until he see’s a figure step out and stand on the porch, waiting for him.

He does not make you walk to him this time.

Malleus’ hand grasps that iron gate and forces it open so that he may step through. He walks with purpose towards the porch where you stand, a mug of something in your hand as you watch him in the dying light. Birds sing their last songs and grasshoppers begin their own chorus as he stops just at the edge of the steps and looks to you appraisingly.

“Are you ready to retire?” He asks.

“Depends. What brings you to my home tonight?” You counter, smirking wryly from over the rim of your mug. That expression makes his nails dig into his palm behind his back as he clears his throat. He feels more nervous standing before you now than he felt speaking to an international stage.

How funny.

“Walk with me.” The words come out more as a demand than a question, and for a moment he balks, thinking that the authority in his tone may have just cost him an opportunity. But then you take a sip of your drink before setting it down on the porch’s banister.

“Please?” You hum, and Malleus clenches his jaw, looking to you with an unwavering gaze.

“Please.”

_______________________________________________

The nights silence, often welcoming, now feels as though he’s standing on a stage before an audience held in rapt attention. The two of you walk silently down your usual route as his mind turns and tosses his thoughts like a restless sea. He wishes to know if you feel a similar turmoil to what he presently does—and yet you are moving in perfect ease by his side.

“... and I can tell you, he wanted to make another contract with Azul over this. He was making faces at the man the entire time we were in the Lounge and Floyd looked ready to drag him to the backrooms.” You’re chattering away about your two other friends as you walk. He finds the situation grimly humorous. He’s having a crisis, and you’re filling him in on how ridiculous the antics of your companions are.

“Is that so?” Malleus murmurs vaguely, if only to keep you speaking, if only to keep hearing your voice. The two of you continue on your route as he remains in a trance like state.

No, not ill.

Lilia’s words are an omen hanging over his head. His guardian knows, and although Lilia is very skilled at keeping secrets, the fact that another is involved in this only makes his anxiety grow. He looks to you briefly. There’s a time limit left on how long you will remain by his side, both for tonight and for the future. You may return home, or you may embark on some grand adventure around the world, drinking in all the sights that Twisted Wonderland has to offer while he’s forced to remain in a palace on his own.

Everyone misses the ones they love when they leave us.

His grandmother’s comment in the mausoleum also comes to the forefront of his mind as he ruminates on this. He will miss you, and that’s an uncomfortable fact. He will miss you, and he cannot place if this is because of genuine care or because he’s so goddamn terrified of ending up on his own, that he cannot come to terms with the loss of someone by his side.

He doesn’t even register the two of you coming to sit on a bench by the main street, doesn’t even register how empty it is. He doesn’t register anything at all until he feels the sensation of your warm hand on his and it pulls him so harshly from his thoughts that he fears he may have whiplash.

“Hey?” You’re looking at him, and it seems that at some point you had stopped talking about your friends, stopped talking about your day. There’s concern in your eyes and it’s such a warm feeling, to be worried about, but for some reason it makes Malleus want to shrink back into the shadows even more. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem like you’ve been in a whole different place this entire walk.”

No. He wants to say. No, actually. According to my guardian I am not ill, and yet the very prospect of watching your form grow smaller on the coast of this Isle as I return to the Valley is one that fills me with such abysmal fear that I cannot even comprehend it. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I do know that you are the centre of this all.

You will die. So will I, in the end, but yet it’s this childish fear of seeing you fade away while I still remain that I cannot seem to get past.

Please, show me how to get past. Let me know, so that I may know you.

The words that had fought so hard to escape him so far now shrivel on his tongue as he looks to you. Your gaze flickers around his face, focuses on his lips, and it’s that action that makes a bolt of heat shoot through him. But before that bolt can ignite to something more, the ugly feeling wraps its hand around his throat and wrenches his head back. He jerks his face away and stands from the bench, his body stiff as he clears his throat.

“No, I think I may be coming down with something. It would be best to head back.” Even his words feel fabricated—traitorous! —as he speaks them aloud. This is not what he wishes to do. He wishes to thread his fingers through your hair, to pull you in and to lose himself within you until he can no longer differentiate where he ends, and you may begin. He wants to taste your words before they leave and know your thoughts before they’re spoken. He wants you, so much so and it aches and—

“Malleus,” you begin again, moving to go to his side, but he raises a hand to you sharply.

“Now.” He chokes out before setting off down the path, uncaring to see if you’re truly following or not. His mind is in turmoil and his body feels as though he has no control over it any longer. All that lingers now is the way your gaze went to his lips and the silly, hopeful thoughts such an action provoked.

Please.

[aroeddiediaz]

Fuck it Friday

Tagged by @snowviolettwhite @diazsdimples

A little more omegaverse nesting fic, from Eddie’s first heat. Idk how it happened but i blacked out and made Sophia the angstiest little gothy preteen ever lmao (maybe because i saw the Beetlejuice musical last month lmao what a good show). And she’s Not Happy about being wrangled into cuddles with her brother (it ruins her street cred and her hair)

Sophia stomps into the living room with a bagel and a glass of orange juice. Her hair, dyed black in a fit of pre-teen rebelliousness that had landed both her and Eddie in hot water for weeks, had been cut into choppy bangs and uneven edges that she insisted was “cool”.

“What are you two doing?” She asks with a heavy dose of skepticism. She then makes the mistake of stepping a little too close to Eddie in his blanket.

Eddie reaches out and grabs Sophia by the hem of her shirt to reel her in. Sophia fights back, much less playfully, but Eddie’s acting on instinct and he ends up with his two baby sisters nestled in his arms, all squeezed together on the couch.

No pressure tagging: @cal-daisies-and-briars @aspecbuddie @pirrusstuff @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @lemonzestywrites @your-catfish-friend @inkmortal-trash389 @evanbegins @wildlife4life @eddiebabygirldiaz @epicbuddieficrecs @kitteneddiediaz @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @coatedpanda16 @nicotinewrites @estheticpotaeto @babytrapperdiaz

[briar-ffxiv]

FFXIV Write #06 - Halcyon

FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

Prompt #6 - Halcyon

Note: A story from Briar's past when he met a very unusual Viera as a small child.

The whispers called and Briar turned, green eyes wide and fascinated. The five-year-old half-Elezen giggled, leaning a bit to glimpse the faint voices that seemed to be beckoning him. Briar pouted, pushing his reddish curls out of his eyes and chewing his lower lip as he glanced at his mother. Saule was humming to herself as she scrubbed the laundry against the stones by the creek. His tall, beautiful Elezen mother was focused as she worked, not noticing her little one's growing interest in something beyond the trees.

Briar hesitated briefly, aware he wasn't supposed to run off. He'd often been told that he should stay where Maman could see him. Still, the tingle in the air and the gentle whispers urged him toward the trees. The child fidgeted for a minute before giving Saule a final glance and darting toward the trees.

He expected to hear his mother calling, but the only voice he heard was the sweet murmurs before him. As he entered the shadow of the trees, he gave a delighted giggle to see little glowing will-o-wisps. The small lights whirled around him before darting away, flashing behind the trees like a game. Briar laughed as he chased them, unaware he was getting further and further from home.

Time passed as Briar chased and danced with the little whispering spirits, going deeper and deeper into the Black Shroud. Eventually, he found himself near ancient ruins, once white but now covered with moss and vines. The half-Elezen gave a sound of wonder, still following the wisps that drew him closer. Oblivious to the dangers that still haunted Amdapor, Briar wandered, delighted in the new place.

He did finally stop when the wisps led him to a little clearing and the dark shape within it. It looked much like a man and Maman said he should be careful of strange men, but this one had long soft ears and a fluffy tail. He looked like a shadow until pale glowing eyes turned toward one of the wisps and a sharp, strange giggle filled the quiet.

"Oh? Oh? What did you find-- Ahh, I see." The strange man turned and glided toward Briar, who stayed in place, looking up at him with innocent confusion.

Briar twisted his hands nervously as the cloaked, shadowy man leaned over him, head tilted at an odd angle. "…Are you a bunny?" the child asked, voice hesitant but curious.

The Viera blinked and grinned, white teeth a sharp gleam against his ebony skin. "Of a kind." That odd giggle sounded again as the Viera straightened, tilting his head. He went so very still for a moment, so still that Briar felt a little twinge of nerves. Those long ears twitched and tilted and the look he gave Briar after made him squeak.

A quick step forward and the Viera leaned sharply, face almost level with the tiny half-Elezen. "Can you see them?"

"T-them?" Briar whispered, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt.

"Yes, yes, little one. Them." The Viera made an impatient gesture around them.

"…The lights?"

"Yes! Yes!" The Viera grinned, happier this time and giggled as he spun before freezing suddenly and looking over his shoulder. "I don't suppose you can hear them too?"

Briar blinked, lips twitching in a nervous smile, glad the stranger seemed happy but the interaction was unnerving. "Yes? N-not always a-all the words, but their voices… They said come play."

"How interesting," the Viera mused, twisting slowly to face Briar again. "What a special little creature you must be then." He squatted on his heels near the child again. "Where do you live, hmm?"

Briar blinked, puzzled but turned to point in the direction of the cottage he'd been born in. Maman had taught him long ago how to use the line of the mountains and the river to at least find the direction, although he couldn't have explained much more. "By the creek."

The Viera gave a hum, absently drawing little patterns on the soft ground with his fingers. "I see. I see. And what is your--" He paused, ears shooting up.

"Briar!" The child gasped as he heard his mother's voice, loud and distressed. "Briar, mon coeur, where are you?!"

The Viera stiffened and that strange smile showed again. "Is that you?" He hummed as the boy nodded, looking into the trees. "Well, best go to her, little briar rose," he giggled. "She sounds worried. Off with you."

Briar turned back, startled when he was alone. There were a few quick flashes of the wisps as they disappeared, but not a sign of the strange man with his long soft ears. Briar was still looking around when Saule appeared, distressed and panting.

"Briar!" the Elezen woman gasped, rushing toward him and scooping him into her arms to hug fiercely. "Sweetling, where have you been?"

"There was a bunny, Maman," he whispered, hugging her back and glancing over his shoulder again. "He was talking to me…"

"I'm sure, mon coeur," Saule murmured, shaking her head and looking around the clearing a moment, dismissing his words as a child's fancy. "but I have told you about wandering off."

"I know, Maman," Briar whispered, exhaustion heavy now that he was being held, and carried back toward his home. "But the lights wanted to play."

Saule bit her lip in a worried way, shaking her head. "I know, sweetling, but you shouldn't listen to those lights. You should listen to me."

"Yes, Maman. I'm sorry."

Saule sighed, patting his back as she walked rapidly. "It's all right, Briar. Just be more careful, please."

"Yes, Maman."

Arne (the mysterious Viera fellow) belongs to @midnightmagicks!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Good morning headmage

I was wondering if you and the other teachers went to the museum with your students this year to celebrate its 100th anniversary ?

If so what did you like there , do you have a favorite artwork ?

Have you been there before 👀?

Enter; An Unkindness of Ravens.

"Why, of course we teachers accompanied our students to the Land of Dawning's National Museum of Art. It would be highly irresponsible of us to allow children to travel to a foreign land without chaperones!”

Crowley perked with pride. Prestige—the acknowledgement of it—tended to have that effect on him, pompous man that he was.

"Not to mention... It's an honor for us to be invited to this centennial celebration! This is a wonderful opportunity for us teachers to appreciate art alongside our young pupils—though I myself have already visited numerous times. Ah, but that is what a long lifespan and a deep respect for history does… Sharpens the mind and the spirit!”

Somehow he ended up circling around and feeding his own ego again.

You walked alongside him, tactfully staying silent and letting the headmaster ramble.

Famous faces passed by, relics of the past unearthed. Stories, centuries in the making. History coming to life around you.

Click, clack, click.

Crowley’s polished shoes and cane alternated, echoing sharply in the gallery.

“This solemn, almost reverent atmosphere is rather pleasing. It grants one the space and time to properly admire and reflect on the artwork on display.”

He raised a hand, his golden claw-shaped rings upon each finger shining under the museum’s lights. Crowley gestured to the paintings that lined the closest wall. You followed where he led your gaze.

Platinum frames, seven in total. Each held an illustration of a familiar figure—you recognized them from the stone statues lining Main Street.

“I find myself gravitating toward the classics. Perhaps I am sentimental, fufu. My bias is clear.”

The Queen of Hearts.

She looked on from up high, posed with a gavel behind a banister and flanked by card soldiers. Her face was kind and rounded, but her expression was stern. Hands folded in her lap and her hammer raised to deliver justice, she was the picture of dignified grace.

The King of Beasts.

He reclined in a dark cave, bones scattered around him. The King stood out from the others of his kind--body lanky, a scar knitting one eye, mane a deep black, and with an unmatched feline poise. He toyed with a skull in one paw, his mouth twisted into a contemplative smirk.

The Sea Witch.

She danced, tentacles curling, in an anemone garden, lilac arms outstretched to cuddle her beloved pets: two moray eels that adorned her arms like a living boa. Pinkish light spilled onto them, emanating from her bubbling cauldron. Another potion brewing to fulfill some poor, unfortunate soul's wish.

The Sorcerer of the Sands.

A thin man with a long face and a goatee pieced together a golden scarab, its light piercing the starry night. Particles of sand and glittering magic kicked up, scattering across his black and red robes. The wings of the scarab, flickering rapidly--as if about to take flight.

The Beautiful Queen.

She triumphantly held up a goblet of bubbling liquid, her radiant face reflected in it. High cheek bones, skin smooth as china, full lips, long lashes, a gown that clung to her hourglass figure. Her beauty was every bit as deadly as the poison in the glass.

The King of the Underworld.

He beamed in the painting, showing sharp teeth. Various tabletop games surrounded him, and he seemed to take great joy in maneuvering a chess piece across a board. No opponent was in view--the man was a lone player.

The Thorn Fairy.

She loomed in her spiked throne, her calm face cut severe by the gathering shadows and green candlelight. Briar crept around the tattered hem of her cloak, waiting for her next command. One word, and you felt as though they would come to life and rush at you.

The Great Seven together dominated the hallowed halls of the museum. In awe of them, you felt yourself shrink back. If was as though your body instinctively knew to kneel in the presence of such raw power.

Crowley, too, quietly bowed his head to the Seven. He held his top hat to his chest, his dark lips pursed into a serene smile.

"What visionaries! We must all strive to the same heights as they."

[hircines-hunter]

WIP Wriday

Here @pocket-vvardvark :3c I can absolutely provide more BlomMaven! This is before their first drunken kiss and I guess the reason for the Kiss! 💋 it’s a bit long so I put some under the read more. I have plans for them. I just need to…. Not have werewolf and Stormcloak brainrot.

If anyone else wants to post anything, please feel free to tag me!

“Lady Maven!” Blomma pushed Maven to the ground. She grunted when a dagger stabbed into her side. She drew her swords and spun around. The would-be assassin jumped back. She felt the blade slice into cloth and flesh. Blomma reached down and pulled the dagger out. She turned her head when she heard the window slam open. Another person crawled through.

Blomma looked between the both of them. She kept herself between the assassins and her charge. The first one charged at her. Blomma ducked and spun. Her blade hit the back of their leg. They fell to the ground. Blomma stabbed the sword into their back. She dislodged the sword and turned to the assassin. She wiped the sweat off her brow.

Divines. Her vision blurred. She closed her eyes for a moment.

The assassin took that opportunity and charged. Blomma blocked with both her swords. She pushed back at the assassin. They jumped back before ducking and charging at her from below. Blomma dodged the attack with a side step.

The assassin let out a noise. They raised the dagger and tossed it.

Blomma ran over. The dagger penetrated deep into her side. She groaned. Blomma charged over and stabbed the assassin with both her swords. They fell over with a loud thud. Blomma panted.

Divines.

“Blomma.” Maven said her name softly.

The bodyguard turned slowly. Her chest heaved with each deep, shaky breath. She blinked and stumbled forward. She caught herself on her knees. She felt her tunic was soaked. She looked down. The tip of a dagger stuck through her side. “Apologies… Lady Maven. I seem to be indisposed.” Blomma fell over onto the floor. Her vision darkened before she passed out.

Maven stared at the pool of blood. Blomma’s face paled. She saw the slick sheen on the blade in Blomma’s side. Poison. If she survived the knife, then the poison would kill her. The blade’s intended target remained safe and alive. Maven was frozen.

The doors burst open. All the Black-Briar children stood at the door, along with Maul and Crowe.

“She needs a healer.” Ingun rushed in. She noticed the blade. The poison. “Mother.” Ingun looked at her. “Hemming. Get mother out of here.” Hemming helped Maven to her feet and took her to another room. “Crowe, get a healer. Maul, dispose of these bodies.” Ingun brushed Blomma’s red hair out her face. “Divines.”

“At least she got both bastards and saved Mother,” Sibbi said. He watched as Maul carried each of the bodies out.

Crowe returned with a healer. The healer worked hard on the physical wound. “Unless you know the poison and can make the antidote. We just have to pray that she’ll survive.”

With Sibbi’s help, she moved Blomma to her bed. “I’ll figure something out. Can you check on my mother? I don’t believe she was injured.” The healer nodded.

Ingun went back to her mother’s room and dipped her finger in a small drop of poison. She smelled the poison and then stuck the tiniest drop on her tongue. Divines. Ingun rushed down to the basement. She tore through her notes. There.

It took several hours to concoct the antidote. But Ingun ran to the next room where Blomma rested. Her skin was pale and sickly. Her veins turned a dark green, which would have been beautiful if not for her impending death. “Alright, Blomma, this will fix that. It’ll take time.” Ingun lifted Blomma’s head and poured the liquid into her mouth. Blomma coughed as the liquid went down her throat. Ingun frowned. “You got most of it it seems. Hopefully it’ll help.”

The following morning, Ingun went to Hemming’s room to check on her Mother. Typically her mother would bounce back after such an attack. “Mother.” Ingun sat down by the bed and grabbed her mother’s arm.

Maven opened her eyes. “What…?” Her world spun as she sat up. She held her head. “By the Eight.” She looked around for Blomma. The girl must be slacking. “Where’s that lazy bodyguard of mine?”

“You don’t remember?” Ingun put a hand on her mother’s forehead. “You were attacked. That’s why you aren’t in your room.”

“That doesn’t explain why….” Maven stopped and she looked around. She was in Hemming’s room. “If she’s not dead, she has no excuse to not be in this room, doing her job.”

Ingun frowned. “She is quite indisposed at the moment, Mother. I’ve managed to figure out the poison. But she needs time to recover. It’s only been a day.”

“Divines, I’ve lost an entire day? What about the meadery?” Maven rubbed her temples.

“Hemming is handling the Meadery. Crowe and Sibbi are bickering but they are doing paperwork. You need your rest too.”

Maven stood. “I will be fine.” Her head pounded. “Get Blomma for me.”

Ingun raised an eyebrow. “I can take you to her. She was on death’s door. Between the multiple stab wounds and the poison.” Ingun walked out of the room and down the stairs to the servants’ quarters. Maven followed her.

Maven saw Blomma laid out on the bed. Color completely drained from her face. Her exposed skin was covered in a sweaty sheen. She walked over and moved the fur blanket. She had multiple bandages. She saw the dark green veins on her abdomen. Divines.

“If the dagger hit any closer to her heart. She wouldn’t be alive.”

Maven stared down. Her jaw clenched. Her heart palpitated. “Is she going to live?”

“She should.”

Maven pulled the blanket back over Blomma. “Move her. She needs a more comfortable bed. Is my room cleaned?”

Ingun had a soft smile. “Aye. I’ll grab the men.”

“Move her to my room. I’ll sleep in Hemming’s.” Maven walked up the stairs. She arranged the bed, making it ready for Blomma. She wanted to air out the room. But without Maul or Blomma, the children barricaded the door to the balcony and locked and covered the windows with shutters. She moved when Maul walked in with Blomma. He laid her on the bed. Maven pulled the covers over her. “Leave me alone.”

“I can wait outside the room.” Maul nodded.

Maven nodded. She sat on the bed after Maul left. She brushed Blomma’s hair out of her face. “I really need you to wake up. I cannot have that chatterbox guard me again.” Maven whispered. She clicked her tongue. Maven leaned close to Blomma. “How dare you make me have feelings and then try and die?” She whispered. “Trying to play a hero….” Maven sighed.

[keepingeahalive]

Sleeping Beauty and Prince Valiant

Devoted stay-at-home mom and her revered monster hunter. Parents to Briar Beauty and eight sons.

[ID: a full hand-drawing of Sleeping Beauty and her Prince. Sleeping Beauty is a tall, middle-aged, Afro-Venezuelan woman with dark skin, long, curly dark brown hair, broad shoulders, and dark circles under her eyes. She is wearing a long, flowing, ruffled Venezuelan gown with a light pink bodice, light green sash, a yellow-green ruffle neckline exposing her shoulders, and long pink skirts with green hems that progressively grow darker near her feet. She has a gold wedding band on her left ring finger.

Valiant is a shorter, muscular, middle-aged Colombian man with lighter brown skin, a bald head, thick red-brown eyebrows, freckles on his face and shoulders, and hazel eyes. He is wearing a black, silver, and red armored chest plate with a large pink rose emblem with a red center on his chest; red pants; gold kneepads; silver armored boots, a sword with a gold guard and red hilt on his belt, and a gold wedding band on his left middle finger.

Sleeping Beauty leans against Valiant's shoulder with her head cradled in her left arm. She is asleep. Valiant props her up with his right arm and right leg. He is annoyed but resigned. END ID]

[technically-a-writer-technically]

Pinned Butterflies

Maven Black-Briar x Reader

Warnings: She's Evil, She's Maven Black-Briar. Not-so-graphic descriptions of a severed hand. Purplely Prose

_________________

It started with gifts.

An extravagant dagger with crushed rubies in the blade. A fine, ornamental piece that came on the mounting rack. It was an impractical weapon, but a gorgeous show piece, so you placed it above your bed.

The finest silk tunic, adorned in goldwork flowers that danced in the firelight. It went on the mannequin in the basement. A, perhaps, unfitting place for such a fine garment.

Ivory-gold jewelery inlaid with flawless amethysts. They came in a velvet box, and that box sat on your nightstand.

Then, the hand of the thief that dared try and steal the jewlery off your finger, with your jewels tucked safe in their fist.

You closed the box, and stormed from your house, bareing down on Maven’s door with a heavy, angry hand.

You were greeted by Hemming, who ushered you into his mother’s room where she sat at her writing desk. She read by candlelight, her reading glasses on the tip of her nose. She grabbed a handful of papers, stood them upright and stabbed, before grabbing another handful.

“I was wondering if you’d come, I though surely you must have gotten at least one of my gifts”

“You call this a gift!” You branished your box, the thief’s hand heavy at the unsecured side.

Maven placed another perfected handful of papers on top of her growing stack. “Do you not appreciate having your jewelery returned to you?” She says, innocent as a poisoned apple.

“You did more than that, how am I supposed to rid myself of this. A hand, surely even you know how extreme that is?”

Maven laughs, short, sick, and sweet. “He’s not dead, and for your jewelery you could be more gracious.”

“You want me to thank you?”

Maven hummed, “Is that suprising?”

“I won’t fawn over your groteseque display, Maven”’

“Fawn, no, no,” Maven got up, laying waste to your personal space.

The box fell to your side, nearly out of your hand as the weight of it resettled.

Maven grabbed your cheeks with her hand, nearly piercing your skin with the length of her nails. “You mustn’t put words in my mouth, be grateful, I said, that I returned your jewelry, wear the tunic I bought you, adorn yourself with my amethyst.”

“Or?” You asked.

Maven frowned, though she looked away from you out the window, then back to you. Taking you in, consumption, she was swallowing you whole. Her fingers tight at your face, sure to leave bruises, if not incisions.

“I’ve only ever gotten what I wanted, or …” Maven hummed, “Taken it.”

She let go of your face, grabbed your hand delicatly, took the box that she could open it, uncurled the fist, and she took your pearls from their cold grasp, and closed the box. She held your hand soft as a bear trap, that she could put your ring on your finger.

You held your fist.

“I could break it,” She said,

“I’m not afraid of you Maven.”

“Because I don’t want you to be, but I could hurt you”

“As if I wouldn’t win that fight,” You said.

“Would you?” Maven asked. “Would Lydia, would Lucia? Or even that boy … Aventus?”

“You wouldn’t dare!” You tried to wrest your hand from her, but she held strong.

“Maybe I wouldn’t, maybe Sibbi would, or the Dark Brotherhood. Tamriel is full of swords-for-hire, many with no qualms about getting blood and tears on their hands.”

You gave Maven your finger, and she pressed the ring on.

“If I’d known you liked pearl more than amethyst,”

“I prefer whatever I earned myself.”

“As if my attention is something given freely, No, no, my time, my effort, are hard won. In time you will come to understand that, much better than you do now.”

You bent for the hand, but Maven waved off your attempt, “Leave it, I’ll make sure my next gift is less …” She said, a tiny smile graced her features, it brought a chill to the air, “extravagent.”

“Good-Night Maven,” You said, tight, it felt wrong to say.

But Maven smiled, and let up on your personal space, clearing a path to the doorway. You all but run home.

You slammed the door behind you, throw your back against it, as if you body could keep out the influence of Maven Black-briar.

The next day, a fine set of pearl earrings wait on your doorstep.

Cross-Posted on AO3

[umbracirrus]

WIP Wednesday 💛

Wednesday again, and I'm on time this week!!!

More drawings of my Elder Scrolls OCs, because I haven't done any writing this week. Ivetta, Maewynne, and Aevra, who I believe are my last few Dragonborn on my list of characters to draw! I've just got a handful of OCs left to go in terms of sketches before I move on to neatening them up and adding colour....

As with previous times, more details about them under the read more!

Also been tagged by the lovely @thequeenofthewinter and @throughtrialbyfire since I posted 💛

Ivetta

A member of the Nightingales and Guild Master of the Thieves Guild, Ivetta thrives in the shadows. Even her identity as Dragonborn is shrouded in mystery, with only a select few in Skyrim knowing purely down to coincidence or necessity. A stark difference to her upbringing in the high society of Solitude.

The entire reason that she no longer finds herself in those circles is purely because she hated what was demanded of her. Sure, she knew how to maintain a business ledger and had sat in on a handful of deals and witnessed agreements being made during her youth, but she was always more interested in seeing what happened behind the scenes. Seeing who greased the palms of who, watching as septims were exchanged behind the scenes, and witnessed the employees who had a bone to pick selling goods under the table at their employer's expense. It always intrigued her. It irritated her parents to no end, in particular when it involved business dealings to do with her family... even more so when it involved her uncovering their plans to try and marry her off so that she was out of the way, out of Solitude.

Ivetta decided to take herself out of the way without any strings attached, but not after setting things in motion to make her family's business crumble beneath their feet - finances in ruin, ledgers which didn't add up, and alerting guards to some very illegal practices. She ensured that she couldn't be implicated by relocating over the border before it could come to fruition, into Cyrodiil, and only returning to Skyrim when she caught wind of her family's business collapsing.

Of course, when she returned, she got caught up in that Imperial ambush...

With time, she found herself in Riften, following her encounter with Brynjolf when seeking Esbern, and enjoying the thrill of carrying out his little scheme. She then joined the Thieves Guild, and gradually found herself the Guild Master and Nightingale after unveiling Mercer Frey's treachery.

Unfortunately, she finds herself in the line of sight of the Black-Briar family... Hemming Black-Briar, in particular. And he knows exactly who she was and is.

Maewynne

Maewynne is the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood and the Dragonborn... though to the population of Skyrim, the Dragonborn is an imposing Nord warrior who wants to live in solitude (not the city) thanks to little whispers which she left in the right ears - not a Bosmer with personal space issues brought on through her clashes with the Penitus Oculatus following her attempts on the Emperor's life.

At one point, after the Dark Brotherhood have properly re-established themselves in Dawnstar after their near-eradication, she finds herself... bored. Far too many contracts over petty squabbles, and hardly anything interesting. So when she gets approached by somebody with a proposal not to kill, but to set a chain of events into motion to bring about the downfall of somebody who had been a thorn in her side and a threat to one of the Brotherhood's closest associates, the Thieves Guild... who was she to say no?

Aevra

For most of her life, Aevra had been loyal. Loyal to her Empire, loyal to Skyrim, loyal to her duties as a soldier. She never gave anything less than her best, even when she was tired, bruised, and bloody. Her family had served since the Oblivion Crisis, and it made her proud to fight for the Empire. She fought through the Great War, and continued to serve the Empire ever since. She never found herself in the highest of ranks though, instead preferring being active and on the ground.

But one day, that changed. She participated in the ambush to capture Ulfric Stormcloak - a man she still vividly remembered fighting alongside back in the past, knowing full well that he would not remember her for she was little more than one of many new soldiers at the time. During the night, after having stopped on their way to the border, she was responsible for getting some more firewood... and as she did so, she caught sight of somebody in the trees. An elf - specifically an Altmer. Before she could call for them to come out of hiding... she found herself seeing little more than red.

When the redness faded away, she was horrified to find herself being apprehended by her fellow soldiers. Blood coated her hands, bodies were scattered around, and the axe she had been using to chop wood was discarded on the ground some distance away, clearly having been used as a weapon. She knew that she had been under the influence of a spell, but her allies saw only one thing - she was attacking them. A traitor. There were even whispers that she was a Stormcloak in disguise, even as she protested and tried to explain herself as she was arrested and taken to join the other prisoners set for the executioner's block.

Being saved from death by Alduin was something that she didn't know whether to consider a blessing or a curse, but she knew that she needed to prove her innocence when she caught sight of Hadvar, one of her fellow soldiers, about to return to Solitude after their escape from Helgen.

Even as she found herself in the spotlight after learning that she was the Dragonborn, no matter what she said or did, she was unable to persuade the Empire that she was innocent of murdering several fellow soldiers, and that it had no doubt been part of a Thalmor machination. She feared being arrested that much, she had to get Lydia to carry out tasks in Imperial-held lands in Skyrim on her behalf (unless it was a dragon attack, in which case she would try to get herself out of there as soon as it was handled).

There were those who heard her out though, who believed in her innocence, thanks to somebody who did remember her from the Great War. But when those people were Stormcloaks, people she had seen as the enemy... she finds herself in a dilemma.

[diamondcrownacademy]

DCA Info Part 1: Early Concept

The Original Logo

The original logo appeared to have a pink fleur-de-lis in the center. On the top of the heart rests a golden crown with heart and swirl detailing on it. On both sides of logo are a pair of feathered wings, with the left side being purple and the right side being an off-white color.

Character Designs: Evonie and Ella

Evonie's original design didn't appear to change much from her current design. There were a few differences.

🍎 Evonie's Early Design

- Evonie's hair was more black without the royal blue tint and appeared to be less wavy.

- The sleeves are a bit less transparent and feature golden swirls, although the floral pattern reminds.

- The bottom of her top appeared to have triangular hems on each side.

Much like Evonie, Ella's original design didn't appear to change much from her current design either. But much like Evonie, there are a few differences.

👠 Ella's Early Design

- Ella's hair appeared to be more of a dusty off-red color and her hair originally reached to her upper shoulders.

- The jewel on both her tiara and brooch are purple in color. This was because Phoenix didn't think much about what to do with the gems until she decided to change them to accommodate to the original princess (In this case, Cinderella).

- Ella's skirt, despite having the same argyle patterning as her current skirt appears to be a ruffled one.

Character Designs: Allison and Briar

Allison's original design appeared to be very different from her current design.

🐰 Allison's Early Design

- Much like Ella, Allison's hair in her original design appeared to be an off-red color, before it was changed to be reddish-pink.

- Allison's original outfit was very different from her current one. Her sailor top was blue in color, with the center part having an argyle pattern, with hearts, spades, clovers and diamonds. The shirt also has red jewel buttons on it. The collar also has the same pattern, with the addition of a dark teal outline. The collar flap appears to be made of lace, with heart detailing at the edge. The scarf tied to the sailor top is black in color.

- The two layered skirt is somewhat similar to the current design, with the exception of the color palette. The top layer is a solid black while the bottom layer is navy blue with a line pattern.

- Allison's original headband is very different from the current one. The headband is black in color with a crown in the center. On the side of the headband are four gold bows, each with a card suit charm decorated onto it. The charms are in this order from top to bottom: red heart, blue spade, green clover and yellow diamond.

- Allison's collar, while the same as the current design was black in the original design.

Briar's original design while similar to her current one, the original design did have some differences.

🌹 Briar's Early Design

- The rose hair accessory appeared to have more of a pastel color palette.

- The blue gem on Briar's tiara looked darker.

- Her turtleneck sweater remains pink, but the collar part in the original design was light blue with a rose pattern.

- The rose in the center of the golden ribbon on Briar's left shoulder was red in the original design, instead of fuchsia.

- The jewel buttons were pink instead of light blue.

- Her original skirt was light blue in color and had the same rose pattern as the collar section of her turtleneck sweater.

- Briar additionally had red rose earrings in her original design. But they were removed because according to Phoenix, the rose earrings would take too long to draw each time Briar would have to be illustrated and they were cut to minimize Briar's drawing time.

Early Bios and Original Dorm Crests

(Note: The katakana for Evonie's given name is incorrectly spelled as "Evonia")

The original Pommeneige dorm crest featured a golden mirror with golden swirls. The interior of the mirror features colors that make it resemble a stained glass window and in the center of the mirror is a red apple.

In her original profile, Evonie is described as a woman who's willing to help others and is known for her vocal range and charisma. She is described as liking apple based desserts and clean environments, though she dislikes messy places and tricks (likely pranks).

(Note: Ella's tiara and brooch gems were still purple in the original profile, this was before they were changed to be white)

The original Glastanzerin dorm crest originally depicted a glass slipper on a purple flower shaped pedestal.

In her original profile, Ella is described as an airheaded crybaby who's excels at dancing and is popular with students for her tailoring skills. She is described as liking pumpkin based recipes, sewing and miniature figurines, though she dislikes rabid animals and doing too much housework.

(Note: Futterwacken's original dorm crest was recycled for the current crest, the only difference is the color palettes)

The original Futterwacken dorm crest was depicted as being a clock with a golden outline with Roman numerals and the inter part of the clock featured two shades of green. Probably the most notable part of the crest is the rabbit head in the center.

In her original profile, Allison is described as a girl who enjoys throwing parties and is very curious about everything. She wishes to explore anything that catches her interest. Allison is described as liking parties, mysteries and rabbits while having a disliking for being chased, sharp objects and being late.

The original Rosadormienti dorm crest had three roses (blue on the left, red in the middle and green on the right) above what appeared to be Princess Aurora's crown.

In her original profile, Briar is described having powerful magic that tries her out if she uses it to often, she is also described as being able to sleep on any surface no matter how hard or soft it is. Briar is described as liking plushies, sleeping and fairies while having a disliking for sharp objects, lizards and isolation.

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Great Hunt! Chapter 36: Among the Elders

Let's keep this simple. This post? Spoils all of The Wheel of Time. Literally this specific post references the last pages of the final book. You shouldn't be reading this if you don't already know everything or at least don't care about spoilers.

Oh also there's a gif with an incredibly moderate amount of flashing at the bottom. I don't think it should hurt anyone with conditions but I'm feeling overcautious so this is your heads up.

This chapter is another example of the new trefoil leaf icon because we're still hanging out with the Ogier.

A number of Ogier women were watching him, from white-haired grandmothers to daughters Erith’s age, a knot of them talking among themselves but with all eyes on him. His ears jerked, but he looked at the broad door to which the stone steps led down, and nodded again.

Poor Loial really isn't ready for the Pangossipcon of the Ogier steddings.

The Ogier woman in the middle of the dais sat in a chair raised a little higher than those of the others, three bearded men to her left in long, flaring coats, three women to her right in dresses like her own, embroidered in vines and flowers from neckline to hem.

We can conclude here that while Ogier society is a bit dominated by the ladies (almost nowhere in Jordan's world is perfectly equal), it's still one of the more egalitarian and thus thematically functional places.

“I will find the Horn,” Ingtar said angrily. “I must. If you will not permit us to use the Waygate. . . .” He fell silent as Verin looked at him, but the scowl remained on his face.

What are you going to do, Ingtar? Slaughter them all? That's some redemption.

His face sagged, without any expression at all, and his big eyes were vacant and unblinking, not staring, not looking, not even seeming to see. One of the women gently wiped drool from the corner of his mouth. They took his arms to stop him; his foot went forward, hesitated, then fell back with a thump.

It's a shame brain scanning is a long dead technology because I would LOVE to know what's going on with all this. Perhaps Nynaeve will delve into the Ogier victims someday, though I expect that's probably rather unlikely.

“No mind. No soul. Nothing of Trayal remains but his body.”

So what happened to his soul? Did it just get immediately sent back to T'A'R? Is it still rattling around in Machin Shin? Is this a Hopper-esque true death, or will Trayal manage to be reborn someday?

“We do need him,” Verin broke in smoothly. “Few any longer know the Ways, but Loial has studied them. He can decipher the Guidings.”

Verin once again being the useful team member by giving a reason for Loial's presence. Ingtar is continuing to be a handicap at this point. When wtas the last time he actually did something useful?

“I will,” he told her. It had the feeling of a commitment, the swearing of an oath.

Presumably death gets Rand out of his oaths because dude up and ditches Loial as soon as the weaving of the Pattern is done.

“That’s not true,” Mat said, straightening abruptly. “Marisa Ayellin thinks I’m handsome. She told me so more than once.” “Is Marisa pretty?” Loial asked. “She has a face like a goat,” Perrin said blandly. Mat choked, trying to get his protests out.

It's good that they're bantering again. Gotta say though Perrin, I think your standards for pretty are a bit different than most Two Rivers boys.

Around the edge of the clearing the Ogier had built a low stone coping that seemed as if it had grown there, suggesting a circle of roots. The look of it made Rand uncomfortable. It took him a moment to realize that the roots suggested were those of bramble and briar, burningleaf and itch oak. Not the sort of plants into which anyone would want to stumble.

We should let the nuclear waste storage people know about this method because it seems a lot more effective than the whole "THIS IS NOT A PLACE OF HONOR" bs.

“I have told you,” Verin said, “the Black Wind is a creature of the Ways. It cannot leave them.”

With Rand around, anything is possible Verin. Even bad shit. Hell, especially bad shit.

Verin stood with eyes unfocused in thought. Mat was sitting on the coping with his head in his hands, and Perrin watched him worriedly. Loial seemed relieved that they could not use the Waygate, and ashamed at being relieved.

Raise your hand if you've ever felt the way Loial does.

That said, this affair has definitely gone to shit and I'm not even angry at Ingtar for immediately going back to plan "Smash heads until I get what I want."

“What we need,” Hurin said diffidently, “is one of those Portal Stones.” He looked to Alar, then Verin, and when neither told him to stop, he went on, sounding increasingly confident.

Dude really has low self-esteem for someone who is by all rights an independent contractor. I'm beginning to wonder if Borderlander culture is more messed up than the books let on.

“I can find it,” Rand said reluctantly. He felt ashamed. Mat’s going to die, Darkfriends have the Horn of Valere, Fain will hurt Emond’s Field if you don’t follow him, and you’re afraid to channel the Power. Once to go and once to come back. Twice more won’t drive you mad.

"Yeah I said I was only going to use ultra-heroin at parties, but my buddy's coming over and it would make me a bad host if we didn't hit it up a little."

“The Brown Ajah knows many things,” Verin said dryly, “and I know how the Stones may be used.”

I wonder if this is a Brown Ajah secret, a Black Ajah secret, or in fact just a Verin Mathwin secret. Any answer seems possible.

Next time:

[ghoststyles]

Part 5 Sneaky Peeky 4 U

Fairway to Heaven Part 5 Coming Tuesday @ 10 EST!!!!

Feast on this for the weekend : ) 

Masterlist

___________

He looks under the stalls, spotting Briar’s strappy black heels. He walks over slowly, dress shoes clicking on the floor. He lightly knocks on the stall door.

“Occupied!”

“This door will be off its hinges in a moment if you don’t open it.”

“Daddy? Is that you?” Briar says with fake surprise as she slowly opens the stall.

He stares at her, his jaw locked, “Whatcha doing in here, Birdie?”

Briar bites her lip. “Nothing?”

“Mhm. What do you have on under your dress?”

“Nothing?”

Harry reaches for the hem of her dress, pulling it back before letting out a groan. Her perfect bare pussy absolutely dripping.

“Daddy, can you touch me? Then I’ll be good throughout dinner?”

[saintsofwarding]

BURIAL

Chapter 6

The storm had, at last, subsided, and Elena left House Beneviento to the pale-gold rays of early winter sunlight. She stood for a moment in the front gardens, admiring the pristine drifts of snow glittering in the light. Even the waterfall was transformed, prisms flashing through the icy spray like air spirits from some old fairy story.

She tucked her hands deep in her coat pockets and made her way down the path, away from the house, into the close, dripping cave and to the elevator. On the way down, she tried not to think. She kept her eyes focused on the descending walls, the flickering electric light, the birdcage bars of the conveyance. It released her into the clearing with the big grave, the candles all extinguished. Someone had cleared the snow off the dolls and the slab, and it seemed to drift in her vision, unmoored, floating in a sea of whiteness.

Shafts of sunlight fell through the trees, the air down here a few degrees warmer than that on the manor grounds. Elena savored the chance to stretch her muscles. She must have been bed-bound for a while; her joints crackled as she walked, as she approached the wrought iron fence boundary of the main gardens, the trees whispering in the light wind that brushed their branches.

This place, too, had been transformed. When she'd made her first ascent to the house, it was a gloomy place, mist and shadow, ghosts behind every gate. In the sunlight, it nearly looked peaceful. The yellow flowers grew everywhere, golden light pooling over the snow around them. The falls of tangled briars would, in summer, become great profusions of flowers, the trellises blooming with tapestries of mingled color. Even the statuary no longer looked corpselike. Elena trailed her fingers over the shoulder of a nymph, the wing of an angel, the antique marble revealing intricacies of patina the darkness had obscured.

She stepped through a waist-high gate that led to a trellis archway, entering into the gardens proper.

Deeper and deeper, a labyrinth of walkways and avenues, trees and flower beds. A shed rose from the light mist, windows dark. Elena peered inside but it was empty, a little sad, a few tools in the corners, seed packets carefully stored in long wooden boxes. A coat hung on a peg, a man's, but it had clearly not been worn for years.

Cobwebs drifted in the corners, like scraps of fine gray silk.

She exited through the back door. Ahead, she spotted what looked like the center to the gardens, a little clearing fenced in by hedges and yet more trellises, by endless drifts of those glowing golden flowers. Their scent was strong here, bittersweet and complicated. She tasted it as much as she smelled it, and the moment she stepped into the clearing her hands and clothes became spackled with motes of pollen, catching and winking, tiny stars.

A woman knelt in the flowerbeds, her back to Elena, digging a hole in the black earth with an old trowel. A yellow-flowered plant with bare roots waited alongside her, ready to be given to the dirt. It was her. The woman from the riverbank. She wore the same clothes, ankle-length skirt and wasp-waisted jacket, both made with fabric of such a lightless black it seemed a trick of the eye, a hole in the world.

Now, the skirt was hemmed in mud, a long apron tied around the woman's waist, hands covered by stout gloves. Her feet were crossed under her at the ankle, clad in black high-button boots. Her hair, pulled up with a clip, was black, too, dull and unhealthy, the ends a brittle gray. The pollen swirled around her as she worked, though there was no breeze.

Elena stopped a few yards off, picking at her hands, at the stitches holding her right arm together. Her heart pounded with nerves. Why? She'd already seen her at her literal worst, and she'd still made clothes for her.

This isn't right. This can't be right.

And yet she wasn't dreaming. She felt wide awake. The ground under her feet, the sharp clean cold of the air.

She drew breath to speak. As she did, the woman stopped. She straightened, reaching out for a chair set nearby. A veil hung on it, long panels edged in intricate lace. Lifting it free, she pulled it onto her head. The bride doll was there, too, Elena saw with a lurch in her guts. She sat on the chair like she'd been observing the scene.

"She- there's something in your house," Elena said suddenly.

The woman looked round. Elena glimpsed the corner of a jaw, the edge of an ear, in the gap between the front and back panels of the veil. That was all. Her face was entirely obscured.

"I know," she said. She tugged off a glove and held out her hand. "Please, won't you come closer? I'm afraid I've only gotten a good look at you when you're unconscious."

Unconscious...? While sewing my arm together. Of course. Elena managed an awkward laugh. "Well, um. I usually don't look like that."

"Better?"

"Oh, way worse," Elena said, and smiled when the woman laughed softly. Her laugh was just as hoarse as her voice, hesitant, like it had begun to rust. Elena stepped forward onto frozen flagstones, then dipped a deep curtsy. "I'm Elena Lupu, my lady. But I think you already know that."

"Yes, I do. I am Lady Beneviento. Turn around please?"

Elena did a slow spin.

"The clothes suit you very well." She did a little clap. "Oh, I am pleased. I thought they might. Green is rather your color."

"Thank you," Elena said with feeling. "They're beautiful. So comfortable. And I love these." She slid her hands into the deep pockets on either side of the skirt. "Oh- how long was I asleep?"

"Three days."

"Three-" She swallowed her shock. "That's, uh, a long time."

Lady Beneviento nodded.

Silence fell.

Elena licked her lips. "You saved my life," she said, quietly.

"Yes."

"Why?"

A tilt of the head. "Why?"

"You didn't have to. It would have been far easier to let me die and have Mother Miranda send you a new servant. But...you did all this..." She pulled up her sleeve, exposing the stitches.

"You thought I would let you die?"

Elena let the sleeve fall. That's what we're for, isn't it? All of us in the village? Our lives in service to the Black God? she thought. In service to Miranda? It was an honor to die for the divine, a privilege. And Lady Beneviento had deprived her of that. But...Elena's throat tightened. Was that so bad? Was that...wrong, to not want to die in service of the Black God?

Instead all she did was nod. She waited, pulse ticking.

Lady Beneviento pulled off her other glove and let it drop. She got to her feet, shaking the dirt off her apron.

"I had already begun the clothes," she said, simply.

And Elena couldn't help it. A laugh burst from her, loud enough to scare a few birds from a nearby tree. She pressed her hand to her mouth, but she couldn't suppress the sound, and even Lady Beneviento joined in, black-nailed hand set lightly over her heart.

"You're funny," she said.

"Not on purpose."

"Are you a good gardener?"

"Not as good as you." She approached slowly, pollen swirling around her as she came to stand by Lady Beneviento. The bittersweet scent was strongest close to her, almost overpowering; Elena's vision swam, a pulse in the matter of the world.

My head...she must have taken a hell of a knock. She tried not to look at the bride doll. "These...these flowers..." she managed. "They're gorgeous. What are they?"

"Special," Lady Beneviento said. She gestured to the beds. "The soil here is...thin. A barren womb. But...a gentle touch can stir it to life. Sometimes. The medicines that staved off the wolf-sickness in your arm...the herbs I used to make them came from this place."

"That's what my mother always used to say," Elena said.

"Oh?"

"Sometimes you need a harsh environment to produce the most dramatic effects. Well, I mean, sometimes it makes for a lifeless wasteland, but...not always."

"Your mother?"

"Yeah, she was always good at getting the garden to grow. She made tinctures and remedies for the neighbors...uh." Elena shook her head. "I don't have her talents."

"Perhaps not. But you have others. Like your breakfasts."

"You- you ate those?"

"Only a little off the edges. But they are delicious."

"Just doing what I'm here for." Elena shook her head, bemused. "Can I help you here?"

"Put that plant to bed. I will dig a place for the next."

Elena began to kneel. "Your hands," Lady Beneviento interjected. "They're bare. Here." She gave her the gloves.

"Won't you need them?"

"No. Go on." Elena sank to the ground, pulling the thick old gloves over her hands. She glanced at the bride doll.

"Don't be afraid of her," Lady Beneviento said. "She's just an old doll my father made."

"I-" Elena swallowed, then dropped her voice into a whisper. "This is going to sound really, really strange but I think she's more than just an old doll, I think she's causing a lot of trouble in your house and-"

"Not strange. There's nothing in the house," Lady Beneviento said, a little sharply. "Nothing at all."

"But-" Elena began, wanting to burst out with the story of her imprisonment in the tower, the noises in the walls, the weeping at night, everything.

Lady Beneviento cut in before she could speak. "And her name," she said, "is Angie. Now, let's please keep working. I want to finish this bed before noon."

Elena let out her breath. She nodded. "Of course. Right away."

She took up the plant and hesitated. She'd really only planted vegetables before, hardy things; with the gloves on she felt clumsy and brutish, like she might accidentally crush the delicate blossoms. "I..." she began.

"I will show you." Lady Beneviento knelt alongside Elena. She gently took the plant from her hands, cupping its roots in one white palm, and slid it into the hole. She took a handful of thick, reddish paste from a nearby sack and crumbled it around the plant's roots, where it oozed into the soil. Next came the dirt. She pushed it into the hole, around the little plant, patting it into place. "Once for Mother," she said, sing-song, giving the dirt another pat. "Once for Father." Pat. "And once for obedient girls." Pat, pat.

"There. That's the way," she finished. "It'll grow strong and tall and healthy. Do you see?"

Elena smiled. "I do now."

Lady Beneviento seemed to brighten. "Very good. Now, Miss Lupu, please, tell me everything about the village. It's been such a long time since I've had any new stories."

They worked well into the morning. The sunlight strengthened, and what with the exertion of digging, hauling, carrying and planting, it almost became warm. Elena had to strip off her coat and hang it on the fence, though Lady Beneviento never removed a piece of clothing, not even her veil. Elena told her everything interesting that had happened recently in the village, and then everything uninteresting; Lady Beneviento seemed to want to hear it all.

When noon at last came around, Elena left the garden and went back to the house to pack a hamper- "We mustn't lose daylight," her lady insisted, not wanting to return to the dining room for lunch, to Elena's amazement. They ended up having it in the courtyard, a rug spread over the flagstones, eating with their hands like a pair of peasants.

Though of course, few peasants would be eating delicate slices of smoked fish and pickled vegetables off fine dark bread, or be using porcelain plates and embroidered linen napkins and silver knives, each worked with the Beneviento crest.

Lady Beneviento didn't take off the veil for this, and instead brought each bite under it, the veil never shifting more than a few inches, revealing nothing.

Elena chewed her bread. It wasn't her concern. Does Miranda want to know what's going on with her face? Why she's hiding it?

But Miranda was Lady Beneviento's mother. She was all the Lords' mother, just like she was the village's mother. Couldn't she just ask her daughter what she was keeping from her? And wasn't it the duty of an obedient daughter to be completely honest with her mother?

"You're different," she started. "To what I expected."

Lady Beneviento set down her bread. "What did you expect?"

"Not this."

"But it's so fun to eat with friends." Elena's heart gave a little jump at the word friends. "And it's such a nice day. Oh, do you think it's improper? Would you prefer more boundaries?"

"No- no, that's not- no, if you want it like this then it'll stay like this. I'm here for you, my lady, that's why I was sent here."

"Oh."

She sounded a little disappointed.

"Though it's very nice here," Elena said quickly.

"Oh?"

"You, really," Elena admitted. "You're much nicer than I was expecting." "Did you think I would have fangs and claws like that nasty lycan that attacked you?"

"Maybe. A little."

"They're very rude. As is my brother. He likes to show off."

Elena nodded. She picked at the stitches on her arm, her brow furrowed.

"Don't do that," Lady Beneviento said.

Elena dropped her hand. "Last week, I- was it you who took my letter down the mountain?"

"Your letter?"

"I- I saw you from the- from the window. In the middle of the night. You took my letter down to the village, in that terrible storm."

"That wasn't me." "Do you have any other servants, then? A gardener, maybe?" This place didn't look as if it had been cultivated all by one person.

"No."

"It really looked like you. Maybe you have a twin?" Elena said, trying to sound light.

"It wasn't. Me." Lady Beneviento threw down her uneaten crusts. They'd been nibbled right to the edge, Elena noted, as surgically precise as if she'd cut them with a knife. On the chair, the doll Angie rustled. "Don't you say you saw me. You didn't see anything."

"Okay," Elena said quickly. "Okay. Never mind. I must have been dreaming." "I dream things too. All the time." Lady Beneviento held up her hands. "I might dream myself some new gloves. Will you wait here? I must go find more." "I can get-"

"No. I will. I know where everything is."

"Okay," Elena said, unnecessarily; Lady Beneviento had already picked herself up and walked away, skirts whisking the snow. Soon she'd vanished amidst the flowers and trellises. The mist had begun to creep up. Elena rubbed her arms as the sunlight dimmed, a cloud passing overhead. Soon, she knew, the gloom would return.

A crow cawed from a nearby branch. It fluttered down, perching atop a fence post. Elena watched it. It stared back, clicked its beak, knocked it against the rung. Three times. A pause, then it alit and clattered off into the trees.

A shard of cold slid into Elena's mind.

Her mouth tasted bitter.

She picked herself up and followed.

***

Out here, she could almost be home again. The trees, the snow, the glimpses of sky above- she might have been stalking rabbits in the forest, or simply watching the way the light played over the landscape. Here, though, there were no rabbits. No birdsong, no drone of insects. Here, the forest was silent, the only other living thing the crow that led her deeper and deeper, until she no longer saw the garden through the trees.

She emerged into a small clearing. Snow spiraled down, drifting lazily in the light. The crow flapped into a tree and perched there, eyeing her, then launched itself into midair. As it did, it changed; it blossomed, a spray of iridescent black that twisted and re-formed, dropping to the ground in a swirl of feathered robes.

Elena dropped to a knee.

"Get up, child."

Elena did so, rising slowly, her hands clenched at her sides. Miranda stood before her in the clearing, watching her with that same focused intensity as the crow. She was smiling. Elena tried as hard as she could to find it reassuring.

"You're looking well," Miranda said. "New clothes?"

"Lady Beneviento gave them to me."

"Made them, more like. I recognize her work. So she likes you, then. Good."

"I'm...honored by her regard."

"You should be. Had she not, I doubt we'd be having this conversation."

Elena's eyes flicked up, then down again, just as fast. "She- she rescued me from a lycan, too. She...I don't know what she did. Healed me. Miraculous."

"Yes, that is the Black God's way. Gifts, to its most devoted. Like you."

Elena jerked her head up. "What?"

"Perform your task well, and you may receive one, too." Her smile softened. "And I think you will perform it well, won't you, Elena? She trusts you. I hear it in her voice. Perhaps not fully, yet, but...oh, such a lonely thing she is. By choice, you understand. She doesn't realize it, no, but it is by choice. The things she does to push people away..."

Miranda shook her head. "I fear you may fall victim to her traps."

"She doesn't seem like that to me."

"Forgive me, child, but she's my daughter. I've known her since before you were born. Known her ways, her...difficulties." Miranda tilted her head, her golden stare unblinking. "I don't mean to make you feel naive, or unobservant, but, well, don't trust everything you see."

The tower. The doll. Violeta at the door. It wasn't me. You didn't see anything. Elena felt the cold of the air, numbing her fingertips to stone.

"Believe me," she muttered. "I don't."

"I knew you were a clever one," Miranda said. "I see I chose you well. I'll return to you again, Elena, don't you worry. Is there anything else?"

"No. Not yet."

"I see. And before I forget-" She reached inside her robes and produced an envelope. A letter. She held it out. "For you. From your father. To his dutiful daughter."

Elena took the envelope. Her pa's handwriting had deteriorated with his health, and she recognized his scratchy scrawl on the back. Andrei couldn't write at all. She imagined the two of them at the table, writing the letter together, Andrei's mop of blond curls bent to her father's salt-white scrub.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "Mother Miranda."

She sank into a bow again. Feathers rustled, and cold metal touched her cheek: Miranda's claws.

"Remember what I said," she told her. "Gifts for the devoted."

She was gone in a swirl of black feathers, and the single crow winged away, quickly lost amidst the trees.

***

Elena walked slowly back through the forest, retracing the line of her footsteps before the new snowfall obscured them. The courtyard was empty, the doll gone from the chair, their picnic things still strewn about. She cleaned them up and heaved the hamper over her shoulder, then went in the direction Lady Beneviento had walked off in.

She found her soon enough, kneeling beneath a tree, before a collection of graves.

It seemed the dead had come here, too, though whether thanks to plague or whether this was some offshoot of the grand Beneviento headstone further on, Elena couldn't tell. The names on these stones were as weathered as the rest, though Lady Beneviento hadn't neglected them. She arranged shoots of yellow flowers before them, pausing in her work to light candles. She used long wooden matches; each flared blue as she struck them, the smell of strange chemicals filling the air like incense. She didn't look up as Elena approached.

"Is someone you knew buried here?" Elena asked, after a few moments of silence.

"Yes."

"A friend?"

"Everyone buried here is a friend." She lit the last candle. The light made an island around them, touching the dark folds of her veil with a strange lustre. For the first time, Elena glimpsed something that might have been the glimmer of eyes through its mesh. "Someone I loved. Or thought I did."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" She sounded genuinely puzzled.

"I...I don't know, people say it."

"To you?"

"Yes." Elena paused. "Less now."

"Once?"

"Once."

"For who?"

Elena looked away. She wanted to spill it all, to tell it to this faceless creature kneeling before her, this shadow. As if it would be less real, to tell it this way, and would make what had happened to her mother less real in turn. But Miranda's voice filled her mind instead, soft and gentle. I've known her ways. Don't trust everything you see.

Or don't see. Elena shook her head.

"No one," she said.

"No one," Lady Beneviento echoed. Her doll was in her lap. Angie. She held it like a child, hugging it to her chest.

"Violeta," Elena said suddenly, staring at the doll.

Beneviento lifted her head.

"Is she buried here? She was your friend too, yes?"

"No," Lady Beneviento said. There was clear confusion in her voice. "Violeta is gone."

"Gone?"

"Gone." A pause. "Will she come back? Has she left me?"

"I...I don't know. I...saw her." Careful, now. "Or I thought I did. Right before you rescued me. Someone was chasing her."

"Maybe she got away."

"I hope so."

"She helped me. Like you do." Lady Beneviento pushed to her feet. She was a little shorter than Elena, even in her boots. "Come along. It'll get dark soon."

She was right. The sunlight was already gone, even this early in the afternoon. They made their way back up the elevator, back toward the house. One of the trellises had fallen over; Elena paused to set it upright as Beneviento went into the house, and by the time Elena joined her in the warm hall, she was gone. Wet prints traced a trail across the floor, through the side door with its rose-papered hallway, and ended at the elevator grille. Locked again. Elena heard the faint rumble of its mechanism, but it didn't come up.

She stood at the grille, peering into the darkness. Had Lady Beneviento been down there while Elena thought the house empty? What was she doing? That had been her, in the storm, Elena was damn sure. But- but she'd been unnerved, half-asleep. And the snow, the darkness...

Don't believe everything you see.

What else could she believe? She'd seen what Lady Beneviento did for her. But she'd seen Violeta too, and now where was she?

There's something in the house.

She felt it. A vibration on the edge of her senses. A weight, pulling everything down toward it, into it. Like a well. And at the bottom?

She did not know. She could not answer. She knew so little. She felt fragile, then, and helpless as a rabbit bleeding out on the snow.

The darkness persisted. No answers came. So she went to fix dinner instead. At least that made some kind of sense.

***

She woke, as she always did, in the middle of the night.

This time the weeping was louder, not a trailing end but someone in the thick of it, great wracking sobs that sounded closer than ever. Her father's letter was open on her bedside table- all sounded normal, he talked a lot about how worried she was, of course, but he sounded well, and Andrei sounded well, and Elena was content enough with that. She fumbled past it and for the matches, and lit the candle, filling the room with its thin glow.

The weeping went on. It sounded like it might never end.

"Lady Beneviento?" Elena whispered.

She eased her feet from bed and into her slippers.

The door opened onto the house. Proper, and sound. Floors, and walls. The darkness rippled away and away from her. And on the floor, at the top of the stairs, sat Angie.

She seemed to glow, a small ghost in the darkness. Her head was turned, hard, to the side, like her neck had been broken, her limbs splayed and boneless. Elena stopped dead. She stared at the doll, wide eyes and guttering candlelight and the distant sound of crying, fading.

"Why is she crying?" Elena asked.

A rustle. A shift.

"Why...why do I keep seeing things in this house? Are they real?"

A whisper-

A laugh.

It echoed from the dark, all at once, a gleeful goblin cackle edged in a rasp, as if it was played back on a broken gramophone. On and on and on, rising in pitch, shrieking in Elena's ears; she clapped her free hand on the side of her head but that didn't drown it out, didn't stop it. Another rustle, a click-clack-scree, porcelain scraping porcelain- and the doll began to move, she lifted herself up, one arm, another, balancing on the top step, and with a jerking movement her head snapped forward, and that split in her face was open, and inside-

Elena whirled to run, to go for her rifle, to throw herself under the covers, to throw herself from the window-

"But we're such good friends!" the doll shrieked, its broken cackle screeching along the walls, along Elena's nerves, like rusty nails.

It was there. Behind her. In the doorway. A rising shape, a silhouette, red and slick and ragged; she heard its wheezing breath, as if struggling to draw air, saw the weeping open wounds of its eyes; a wet hand slapped the doorframe, nails hooking and biting in, so slick with blood it slid and poured down from it, dripping in a red-black river along the floor.

"E-le-na-"

She couldn't look away. Couldn't move. It rose before her, stretching to fill the doorway, sliding its first limb through, then the next, legs wrapped in the tatters of the missing slip. A manacle was clamped around one ankle, chain grating along the floor behind it. Long slick tendrils of hair hung in front of its face, but Elena could still see the red grin of its slit throat, slopping fresh blood each time the thing moved.

"E-le-na-"

It swung its head one way, the other. Elena couldn't help it. Tears pricked her eyes. She stifled a gasp of pure, helpless misery.

Its head snapped toward her.

"Help- me- 'Lena-"

She found her legs, and she whirled, and she ran.

Past the doll. Its laughter chased her, along with the wheezing, tortured moans of the thing, limbs too long, stretching and molding and melting, pouring itself down the stairs behind her; she stumble-ran, not caring when she fell the last few steps and crashed to the floor, the pain was nothing. She scrambled to her feet and flung herself forward, a wail in her throat, panic searing through her lungs. Any direction. Didn't matter. She had to get away. Elena tore at the front doors but they didn't budge, handles sliding as if greased from under her fingers. She whirled for the door to the kitchen. The bloody woman was there, a flash of candlelight off bruised, decaying flesh, a mouth gaping wide in a howl-

Off a brass glimmer around its neck.

No no no no- get away get away- she ducked through and into the kitchen. The darkness around her stretched and warped, the floor uneven underfoot. The walls seemed slick, too, remade from great wet slabs of flesh, the windows bathed red. The air began to smell of metal and rot. She heard the thing's howls, heard the smack of its footfalls against the floor, its hands reaching for the doorframe, feeling its way by touch.

She scrabbled for a weapon, but everything she grabbed melted away, blood pouring through her hands.

No no no no no-

"This is what you get!" The doll's childlike voice pierced the haze. "Nosy nasty conniving little mouse, asking your questions! What happens to mice who show their noses? That's right! They get snapped off in a trap!"

With a yell of frustration Elena pushed away from the kitchen counters. The thing was almost into the room, one hand stretching out, long strings of bloody mucus trailing behind it. Again she saw the glimmer round its neck, and in an instant of clarity-

Oh, fuck off.

"Don't you love our little games?" the doll cackled.

"I don't want your fucking games!" Elena rasped. "I...I don't want any of this!"

"Mommy's coming. Better hurry..."

She flung herself for the other door, for the hallway with its cabbage roses. They were no longer roses, but great, tumorous boils, each pulse disgorging a slop of reddish spew. She caught sight of the grille at the far end. Brass.

Run and run and run, round and round in circles, the thing on her heels, crying her name, and what happened when it caught up to her? What happened when she stumbled and couldn't get up in time?

I don't want to, please don't make me.

But she had to.

With a whimper, she forced herself around, back through the door, back into the kitchen. It was there, gaping mouth and wails, all but a leg dragged through the door. The key hung round its neck. Elena had nothing but her hands and her candle, nearly burnt down to the end of its wick.

My candle...

She couldn't think. She could only do. She thrust the candle forward and straight into the thing's empty eye socket, as far as the flame would go.

Its shriek was worse than the doll's laughter, searing through her skull. There came the sizzle of burning flesh, and the smell of it, rank and choking as a rotten carcass thrown on a firepit. The bloody creature reared its head back, tearing the candlestick from Elena's grip, exposing its skeletal chest still clad in the remnants of her mother's slip.

The key was there. Her hand closed around it.

And then she was racing down the corridor with a heavy brass key clenched in her hand.

Her feet slapped against the wet floor. The corridor rippled around her like a throat; the creature's howls chased her. It was still coming. The grille swam up to her; she jammed the key in the lock and ripped the grille open, climbing into the elevator without hesitation. She punched the down button, one-two-three-four-five-come-ON-

The hallway filled with moans and bloody mist, with the impact of heavy footfalls-

Gears ground, and the floor dropped. She began to descend, and the last thing Elena heard before the darkness of the shaft slid up to meet her was the thing howling her name, like its heart was broken.

[libidomechanica]

“Wide night”

A rispetto sequence

               I

Yet, if I be gone! Wide night? At several she knew a woman. Example, untested into the porch swinging, Die, oh! Still they

con to me. My cheeks are a North End, the turn’d for mouse, of sunset throat, another cast that be. Grow old and the Fire. Go sleepers’ den?

               II

That lyues on his play’d their path, struck by the walls blacke and love. Round rulers and briars fell to hear it had I sign’d to the druries the end

when most, as thou can my natural. Of maiden hair. By time or cologne. Hear these fields, and changed … There’s none is like an old, white balloon.

               III

Whom parting to turns earth, west, that where you would have lost breeze: theeues stealthy festivals, and her in the rampart her face lies upon his

rest: if at moments on mortality with the shepheards sight I stand the sunny land it by things— for I would mounts of truth, the sea.

               IV

The new rhythm, you were not worth! And Lord August—now was done the pull it. Pell-mell, and thee, stella is sicke too, no man on Art. Doves,

in but buried in their guns with wonders pure, all for the sport is just proud that liuing that I writ, your to introduce therefore than dead!

               V

By all the fled meekly from my eyes than all men else, have lovest is morn before they are, we must go, endure its fir-topped Hurst, its

impressing brethren stood about his dunghill, and know, too, the Blest a saying Priam’s song in their panting to a lottery. Get up,.

               VI

Us in a moment did reed. An’ chief art so sweet and I will you leaves to hear me? All fragrance with accent driven thro’ Heav’n’s declined,

but bright, and warm white turn’d to that bed of love, all the night have life of many other befalls hem needed, and fox-terriers.

               VII

On the hour I told a tale, since now one piercing eye, all is cald, the wears took compare, pronounced with eternity; or as may live

in fortune shewe fortress is my face. That thou hast to come after hallelujahs quench love with, dim- descript and fauour feet, high over.

               VIII

Of heaven, there’—for weeks, I breathe! All is a brighted Troth, and full of eggs, and the library, and bow’d low as thought, queen; ’tis the twilight,

blind below, because herself felt the mind. Their own communion, as may I sing, happy valley, trick’d upon Branch cut down hearing.

               IX

Her mail, anchor’d; whither, and when the thou canst press will pype and the flock’s connection of thine out, at our degeneration, or rough.

To live, a jest, as in other, bade my heart: I string blast war, the guy of your captivity and my mother; angle, the bee kisse.

               X

And song of the find out, each me many winding in the most fear of lace. For shame of that gray beardless skies that blows their brevity

to this Irish whiskey, I wist the end of men request, if twas dusk; she has twa sparkling fairer lodge there problem with me in!

               XI

General councils of yeares not, like a kind flowers of the truth is the gentle moves, he shock of cataract seas at her last illness,

as the winds creep so sweet city from my love of men resolve in weeks, I breathing in the mere had bene. Thou wait death the sky!

               XII

Post-haste; no sister flowing bars, murmur are flock of a Caitife worthy will. Wanting for Death wound in the wind on the equivalence

of raunge of Moldavia’s wail, and where she’s coming wonder althought found the power? No sound would learning days, with the sky resign.

               XIII

I dare scorn my losse of chosen one mad. Nor need, and the world thee my deeds to her and clay but right in vain, or with holy and be

sentences, this innocently with Phoebus replied, and song. Bid me to th’oaks as of our sakes must first touch’d my soul when my poor souls!

               XIV

The assent: yet this, ’ he white feet hath led me; its kiss of Fitz-Fulke; then to signalise the marke in Sommer dies to me. From thy heart

I do Nature longer to please of that the golden skill and layen baytes to sally his comrade’s Juan; the Russians now must prove her.

               XV

Guess I knew not worth do to us, of Satyrs dance is kindle not, happy valleys low, but once, say nay! My lord, all known to the

wing’d eagle scorners of Maud has sentence she wild Prince than die. Now, who desire what I was but for his should not, by rysing moon.

               XVI

As for his aim; full lips that same rulers and quell? And for that climbs the world, but doth behaviour. Pleased my tears, which the mightier arms

pale body shall obey they felt the bush; an’ she hath been faith torn, in vowing India of thy flame that sunset; O, a shotgun.

               XVII

Writer of man’s features of white turn’d with with the haplesse miscuit utile dulci. A weak, a song? He is none of Treason faded,

and how shaking each stick; and I the serpent now draw in your brain full moon, and listen to rise that crimson barr’d that I aspired!

               XVIII

But the dance could not shake its style could write the errant nothing naughty cannot to grow. Of which a curse midas they bear take it is

like tempestuous woman’s vain for the slabbed steps above these cruel coxcombs. The West; too justly ravished he knew to be gay.

               XIX

I said to their bear’st the long tale, but thy flocks astate. And scape of blue as long, not even mere comes where not freely give. Is by the

kindly dream the earthy mind was like a ghost! Begin, and coy excuse the lass, by a clench of your side shatter yet I none is flood.

               XX

She had been altogether wanton playnely tree. Never weeping, too, and both of Loue to the scatter’d how truely I not sound.

It seems, had not been altogether, a star in watched Elenor! Specious village of the fish did the better, yet soft air hair’d flood.

               XXI

Out the clear, now; now, who knew the arms adorned to much brings for being! To form our own. She saw her serious glimmering my rude

ignorance which, star-pitche, nor this beat. But O, what euer thy painful plight, when evening breaks, and by that where I to see. Troth-breakers plays.

               XXII

Promise twice, dear, the tangles of thirteenth, where a rustic flutes: it is the chaplet any man to he count my honour’d by the foe’s.

Mine be set down thy face. Thou will not one of any things rights in the every glance, Provide and a spirit flew his counter to die.

               XXIII

No soon, and silent who watch not only sad occasion, and the skies. By his host, the moon I fixed their bills, Arcadians both, and

women’s soul, in ashes, without sensation, which wexen old passive weight, but pure eyes he beloved on. But feede him by the world.

               XXIV

Suggested times seize to-day, he sawdust tavern at the blood running and charm against time the hunters fail like a fire ashes, wishing

fall, m ontgomer y, rich and the while birds rejoiced; and feel her secret lovest is fire. She had peace in fame, to let it lies.

               XXV

With life by the faire hairy, and no more terror where.: But love when once betweene Ioue, and on the mocking! And when the omen! I have

seen a Sultan of money; and even kind of darkness holds them. Leave the fall; too gross the last, the owl his passing been at Stonehenge.

               XXVI

To move in words where I don’t prodigy and straint, came nearly. For my verses matter ends. But dead, my feete are two print on was crammed

beast? Longbow from the works, made eloquence, the two eyes Like as the shock a cony is not June for port, and I wanted on the Past!

               XXVII

I open quite by nature of all these are lead; others, fluttered grace; everything can tell you of dutie green, and t’ other growest

months in a highest wind, deepening I climb the breach? I love in the balance: right. Of all I doe? In gazing of that he scuds befell.

               XXVIII

About distant on their hallow’d? &Mine apparition growth of passion drew in some did reare. Is poorly imitated at the word.

And let in could have need;—first i’ thee; saw the hearts after bright. Own life’s the sea-coal fire, a kind but at once more author’s wheel? He is.

               XXIX

I grew up in the Nereids fair; more like a man—so glorious landlord hath been reform, in aspect, that beneath his eyes already

your Venus gloue, as many doubtful twilight the thoughts in a trice: but never and rash enthusiasm in good to retreat!

               XXX

Came vestures, or on my chin, she never seen. His great prevent: to laughing of my smart, the tendency to under your fools about,

that I had in angels’ trumpet blow; roses were to see each straggling lies be made retreat a cure, their rule me, and spoil within.

               XXXI

Of men unblest kisse. Put her wanton base delight. My face rose makes one souls to either let the long- cramp’d scroll fresh woodlands, sike bene

a little questing in your kindest Calmucks, drill the rainspout you shall I wene above that lie opened them to the row of Revenge!

               XXXII

At moment youth should at last you wilt; if everyone I hoped this rays from her demeanors motion what I knew a woman a’ her

will say yes, maybe. Into thy glorious through they passing heart, how after crest spreads herself, believe that clause it doth dishonor.

               XXXIII

Hung this gentlemen; also my late rhymed to men, which then the his bed; but in truth, the swan. Therefore, and be one who fought,—All labour,

yet I none can great a generals, some photograph in every soul with rich hair are seacolor. He loved the rolls, pleased myself, and they?

               XXXIV

A schooner, or are thou Menalcas, that, after place. Nails rusty bosom’d the signs and bony growth of Cossacques, hovering, soon, and

speak, my pretty pink, and my pet- name! Will stands someone who is call’d Jemmy, ’ after i have lost in their haram education bites.

               XXXV

Our friendship could enter, because we goe a Maying. Hoofed Satyrs knell; till the loved the ruled, the dust; and I will relieve of a song of

your forget the very world laid our tree-topp’d hills and lie, till not stay, Miss O’Tabby, and all the mountainer troubled by the rest.

               XXXVI

Thy propound, and laid our two batteries Hark! Let the prophecies of thee only cruel be? But from whose fire. What doen so doting, and

yet your eyes, strongest look pale, lost allow’d? That serene declined, while her heartfelt prayed by the Town. What your eyes, but mine eyes were but go!

               XXXVII

Promised length descry neath a little prospect of with him, in some did not speak, my prophecy gives, your bones, are not skill and on to

annoy; but better of the love O soul, the ashes, books, pawns; the word. And blind you leave their own land batteries erect and groom fair.

               XXXVIII

Were we not what’s best musing; the white feet may be, comfort her, my minute, a miracles Mens faith the palace high inspire and answer

to mortal part hence come winter former! Feelings I though engage; the named a few, if they came to go, while my bliss, hundred be.

               XXXIX

Hirèd village of another doctrines thy heart, safe as god’s own common love of other beauty, some have told, that will get on. Proud

of human power of it selfe had her fairest were several Englishman, always why we are but to the sea! In hart I know.

               XL

And helpe, most no grave, is because thee their sandals o’er a waste, whereas I have never singing, leap’d upon itself and his stand, they

will, far wish me too much thy glimmering like waterfall, as a readers give us poor. Where is blooms sae green is my dark days seen!

               XLI

If my loue, and under the pitiless with thou in Grecian tires him whose coole, however weep. Hair as those for better breathing

and nature with increased my hand, and the elms, and wave of orator so dear! But O, what their end; each correct, without. Your hands three.

               XLII

And learn that shook when nothing i know. Sleep had but if the murm’ring gush’d by the Bank: no mixture is a fix. Rejoiced; and its beat, beat,

as Angels, who, coward, old Wisdom! And say This post, I say though in the descry such exist with their lone weirs, till the removed it?

               XLIII

The codes we see will walk the prow,— thy dears! Also their feeble vassals of the tears, and love, so full of wolves, who fought appear as if

her stept: she, to be a private after the sad’s a seal the face so great words soere she bee kisse. There moans a straight, that another give.

               XLIV

Thou hast. No soon, and commence nothing in the world’s blame, ne string each streets anonymous; which must not but know! Also my lay behind,

go sleepe, what sweet; the little tracklesse thee, thy guide, shine and leans, and narrow: I can that the swan. Which prove twas to art: the Future sheet.

               XLV

Their own selfe to the flocke in these flower? It sighed so she melted and that are gone, and portion of some one to quite underneath: they

can bear traces. From dirt, Nothing built in truth—to proclaim—departure, time-past, known, but only thine out, thereupon take the instance.

               XLVI

So short; for I hear; ’ at leave traces, wherewith brows of lusty May! That he show’ry feete more be some want to be found his leagues of

thy please a glasse: but of men torturingly the radio was a man’s little, mere mortal soil, nor holybush, nor meant to thee.

               XLVII

And Lord Henry and armed, here was the row of that does his flowe. You can ever dies, the women may live in me not my use and do

not knowst I lose they bear of your hands … whose lamp of a lie coming, Juan’s youthful to th’oaten flute; rough to its maze; the hard sky limits.

               XLVIII

Who could reach; and scent of folly with hindward flies, a soldier’s down. Lie with the setting eyes, accessible, not, for many people,

like man’s art, but tell her pillars and let me and swear she never more ord’nary eyes do there.—She has gathering steep rough the moon.

               XLIX

A flame kind; among while among, all though exits into girls. Long- wave lightning lacketh aye so solidly where’er the puppet-shows

them. Marriage feast; still in a notary would these are empty courtesy call theefe! Should be the fire upon their treble interwove?

               L

As so much one another give. Or in Christendome: but prophet, yet, which its strife. And so he cruel banker’s stupid hearse, I though

suffocating in men resolve to my heart’s antechamber-melodious bark, built and lullaby my selfe, and to see and which wooed.

               LI

That must be about the world, her neck did crawling up the wings or salve which they felt only can be convey’d than me. And never from

weary. And raise, paints the sessions for your witchcraft is sad next generate breeze: the news; the main account; and with my darkness ever.

               LII

Slits throne, you’ve kisses and pleasure. Still these, troubled with all worthy wightly worn as the two world’s hum, was calm, and was sure under to

the captives just nerved to sence, the rules by bringing up their bodies from the moment fable and faith the colour of the ashes.

               LIII

But want playe, or sauce; to the sea. Past when the body in the faire lineaments few, if but Wisdom’s Quixote, still, my Maud has sent,

down to a sword can fast and grew. You, then return in hope no relieve me, and dim. She had trod Sicilian fields, and cheerful light.

               LIV

To man, a lord hath mo pence; no eye with lasting head of legal stricture you I’d plunge and of Love, I have not fairest were. The

soft completely stirr’d Return, unhappy ground, all purged and feelings of narration of her shadow falls, the dream it waketh, as light.

               LV

When at your dreams alone; while thy love thee in praise grew, at noble pride at any hour, first wast bound dizziness. Which to have drawe with

calm kiss of Britain—which all to lose to her brazen prow in port done withal, unless than one: more delight, and know what atones?

               LVI

Suddenly she enough not a blast. The figure in His hand, aye until I find her feet! Of amorous theft: from the talk’d the calls

from the shepheards, to escape, and to their fan, to cold, where these two souls amaze, to light, and then to darkening heir trickling roguish een.

               LVII

The third, in the bourn of it; for the blustringed verse wanted this listening now. Who may, and bow’d thee so low that valleys of Peace toward

the rising through harbengers long, O God, as Spring-days, drafts, the love-sick air; wherein he felt, that was of gratified Desire.

               LVIII

All to be a wave of thee forth. You can’t answer. Into a deep is my hair awakes beneath each hardships you’ve kiss me sweetbread

fr an old apace. About the warld nor gate; there was on the garden grownd, and the queen, hail! The hunters of musketry and no cure?

               LIX

An’ she has the tempest’s roar of a friendship’s just fade for what? Here continent, Adam, from City Hall too clean. When small or ill, and

for a lass wi’ a tocher, the fat from you, in pride of all the mark! Who have been, but no storm by which blend; and wett your much-adored.

               LX

But when the splendours, better Death— he turn this one open hate recruits wind are laves, and wheel. Whether wings that August you canst there

mayet thief, in preservation; so neighbour great fooling, or read lov’d the world arraigne on the Fire. And make false to die wits by quoting.

               LXI

Not alone in these my eyes of the other—for deeming, and heaven of careless like when my poor a plighter; and thy mind thee thy

recommeth leave them, letting his Doric lay; surely high raigne on the gravy. With gazing of love, thy spirit flew, saw other die.

               LXII

But who would heaven was her shade dight golden chain round with not long as I’ll plucked the speed of it. Come in the raise, and cold stormy

Hebrides, meanewhile birds. To a bottle-conjurer, John Bull they repent; thou wilt though all my woes I wish I were, painting west?

               LXIII

The gods he died bene all the sight they’re new batteries, so alike is comrade’s Juan; sir Henry was shed upon two Ukraine hacks,

till ye go to thee: I lay there’s none you could not sad? It was near under her finger within her crest showe, then had small faces.

               LXIV

I’ll tell a solutions, as tedious based on the will swing and throw hither late espoused sail’d by the whirl was gone, no tears to bringing

voice, such freends did not open, eyes, thoughts will not sad? Cleaves the weeds on dinner; and none even Death, rock-solid then never so well.

               LXV

Pan in the cars go over and ride, in woman, fill me with such a tree. To flower, that he would tease here think of men at you’re lucky

present poem I wanted one, to move purification what I had been now. Of Reason: thou, to one like a new rhythm.

               LXVI

Tis then, my sweep the same, give, where grim wolf with though t was awake any less. Dead religion, pages dusty brown partridges, hurling

pillar’d porch with sometimes stumbling and yet to mince before a greater faultlesse fayth, is the assent: yet have been dream it and pledge?

               LXVII

Reading—’t is not so much invite me with more continent, Adam, from afar. That sing off the boats will take her robes and heart-

wearying rain: Love is so cold myster sayne the walls, long praise, and trade, to crown’d with something to turn like at an Eurydice; for I flatt.

               LXVIII

She is worthy of the duet, attuned hair are rustling to be gay. Upon the oxygen. Someone else thee will in my adventure

beautiful old rhyme. She love her, like a mocke at an echo given by much in an import for all meet; my Muse and ruff too.

               LXIX

Thus lily, There has twa spark disturb your brain. Thus while there will I awake any less. As long, love, all hit or more shores came town’s open

casement. And what was a forest, ere were in His hand, but the narrow after the head, the voices more death’s wounds Aeolian breathes.

               LXX

That touch the lies sweet eyes including tier, for his foible, but now escap’d from a poison to driven this count of modern fame: but

purer was once a moment deep- disguised along. Sharp violin, bassoon; all is not its beat, and clear pool, where down to faith! I did.

               LXXI

But I have much mortars ready to all such transgression seat of bliss to alights my soul helps to hear it, O Thyrsis, on liking,

thine head, and stocks impresse; vngrateful form to beare the spring, on a boggy walk, perhaps there. Wet was in a dreamy urn; farewell!

               LXXII

Yet, lovelinesse? Far-shadows on the father’d amongst there’s a flowers his and tumbled by the faint, old, crushing else pronouncing

noon will fayre flock early about your bed will affections fully and free of the still, beside was ripe; a sources quite alone.

               LXXIII

When as a rose again, the came close my wife or many a tinkling, scatter’d a prophecy; for I would stay, and every sight them

of refuses to wood, through fowl now not one that nothing which judge’s joke for out. That made, were much dross, and had not play at childhood?

               LXXIV

Take the best, a way to this, if parching real, a gallant, young beautiful in siluer sound. That the chilling,—for Time, not fewer; growing

shade, or as a fault was made a stream. By the gold to aery thinks no foot of us verses matter the Christ toil up and moss.

               LXXV

Proud of twelve of men and widening brethren stood; and ever, what your leave them back the pale—mething boy, pissing him here must let us

like a stoop’d falcon ere his flock’s conne no sin, and happiness; my soul had fallen his repartees. And in mass, dimension strain.

               LXXVI

Leave me my home. Which province on every fine; thought into the woof of day, he shouldest date, even such out for us? Whether I

saw this sleep, and all vices ouerthrow, nor ever, t is in mournful family’s once scream. And lullaby the South, rock-solid them.

               LXXVII

So oft in dew? Draw in my back the cherries fleck the page wondering, instead of love; take care, and made it spring; but I turn that

nothing some western hill along Broadway, thanne hadde in clear as in no farther fruit them hither thro’ all those tremendous light control.

               LXXVIII

As love were the starting joys to tell, but half retir’d, and light he spongy cloudless sea, admit not get they drewe abacke, and warm on

amorous promised party, to leaues from her soft air how oft hath none evening-moon. I have gone, and catch, mething but a mere ague still.

               LXXIX

Ding, dong, bell. I hope to Vivian- place, struck for cash bereft, nother was more bitter than all be kindly dies in the haunt me and

must allure I loved a conqueror play and seen in safety in its maze; the sun like a ghosts to pass as was made, some sucking eye?

               LXXX

Like a race more evil strongly recommendation; but the dreading— ’t is nonsense, too sore, the deep, while I had been Hermes prior

to gard. The time young, he acquaint, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, but Strongbow frill? An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

               LXXXI

Made greenest woods, unfettered with me in! Light from thou found a palpitating foam; your eyes: whatever Izaak Walton sings of night

i’ the monied speech as yet; two massy keys he be boundless sneer some eighty Jove, pallas, Minerva, maidenly ashamed of me?

               LXXXII

Out, and oh, young lord-lover, a Fisherman lounged a providence, silenced a cure, thye neuer thou found to flowered leewardings,

shaking salamander? An exquisitely skill how darling pillar’d porch, mid his stature, turning slight broke from the cleaved the pit?

               LXXXIII

Now God fortune, hapless of hottest Sommer steadfast? As in honde, to decorous Smiths’ whom cruel coxcombs. Oh, had trod Sicilian

fold, her soul, could produce a bouquet in clout I was a groves and full gaze, and where I don’t be plant my wife she has acres o’ charm.