#holy healing dances

[woodsy-hoe]

almost got stranded in the middle of Denver but one of the t-shirt sellers from the concert saved my ass 🙏🏼 there’s still good people in this world

[happywitch416]

The demons can stay and play but I control the radio these days.

[pup-pee]

AAAJHAJWJDNKFJAIBA AAABJEIDIND AHRPOON HARPOON HAR SHDHT HAK S HAR HAR HA RH AUDBEJS MADDIII OMGG!!! JDHFIKF <333 RIY IS USING HSI 1 INCH TALLER ADVANTAGE

this is so rough but

@pup-pee come get your food and pls ignore how messy it is-

is this for my 9-1-1 au? Mayhaps I need to do like full ref sheets for the AUs and also I'm still trying to figure out how to draw certain characters bare with me here

[bloodstained-ballgowns]

dance fever is just such a great fucking album man. "you say that rock and roll is dead, but is that just because it has not been resurrected in your image?" is still one of my favourite lyrics of all time. 'king' flummoxes me every time i listen to it. it's got myth vs realism. deification and iconoclasm. art as communal experience, as identity, as the lines between individual healing, catharsis, and destruction. #depression, self-sabotage, nostalgia. madonna-whore complex mockery. "it's good to be alive, crying into cereal at midnight" "when i decided to wage holy war, it looked very much like staring at my bedroom floor" it's got humour. "what a thing to admit, that when someone looks at me with real love, i don't like it very much. kinda makes me feel like i'm being crushed." !! there's a whole song where the chorus is just the word daffodil over and over again and it's a banger.

also there was a real gap in the market for an album based around a 14th century european mass hysterical dancing epidemic so i'm glad that got filled.

[eyepatchcrow]

i’ve been obsessed with hadestown for years now and finally got to see it yesterday on the west end, so here is a non-exhaustive, mostly in order list of things i loved:

- hermes ‘aiiiight’ ing the audience at the start

- the fates looking offended when hermes says they’re all dressed the same

- orpheus getting distracted and forgetting to greet the audience as he’s introduced

- irish orpheus and midlands eurydice healed something in me

- the fates all the time always, actually

- persephone and eurydice’s little moment of connection as persephone tells her to take what she can and make the most of it

- the trombonist dancing with the chorus during his solo

- orpheus and the cast looking out to the audience in a beat of silence as they toast the world we live in now

- everybody collectively gagging at the wine

- eurydice pushing orpheus right across the stage as she sings how she wants to hold him tight

- orpheus swooping in and popping up like a meerkat between hades and eurydice when she draws his attention

- hades putting on his dark glasses in order to immediately take them off at eurydice in hey little songbird

- eurydice holding the coins/ticket to hell out to hermes twice during chips are down and hermes only taking them on the third time

- hermes and persephone flirting at the start of act 2

- persephone not sharing her hip flask and hermes acting all offended until she gives them some

- every reference to hermes’ gender is gone

- hermes

- melanie la barrie

- hades’ slutty little strut on the revolve

- the absolute raw grief and anger and desperation in if it’s true, dónal absolutely killed it

- hades dad dancing

- hades burying his face in persephone’s shoulder after they reconcile

- orpheus’ adorable delighted ‘yes!!’ after eurydice tells him he’s done it

- the chorus’s cute af reaction when orpheus ��proposes’ eurydice to walk home with him

- orpheus’ fidgety, reaching hands as he walks and doubts (devastating)

- the centre of the revolve dropping away the MOMENT orpheus turns, almost before he’s actually set eyes on her. she’s already gone

- orpheus’ voice break on eurydice’s name as she vanishes (DEVASTATING)

- orpheus just sobbing by the gaping hole where eurydice’s gone as the theatre is in total silence (SHOOT ME ALREADY)

- the stage being set in the last minutes to match how it was when the show began. we’re really going to sing it again, aren’t we. there’s nothing else to be done

also do NOT get me started on the set and lighting design bc holy shit you guys it was PHENOMENAL. i so want to see it again to look for all the little details i inevitably missed

[apiswitchcraft]

greek god epithets (pt.2)

this post includes hades, persephone, aphrodite, hermes, apollo, artemis, dionysus, and hekate. for part one including zeus, hera, demeter, ares, athena, poseidon and hephaestus click here

HADES:

-PLOUTON= of wealth

-THEON CHTHONIUS= god of the underworld

-POLYSEMANTOR= ruler of many

-POLYDEGMON/POLYXENUS= host of many

-NECRODEGMON= receiver of the dead

-NECRON SOTER= savior of the dead

-ADESIUS= of grace

-STYGIUS= from the Styx

-URAGUS= of fire

-NIGER DEUS= the black god

PERSEPHONE:

-CHTHONIA= of the earth

-CARPOPHORUS= bringer of fruit

-SOTEIRA= the savior

-MEGALA THEA= the great Goddess

-HAGNE= the pure/holy one

-DAEIRA= the knowing one

-PRAXIDICE= the exacter of justice

-PROTOGONE= the first born

-BRIMO= the dreaded/vengeful

APHRODITE:

-URANIA= of heavenly/divine love

-PANDEMOS= common to all people

-MACHANITIS= the diviser/contriver

-EPISTROPHIA= she who turns to love

-CALASCOPIA= the spying/all seeing

-PSITHYRISTES= the whispering

-PRAXIS= of sexual action

-MELAENIS= the black

-SYMMACHIA= the ally in love

-APATURUS= the deceptive one

-NYMPHIA= the bridal

-MIGONTIS= of unions

-DORITIS= the bountiful

-MORPHO= of shapely form

-AMBOLOGERA= the postponer of old age

-NICEPHORUS= the bringer of victory

-HOPLISMENA= the armed

-AREIA= the warlike

-EUPLOEA= of fair voyages

-PONTIA= of the sea

-LIMENIA= of the harbor

-XENIA= of hospitality to foreigners

-PHILOMIDES= the laughter loving

-APHROGENEIA/APHROGENES= the foam born

-PHILOMMEDES= the genital loving

-CHRYSEA= the golden

-DIA= the golden/shining

-POTHON MATER= the mother of desire

-EUSTEPHANUS= the richly crowned/the well girdled

-EN KIPIS= of vegetation/agricultural fertility

HERMES:

-EPIMELIUS= keeper of the flocks

-OEOPOLUS= the shepherd

-AGORAEUS= of the market place

-DOIUS= of crafts/wiles

-ENAGONIUS= of the games

-PROMACHUS= the champion

-HERMENEUTES= the interpreter/translator (of the gods)

-TRICEPHALUS= the three headed

-DIACTORUS= the guide/messenger

-ATHANATUS DIACTORUS= the immortal guide

-ANGELUS MACARON/ANGELUS ATHANATON= messenger of the divine

-CHRYSORRHAPIS= of the golden wand

-CLEPSIPHRON= the deceiver

-MECHANIOTES= the trickster/contriver

-PHELETES= the thief/robber/rustler

-ARCHUS PHELETEON= leader of robbers/thieves

-POECILOMETES/POLYTROPUS= the wily

-DAIS HETAERUS= comrade of the feast

-CHARIDOTES= giver of joy

-CHARMOPHRON= the glad-hearted

-DOTOR EAON= giver of good things

-ACACETA= the guileless/gracious

-EUSCOPUS= the keen sighted/watchful

-CYDIMUS/ERICYDES/AGLAUS= the glorious/famous/splendid

-CRATUS/CRATERUS= the strong/mighty

-POMPAEUS= the guide

APOLLO:

-THEARIUS= of the oracle

-PROUPSIUS= the foreseeing

-CLERIUS= of distribution by lot

-CLEDONES= of omens

-HECATUS= the shooter from afar/the archer

-AGRAEUS= of the hunt/the hunter

-MUSAGETES= the leader of the Muses

-ULIUS= of good health

-PAEON= the healer

-ACESIUS= of healing

-ALEXICACUS= averter of evil/harm

-EPICURIUS= the succoring/helping

-BOEDROMIUS= the rescuer

-LYCIUS= of the wolves

-SMINTHEUS= of the mice

-DELPHINIUS= of the dolphin

-ACTIUS= of the foreshore

-THEOXENIUS= the god of foreigners

-ARGYEUS= of streets/public places/entrances to homes

-VIROTUTIS= the benefactor of humanity

ARTEMIS:

-AGROTERA= of the hunt

-PHERAEA= of the beasts

-ELAPHAEA= of the deer

-DAPHNAEA= of the laurel tree

-CEDREATIS= of the cedar tree

-CARYAE/CARYATIS= of the walnut tree

-LIMNAEA/LIMNATUS= of the lake

-HELEIA= of the marshes

-EURYNOME= of broad pastures

-LYCAEA= of the wolves

-LEUCOPHRYNE= of the white (bird)

-PAEDOTROPHUS= the nurse of children

-PHILOEIRAX= the friend of young girls

-ORSILOCHIA= the helper of childbirth

-SELASPHORUS/PHOSPHORUS= the light bringer

-SOLEIRA= the saviour

-HEMERASIA= she who soothes

-HYMNIA= of the hymns

-HEGEMORE= the leader of dances/choir

-ARISTE= the best/the excellent

-EUCLEIA= of good repute

-CALLISTE= the very beautiful

-BASILEIS= the princess

-HIEREIA= the priestess

-HEURIPPA= the horse finder

-PEITHO= the persuasive

-PYRONIA= of the fire

DIONYSUS:

-BROMIUS= the noisy/boisterous

-MAENOLES= the mad/raging

-NYCTELIUS= of the night

-LAMPTERUS= of the torches

-HESTIUS= of the feast

-PHALLEN= the phallic

-ANDROGYNUS= the androgynous (of sexuality, he bed all genders)

-PHLEON= the luxuriant

-STAPHYLITES= of the grape

-OMPHACITES= of the unripe grape

-LENAEUS= of the wine press

-THEOENUS= the god of wine

-AGATHUS DAEMON= the good spirit (as in a ghost, not a drink)

-OENOPS= the wine-dark

-ACRATOPHORUS= the bringer of mixed wine

-CISSEUS= of the ivy

-CITIOPHORUS= the ivy bearer

-ANTHION= of the flowers

-CISTOPHORUS= the basket bearer

-DIMETOR= twice born

-IRAPHIOTES= the goat child

-AEGOBOLUS= the goat slayer

-MELANAEGIS= of the black goat-skin

-ANTHROPORRAESTUS= the man slayer

-LYSIUS= of release

-ELEUTHEREUS= of liberation/freedom

-PSILAX= uplifted on wings

-SAOTES/SOTERIUS= the savior

-AESYMNETES= the dictator

-POLITES= the citizen

-MYSTES= of mysteries

-CHTHONIUS= of the earth

-MELPOMENUS= the singer/of the tragic plays

HEKATE:

-BRIMO= the dreaded/the vengeful

-CHTHONIA= of the earth

-DESPOINA= the goddess/our lady

-ENODIA= of the crossroads

-AENAOS= the eternal/the ever loving

-AGLAOS= the beautiful/the bright

-APOTROPAIA= the one that protects

-EROTOTOKOS= the bringer of love

-INDALIMOS= the beautiful

-KLEIDOUCHOS= the keeper of the keys of Hades

-KOUROTRPHOS= the nurse of children

-PHOSPHOROUS/LAMPADEPHOROUS= the bringer/bearer of light

-SOTERIA= the savior

-TRIMORPHE- the three formed

-TRIODIA/TRIODITIS= she who frequents crossroads

[the-cosmic-cauldron]

🪷 Healing Astrology: Chakra Astrology 🪷

ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴋʀᴀ ꜱʏꜱᴛᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱᴛʀᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ꜱɪɢɴꜱ

𝙐𝙨𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙎𝙪𝙣, 𝙈𝙤𝙤𝙣, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙍𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨. 𝙊𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙞𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙪𝙢.

Taurus/Capricorn 2nd/10th house

Root Chakra: Stability, security, grounding, survival, safety, belonging

Exercise: Weightlifting, Resistance Band, Body Weight Exercise, Isometric Exercises

Hobbies: Gardening, camping, foraging, pottery, painting or drawing, knitting, woodworking, cooking, baking, journaling, meditation, candle making, farming, fishing, musical instrument.

Yoga: Hatha, Yin, Restorative, Vinyasa Flow, Kundalini Yoga

Dance: Soul Motion, African Dance, Tai Chi Qigong, Barefoot Dance

Crystals: Black tourmaline, hematite, red jasper

Essential Oils: Cedarwood, patchouli, sandalwood, vetiver, frankincense, pine, cypress,

Colors: Red, brown, green, beige, grey

Music: Listen to 396hz sounds, ambient, classical music, nature sounds, meditative music, folk and acoustic music, world music, jazz and blue, chanting and mantras

Healing foods for you: sweet potatoes, onions, carrots, radishes, beans, eggs, nuts, lean meats, oats, apples, strawberries, tomatoes, pomegranate, dark leafy greens, brown rice, quinoa, avocado, bananas, dates, seaweed.

Teas and Supplements:Ginger, cayenne, dandelion root, ashwagandha, chamomile, lemon balm, passionflower, lavender, nettle, l-thetanine, gaba, CBD, lions mane, reishi mushroom, kava.

Key Components:

• Have a bedtime and a wake-up time

•Live below your means

• Create a savings for a rainy day

• Find ways to organize your space

•Carry a journal with you

• Make a list of your favorite foods so you can always have an idea of what you want to eat

• If you want to buy something make a goal before you can buy e.g do a ten minute run everyday for a week to be able to buy a new backpack.

• Go to spas, get a massage

Cancer/Scorpio 4th/8th

Sacral Chakra: Connection with others, pleasure, emotions, sexuality, sensuality, creativity

Exercise: Boxing, kick boxing, HIIT, Zumba, Running or sprinting, Weighted workouts, Plyometrics, Swimming

Hobbies: Writing fiction, poetry, journaling, painting or drawing, digital art, improvisational acting, music composition, jewelry making, filmmaking, podcasting, photography, mythology creation, cooking or baking, astrology or tarot, cosplay.

Yoga: Yin Yoga, Restorative Yoga, Tantric Yoga, Kundalini Yoga

Dance: Contemporary Dance, Argentine Tango, Salsa, Belly Dance, Bachata, Flamenco, Rumba, Pole Dance, Jazz Dance, Freestyle

Crystals: Amethyst, Rose Quartz, Moonstone, Black Turmaline, Smoky Quartz, Carnelian, Lepidolite, Citrine, Sodalite, Clear Quartz, Labradorite

Essential Oils: Rose, Ylang Ylang, Jasmine, Sandalwood, Lavender, Vanilla

Colors: Orange, Coral, Amber

Music: R&B, Soul, Jazz, Classical/Instrumental, Flamenco, Ambient/Chillout, World Music, Soft Pop, 582 hz, 639 hz, 432 hz, 852 hz

Healing Foods: Oranges, sweet potatoes, carrots, mangos, papayas, apricots, avocado, nuts and seeds, fatty fish, brown rice, oats, yogurt, kimchi, kefir, dark chocolate.

Tea’s and Supplements: Chamomile, rose, cinnamon, jasmine, hibiscus, ginger, lemon balm, holy basil, ashwagandha, maca, rhodiola rosea, vitamin D, l-thetanine, ginkgo biloba, St. John’s wort, 5-HTP

Key Componenets

• Giving yourself time to feel without judgment or rationalization

• Realizing that expressing yourself is not wrong and beginning to discern who can accept your expressive self

• Using creative outlets to express yourself

• Finding activities that is going to bring your focus and awareness

• Creating boundaries and values for relationships that enter your life

• Giving yourself time to self-love as well as express love

• Indulging in what you enjoy without guilt, enjoy your life

• Learning your manifestation technique

• Using your intuition and connecting to it more as a guide

• Learning to be instead of constant doing, learning your power is in being receptive to energies

• Nurturing yourself and others

Leo/Aries 1st/5th

Solar Plexus Chakra: Personal power, self-esteem, confidence, ability to take control of one’s life, identity, autonomy, inner strength

Exercise: Strength training, martial arts, HIIT, core focused workouts, functional fitness, group fitness class, adventure and outdoor activities, endurance training.

Hobbies: Public speaking, creative writing or journaling, diy projects or crafting, learning a new language, performance arts, volunteering or mentoring, gardening or sustainable, travel or outdoor adventures, music, learning a survival skill, networking.

Yoga: Power Yoga, Vinyasa Flow, Kundalini Yoga, Ashtanga Yoga, Hatha Yoga, Core Strengthening Yoga, Yin Yoga, Bhakti Yoga

Dance: Hip hop dance, contemporary dance, Latin dance, belly dance, jazz dance, ballet, freestyle dance, pole dance, Afro dance, burlesque dance, combat dance

Crystals: Citrine, Tigers Eye, Carnelian, Pyrite, Sunstone, Amber, Yellow Jasper, Garnet, Golden Topaz

Essential Oils: Bergamot, Lemon, Ginger, Peppermint, Rosemary, Clary Sage, Frankincense, Cedar-wood

Colors: Golden Yellow

Music: Pop music, hip hop and rap, rock and alternative rock, R&B, soul, EDM, reggae, heavy metal, inspirational, spiritual, Afro beats, 528 hz, 396 hz, 417 hz, 639 hz, 741 hz, 320 hz

Healing foods for you: Bananas, lemons, pineapples, yellow peppers, corn, brown rice, sweet potatoes, oats, ginger, turmeric, yogurt, kimchi, kombucha, nuts and seeds, eggs, lentils, chickpeas, oranges, mangoes

Teas and Supplements: Ginger, lemon balm, chamomile, peppermint, green matcha, rooibos, dandelion root, ashwagandha, rhodiola rosea, vitamin b complex, magnesium, turmeric, ginseng, probiotics, l-thetanine

Key Components

• Having self awareness and walking around with your head held high

•Living authentically to your true self, not conforming for others

• Taking action but also letting things be and relaxing

• Having trust and faith

• Leading with integrity and compassion

• Responding not reacting

• Aligning with your soul purpose

• The more you stay true to your values the easier success comes

• Being spiritual

Libra 7th

Heart Chakra: Love, compassion, forgiveness, emotional healing, relationships, unconditional love, empathy, inner peace.

Exercise: Fitness classes, walking, hiking.

Hobbies: Arts and crafts, cooking and baking, gardening, music and dance, reading and writing, animal companionship, sound therapy and singing, support groups

Yoga: Hatha Yoga, Restorative Yoga, Yin Yoga, Kundalini Yoga, Heart Opening

Dance: Contemporary, ballet, contact improvisation, tribal fusion belly dance, soul motion

Crystals: Rose Quartz, Rhodonite, Amazonite, Moonstone, Aquamarine

Essential Oils: Rose, Frankincense, Lavender, Ylang Ylang, Geranium

Colors: Green, Pink

Music: Classical music, pop music, ambient, folk, jazz, 639 hz, 528 hz

Healing foods: Kale, spinach, broccoli, avocado, kiwi, cucumber, nuts and seeds, blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, dark chocolate, salmon, sardines

Teas and supplements: Chamomile, rose petals, hibiscus, magnesium, zinc, b6, b12

Key Components

• Understanding of both yourself and others

• Staying humble and aware of both your strengths and weaknesses

• Healing from your past wounds

• Practicing forgiveness and giving others space to forgive

• Showing love unconditionally

• Practicing self love both on the physical and emotional level

• Discerning who is pouring love back into you

• Strive towards wholeness in your interpersonal relationships

• Seeing others as an extension of yourself

Gemini/Sagittarius 3rd/9th

Throat Chakra: Communication, self expression, speaking one’s truth, creativity, clear and authentic expression, verbal and non-verbal, honesty, open communication

Exercise: Strength training, team sports, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, Muay Thai.

Hobbies: Creative writing and journaling, blogging or vlogging, theater or improv classes, stand up comedy, painting and drawing, photography, public speaking groups, debate clubs, musical instrument, song writing, book club, volunteering

Yoga: Vinyasa Yoga, Kundalini Yoga, Bhakti Yoga, Hatha Vlog

Dance: Contemporary dance, salsa, ballroom, modern dance, ballet, contact improvisation, kizomba

Crystals: Sodalite, Aquamarine, Lapis Lazuli, Blue Lace Agate

Essential Oils: Peppermint, frankincense, eucalyptus, lavender

Colors: Blue, Turquoise, Light Blue, Lavender

Music: Indie, jazz, experimental rock, electronic music, post punk, folk, alternative rock, neo soul, acoustic, indie folk, 639 hz, 741 hz

Healing foods: Fresh herbs, vibrant vegetables, salmon, chia seeds, spinach, kale, pumpkin seeds, walnuts, dark chocolate, avocado

Teas and Supplements: Chamomile, peppermint, rosemary, omega-3-fatty acids, b -complex vitamins, l-thetanine, rhodiola rosea

Key Components

• Living authentically to who you are

• Being able to clearly communicate and also actively listen to others

• Actions and words align

• You allow your ideas to flow, write them down and execute

• Focused on personal growth

• You care only what you think of yourself

Pisces / 12th house

Third Eye Chakra: Intuition, perception, inner vision, spiritual insight, inner vision, spiritual connection, emotional awareness, visionary experiences

Exercise: Tai Chi, Qiong, Martial Arts

Hobbies: Journaling, Creative writing, poetry, nature observation, bird watching, art therapy or visual arts, meditation, reading, cooking or baking, gardening or plant care, traveling or exploring new places, listening to music or playing an instrument

Yoga: Yin Yoga, Restorative Yoga, Kirpalu Yoga, Bhakti Yoga, Yoga Nidra, Minful Vinyasa Yoga, Hatha Yoga

Dance: Ecstatic dance, belly dance, contemporary dance, qiong or tai chi inspired, sacred dance, trance dance, improvisational dance, chakra dance, butoh

Crystals: Amethyst, Lapis Luzuli, Labradorite, Moonstone, Clear Quartz, Sodalite, Fluorite, Lepidolite, Celestite, Lolite, Angelite, Kyanite, Selenite

Essential Oils: Frankincense, sandalwood, lavender, clary sage, patchouli, rosemary, geranium, juniper berry, myrrh, lemon, jasmine

Colors: Indigo Blue, Purple, Deep Blue, Violet, White

Music: Ambient music, new age, world music, chill wave, folk and acoustic, indie, electronic, classical music, chanting, binaural beats, 396 hz, 417 hz, 528 hz, 639 hz, 741 hz, 4-8hz, 8-12hz, 0.5-4 hz,

Healing Foods: Spinach, kale, Swiss chard, broccoli, arugula, nuts and seeds, blueberries, avocado, pineapple, bananas, oranges, apples, brown rice, oats

Teas and Supplements: Chamomile, holy basil, peppermint, green tea, Yerba mate, ashwagandha, omega 3 fatty acids, rhodiola rosea, b vitamins, DHA, l-thetanine

Key Components:

• Grounded in your intuition

• Writing down your insights

• Deeper connection to spirituality

• Living mindfully

• Take your time, slowing down

• Praying, talking to your spirit guide, connecting to your higher self

• Meditating

• Making peace within your life

• Spending time to yourself to nourish your vessel

• Affirming yourself

Virgo/Aquarius 6th/11th

Crown Chakra: Spiritual enlightenment, unity, higher consciousness, inner peace, non-attachment, meditation and contemplation, sense of purpose

Exercise: Tai Chi, Qiong, Martial Arts, Mindful Pilates

Hobbies: Journaling, art and painting, writing, music and sound healing, dance, hiking, gardening, nature photography, tide pool exploration, spiritual group, attending ceremonies, volunteering, reading, attending workshops and retreats

Yoga: Bhakti Yoga, Kirtan Yoga, Kundalani Yoga, Jnana Yoga, Raja Yoga, Vinyasa Yoga, Yin Yoga

Dance: Sacred Dance, Sufi Whirling, Gurdjieff Movements, Kathak, Bharatanatyam, Flamenco, Butoh

Crystals: Clear Quartz, Amethyst, Sodalite, Moonstone, Lapis Lazuli, Selenite, Citrine, Turquoise

Essential Oils: Frankincense, Sandalwood, Lavender, Rose, Patchouli, Myrrh, Bergamot

Colors: Violet, Purple, White, Silver, Gold, Lavender

Music: New age, ambient, world music, chanting, mantras, tribal, indigenous music, classical Indian music, ambient electronic, 432 hz, 528 hz, 639 hz, 741 hz, 852 hz, 963 hz

Healing Foods: Berries, coconut, apples, leafy greens, sweet potatoes, nuts and seeds, brown rice

Tea and Supplements: Holy Basil, chamomile, peppermint, green tea, lavender, omega 3 fatty acids, rhodiola rosea, ashwagandha, ginkgo biloba, vitamin d, melatonin

Key Components

• Clearing your mind through mediation

• Writing and journaling in order to empty your brain

• Using your wisdom in practical ways

• Writing down your spiritual insights

• Trusting your gut

• Learning the art of detachment

• Living in the present moment

• Spiritual connection that allows you to view life in multiple ways

• Healthy body and feel energized for the day

• An inner peace

• You practice gratitude

• You extend yourself to others in a helpful and compassionate way

[celesterayel]

midnight secrets | luke castellan

pairing : luke castellan x nyx!reader

request: can you write about luke and a daughter of nyx? <33

IN WHICH — he knows only one true thing: you put all the stars to shame.

"now I just wanna stay here and fall into midnight. Want nobody else now, only you, feel right" - a.

w.c. 1.9k

warning(s) : soft ゜✭・.

✩ ‧₊˚ author's note can you tell when I was younger I had fallen in love with the night and the idea of it? cuz I did. very much so, I'd say. also water, always loved the concept of it--the fragility and softness of it, like a balm against my skin.

long, long ago you learned of the sea of stars and their stories, from which rose their beginning and end. the stars were beings of heat and fire; they were beautifully mortal and alive.

they danced upon the domain of zeus; showering the sky with lights when night fell and befitting the world with their glow.

but as the sands of time bade the next and the corners of the sky dulled, the toll of living and breathing became too much. and so in the vast space of nothingness among the empty silence, the stars took on the duty of protecting a human and god: following where they might go, to every lifetime and universe as if they could erase the tragedy of the divine that swam through their blood.

and when each stars’ child died and their soul followed its ache to finally rest, the star would fall out of the sky in a blazing trail of destruction and divinity to taste freedom one last time and meet them in the next life.

there had been something raw and gruesomely alive about the stars when you learned of the story and so everyday, you’d trapeze the mortal line between night and sleep to watch them in absolution. you yearned to find an answer as to why? why would such immortal and imposing celestial beings like the stars willingly ruin themselves for us humans, for us beings that hungered for war and found pain like a symphony?

you learned your answer when you met luke castellan, your own tragic star who would follow you when the blood of the gods stopped flowing through your veins and your existence came to its calamitous end.

you had spent most of your life curiously confused as if there was something missing that made you feel broken; a piece of the puzzle that made drizzles seem like hurricanes and everything seem like an unsolvable mystery, constantly itching at your skin as if you just needed to pull back the layers and scratch.

and then, one day it stopped.

the buzzling in your head faded and you seem to finally just be.

luke castellan was the rain before the storm, the pain before the raw scream; every fatal, holy thing that meant absolution and destruction in the same manner. a price you were willing to pay if it meant loving him.

and you did–love him that is. every part of you ached with love for your golden boy who had weathered storms like they were his prison and had wanted like it was a fatal wound that might never heal.

you first met the golden castellan boy nearly a year after coming to camp where you were claimed to be a child of the night and stars, the goddess nyx; an absolution of divinity that you would be every dark, enchanting thing he would know. you were the only thing that would allow the hurt in him to finally cease its dance and just allow him to simply be.

while the blood of the gods flowed through your veins, the peace only night could bring was your cover. it was every paceless sleep spent at the docks praying to your mother for one more star to keep its dance, it was heaven and heartbreak in the same measure.

when both man and monster fell to slumber, it was the knowing that eventually everyone would cease their dance sooner or later.

people would watch you like you were a painting come to life as the moon basked you in waves of starlight and the forest came to life in your presence. when the night grew tired of its waiting and the stars lost their way, it was you coaxing them back to life to the restlessness all beings underwent.

you were a creature of presence and peaceful destruction, misfortune and desire–every loud, unsaintly thing the brown-eyed, dimpled boy had thought.

and he was your exact opposite: bold, bright and charming like the sun. it was as if hermes had threaded gold through his veins and ichor had poured forth to create whatever celestial thing luke was. a type of burn only the sun could bring when you went off to your death.

the night had settled upon the camp long ago and so nothing but the loudness of silence and pensive dreams continued its echo. except for the child of the night and her sun who seem to find balance between the bumbling and the glow of the soft moon.

luke grabbed your hand and threaded his fingers, clutching you tightly as if you’d disappear with the breeze and never return.

he guided you to the docks where the river reflected back the divinity of the night sky and lapped gentle waves against the shore. you sat side by side, silently basking in the quiet.

breaking the silence, he asked, “what’s wrong?”

what was wrong? you didn’t quiet know. there was just a sort of cloak of discomfort that had settled over you that you couldn’t seem to shake off.

“do you ever wonder what’ll happen next?”

you settled his hand in your lap and grabbed it like it was a lifeline, tethering your aching body back to the living when all you wanted was to fade. he only rubbed the back of your knuckle, soothing the skin and the bone-deep itch all at once.

you turn to gaze at him, and suddenly you were jealous of the moon and how it shined so beautifully on him like it was made for him to bask under.

he turns to look at you, “before no. now…every moment, i begin to think what makes us so different from humans that we suffer tragedy while they can live how they please and without the cruelty of the gods. I think about what will happen when i finally pass on from this life to wherever my soul may go.”

you don’t think you could handle leaving this world after him. it was a type of pain that would kill you inside out, you decided. you knew it.

there is vulnerability in him that speaks out, “and then i dream that none of that matters because someday you and i make it out of here. out of this place and away from gods and monsters.”

you only grab his other hand and the one you currently have trapped and place a kiss upon each of the palms, embedding all the affection you have for him in that moment. it is something so humanely lived that the world stops moving and the gods see a love for the ages.

he plucks you up from his side and merely places you in his lap, wrapping you tightly in arms like there is no war spreading and reaching it’s claws from the horizon toward the two of you.

you simply close your eyes, soaking in the boy who's holding you like you are a divine being.

“open your eyes and show me the stars, pretty girl.”

all he can think is the moon and stars, which you've fallen in love with so many times has nothing against you. and suddenly your staring the biggest star in the face, wondering if in another life you were the moon and he was the sun king.

but when he kisses you, you realize no. he is simply the star that will follow you when your bodies turn to ash, being picked up by the breeze. and there is only the secret that luke castellan would allow himself a thousand years of destruction if it meant following you where ever you go.

you two are simply a star and his love.

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 1

NEXT >

pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: Leon, a paladin of the temple who became a disillusioned oathbreaker, returns from years of war with a noble title and shattered faith. Once devoted to the Saintess who healed him, Leon's admiration has twisted into repressed desire—feelings he could never express, tainted by guilt and shame. Now a celebrated hero, he’s drawn back not to the kingdom’s praises, but to the chance of one last glimpse of you to move on with his life.

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 14K (i am so sorry)

warnings: descriptions of war, suggestive themes, slow burn so it's only sensual for now, religious shame and guilt

disclaimer: this work contains Catholic imagery that is a part of rofan manhwa worldbuilding tropes. "the saintess" trope itself isn't a saint in accordance with Catholic traditions, it's just a character archetype that developed over time in the isekai genre and means more of a "holy maiden chosen by god" and "healer" with "divine powers" protected by the "church" of that specific fictional world. however, i did my best to do my research. this work has nothing to do with Christianity or any other religions and is totally fictional. please keep that in mind as you proceed!

author's note: mandalhoerian goes back to her reader era! please say thank you to @chesue00 for allowing me to use her artwork in this fic, I wrote a whole scene that depicts the art piece which was the whole inspiration for this 3-day frothing at the mouth frenzy!!!!

now, Sacrosanct is a blend of tropes i love in rofan manhwa/webtoon/mangas that are my favorite, so prepare for misunderstandings galore in the future 😭 but leon specifically is inspired by malthus from hilda furacao. which just means yearning and sexual repression. re2!leon to re4!leon pipeline is just the sweet commoner knight to cold duke of the north pipeline in manhwa, and if you understand what that means, im personally sending you a virtual kiss LMAO Happy reading, I hope yall like it!

don't forget this is the first part only.... heh. the template credit

🌀READ ON AO3 !

The first blush of dawn trickles through the gaps in heavy drapes, bathing your chambers in apricot hues. Crisp echoes of rustling silk resonate as you delicately lift the mask from its velvet perch. Bathed in daybreak's golden light, coloured glass chips embedded into the mask shimmer in lost constellations. The caress of velvety smooth fabric against your skin sends shivers dancing down your spine as you tie on, freshly laundered linen smell intertwining with lingering scent of last night’s incense used in nightly prayers, hints of lavender meet smoky frankincense.

Your gaze shifts to the mirror, the mask now concealing your mortal features, intricate filigree swirling across your face in an ethereal web and tiny crystals dotted along the lines sparking like stars. Taking a deep breath to stand a little taller and square your shoulders, you reach up to adjust your veil, ensuring no errant strands of hair are visible. The gauzy fabric falls in diaphanous folds around you, the whispers arising with your every movement the only sounds in the stillness of dawn.

Though the sacred mask and veil hide your earthly form, they cannot conceal the weakness of the human soul in your eyes.

The gateway to your wishes is wide open, one closer look is all one needs to see how you yearn to walk unencumbered through the gardens, to feel the caress of sunlight on your bare skin.

But the edicts are clear - when you leave these chambers, the Saintess must be fully shrouded, an exalted vessel and naught else.

You amble down to the sacred chapel for morning prayers before breaking your fast - a custom enacted in hushed reverence. As you descend stone steps weathered by time, you're swaddled in the scent of smoldering incense permeating from open timber doors, trailing invisible veins into the invigorating morning air. Inside, familiar faces of fellow sisters and brothers offer gentle nods of greeting as you find solace before the altar, sinking onto the cushioned bench tailored specifically for you, in the name of quiet contemplation and prayerful kneeling.

In honor of Ethelion, your one true Lord, silence descends—a pause amplified by its gravitas. Then with an authority that makes everything else seem trivial in comparison, there's the priest: his directing is ripples on still water reaching out towards infinity—sound molded into sacred words known only too well to heart.

The humming drone of faith-soaked chants serves as a welcome breather from the constant ponderings on war and sacrifice that’s been plaguing you for weeks. Those gnawing realities always sneak up and nibble away at your moments of peace, but here in this church, Ethelion’s mercy reigns supreme—the refuge is heard in the choruses belted out emphatically, slicing through any weighty thoughts, their lyrics loftier than any worldly worry.

As the sun stands at its zenith above and sends shards of golden light filtering through the stained glass canvases, the ceremony unwinds. It feels like saying goodbye too soon amidst vibrant echoes of hymns that grip onto ancient brick walls built upon stories spanning centuries, currents of history carrying their inevitable fade. Here, they stand still—if only for a while—pinned by lingering notes lost in air rich with incense burn and oakwood musk coupled with memories tasting of sacramental wine still clinging to tongues.

Stepping into the courtyard, you're swathed in a prism of pastel hues—blossoms unveiling their sugared whispers to the inviting warmth of a lingering breeze. You catch wind of their fragrance; it hooks you, a blend of sweet floral undertones and spring's renewed vigor carrying history within its essence, and you cannot wait to check on your lily garden.

Children dart amongst looming pews, mischief gleaming in their eyes as they engage in hushed games, shards of laughter echoing softly around the otherwise hallowed space. The sight tugs at a wisp of nostalgia, memories when life was simpler, less layered with expectations and daunting futures.

The youngest ones eyeing your departure don't miss a beat. Like mini warriors possessed by unruly spirits, they break rank from the congregation to run after you—a whirlwind of giggles and shouts lacing the air. Their excitement thrums against your skin, buzzing like electricity—an unexpected surge that leaves behind a ghostly imprint.

Yet before they can reach you or even conflict with stone-faced paladins on guard duty, an adult hand restrains them. Respectful bows font towards you as if to acknowledge an unspoken understanding—a solemn line between what is allowed and what isn't negotiated under sacred roofs and watchful gazes.

The breaking of your fast happens solely in the intimacy of your chambers, where you can abandon the weariness of your mask.

Fresh fruits and bread baked by the monks in the kitchens await you on a simple wooden table, their colors vibrant against the muted tones of your chamber. The apples gleam like polished rubies, their skins taut and inviting, while clusters of plump grapes spill over from the plate. The bread, golden and crusty, emits a warm aroma that fills the air with comfort; its texture promises a satisfying chew that will sustain you through the day’s trials.

You pour yourself a glass of tea, steam curling up like ethereal wisps as you set it beside the fruits, its sweetness rendered by generous dollops of honey that transform each sip into liquid amber. As you bite into a slice of bread, the crust crackles under your teeth, giving way to a soft and airy interior that melts on your tongue. It’s simple fare—yet it nourishes not just your body but also stirs echoes of childhood memories spent in the kitchens, where laughter mingled with the scent of baked goods.

The weight of your impending sacred duty hangs over you like storm clouds heavy with rain.

It's not just a responsibility; it's an anchor dragging you into the depths of despair, each step forward to navigate it is like wading through molten lead.

You peer through the frost-kissed window, and the courtyard below unfolds like a battlefield before a decisive clash. Figures clad in armor move with the grace of dancers and the determination of warriors bound for glory or doom. The pieces of gleaming plate mail reflects the pale light, casting fractured rainbows on the cobbled ground.

The gleam of virgin armor, polished to a high sheen, is nothing more than a facade.

It's an ornament, untouched by the brutality of combat—it’s their holy calling that these paladins embrace, not the bloody stain of war. And yet, you sit there on your throne and hesitate to send even one amongst them into the fray for your crown's sake.

How easy would it be to fool yourself into believing that time has frozen, and these young knights in training are simply rehearsing under the guise of some distant uncertainty. But your eyes have skimmed those sealed parchment letters, their inky truths seeping more dread into an already strained air; you're not as naive as all that. The chilling certainty of the Holy War lurks just on the other side of these weathered stone walls—it's only a matter of moments before a gasping messenger dispatches reality like storm clouds breaking open.

Regardless of how fervently you pray or how deep your self-sacrifice runs, it won’t alter this predetermined destiny.

Even as you grip your blessed rosary so tightly it leaves hardened impressions in your palm's soft flesh. Even when unshed tears blur your vision, scalding hot yet stubbornly refusing to fall free, and a knot of shame twists low within your stomach like vile poison—an uncomfortable squirming inside that is almost visceral. Your journey forward leaves much to be desired–mired with dark ambiguities, where faith resembles something more akin to a clumsy blind groping in the vast unknown.

Your heart twinges—a raw ache—at the sight of blond hair all too familiar.

"Leon," escapes in a murmur from between your chapped lips against the icy window pane—the cold seeping into your skin; tiny tendrils numbing any sensation away.

The young paladin has blossomed into a towering figure since his personal guard duty by your side the last month, his frame enveloped in the armor that’s bigger than his still-growing form. The sight of him clad in battle gear is a poignant one, for the metal plates seem to engulf him rather than adorn him. He looks anything but menacing, sweet consideration towards those he’s sparring with, despite clad head-to-toe in battle gear, with such carefree confidence that threatens to split your aching chest.

In a split second, on the other side of that cold glass wall; Leon’s focus latches onto your unveiled and unmasked presence like a sunflower bending towards light.

It's as if you've breathed some forbidden word into the wind - an inaudible gasp tingles the silence and ripples off his lips. He stammers mid-battle stance, frozen under some unseen celestial hammer, scorched into oblivion.

You step back hurriedly, yanking your veil down over your face once more; it's rough underneath your fingertips, but nothing compared to the turmoil swirling inside you. His own stunned gaze falters, tugs itself away as if burned - damn those beautiful eyes! But that moment costs him dearly as his rival lunges and he crumbles under the assault, and your heart won’t stop racing, undeniable fondness with a foreign heat creeping up your neck.

Leon bounces back from the blow almost instantly, staggering back to his feet like it's second nature; like he hasn't just had the wind knocked out of him and seems more rattled than before.

His opponent’s moves are unforgiving, one after another until Leon's guard slips. With a resounding thud that sends shudders up your spine, Leon gets slammed into the dirt floor.

His helmet soars through the air with an eerie ring that echoes around the courtyard, tumbling to rest at the boots of a nearby Paladin whose gaze is stuck on Leon’s prone form - filled with something close to pity but still masked by pride. A comrade extends a roughened hand, helping Leon upright, his comforting pat lingering just a moment too long on his shoulder blade as if unsure whether to leave or stay for strength. Jovially yet sternly, the older knight cuffs Leon on his arm, gauntlet striking armor with a dull clang.

As you retreat from your voyeuristic post at the window when reverberating tolls from the grand temple's bells signal practice time has run its course, there's an adrenaline rush buzzing under your skin even though you were merely watching. The upcoming blessing ceremony casts its shadow over you – all consuming and much larger than life; leaves no space for silly fancies.

Sunset paints the temple grounds in a bronzed hue as Leon treks alone back to the barracks, his mind adrift. Training bruises throb under his armor, though it's the sting of his fractured pride that truly wounds him.

None of it matters in the face of the glimpse of divinity he accidentally caught.

He nearly bends with the weight of it, an abyss of greed that he fears his brothers-in-arms can sense infecting his spirit. It maligns his growth as a paladin; he's sure Ethelion sees the invasive avarice lurking beneath skin and bone, an illicit truth residing within him nipping at him from the inside like a woodworm.

The seed of which had been planted over a decade ago, in these lily gardens, in the healing hands of a young Saintess whose presence and unmasked face lingered in his heart and grew into an infatuation with her holy touch.

He was but a boy back then, brittle and broken in body, his fragile skin stretched thin over bony limbs, rife with illness that stole the color from his cheeks and the air from his lungs. His very life seemed held together by prayers of his parents alone, fluttering like leaves in the wind. He'd stumbled into the garden by accident, chasing a stray cat with his siblings, not realizing he was lost.

Yet fate cast her sanguine smile and Ethelion himself turned an eye on him, sending the Saintess his way.

A warm glow drew him further through the bushes, and there you stood, cloaked in a robe that made your radiance seem as if it were born from moonlight. His eyes should have burned upon landing on you unmasked, youthful face that unmistakably belonged to a human girl of his age and not that of Ethelion in the flesh, but instead, his lungs expanded with an unknowable strength because of the divine power around you, an easiness that made it feel like he was breathing for the first time.

Not met with punishment for such audacity—he was instead gifted healing through your sacred touch–and got left laced with a perpetual yearning, sickness eradicated from his being and infused life onto starved limbs.

A lesson was disclosed to him later on when he’d become aware of himself, about why the Saintess had to be veiled.

His desires knew no end. It was for her spiritual purity that the Saintess could not be seen unmasked or reveal herself to mortals. Could one imagine the consequences of men akin to him lying eyes upon such magnificence, gracing skin intended only for Ethelion's touch? The impressionable child that he was had bloomed into an adult consumed by her divinity, hell-bent on basking in it all life long. Surely kingdoms would fold, as mortals were bound to disrupt natural balance attempting to seize the maiden of god.

So, when you appeared in the tower window today, he was overcome with a sensation so powerful it felt like angelic apparitions traced their wings down his back.

Divine grace embodied, shining forth in ways he couldn't articulate.

An inexplicable need arose from his bones for him to go to you, throw himself down in worship, confess sins one by one and receive penance:

In the hush of many nights when the temple halls were empty, he would wander like a ghost and always come back to kneel at the feet of Ethelion, daring to touch the cushions before the altar where you prayed, his fingers lingering where only your robes should caress. The audacity of his gaze tracing the delicate embroidery of your veil when he stood guard by your side, seeking to unveil something meant solely for Ethelion’s eyes, was but one of his many transgressions against the sanctity that cloaked you…

His form of worship seemed askew, borne more out of desire than devoutness; staining the starkly white fabric of his duty with its off-colour ardour.

He could never allow you, the revered Saintess, to know about this sinful sentiment dwelling within him; tarnishing every sweet memory associated with you.

The fantasy he harbored diminished his image, trendlessly etched as an obedient paladin's plight – but for him, you represented something significantly more profound. To even admit how dreams featuring you bewitchingly bathed in grace tainted his oath of celibacy would risk jeopardizing the hope invested in recognizing his service towards Ethelion.

The desire to earn the highest recognition, a Paladin's title and acceptance of his fealty to protect you as such – got increasingly tangled in a visceral wanting lost somewhere between sacrilege and worship that left a devout hunger echoing within him for your sake.

To satisfy this, he threw himself fiercely into arduous training channels to strengthen both his body and mind with every challenging day that went by - striving ceaselessly with dreams of deserving a place by your side.

Now, he stands precipitously on the verge; holding on desperately to this undisclosed confession – harboring a stolen glance of you from earlier as a secret talisman.

How could he go into the Holy War with his brothers now, knowing he'd seen beneath your veil and… Felt.

“You seem troubled, Sir Leon.”

Leon doesn’t dare turn; a jagged lick of dread splinters down his spine. He recognizes that voice—how could he not when it haunts his dreams night after night? Instead, he stares into nothingness, rooted to the ground, his mind unable to process that you're speaking to him.

But he does turn, finding you standing serenely beneath an archway covered with tangled fragrant vines in the Temple's back garden.

Your presence fills Leon with equal parts awe and unease, as if Ethelion himself is shaming him from above for desiring what should be beyond mortal reach.

Yet your countenance remains unchanged, unmarred by his inner turmoil. The mask stays in place, an extension of your divinity—only now, Leon swears that beneath it, your eyes are smiling at him.

Leon stands within the cool shadow of the ancient temple, its weathered stones holding an age-old embrace that wraps around him like a cloak. The air is thin with the delicate scent of lilies that’s wafting towards him from the garden—from you, and outside, where sunlight filters through the leafy canopy, you stand amidst color. Your garments catch the sunset, casting a shimmer that mirrors the beauty of your surroundings.

The difference between his shadowed presence and your radiant figure is a shaming from above, showing Leon your place in His divine light while he remains shrouded in sin.

The clinking of Leon's loose armor rings as he lowers himself to one knee before you, “Forgive me, Saintess. I did not mean to disturb your meditations.”

The rustle of silk heralded your approach, brushing against the cool stone floor like a gentle breeze stirring a field of wildflowers. He inhales sharply, his breath hitching in his throat as the fragrance of lilies envelops him.

You stop before him, your robes cascading around you like a mirage of opal waves, he is captivated by an urge so primal that it sends a flush of heat to his cheeks and makes his palms sticky; he longs to press his lips to the delicate fabric that seems to breathe with divine grace.

“Please rise, Sir Leon. I saw you training today. Your skills are formidable.”

His pride swelled silent and strong within his chest – a sudden weight that could unbalance him more than any physical blow ever could.

"Your words honor me greatly," he manages to speak to the stones at his feet, even after he is back up at his feet.

"Yet you seem to have much on your mind."

He cannot meet your eyes; it feels overwhelming to face such beauty and concern directed solely at him.

"Pardon me, that was a silly question, wasn't it? Of course you have much on your mind. You're about to ride into battle. Such thoughts are not easy to bear. Do you wish to talk about it?"

"It's not my place to trouble you with such things, Saintess. They will soon be far from here, and you will be safe in the Temple.”

He glances at you, and the look in your eyes is enough to make him forget how to breathe. It’s a blend of curiosity and tenderness; an innocence that nearly pierces through his mask and grazes the wicked depths of his heart.

You tilt your head, much like a bird contemplating a worm, and gently ask, "Would you indulge my curiosity and share one worry with me?"

It's an impossibly generous gesture, for you to extend this small piece of yourself to him in the middle of your meditations. Leon's teeth ache at the sweetness of it, at your kindness that extends even to him.

“I’m doubting my worthiness to serve,” he confesses unceremoniously. “I train relentlessly, but I lack the innate spark my brothers were born with. It's as if... as if I'm play-acting at being a Paladin.”

Those aren't the only doubts that torment him—but the ones he can actually say out loud without burning at the stake for.

"Do you remember the day we met, Sir Leon?" you begin, clasping your hands and turning around to face the gardens, the gentle breeze is making your veil flutter.

Leon nods, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. Even so many years later, the memory still has the power to stir his soul, churning something in his chest that makes it hard to think straight.

"It seems like it was yesterday that a young boy came stumbling into the garden, barely able to stand up, and looked me dead in the face. What do you think I saw in him?"

He always assumed the Saintess would have forgotten such a brief encounter, yet it was etched firmly into his memory and to hear it spoken aloud has his pulse miss a couple beats.

"Do you think I saw weakness as he lay gasping in the dirt? Or did I perhaps see an innocent curiosity that was easily swept up by the cruelty of this world and tamed into obedience? Or maybe I saw something else entirely.”

He shakes his head, trying to make sense of your words. It sounds like you're making a statement, but it's not clear which part you agree with.

"Tell me, Sir Leon. What is a spark? Does it come to life, or can it be nurtured from the smallest ember of resolve?" you whisper, fingers trembling as they ascend, tracing a path as delicate as a petal's fall, nearing his cheek with hesitant affection.

He’s paralyzed when your touch indeed lands instead of drifting away.

Your fingers linger, tracing the curve of his jawline with such gentleness, demure and awkward; and the pressure of it makes his skin sing, sparks dancing along every inch.

It's barely a caress, but he feels it in his bones—this ache—that swells and burns, a fire set alight inside his chest that’s on the precipice of consuming him whole.

A whole-body shiver breaks free, but you remain unfazed—your hand is still there, stroking his flesh with such tenderness; soft against the corner of his jaw.

"One is not born to greatness, one achieves it." You're calm, yet firm, a voice that commands respect. He's reminded of the many times he heard you deliver blessings on high ceremonies. There's something about the cadence of your words that pulls at the strings of his soul, drawing him in closer—deeper. "What truly matters is the conviction behind your actions. And, Sir Leon, you may not see it yet. But there's a spark inside your chest that burns brighter than any candle. Don't let anyone dampen it, for it shall shine a path forward unto others and bring glory to our land."

You pull away, leaving a void in your wake. Leon finds himself wanting to reach after you, wanting nothing more than for your skin to keep pressing against his, for your warmth to bleed through his own and ease the burden that's crushing him.

He wants to kiss those fingers that have—

Red hot shame enough to set firewoods aflame shoots straight to settle on his cheeks, flushing them as a wicked feeling sinks in his stomach, a heavy sinking pit. The meaning of your words resounds in his heart like a thunderclap after the lightning that was your touch, your holy words washing over him like a balm—or a warning.

He's brought back to reality abruptly with the harsh cackle of metal against stone as a group of paladins walk by and salute him and bow for the Saintess, pulling him out of a daze as he greets them. Their voices seem distant, faces a blur. It's a miracle Leon manages a nod at them in acknowledgment.

He finds his tongue eventually, his face still aflame with embarrassment at the realization of being in front of the Saintess, an idol of the Church, a woman he thinks of during his late-night ruminations, and still feels guilty for.

"T-thank you, Saintess,” his voice wavers, trembling even with those two simple words that leave him shaking, stirred to the core as if a sudden storm just swept him away to sea, and you are the shore he longs to return to. He fears he might drown in the depths of those beautiful eyes, pulled under by the current.

"It is I who should be thanking you, Sir Leon. You're risking everything to ensure peace for our realm."

Your words wrap around him like a hug, holding him in place while also offering a moment of comfort, like coming home from a long trip away. He treasures those precious few seconds, committing them to memory. But you are a Saintess, not a fellow knight, and there are no hugs or handshakes in his world.

"I'll see you in the ceremony," you continue, before leaving Leon with his heaving chest and a pressure knotting deep in his stomach, walking back to the serenity of the Temple, robes fluttering around your feet like snow settling over frozen earth.

Once you have disappeared into the confines of the temple, he lets out a deep breath. His heart is still beating wildly; the memory of your fingertips brushing his skin is seared into his flesh, an indelible mark that cannot be scrubbed away. He is unable to shake the feeling that he has committed some unspeakable sin; his body a living, breathing violation of his vows.

Leon washes himself in the barracks' bathing chambers, and as he stares at the naked flesh beneath steaming water, his thoughts turn to the ritual that awaits him. In the heat and sweat of it, he wonders if you can wash him clean, baptize his tainted heart.

His sweat trickles down his back, leaving shimmering beads of perspiration in its wake, he can feel each droplet sliding down like a ghostly caress overheated skin glistening under the light of flickering candles; his head is thrown back, and wet hair is slicked away from his face as he reclines in the wooden bathtub. He reaches up to trace the lines of his jaw with trembling fingers that hover just above his skin, remembering what it felt like to have your touch there. He closes his eyes and lets the steam envelop him; he feels the heaviness in his groin, thick and full between his thighs.

In this moment, he is alone with his guilt and shame; but underneath all that self-recrimination there lies a deeper emotion he dares not acknowledge: hope.

The blessing ceremony unfolds with the break of dawn the next day.

Rows of paladins stand at attention, forming a formidable barrier outside the towering chapel. You make your way up the marble steps, flanked by your retinue, and lift your veiled face to behold the regimented paladins before you. Their armor catches the sunlight in a dazzling display, swords resting peacefully in their scabbards. Every single one of them is an anonymous guardian, faces obscured by identical helmets and billowing white capes adorned with a shimmering blue starburst emblem emblazoned on their chest plates.

Upon reaching the summit of the staircase, the massive oak doors swing wide open, revealing an expanse filled with devout worshippers immersed in fervent prayer. Bathed in hues of multicolored light filtering through intricate stained-glass windows, their worshiping forms kneel upon the cool marble floor. Sunbeams caress their bowed heads like a halo, creating a mosaic of ethereal radiance that plays upon their serene features.

The hush that descends as you cross the threshold is whispered benedictions through the hall, enshrouding all present in a solemn embrace as you draw nearer to the altar at its heart.

At the altar stands the head priest, garbed in ceremonial robes—the deep hues of white and gold intertwining with ancient symbols. His palms are raised towards the statue of Ethelion, supplication etched into every line of his face. Before him sits an empty altar table covered in rich crimson velvet trimmed with gold brocade, and at its center rests a silver bowl filled with holy water, reflecting shards of light like fragments of a broken mirror.

Beside the basin stands a golden chalice and a sharp blade gleaming ominously.

You sink into a curtsy before the priest—your knees grazing the cool stone floor—as he intones your full title: "I salute the Beloved of Ethelion, Avatar of Eternity and Renewal,” before he gently beckons you to rise.

Taking your place before the altar, you feel the weight of an entire kingdom resting upon your shoulders. This ritual isn't mere superstition; it's a tangible link between mortal and divine—a celestial promise that Ethelia is indeed favored by the gods.

Yet beneath this grandeur lies urgency cloaked in ceremony: you're chosen by Ethelion to channel his blessing—a gift that comes with strings attached. It promises good health and protection from injury but depletes as quickly as candles flicker out in gusty winds.

You've done this countless times, yet it never becomes easier. You can only hope that the god residing within you answers earnestly today—gracing the paladins with divine strength and healing their wounds as you pour every ounce of yourself into them.

A hushed silence envelops the chamber as the priest lifts up the basin and blesses its water. He then raises it above your head, pouring its contents slowly over your body. The liquid cascades down your shoulders like molten gold—cool initially but warming as it mingles with your skin—and pools at your feet like melted sunlight. It seeps into the hem of your flowing robe which now shimmers like saffron touched by daylight's first rays.

The priest murmurs prayers of consecration while taking up the gleaming blade from beside chalice's stem. Gesturing for everyone gathered to join hands, he swiftly cuts into your wrist without warning—precise and unyielding. Blood oozes forth; dark as ink with whiffs reminiscent faint iron scent permeating air around tendrils curling upward almost ethereal fashion dripping fingers’ tips.

"May Ethelion guide thy swords on this path forward!" you invoke in a solemn tone. The words carry an authority that rings throughout the entire Temple, sending vibrations through the gathered crowd as they repeat your verse.

With a sharp exhale, you approach the priest and rest your open wound over the golden goblet, watching your blood drip into the vessel, drop by painstaking drop. All the while, the attendees recite their blessings in a swelling crescendo, their voices echoing back from the domed roof like an urgent prayer caught between earth and sky.

Your arm throbs incessantly—a dull ache blossoming into searing pain, but you press on, undeterred. Despite how difficult it becomes, there's solace in sharing this burden with others, knowing that they too have a part to play.

Finally, when enough blood has been collected, the priest holds the chalice high and exclaims, "For the kingdom! For Ethelion!"

On command, the paladins march forward with military precision, lining up in single file before the altar, the line extending out of the doors. With measured steps, they kneel in succession, resting their forearms atop the surface in a gesture of humility. You are handed the holy sword, its blade shimmering beneath the lights, its hilt ornately decorated with rubies and diamonds.

Placing your bleeding wrist atop the hilt's cool metal surface, you hold it above the first kneeling paladin's helmeted head. Slowly and carefully, you dip your finger into the cup of crimson liquid and anoint him with your blood by marking his crested forehead—a tangible sign of his sworn loyalty. Whispering a blessing so only he can hear it feels almost intimate—the sword becoming a conduit for divine power. The tip of the blade descends upon his crown; his shoulders instantly stiffen under this sacred touch—they tremble when it grazes one shoulder then moves to deliver an ethereal blow to the other.

The process repeats itself, endless and exhausting, as you move down the line.

Each anointment saps more of your energy reserves until you're left weak and nearly hollowed out from within. Yet pouring every bit of life force into each paladin so they may be shielded on battlefields ahead brings bittersweet satisfaction mixed with aching relief—you find strength anew just enough to persevere.

By the time you reach the end of the rows, your skin feels as paper-thin as the gauzy fabric covering your body. The edges of your vision have started to blur, and it takes considerable effort to stay upright, gripping the edge of the altar to steady yourself. Your heart is fluttering beneath your ribs like a frantic bird, wanting to burst free from its cage of bone and muscle and escape this agony. Your palms are clammy; you're sweating profusely beneath your robes, but despite this, you must see this rite through till its completion.

The ancient wooden door of the chapel creaks open, its mournful groan deafening in the silent night. A thin beam of moonlight slices through the gap, illuminating the dusty air. Inside, flickering candle flames cast warm, trembling light on Ethelion’s marble statue, which gazes down at you with unblinking, expressionless eyes.

You place your mask at the base of His effigy; unveiling yourself like this is a crucial part of the ritual—a moment of communion with the deity. You stand exposed before Him in every way—physically, spiritually, and emotionally. He serves as a mirror reflecting your deepest essence—a piece of you laid bare without fear or shame. Hiding from Him would be like refusing to acknowledge your own existence.

Summoning all your bravery, you remove the fragile veil that acts as your last shield against the world’s curious eyes, letting it rest gently next to your discarded mask. With both face and hair now revealed, you kneel before His statue. Your head bows low in penance, hands squeezed together in a gesture of deep devotion.

"Blessed Ethelion, forgive your servant," you plead with a tremor. "I have doubt in my heart. I'm afraid."

The statue remains silent; only overpowering stillness fills the air as seconds stretch into eternity. Then warmth radiates through you—starting from your chest and unfurling into your limbs—like sunshine poured into your veins, igniting every fiber with radiant energy.

"I don’t want any of them to die," you confess quietly, tears spilling free to splash against the cold flagstone floor. "They’re innocents caught in a war not their own."

There are no words in response, yet you feel an undeniable answer; Ethelion’s reassuring presence envelops you like a warm embrace. He is there to listen to you in silence.

This ritual is a moment of weakness—where fear manifests openly for release. These men are about to step into hell itself beyond the walls. Though they fight for honor and glory, deep down you know it will become a bloodbath—a massacre that will rend this kingdom apart.

"There's nothing sacred about this; yet here I stand sentencing Your children to death," you lament as tears trickle down your cheeks, mingling salty bitterness against trembling lips. No further sign comes; Ethelion appears content merely to observe from His heavenly perch—perhaps reminding you gently of your divine duty—the role He has ordained for you. "I beg forgiveness, O Lord. I could not change the minds blinded by ignorance. My heart bleeds for those suffering because of this conflict. Please protect them so they may come back to bask once more in Your radiant light."

You bow deeply before Him; rising again is a struggle as your knees quake beneath you.

"Saintess."

You jump at the familiar voice that slices through the sanctity of silence, eyes widening in recognition and trepidation.

This is the third time Leon has witnessed you this vulnerable without the holy artifacts shielding the flesh beneath, yet he remains unassuming and gentle; shock absent from his spirit this time. He stands close behind you in this hallowed space belonging solely to Ethelion's infinite wisdom, and you dare not breathe—afraid of shattering this ethereal moment.

"Avert your eyes, Sir Leon.”

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle, standing erect. You remain there unmoving, save for the tiny droplets of sweat gathering on your hairline as he moves with the grace of a shadow, his steps measured and deliberate, until he stands by your side, his eyes unwaveringly fixed upon the towering statue of Ethelion that looms before you both, as if seeking solace in the stone divinity rather against the evil of your human form.

He drops down onto both knees, bowing so low that his forehead nearly kisses the cold stone floor.

A subtle movement draws your attention, and you steal a glance from beneath your lashes. The moonlight caresses strands of golden hair and spins them into threads of silver. His attire deviates from the usual paladin's armor; instead, he wears a simple cotton shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, veiny forearms sculpted by hard practice. The fabric clings to his form, hinting at the sinewy strength that lies beneath. Riding breeches embrace his legs snugly, tucked into worn boots that have weathered countless journeys.

The collar of his shirt is notched open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the base of his throat and the expanse of his upper chest. Your gaze traces the contours of muscle defined beneath the sheer material, and traitorously ventures lower, lingering on the curve of his bent knees before daring to explore further down to where his knuckles rest—taut and unyielding atop thighs etched with power. It leaves your mouth dry.

The intensity with which he shuts his eyes mirrors that boy from years past—the one who clenched his fists tightly against pain, refusing to cry as he battled an illness that should have claimed his life but didn't.

You yield to an impulse, enveloping him in the ethereal embrace of your veil, a shield against the world's gaze and your own. His body tenses beneath the delicate fabric as you glide it over his features, a soft gasp escaping from deep within him. With a trembling exhale, he quivers imperceptibly, fingers pressing into the cloth with a fervor that leaves faint dents on his skin, hands strained from the intensity.

"Open your eyes," you murmur tenderly, reluctant to disrupt the fragile moment.

Gleaming blue flickers into view through the white, translucent shroud, their clarity distorted by the gossamer material. You observe his swallow, the rhythmic rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he tentatively reaches to draw it down over his face.

Through the veil's prism, you must appear as a kaleidoscope of hues and forms to him; a phantom of your true essence, an elusive apparition hovering at the edge of reality.

"The… The blessing went well today," Leon sputters, cracking at the end like glass under pressure.

"Why did you come here, Sir Leon?" you ask gently, sensing that beneath his stiff formality lies a multitude of untold emotions.

"Are you alright?" The genuine concern for your person sends shivers cascading over your skin; fine hairs on your arms lift as he touches his wrist—mirroring right where your blood had been drawn. "Does it hurt every time the blessing is performed? I've never watched it before. It's..."

He falters, mouth opening and closing, and you notice how the fractured light from the windows bathes the swell of his cheeks in a tender luminescence. His words hang between you both, delicate strands of silk trying to knit themselves into coherence.

"It's awful, Saintess. To see your suffering laid bare before everyone."

"I would drain my whole body if it meant those brave men will go out knowing they are protected," you say with resolute calmness, though deep down, you're curious about how he truly perceives you now.

A barely audible "I know," escapes him. It feels like a confession—an unpleasant truth he doesn’t like being faced with. Whatever it holds makes warmth surge through you, igniting your skin and causing another involuntary shiver as he moistens his lower lip with a slow sweep of his tongue. "I know."

"Don't worry about me, Sir Leon. Your job is out there defending these lands, while mine is to ease your burdens. Think only of protecting those who need your shield.”

“Is it wrong to care for those I serve?” His wholehearted question tightens something within you—stirs an undefined yet potent emotion ready to bloom.

"Not at all," you reply almost breathlessly as he gazes intently at the curve of your jawline—your face blurred but memorized by him with stunning accuracy. "Remember whom your sword serves; we live only to honor Ethelion."

"I wish the world were different," his words seem hollowed out, lacking meaning, and yet there's an unmistakable conviction there, a resolve that drives him.

"As do I."

You glide your fingertips over the altar's slick surface, taking in a deep breath that fills your lungs fully with the sanctity of this space.

Then he straightens up suddenly; determination shines in his posture. He doesn’t rise from his kneeling position, yet it frightens you in the same way it would if he had shot up to stand.

"If you'll allow it, Saintess," he says, venerating, and the delicate fabric of his veil brushes against the embroidered sleeve of your robe. That fleeting contact sends a jolt through you, reverberating like a soft, whispered promise. His simple gesture, his proximity—it shouldn’t mean anything. But you feel he might as well have taken your hand in his. "I would pledge an oath to you as well."

There’s a deliberate slowness in how he pulls back, the motion of a man lingering at a threshold he has no right to cross.

Your chest tightens, your breath coming slower as you try to compose yourself. “Of course, Sir Leon,” you manage, though the stillness between you is filled with your uncertainty. What if you're not worthy of his devotion? Of his sacrifice? If he saw what lay beneath the veil, beyond the role of saintess, would he still look at you this way? Or would he recoil, realizing the truth of what you are: flesh and blood, no more divine than the earth beneath your feet?

You feel his stare. It’s as though they’re tracing the length of your body, reaching you through the barrier of the veil, and somehow, that makes the sensation more intimate than if he were standing before you fully revealed.

His breath catches, just slightly. You hear it, feel it, even though the veil between you muffles the sound. "It’s not about whether you’ll accept it," he continues, and there’s a shift in his stance. You can’t see his face, but the way he holds himself, the slight movement of his shoulders beneath the fabric, tells you that he’s grounding himself. "I give this vow because it is mine to give. For you, not for recognition or reward. It’s my choice, my will. No one needs to know."

His spine is ramrod straight now, but there’s a softness in his words, a slight tilt of his head as his eyes search yours. “My loyalty belongs to you alone.”

You swallow hard, the meaning of his words sinking deep into your soul. A lowly servant of Ethelion, that’s all you are. A vessel. No name, no family, no identity beyond the veil. His words... they speak of individual loyalty, devotion to you, not to Ethelion, not to the divine purpose you embody. You are no one. You have no right to such things. How could you take from him what rightly belongs to the god you serve? Wouldn’t you be struck down for such hubris? For leading a paladin astray, pulling him from the only true master he should follow? You tremble at the thought.

"Sir Leon, I cannot accept this." Your fingers curl around the skirt of your robe, the fabric twisting beneath your grip. “It’s—”

His chin lifts, eyes steady on you. "—wrong?"

You start at his interruption. Your voice sounds so feeble as you finish the sentence with a meek, "Yes."

He stays rooted, motionless, but something in the atmosphere shifts again. His breathing, though controlled, seems deeper, and you sense the quiet resolve in the silence that stretches between you.

"Then let me be the one who wrongs Ethelion." His tone carries a weight that presses against you, not through sound but through the way his body holds firm, unwavering. His movements are subtle, restrained, yet the soft brush of his hand grazing his side signals something deeper, a release of tension. "I pledge myself to you, Saintess. To your will, your desires. You are my strength."

The air feels dense, thick with the weight of what he’s offering.

These words flow from him like water spilling over stones, filling up spaces where it couldn't previously reach. The warmth in your chest expands, spreading outward until it seeps into every fiber of your being. Your fingers twitch, the edge of your sleeve twisting between them as you try to ground yourself.

"Please grant me a token of your favor."

Your hands tremble at your sides, your pulse quickening as you fidget with the fabric between your fingers.

What can you possibly offer him?

You glance down, but everything feels out of reach, the world reduced to this one moment.

"But I..." you begin, unsure, your fingers tugging nervously at your sleeve, "I am not a Lady."

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches, and though you can’t see his expression, it feels charged. He shifts ever so slightly, enough that you catch the faint rustle of fabric as he moves.

"All the more reason," he says, a shy smile in his words. "An unworthy paladin asking for a favor from the Saintess—what could be more fitting?"

"Then you may pick whichever object from the temple you desire—"

"I want something of yours, not an icon, nor some relic," he replies immediately, cutting you short, the butteriness sending shivers running down your back. "What do I lack that you have plenty of, that you won't miss, even if it's just a small trinket?"

Your heart stumbles in your chest, the weight of his request crashing into you like a wave. Real? What could you give him? What is yours to offer?

"A lock of hair?" you whisper, feeling your pulse quicken as you say it. The words feel small, vulnerable, but they tumble out before you can stop them. "Would that… suffice?"

Silence follows, his breathing seems to stop.

A lock of hair would belong to you, not the Saintess. A proof of your worldliness, beyond the connection to Ethelion's divine essence. Something that is of the girl and not the holy maiden. Is that what he seeks?

"Your hair," he breathes out in an exhale, as if tasting the words. He appears completely entranced and you become conscious of yourself, the inappropriate nature of just what you brought up.

You draw a slow, shaky breath, the idea settling uneasily in your chest. There’s something intensely personal, too intimate about the exchange. "No, you misunderstand—"

"Your hair, Saintess," he repeats it again, this time more forceful than you've ever seen him; you'd never dare refuse this request and it steals your breath, silencing every protest rising in your throat. "I will accept no less."

Leon rises to his feet, dwarfing you with his broad frame. For the very first time, in Ethelion's presence, you feel small and helpless, like a child who's wandered into his garden. There's something overwhelmingly disarming about sharing this space with him. A foreign sensation blooms within you— a spark that threatens to ignite your world into flames—but you dare not give it voice.

Leon had once worn his armor with pride, each plate fastened like a second skin, the weight of his sword as natural as the rhythm of his heartbeat. Every step forward felt as if he marched hand in hand with something divine, a force greater than himself guiding his every move. The blessing of the saintess had lingered on his skin, a quiet touch that had etched itself into his soul, fortifying his resolve. He had believed, back then, that he was a vessel of the god’s will.

That was years ago.

Now, standing at the edge of the battlefield, the familiar weight of his armor feels heavier, pressing down like an unbearable burden. The bitter taste of dried sweat clings to his lips, and a dull ache pulses beneath his ribs where his armor had done little to stop the last blow. The sun glares down on the blood-soaked earth, the cries of the wounded melding with the clash of steel and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground.

This was not what he envisioned. There was nothing divine here.

A shout rises above the noise, sharp and commanding, drawing his gaze toward the horizon. The enemy soldiers draped in black, surge over the hill like a wave of shadow. His grip tightens around his sword, the hilt slick with a mixture of blood and sweat, fingers straining against the leather-bound grip.

“Leon!” A voice, rough and worn from years of battle, cuts through the din. Leon turns, his eyes locking onto Captain Krauser, a veteran whose gaze is as sharp as a hawk’s. His expression is hard, impatient. “Orders from the Temple: we flank their left side!”

Leon’s heart clenches at the mention of the Temple.

It had been a long time since the orders felt pure, righteous. The Church’s demands had grown more questionable with each passing day. What had once been a campaign to protect the kingdom and its people now reeked of ambition—land grabs disguised as divine conquest. Territories seized, villages razed under the pretense of holy duty.

But Leon doesn’t question. He never has. He is a soldier, a paladin. A servant of Ethelion.

The memory of you—serene, always hidden beneath the mask you wore as the Saintess—surfaces in his mind, unbidden, his anchor to the divine, the blessing you placed on him sacred. You believed in him, blessed him with your blood, and for that, he would fight. For that, he would fulfill his duty.

He moves after Krauser, silent as a ghost, maneuvering through the throng of soldiers until they reach the flank. The enemy’s forces are spread thin, their attempt to push the kingdom’s army back leaving them exposed. It should be an easy victory. A victory that would tighten their grip on the region, crush the enemy’s morale.

The order comes swiftly, brutal and final: Leave no one alive.

Leon hesitates, his sword held in a grip that tightens until his knuckles ache. Leave no one alive. The same command they’d been given in the last village. And the one before that. What once felt justifiable—crushing the enemy for the kingdom’s safety—now sits like lead in his bones.

Those they slaughtered hadn’t been soldiers. They were farmers, villagers. Innocents. Women and children.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, and the memory of the last village rises unbidden, a flash behind his eyelids. He can still smell the smoke, hear the anguished cries of mothers shielding their children. His punishment for hesitating, for not cutting through them as he did the soldiers, feels lighter than the weight of that memory.

“Are you deaf, shiny?” Krauser says with a low growl, dragging him back to the present. “I said move.”

Leon’s jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck pulling taut. His body moves automatically, his sword rising as he steps forward, following the rest of the paladins into the fray. Steel clashes with steel, bodies crash against one another, but the noise fades, swallowed by the gnawing doubt lodged deep in his chest. He strikes down another soldier, their blood splattering across his already stained armor, but the pit in his stomach only deepens.

He had been blessed to protect the kingdom, to serve the saintess. How did it come to this? When did righteousness turn into this—bloodlust veiled by holy orders?

Each swing of his sword feels heavier, as though the weight of every soul he cuts down drags him closer to the earth. He fells another enemy, watching as the light drains from their eyes, but it’s not just the life that drains from them—it’s something in him too.

This war, it’s nothing like he’d imagined. In the temple, they had spoken of glory, of righteousness, of battles fought in the name of Ethelion. His fellow soldiers had whispered about the honor of dying for the Temple, the promise of eternal life in the afterworld. They had made war sound like a divine calling, a sacred rite of passage where every death was sanctified, every act of violence blessed.

Out here, there is no glory.

Only blood.

The blood of his brothers, mingled with the enemy’s, staining the dirt beneath their feet. The screams of dying men linger in his ears long after the fighting stops. He’s seen cities burn, watched women and children scramble through the streets, faces twisted in terror, only to fall under a volley of arrows or be trampled beneath the horses of his comrades.

Leon had thought he could stomach it. He’d steeled himself for the brutal reality of war. But nothing prepared him for the guilt, the crushing weight of it, as each atrocity committed in Ethelion’s name piles higher on his soul.

At first, he’d believed the bloodshed was necessary, part of the divine plan. But with every passing day, that belief crumbles a little more, cracking like fragile glass.

Now, standing over the bodies of men who’d once fought to protect their own, Leon can barely remember why he’s here. He can’t recall the saintess’s face anymore—only a faint echo of your eyes, the memory fading like a forgotten dream.

How did the lines blur so completely?

He tightens his grip on his sword, but the weight of it feels foreign, like a weapon forged for someone else.

Facing the fire, Leon watches the flames dance, their orange glow casting restless light over the camp. The logs hiss and crackle as they blacken, edges curling inward with each passing flicker. Every so often, flares shoot out from the heart of the fire, sending sparks spiraling up into the night before falling back down into the pyre. Heat washes over his face, warm yet uncomfortable, the kind that burns if stared at for too long. Leon turns away, unable to face his own reflection in the fire’s glow.

Around him, shadows shift across the ground as torchlight flickers over tents and hastily constructed barriers. Laughter rises from nearby campfires, men gathered in groups, boasting about their conquests in battle, their stories of women left behind growing hazy with time. The smell of roasting meat mingles with the sharp bite of smoke as soldiers cheerfully drink from their ale rations. Some play cards or dice, animated, full of hope for victories yet to come. Others simply bask in the temporary lull, telling tales of their glory to fill the silence.

Leon keeps his distance, seeking refuge near a cluster of trees where the light barely reaches, and the noise fades to a murmur. His back rests against a sturdy trunk, sword and shield propped beside him, the armor around him a forgotten weight. He has no desire to join in the revelry. Solitude feels more fitting—more honest. He closes his eyes, trying to relish the brief respite, though the chance of true rest feels distant, as elusive as peace itself.

"If you don’t eat, you’ll lose your strength." A gruff scoff breaks the silence, drawing Leon from his thoughts. He glances sideways to find Captain Krauser standing above him, holding out a steaming bowl of stew. The smell of the meat, thick with gravy, rises into the cool night air, but Leon’s stomach churns at the sight of it.

"Captain Krauser," Leon mutters, accepting the bowl out of obligation more than hunger, balancing it on one knee. "Didn’t feel like celebrating with the others."

Krauser doesn’t move. He stands there, arms crossed, his bulk casting a shadow that blocks the faint moonlight. His scarred face is half-illuminated by the fire’s glow, the deep lines etched into his skin more pronounced in the flickering light.

Leon stirs the stew absently, blowing on it before taking a small bite. It’s warm, but tasteless. Each mouthful feels like ash, though he forces himself to swallow.

Krauser lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. He lowers himself to the ground beside Leon with a heavy sigh, the earth shifting beneath his weight. "Is that guilt weighing you down, shiny?" His voice is rough, edged with a mockery that barely conceals his weariness. "Because that’s a damn waste of time."

Shiny. The word used to grate on Leon—an insult for paladins whose armor hasn’t yet been sullied by enough blood and battle. His once-polished metal has long since dulled, but the name lingers. Now, he doesn’t care what anyone calls him. It’s just another word.

"Just a bad feeling," Leon replies with a shrug, forcing another spoonful down. The broth is bland, lukewarm at best, but he eats slowly anyway, chewing as if it will somehow ground him in the present.

Krauser grunts, his large frame shifting uncomfortably as he leans back against the tree. "You’re learning." He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly as he glances toward the distant glow of campfires. "New orders came in. We move south at first light to intercept a convoy carrying supplies."

Leon keeps eating, though his grip tightens slightly on the spoon. He waits. There’s always more.

"Intelligence says there may be hostages," Krauser adds, his voice turning grim. Leon notices how the lines around his eyes seem deeper, more etched than before. There’s exhaustion in them, though it’s well hidden behind his hardened exterior. "Our task is to eliminate the threat to the kingdom."

"Kill the hostages?" Leon’s response is flat, more a statement than a question.

A heavy silence falls between them, stretching like a weight neither of them wants to bear. The fire crackles on, sending occasional sparks into the air, while the distant hum of soldiers' voices fades into the background. The smell of burning wood fills the space between them, thick and stifling.

Krauser doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenches, the scar on his face pulling tight as he looks ahead, not meeting Leon’s gaze. "You know the orders," he says finally, the words dropping like stones into the quiet. "We do what we’re told."

Leon lowers the spoon, the taste of the stew forgotten as his stomach twists. He’s not surprised, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. He stares into the fire again, watching as the flames curl around the blackened logs, reducing them to nothing but ash.

The sword feels heavier today.

Leon rides ahead of the troops, the rhythmic clop of horseshoes striking the stone path echoing across the endless stretch of open land before him. The morning sun climbs lazily in the sky, casting pale light that stretches the shadows of soldiers and horses over fields soon to be stained with blood.

His breath puffs in the crisp air, small clouds that vanish as quickly as they form. His fingers tighten around the sword’s hilt, knuckles whitening under the strain, even though there’s no immediate need to wield it. Sweat runs in a thin line down his spine, sticking his shirt to his skin beneath the armor.

Behind him, the sounds of the army in preparation are a constant hum—swords being drawn from scabbards, armor buckled into place, horses snorting in nervous agitation. Soldiers march in disciplined ranks, though their faces carry the tension of men too aware of what’s to come. Some are barely more than boys, fresh to the battlefield, eyes wide with fear they think they can hide. The village lies beyond the next ridge, nestled in the hills. The command had been clear: leave none alive.

Leon shifts uncomfortably in the saddle. His throat tightens with the weight of it, as if each breath is a struggle to swallow the bitter taste of what they’re about to do. He glances to the soldiers beside him, seeing faces too young, too eager to kill or die, all in the name of a god who remains as distant as the stars.

There was a time when Ethelion’s will felt as close as his own heartbeat. When the saintess’s blessings had filled him with purpose, your touch a reminder of the grace he fought to protect. What would you think of him now? Would you still offer him your blessing, knowing the blood that stains his hands? The lives he’s taken, the innocents who died beneath his blade?

As they near the village, Leon pulls back on the reins, slowing his horse. The captain riding beside him narrows his gaze, a sharp glance cast his way, but Leon doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Captain,” Leon’s voice comes out rougher than intended. “What if we’re wrong?”

The captain scoffs, not even turning his head. “Wrong? These people are traitors. They must be dealt with.”

Leon’s grip tightens around the reins, the leather biting into his palms. “But we have no proof. No confirmation that they’ve—”

“There is no what if, shiny,” the captain cuts him off, his tone as cold and unyielding as iron. “Our orders are clear. Or have you forgotten your place?”

Leon swallows hard, his throat dry. His place. To serve, to obey, to carry out the will of Ethelion without question.

But his place has never felt so wrong.

They crest the final hill, the village coming into view below. Smoke rises lazily from chimneys, the scent of cooking fires carried on the wind. From a distance, it looks serene. Peaceful. The villagers go about their day, unaware of the army bearing down on them, unaware that in moments, their world will be torn apart.

Leon’s stomach churns. His horse shifts beneath him, sensing his unease, and he forces a slow breath, trying to calm the storm of doubt swirling inside him. His brothers-in-arms march forward, steady and resolute, their swords ready, their minds set on the task ahead.

But Leon’s horse won’t move. It stands rooted, mirroring the weight in his soul.

The captain urges his own horse forward, barking orders to the soldiers to fan out and surround the village. Leon watches as they obey without hesitation, without question. Their faces remain emotionless, minds focused on the task at hand.

How can they not feel it? How can they not sense the wrongness of what they’re about to do?

As the soldiers advance, the first shouts of alarm rise from the village below. Leon can hear it—the panic in their voices, see the sudden fear on their faces. Mothers pulling children close, men scrambling to gather their families. Chaos erupts as arrows fly and swords are raised, and yet, Leon remains frozen in place, his hand trembling on the reins.

The first bodies fall, the clash of steel and screams blending into a cacophony that drowns everything else. The world tilts beneath him, the ground shifting as the sickening sound of death fills his ears, louder than the wind, louder than anything.

I can’t do this.

The thought slices through the haze like a knife.

I can’t.

His grip tightens further on the reins, every muscle in his body tensing, ready to move, ready to do something. Anything.

A shout from behind jerks him from his paralysis. “Sir!”

Leon turns sharply, his pulse racing. A young messenger rides toward him, his face pale, fear etched into every line as he pulls his horse to a stop, barely managing to speak through gasps for air. “Urgent orders from the capital! Princess Ashley has been taken by the enemy. We must mobilize immediately to retrieve her.”

Leon’s heart slams against his ribs.

The princess. The heir to the throne.

For a brief, blessed moment, the chaos of the battlefield fades away, replaced by the only thing that matters. He can save her. He can stop this madness and do something that truly matters.

But the church has other orders.

The captain rides over, his brow furrowed as he tears the sealed letter from the messenger’s hand, the royal crest glinting in the sunlight. He scans it quickly, his expression hardening with each passing second before crumpling the parchment and tossing it to the ground.

“We proceed as planned,” the captain snaps, his tone cold, final.

Leon’s blood runs cold. “But the princess—”

“The orders stand,” the captain repeats, not even glancing at him. “We were sent here to purge this village of traitors, and that’s what we’ll do.”

The sound fades from Leon’s ears, replaced by a sharp ringing that drowns out the Captain ordering the messenger away and trying to direct him to the nearest base.

His pulse pounds in his temples, each beat like a hammer driving nails into his resolve. This isn’t just another village. This isn’t just another order. It’s the future of the kingdom hanging in the balance, and they’re about to throw it all away for what? For bloodshed masquerading as faith?

The bile rises in Leon’s throat, bitter and burning.

He thought he could stomach war. He thought he could follow orders, no matter how brutal. But this?

The last thread of the leash holding him snaps.

Leon’s hands shake on the reins as the captain’s sharp gaze lands on him. “Leon,” the captain growls, noticing his hesitation, “Remember yourself.”

An oath. To serve, to obey, to protect.

But as he looks out over the village, sees the smoke rising, the screams tearing through the air, Leon knows the truth.

This isn’t the will of Ethelion.

This is the will of men.

Men who’ve twisted the divine into something grotesque, something that demands blood for power. Men who’ve forgotten what they were supposed to protect.

Your face flashes before him—soft, kind, with that quiet strength. The words you once spoke come back to him, clear in the chaos.

One is not born to greatness. One achieves it.

“I can’t do this,” Leon whispers, the words slipping out before he can stop them. His voice is barely a breath, but the weight of the truth in them rings louder in his mind than any shout of command.

The captain’s gaze sharpens. “What did you say?”

Leon meets his eyes, feeling the fire build inside him. “I won’t do this,” he repeats, stronger now. “I won’t sit by and watch us slaughter innocents while the kingdom’s heir is in danger.”

“You swore an oath.”

“I swore an oath to protect,” Leon retorts, his breath catching as conviction tightens his chest. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

For a long, tense moment, silence stretches between them. The captain’s face twists in fury, his hand hovering near his sword. “You defy the Temple, and you defy Ethelion himself. You’ll be branded an oathbreaker. You’ll never be able to return.”

An oathbreaker. Cast out from the temple, from the faith, from you.

But Leon knows, deep down, that this decision was made long before he spoke the words.

“If following the Temple means abandoning the kingdom, then I’ll bear that title gladly.”

The captain’s jaw tightens, fury flashing in his eyes, but Leon doesn’t wait for the response. He turns his horse with a sharp tug, spurring it forward. The wind rushes against his face as he rides, faster and faster, leaving behind the chaos, the orders, the lies.

He knows what this means. He knows what’s waiting for him at the end of this path. There will be no place for him in the temple, no return to the saintess’s grace.

But as the wind cuts through him, sharp and freeing, he knows one thing for certain:

He’s made his choice.

And now, he’ll live with it.

The streets of the capital are thick with people, their cheers rising in waves that echoed off the towering stone walls of the city, the air alive with the sounds of celebration—laughter, music, the rhythmic beat of drums that thrummed through the cobblestone streets like a heartbeat. Banners of blue and gold flutter in the breeze, catching the midday sun and casting fractured patterns of light across the throngs of spectators who lined the streets.

And there, at the center of it all, rides Leon, astride a massive warhorse clad in gleaming black barding, the royal crest of Ethelion emblazoned on its chest. The horse’s hooves clatter against the stones, a steady, rhythmic sound that matches the beat of the drums, though Leon barely hears it. His focus is elsewhere—distant, cold, fixed on a point far beyond the horizon as the cheers of the people wash over him like distant waves.

He sits tall in the saddle, his body encased in full black armor that gleams like polished obsidian despite the streaks of dried blood splattered across the metal. His cape, once a regal white, fluttered in the breeze, its edges torn and frayed from the brutal campaign that had crowned him victor. Though battered, the helmet is tucked under his arm, leaving his face exposed to the cool autumn air.

The cheers from the crowd echo off the stone buildings, filling the air with a roar of excitement and adoration. Cries of “Long live Sir Leon!” and “Hail the hero!” ring out from every direction, the people pushing and jostling to catch sight of him as he rode by.

It all means little to him.

They shout his name, faces alight with joy, hailing him as their hero, their savior. He has returned from the war triumphant, Princess Ashley safe at his side, the enemy defeated and the kingdom secured. To them, he is a figure of legend, a warrior draped in glory and victory.

But to Leon, the glory feels hollow, like fool’s gold.

He fought for close to a decade, driven by a purpose that no longer existed. The blood on his armor, the lives lost in his name—it all seems to blur together in his mind, a swirling mass of faces and screams that he can’t escape. Even here, amidst the fanfare and celebration, the battlefield clings to him, its shadow cast long and dark over his soul.

The people can’t see it. They see only the armor, the crown of laurels resting atop his head, the bloodied sword at his side. They don’t see the burden of it, the way it presses down on him like a sin he could never lay down.

He glances to the side as the parade moved forward, the crowds pressing in closer as they strained to catch a glimpse of the soldiers coming home. Children are perched on their parents’ shoulders, waving small flags, their faces painted in the colors of the kingdom. Women throw flowers from their balconies, petals raining down like confetti, their bright colors almost a mockery to the dark steel of his armor.

And then, through the sea of faces, something catches his eye.

A small blur, darting between the legs of the adults, weaving through the crowd with surprising speed and determination. Leon’s gaze sharpens, his body tensing instinctively as he tracks the movement, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword.

It’s a child.

A little girl, no more than seven or eight years old, her hair tied in messy braids, face flushed with excitement. She breaks free from the crowd, slipping past the guards who stood watch along the edges of the street, and before anyone can stop her, she runs toward Leon, her small hands clutching something tightly to her chest.

The crowd gasps, a murmur rippling through as the girl reaches Leon’s horse. The guards move forward, ready to intervene, but Leon holds up a hand, signaling for them to stop.

He looks down at the child, eyes dark and tired. The little girl stares up at him, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, wide eyes filled with awe and something else—something Leon hasn’t seen in a long time.

Hope.

For a moment, the world slows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as Leon and the girl lock eyes. She is so small, so fragile, standing there in front of him, her little hands trembling as she holds something out to him on her tiptoes.

A flower.

A single white lily, its petals slightly crumpled from her tight grip, but still intact, still whole. She raises it up to him, her hands shaking, lips parting in a shy, nervous smile.

“For you, sir,” she yells, her voice barely audible over the distant roar of the crowd. “Thank you for saving us!”

Leon stares down at the flower, his heart constricting painfully in his chest. The blood on his armor, the dirt caked beneath his fingernails, the weight of the sword at his side—all of it feels wrong in the presence of such innocence. He’s a soldier who threw away his oath, a killer, a man forged in the fires of war, and yet here stands this child, offering him a flower as if he were something more than just the weapon the kingdom had wielded.

His hand, still encased in the cold metal of his gauntlet, moves slowly, hesitantly, as if it doesn’t belong to him. He reaches down, the armor creaking with the motion, and gently takes the flower from the girl’s outstretched hands. The petals brush against the bloodstained metal of his gloves, stark and bright against the darkness of his armor.

“Thank you,” Leon mumbles, rough and strained, the words catching in his throat. His grip tightens around the delicate stem of the flower, careful not to crush it. For a brief moment, the warmth of the child’s gesture pierces through the fog of guilt and weariness that’s permanently settled over him, a glimmer of light in the darkness.

The little girl’s face lights up with a smile, her eyes shining with pure, untainted joy. She stands there and jumps up and down with excitement, beaming up at him as if he were the sun itself, as if his presence alone could banish the shadows that lingered at the edges of her world.

But Leon knows better. He feels the lock of hair curled inside the locket above his heart burn his skin.

The grand doors of the royal palace groan open with an echoing creak, revealing the hall beyond—a glittering display of prosperity and flamboyance that seems to scorn the simple austerity of the life Leon has known. Polished marble floors gleam beneath chandeliers of wrought gold, their light refracting off mirrors that line the walls. The air here is crisp, almost sharp with nose-breaking blends of perfumes, with none of the heavy warmth of the temple's incense.

Leon’s boots click sharply against the marble as he enters, each step ringing out in the cavernous hall, a sound swallowed by the murmurs of the courtiers who line the edges of the room. The steady hum of muted conversations fills his ears, escorted by the occasional clink of glasses. They watch him with calculating eyes, the nobles dressed in silks and velvets of every hue, faces painted with smiles too precise to be genuine, as suffocating as the armor that once bore him through battle.

He feels naked without it now, standing here in formal garb, his sword sheathed and distant at his side, a mere symbol of his victory rather than a tool of survival. The dark fabric of his tunic hangs heavy on his shoulders, trimmed with the royal blue of the kingdom.

Ahead, at the far end of the hall, the king sits on his throne. The high-backed chair is a towering edifice of dark wood, inlaid with gold and precious stones that sparkle under the dazzling chandeliers. The king himself is an imposing figure, draped in royal blues and deep purples, a crown resting atop his graying hair. He watches Leon’s approach with the same detachment as the nobles—his gaze that of a man weighing the worth of a tool rather than acknowledging the triumph of a soldier.

As Leon reaches the dais, he stops, kneeling—an action that should feel natural after years of service, but here, it is different.

The king rises slowly, the robes trailing around his feet like the velvet shadows of dusk, and approaches with the same calculated precision that governs the court. A ceremonial scepter gleams in his hand, more ornament than authority, but its significance is clear.

“Sir Leon,” the king’s words cut through the room like the edge of a blade, each syllable crisp, measured. “You stand before this court as a hero of our realm. For your valor in battle, for your unwavering loyalty to the crown, and for the rescue of Princess Ashley, I bestow upon you the title of Margrave.”

The tap of the scepter on Leon’s shoulder is light, almost delicate, but it might as well have been a hammer.

The king returns to his throne, settling back with a rustle of silk, and gestures for Leon to rise. “Rise, Margrave.”

Leon pushes to his feet, the formality of the moment bearing down upon him as the court claps in practiced politeness. Their applause is soft, a murmur of sound that fades almost as quickly as it had begun, leaving the room in an expectant silence.

It is time.

A low ripple of movement stirs at the far end of the hall as the clergy step forward. Robes of pristine white trail across the floor as the procession approaches, a stark contrast to the vivid blues and purples of the nobility. At the head of the clergy is the Archbishop, his ceremonial staff clicking rhythmically against the floor with each step. And beside him—veiled, serene, and radiant in her holy robes—is the saintess. The mask is a pure white, veil milky and opaque; the contrasts of light and darkness across its fabric give the impression of a reflection on water, of a thousand shifting stars under the sun. On your head rests a delicate crown of silver thorns, interwoven with fine filigree, glimmering like fresh snow, hands folded in your lap are covered by silk gloves, so smooth they almost shine.

Leon’s heart stutters.

This is the moment he has been longing for, the only prayer that’s ever left his lips even after his faith had fallen.

He has endured the war, survived the bloodshed, all for this. For you. For the woman who has been his guiding light, the saintess who had once healed him with her touch, whose presence had filled the void within him during the long, cold nights on the battlefield.

He steps forward, his hands trembling at his sides, his breath catching in his throat as the group approaches the dais.

His knee wants to bend before he even realizes it, the instinct to kneel before you stronger than any other impulse.

But as when you take your place atop the steps of the dais, hands raised in the familiar gesture of blessing, something gnaws at him—an unease that creeps along the edges of his mind. The movement of your hands, the tilt of your head—it is all wrong. Too stiff, too formal.

He hesitates.

The room holds its breath, the nobles watching in silence as the saintess descends down towards him, the veil obscuring your features, body swathed in layers of white that flutter with each step.

Leon’s pulse quickens, and his eyes—despite his every effort not to—search for yours through the veil and the mask. He needs confirmation that it’s him who has changed. He needs to see, even if it is just the glimpse of the eyes he had held in his memory through every moment of agony, through every victory.

But as you draw closer, his stomach drops.

The eyes behind the veil—dark, unfamiliar, and cold—are not yours.

His body freezes, his muscles locking in place as the realization hits him with the force of a blow.

This isn’t you.

This woman—this stranger—isn’t the one he had fought for, the one whose face had kept him alive in the blood-soaked trenches of the war.

The saintess lowers her hands, preparing to lay her blessing upon him, but Leon jerks back, his knees refusing to bend, breath quick and sharp in his chest. The room grows still, the murmurs of the nobles faltering as the tension thickens around him like a noose.

The Archbishop’s head snaps toward him, the ceremonial calm in his expression faltering for just a moment. His fingers tighten around the staff, the knuckles turning white beneath the pressure.

“Margrave,” the Archbishop’s reprimand is sharp, cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “You must kneel to receive the Saintess’s blessing.”

Leon’s fists clench at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. His body is trembling, but it isn’t from fear. It is from the fear-soaked anger that is building inside him, slow and burning like a fire stoked too long. His gaze fixes on the false saintess, his heart thundering in his chest, his mind spinning with questions that have no answers.

Where are you?

The walls close in, the air thick with the silent judgment of nobles and clergy. Each breath is a growing struggle, laden with the oppressive load of their expectations. His limbs feel anchored, refusing to bow before this stranger, this imposter.

“Margrave,” the Archbishop’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and commanding. His eyes flash a stern warning. “You will kneel.”

The pressure shatters.

Leon’s body moves before he can stop it, his hands flying out to grab the front of the Archbishop’s robes, yanking him forward with a force that sends the man stumbling, the ornate staff clattering to the floor. A collective gasp sweeps through the room, the nobles recoiling in shock as Leon’s voice, low and ragged, spills out.

“Where is she?” His hiss is a harsh rasp, breaths coming in short, jagged bursts. “Where is the real Saintess?”

The Archbishop’s face twists in fury, his hands flailing against Leon’s iron grip. “Unhand me, you fool! You stand in the presence of Ethelion’s chosen—”

“No.” The word is a snarl, the growl of an animal promising to get violent. Leon’s grip tightens, the anger boiling over, his muscles trembling with the force of it. “What have you done with her?”

The room descends into chaos. Nobles rise from their seats, the sound of their hurried footsteps mingling with the low murmur of alarmed voices. The clergy shift uneasily, their faces pale, but none of them dare to move. The paladins stationed near the walls exchange nervous glances, their hands hovering near their swords, but none step forward.

They have seen what Leon is capable of.

“Release me!” The Archbishop’s voice cracks, his pale face contorted with fear and rage. “You dare attack the church? You will be branded a heretic for this!”

Leon barely hears them, his body trembling with rage as he stares down the terrified clergyman clawing at his arm, nails digging into Leon's skin, leaving behind bloody scratches.

“I don’t care.” Leon’s voice is low, silent, the words spilling from him like venom. “Tell me where she is.”

Before the Archbishop can answer, a hand—small, yet firm—clamps down on Leon’s shoulder.

Princess Ashley doesn’t release his arm as she pulls him toward the side of the throne room, guiding him through the side doors that lead into a quieter, more secluded hallway. The heavy wooden door closes behind them with a dull thud, cutting off the noise of the throne room and leaving them in a sudden, suffocating stillness.

Leon exhales, his breath shuddering as he leans against the wall, one hand coming up to palm at his face, and between his fingers, stares down at the ground with a wild look.

[musouie]

⤷ simon shows his love in less…conventional ways, and you always indulge him. | implied violence, gn!reader, hurt/comfort, (devotion and sacrifice and blood (the holy trinity)) 0.5k wc

you’ve come to recognise simon’s love language as acts of service.

not in a typical way, of course. he doesn’t pitch in with the laundry, doesn’t help do the dishes either (not unless you guilt him into it, with a string of sighs and narrowed glances.)

his servitude is instead buried beneath layers. seeping out through the holes and tears in his t-shirts. dripping from the bruises across his knuckles, swelling up on the crest of his cheekbones.

“a necessary evil,” is what he calls it, a cruel glimmer dancing in his eyes as you wind a bandage around his cut up arm; huffing around a grim satisfaction that settles itself amongst the fractures in his ribs.

when he brushes your hair back from your face and presses kisses to the inside of your wrists, you say nothing, because this is the only way simon knows how.

it is all too easy, then, to fall into the chasm that yawns open in his presence. too easy to swallow his words and lap up the sweetness that drips from his lips when they collide with your own —

— too easy to stoke the fire again.

it flares up when you return home from work, half an hour later than you usually do; simon is sitting on the front steps and jumps to his feet when he sees you approaching.

“where ‘ave ya’ been, bird? thought i might ‘ave ta’ put up one of ‘em missing persons flyers soo–” his joke dies on his tongue as you near him, close enough now that he can make out the redness in your eyes, the mascara smudged beneath your lashes, droplets clinging to them still. 

your name leaves his mouth in a broken sort of sigh. “what ‘appened, love?”

and then you’re in his arms, and everything comes spilling out. you tell him about the h.r. meeting, the coworker who falsely accused you of stealing their work, the yelling and the shame and the ultimatum.

he just rubs your back in small circles as you break down against him, cradling you like porcelain, like his hands can soothe away the shards and splinters (even if his rough edges grate against your own, making them all the sharper.)

you barely feel it when he kisses your forehead and takes your hand, leading you inside and locking the door behind you. you barely notice when he guides you to your bedroom, peels your clothes from your skin, and switches them out for something more comfortable (his healed bruises begin to open, blood trickling down and down, opened because he cradled you still.)

(his blood begins to pour when he lowers you to your mattress, pulls your comforter up to your shoulders, leaves a kiss at the corner of your mouth as he murmurs ‘goodnight’.)

you barely register the dip in your mattress hours later, the tugging against the sheets — the metallic scent of blood, the scratches on his face, the new cuts and bruises, the pained groans as he shifts closer (they are gifts, the kind that can never truly be unwrapped; the only thing simon knows is his pain and you are the only thing that makes his heart crack wide open — to bleed him dry and soothe him at the same time.)

his large hands make for your waist, tugging you closer. only then does your sharpness dull (and his grows.)

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐞 © 2024 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. it is prohibited to reproduce, distribute, or transmit my works in any form or by any means! ﾉ masterlist

[herballwitch]

Altars For The Greek Gods

Hello, My name is Alva Tauri! I am an herbalist, spirit worker, tarot and oracle reader, and lunar and herbal witch dedicated to closing the education gap when it comes to herbalism and witch practices!

Today, I wanted to talk about ways in which I connect with the Gods and deities I worship in my life via my altar, as well as some of those Greek gods that I do not have a direct connection with to help those who are just starting!

NOTE: I did already say this above but I am going to say it again, I only work with (as far as Greek gods go) Hades, Apollo, and Dionysus. However, I have been working with spirits, Gods, and deities for nine years now, so the information found in this post will be a compilation of everything I have learned in those nine years from my own experiences and the experiences of friends. If you have any information you feel should be added to this post please feel free to message me!

With that being said, let's get into altar work with Greek gods...

ARES

Ares is the God of war and the spirit of battle and was typically associated with:

ANIMALS: eagle owl, barn owl, poisonous snakes, boar, vulture

COLORS: red and purple

CRYSTALS: bloodstone, garnet, red jasper, smokey quartz, black tourmaline, hematite, metals, obsidian, carnelian

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): spicy things, chocolate, basil, cinnamon, weapons

ARTEMIS

Artemis was the goddess of chastity, hunting, and the moon. She is often associated with:

ANIMALS: deer, wolf, wild boar, hunting dogs

COLORS: white, blue, black, brown and green

CRYSTALS: morganite, moonstone, celestite, moss/tree agate, amethyst

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): anything moon shaped, frankincense, cypress, mugwort, amaranth

APHRODITE

Aphrodite is the ancient Greek goddess of sexual love and beauty. She is typically associate with:

ANIMALS: swan, dove, sparrow

COLORS: red and pink for love/sexuality. white and blue, and gold.

CRYSTALS: rose quartz, pearl, opal, aquamarine, rhodonite, ocean jasper, moonstone

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): roses, chocolate, shells, myrrh, gold

APOLLO

Apollo is the God of archery, music and dance, truth and prophecy, healing and diseases and, mostly commonly known as, the God of the Sun. He is commonly associated with:

ANIMALS: deer, hawk, crow/raven, cicada, swan, bees, wolf, fox

COLORS: yellow, white, red, orange. purple and green for the Oracle.

CRYSTALS: sunstone, amber, calcite (specifically honey and yellow), citrine, sapphire

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): sun shaped anything, bay leaves, laurel, cypress, playing music (especially the lyre), poetry

ATHENA

Athena was the goddess of wisdom, war, and the crafts and is normally associated with:

ANIMALS: snakes and owls

COLORS: white, grey/silver, red

CRYSTALS: metals, celestite, fluorite, bloodstone, obsidian, iolite, azurite, and lapis lazuli

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): anything to do with olives, snake shed, cedar, cypress, cinnamon, weapons

DEMETER

Demeter is the goddess of the harvest, grains, and agriculture. She is typically associated with:

ANIMALS: serpent, farm animals (especially pig), lizards, turtle-dove, crane, owl

COLORS: green, brown, yellow, and black

CRYSTALS: jade, tree/moss agate, carnelian, amber, aventurine, rutilated quartz, pyrope, and almandine

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): oats and grain, anything baked, flowers, spices (like cinnamon or cloves, allspice is good too), leaves that have begun to change colors for fall, mint, poppy

DIONYSUS

Dionysus is the God of wine, pleasure, and festivity and he is typically associated with:

ANIMALS: panther/leopard, tiger, bull, serpent

COLORS: purple and green for association with grapes/wine, leopard/tiger print for his holy animals

CRYSTALS: amethyst is largely associated with Dionysus, as well as grape agate, garnet, and rose or rutilated quartz

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): grapes (or any derivative), alcohol, cinnamon, ivy, pinecones, playing music, partying, sex/masturbation

HADES

Hades is the God of the underworld. However, Hades also rules over wealth and finances. He is typically associated with:

ANIMALS: naturally, dogs are frequently associated with Hades, as well as owls, sheep, and cattle

COLORS: black, red, and white are typically used in association with death. purple and metallics are used in association with riches/wealth

CRYSTALS: hematite, onyx, black crystals (like obsidian), jet

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): narcissus, mint, asphodel, white poplar, pomegranate, coffee, cinnamon, elm, money, chocolate, keys, shells

HEPHAESTUS

Hephaestus is the Greek god of fire, volcanoes, blacksmithing, and metalworking. He is typically associated with:

ANIMALS: donkey, dog, crane

COLORS: red, orange, and yellow, metallics.

CRYSTALS: metals, fire opal, honey calcite, smoky quartz, black quartz, rock crystal, amethyst, chloritized quartz, and rutilated quartz

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): spicy things, hot beverages, anything handmade (especially if made by you), dragon's blood incense, seashells, anything on fire

HERA

Hera is the goddess of women, marriage, and childbirth and is frequently associated with:

ANIMALS: peacock, cuckoo, cow

COLORS: red, pink and white for association with love and marriage. gold because she's the Queen of the Gods.

CRYSTALS: pearls, diamonds, topaz, opal, moonstone, malachite, tourmalinated quartz

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS: iris, rose, patchouli, coconut, cypress, maple, peacock feathers, pomegranate

HERMES

Hermes is the messenger of the gods and the mediator between the realm of the dead and the kingdom of the living. He is commonly associated with:

ANIMALS: tortoise, ram, goat, hawk, pig

COLORS: green, red, gold, white and brown

CRYSTALS: theres actually not a lot of evidance that crystals and stones were used in the past for altar work for Hermes. however citrine, alexandrite, and tigers eye are used frequently today

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): money, crocus/saffron, strawberries

HESTIA

Hestia is the goddess of the hearth, home, and hospitality. She is normally associated with:

ANIMALS: donkey, pig, crane, cow

COLORS: red, orange, and yellow, brown or white

CRYSTALS: amber, jade, red garnet, ruby, sunstone, amethyst, honey calcite

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): tea/coffee (drink with her), pine, bread, cider, apples, anything on fire, cinnamon, anything that feels like home to you

PERSEPHONE

Persephone is the goddess of the dead and queen of the underworld in ancient Greek religion and myth and is typically associated with:

ANIMALS: deer and ram

COLORS: purple, pink, yellow, green - any spring colors. (Hades colors can be used as well)

CRYSTALS: the garnet is the most commonly associated with Persephone, but amethyst, moss/tree agate, milk quartz, and jade can also be used

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): pomegranate, flowers, grains, lavender, rosemary, Spring

POSEIDEN

Poseidon is the god of the sea, earthquakes, horses, and water. He is typically associated with:

ANIMALS: horse, bull, dolphin, hippocampus

COLORS: blue and white, gray, brown and green

CRYSTALS: coral, opal (especially water opal), blue calcite, aquamarine

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): coffee, mint, ocean water, salt, seashells

ZEUS

Zeus is the god of the sky and is considered the ruler, protector, and father of all gods and humans. He is typically associated with:

ANIMALS: eagle, bull

COLORS: white, blue, gold, grey, yellow and black

CRYSTALS: opals are said to have come from Zeus' tears of joy after defeating the Titans, so they are heavily linked to Zeus. diamonds, gold, turquoise, lapis lazuli, celestite, iron/steel, any quartz

OTHER ASSOCIATIONS (good for offerings): rain water, oak, olives/olive branches/olive leaves, vervain. images of himself or anything with lightning bolts or shaped like a lighting bolt

That's all for altar connections with Greek Gods! I hope that you found this helpful in your spiritual journey and I hope that you are able to apply this information to your practice.

if you have any questions regarding anything discussed here or anything you feel that I have missed, please send an ask to my ask box! I appreciate all comments and questions!

For more information on my practice, witchcraft, herbalism, spirit work, and divination please check out the guide on my page (linked here)! Everything I have ever posted can be found there!

I wish you all a blessed day filled with peace, endless wealth, and eternal health! Until the next time we meet!

[adaine-party-wizard]

i ADORE terpsichore skullcleaver holy shit. like. i am so healed by her. a dance teacher saying you need to eat? and that you need rest? and that you need to eat? like?? sorry i’m just. so. i wish i could’ve had a dance teacher like her she’s the teacher i want to be.

[saltandfire-blog]

All Time Favorite Lucemond Fics

Thought I’d post some baddies to help us heal from this last season.

ñuhon - When Lucerys lives and wakes up to oblivion, Aemond decides that—more than an eye for an eye—Lucerys in his entirety would be for Aemond to completely own.

In other words: Omega Lucerys survives yet loses his memories, and Alpha Aemond takes his revenge on him creatively.

Holy fuck, this might actually be one my favorite fics of all time. INCREDIBLY well written and perhaps one of the most tragic/romantic lucemond pieces I’ve ever read. I also find myself adoring the Daeron/Joffrey dynamic that is unexpectedly thrown in that I didn’t know I wanted.

all I had to give - Lucerys has waited for Aemond to find him again since his fall. He is only surprised it took this long.

I think this was technically my first a/b/o lucemond verse fic that blew my heart away. Aemond and Luke’s portrayal in this might actually be my favorite. And the added Alysmond is a +❤️

real gods require blood - Before King Viserys I Targaryen draws his last breath, the Greens make their move. Rhaenyra Targaryen and her family find themselves prisoners in the Red Keep, cut off from their dragons and at the mercy of a new king.

Terrified of what fate awaits his family, Lucerys Velaryon turns to the only person at court willing to help him, no matter the price he has to pay.

Or: Lucerys offers himself in exchange for his family’s safety. Aemond could never refuse.

Not only is this fucking incredible to read, it might be my favorite smutty fic out there. The dialogue between Aemond and Luke just hits sooooo amazingly, this is one of those fics I go back to regularly to reread. I await the authors part 2 of this with baited breath!

Consanguinity - When the bastard Addam of Hull claims Seasmoke, it throws House Velaryon into disarray. All except Corlys, who spies the perfect opportunity to help his heir out of the delicate situation he has found himself in with an impromptu suggestion.

Though quite why Prince Aemond seems so affronted by the match is anyone’s guess.

Speaking of fics I go back to reread - this is definitely another one!! @nashiriel is an absolutely incredible writer and I can’t wait to see where she goes with this! I don’t like to spoil other people’s work…but I love a pregnant Lucerys a/b/o verse with a deliciously angsty twist ❤️

Divenire - Lucerys survives Storm's End however now he needs to survive Aemond, his obsession over a debt paid and the Dance of the Dragons.

This is one of the first Lucerys/Aemond fics that blew my mind. Is it insanely demented and toxic? Yes. Is it amazingly well written? YES! You decide if it’s your cup of tea, but I always return back to this one every once in a while when I want a pure hate no happy ending fic.

Heir of the Tides series - In 120 AC, Aemond Targaryen lost an eye to his nephew. In 129 AC, he demands the price to be paid.

Later on, Lucerys Velaryon will tell his mother that it was a fair exchange. (or, the author went out and wrote the eye fic she so wanted to read).

I admit, I am an absolute sucker for the idea of Luke taking his own eye out. Add on top of that a Luke who takes more of a role in his Velaryon inheritance - and can’t forget the battle of the Gullet 🤌🏻 !! Definitely a series to invest in.

Life for life, eye for eye - Aemond finds his nephew, somehow surviving the death of his dragon over Shipbreaker Bay, washed ashore, an empty socket where his right eye should be. The message, to Aemond, is obvious: the gods have given Luke to him, to do with him as he sees fit.

Meanwhile, when Luke wakes up, prisoner to his uncle, his world quickly narrows to one thing and one thing alone: surviving, so he can return to his mother, and the rest of his family, alive.

--

In which Aemond surpasses Daemon for title of 'worst uncle' by several miles and Luke suffers.

Ok so please beware, this is about as dark as it gets. If you’re triggered easily, this isn’t the fic for you. It explores extreme Lima and Stockholm syndrome forsure, but if you’re into this ship I’m sure you must know it consists of a broad spectrum of very dark, toxic fics, and this is one that just so happens is amazingly well written. Please keep in mind, if you don’t like, don’t fucking read.

Portrait of a Prince on Fire - Ser Luke Strong, legitimised bastard of the lord of Harrenhal, has found favour at the sumptuous court of Viserys I as a court painter. But he is also Lucerys Waters, unacknowledged bastard of Princess Rhaenyra of Dragonstone. The secret of his true parentage and the life he could’ve had eats him up, and he drowns his regrets in drink and brawling.

Prince Aemond hasn’t been seen outside court since he lost his eye, over a decade ago. Now he is about to be wed — and the king commissions Luke to paint the portrait that will be sent to Aemond’s betrothed.

They hate each other at first sight — but as Viserys lies dying, the portrait sets them on a collision course that will send them spiralling inexorably together. And as the realm descends into war, they will have to decide whether to hold on to each other as the world they knew begins to shatter.

Another fic I am completely obsessed with! @fruitageoforanges has probably written one of my all time favorite portrayals of Aemond and I love the refreshing take on Lucerys I’ve never seen done before in this ship. A 17th century AU that has an awesome amount of fashion I adore and is an absolute must read 😉❤️

Star-Crossed - Lucerys is taken captive by the Greens after his fall. When Aemond is assigned as his constant guard, and so constant companion, the romance that blooms between them spins the Dance of the Dragons on its head.

Or: two young lovers from rival factions of the royal family come together in a violent world.

I can’t list off lucemond fics without giving this one an honorable mention.

Dirección de la Luz - A decade had passed since Hwa Yeong was exiled from Yin. He had traveled through the entire empire three times and still had not found his death.

Until one day he met the dragon prince.

Or: Pregnant and solely with the company of his dragon Arrax, Lucerys Velaryon travels to the Yi Ti Empire and begins a new life away from his family and Aemond Targaryen.

A fic published in Spanish, but there is a translated version linked or you can translate yourself as I found myself doing because this story drew me in SO hard I couldn’t wait for the translator to update lol. This is such an original idea and SO fascinating to read with the authors portrayal of Yi Ti culture with such amazing detail!! I can’t give this author enough praise and encouragement to keep going!

the beast you’ve made of me - Lucerys Velaryon is no coward. He is frightened. He is alone. He is a bastard. He is a prisoner of a war he would do anything to stop. But he is no coward.

Lucerys survives Shipbreaker Bay. Aemond is baptised in the storm. This is the aftermath.

If you want Team Green Lucerys, this is your story. When you have to join the enemy to save your family with long term goals, Luke really goes through it in this one, but the political seesaw between his love for Aemond and his family is fabulous to read unfold 🤌🏻

Hope I’ve given you guys some beauties to read if you haven’t already 💎🗡️🩸

Lucemond is a beautiful, terrible place 😉

(Tried to @ as many as I could that are here on tumblr)

[the-mortuary-witch]

BASTET

WHO IS SHE?

Bastet, also called Bast, Ubasti, and Bubastis, is a goddess often represented as a lioness or a cat. She was a protective goddess associated with home, domesticity, women’s secrets, cats, fertility, childbirth, marriage, music, magic, sex, prosperity, joy, dance, healing, and pleasure. She is often invoked for protection against evil and misfortune. Bastet was also known as a goddess of joy, music, dance, and perfume, and is often depicted holding or playing musical instruments, such as the sistrum and the lute. She is also closely associated with the goddesses Sekhmet and Mut, which both of whom are depicted as lionesses.

BASIC INFO: 

Appearance: Bastet is often depicted as a woman with the head of a cat or a lioness, sometimes holding a sistrum or a basket of perfumes. Her body is typically portrayed as being covered in spots, like a leopard. She is often depicted wearing a wig adorned with a vulture headdress and a necklace with a golden pendant. In some depictions, she is also shown riding in a chariot pulled by lions, and in others, she was shown as a mother nursing her kittens.

Personality: she is known as a kind and gentle goddess who was particularly devoted to her followers and their well-being. She was seen as a protective deity who watched over homes and families, and was often invoked to protect against evil and misfortune. She was also known as a goddess of joyous celebration and music, and was often invoked to bring happiness and prosperity to her devotees. She was often depicted as a protector of women and children, and was known to be a motherly and nurturing goddess.

Symbols: basket, Ankh, the Sun and Moon, perfume jar, sistrum ointment, solar disk, cats, and lions

Goddess of: home, domesticity, women’s secrets, cats, fertility, childbirth, marriage, music, magic, sex, prosperity, joy, dance, healing, and pleasure

Culture: Egyptian 

Plants and trees: catnip, vervain, cannabis, lotus flower, cinnamon, mint, and sandalwood

Crystals: cats eye aquamarine, jasper, graphite, xenotime, black tourmaline, pyrite, lapis lazuli, sunstone, moonstone, mangano calcite, tiger’s eye, morganite, and shungite 

Animals: cats, lions, cheetahs, leopards, and other felines

Incense: kyphi, rose, cinnamon, mint, and sandalwood

Practices: home protection, feline magick, fertility, sex magick, healing, love magick, personal growth, dance magick, pregnancy rituals, and music magick

Colours: malachite green, black, red, bronze, pink, turquoise, and gold 

Numbers: 7 and 9

Zodiacs: Leo and Cancer

Tarot: The Chariot, Strength, and The Sun

Planets: Sun and Moon

Days: Sunday, Monday, Bubastis, and Mabon

Parents: Ra and Isis

Siblings: Horus and Anhur (half brothers)

Partner: Ptah

Children: Maahes

MISC:

Cats: they were believed to be the embodiment of the goddess Bastet, and as such, were considered to be holy creatures. Cats were also seen as symbols of grace, elegance, and fertility, all of which were qualities associated with Bastet. Additionally, cats were also seen as protectors of homes and families, which was one of Bastet's main roles as a protective deity.

Sun and moon: Bastet was sometimes associated with the sun and the moon because she was believed to have a connection to the heavens and the celestial bodies. She was considered a protector of the sun, and was believed to accompany Ra, the god of the sun, on his journey across the sky each day. She was also closely associated with the goddess Isis, who was often depicted holding a sistrum or a lunar disc, symbolizing the moon. Additionally, she was also sometimes depicted as the protector of the nighttime, and was thought to be responsible for bringing light into the darkness.

Ankh: the ankh, which is a hieroglyphic symbol that represents life, was often depicted in association with the goddess Bastet because she was considered a protector of life and fertility. The ankh was believed to have powers that could bestow life and fertility upon those who wore it or had it in their possession. It was also said to protect the wearer from death and evil. As a deity associated with these qualities, Bastet was often depicted with the ankh as a symbol of her protective powers and association with life and fertility.

Basket: she is often depicted holding a basket, which is believed to represent her role as a protective deity. The basket was used to carry items that were believed to have protective properties, such as sacred oils or other sacred items. The basket was also seen as a receptacle for offerings and gifts to the goddess, and was believed to represent the abundance and prosperity that she brought to her followers. In some depictions, the basket is also shown as overflowing with grain, representing her association with fertility and plenty.

Cannabis: in some interpretations, cannabis is seen as having a connection to the goddess Bastet because of its association with female fertility and goddess worship. Cannabis has been associated with many goddesses throughout history, as it was believed to be a sacred plant with spiritual and medicinal properties. Some believe that Bastet was associated with cannabis as a symbol of her protection and power over fertility and abundance, and as a means of connecting with the divine feminine. Other interpretations suggest that cannabis may have been used in ancient rituals and ceremonies dedicated to Bastet as a means of enhancing spiritual connection and achieving altered states of consciousness.

Perfume jar: Bastet was often depicted holding a perfume jar or a container of perfumed oil, which is believed to represent her association with perfumes and fragrances. The scent of fragrances was believed to have powerful properties that could purify the air and drive away evil spirits. The perfumes associated with Bastet were often said to have a floral, musky, or sweet scent, and were believed to have regenerative and protective properties. In addition to their protective qualities, perfumes were also seen as symbols of luxury and wealth, which may explain why they were often associated with the goddess Bastet.

FACTS ABOUT BASTET:

Bastet was worshiped in Bubastis in the Nile River delta and Memphis. Large cemeteries of mummified cats and bronze statuettes of Bastet were created at these sites.

Her name was originally B'sst, which later became Ubaste, then Bast, and finally Bastet. The meaning of her name is not known for certain, but some claim it means "She of the Ointment Jar". 

According to Egyptian mythology, the circumstances of Bastet's death are a mystery, but many scholars believe she died while protecting her family.

Many Egyptians saw her feline attributes as all-powerful, with the ability to protect their homes from evil spirits and disease, much in the way cats could ward off vermin.

She works as a psychopomp, a person who leads the deceased to the next life.

Bastet, who was in charge of looking after the dead and the spirit world, was also in charge of destroying the bodies of the deceased who managed to escape from Ma’at’s judgment chamber. In addition, she directed the spirits to the afterlife World. She cared for the deceased and prevented them from fleeing their punishment.

Anyone who damages, kills, or is cruel to cats will suffer the wrath of Bastet and her devotees. Egyptians were so devoted to Bastet and their pet cats that when one died, the cats were also mummified and joined Bastet in The After World.

HOW TO INVOKE BASTET:

Light a candle and place it in front of an image or statue of Bastet, offerings of fresh flowers, especially lotus and roses, and which are associated with Bastet, burn incense, such as kyphi, rose, cinnamon, mint, or sandalwood, which are believed to be scents that Bastet enjoys, speak prayers or affirmations to Bastet, asking for her guidance and protection, and create a small shrine or altar dedicated to Bastet, with items that symbolize her qualities of protection and fertility.

PRAYER FOR BASTET:

 Mother of the Gods, the One, the Only,

Mistress of the Crowns, You rule all.

Bastet, Beloved, when Your people call

Daughter of the Sun, with flame and fury,

Flashing from the prow upon the foe;

Safely sails the boat with Your protection

Passing scatheless where Your fires glow.

Daughter of the Sun, the burial chamber

Lies in the darkness ‘til Your light appears.

From Your Throne of Silence send us comfort,

Bastet, beloved, banish all our fears.

Mother of the Gods,

No gods existed ‘til You came there and gave them life.

Trampling down all evil and all strife.

Mother of the Gods, the Great, the Loved One,

Winged and Mighty, unto You we call,

Naming You the Comforter, the Ruler,

Bastet, beloved, Mother of us all.

SIGNS THAT BASTET IS CALLING YOU:

The presence of cats, seeing them in pictures, on television, being followed by cats, and even hearing meowing can be signs.

Seeing images or visions of her in your dreams or while meditating.

Feeling a sense of protection or comfort in her presence.

You experience a sudden or unusual interest in ancient Egyptian mythology or spirituality.

Feeling a sense of joy or celebration when thinking about or engaging in activities associated with her.

A strong connection to the themes of protection, fertility, and abundance in your life, or experience a sudden increase in energy or creativity. It's important to pay attention to your own intuition and feelings when interpreting these signs and signals.

Finding small items associated with the goddess in unexpected places or experiencing a sense of connection to the moon or the night.

Feeling a sudden or unusual attraction to the colour gold.

Experiencing a sudden or unusual interest in perfume or scents.

You begin to experience an increase in your creativity and artistic abilities.

A sudden or unusual urge to protect or care for others.

You experience a sudden or unusual attraction to the arts, music, or other forms of self-expression.

OFFERINGS:

Perfume. 

Salves and body scrubs. 

Jewelry and other shiny precious to semi precious objects.

Gold items.

Food and drinks: chocolate, sugar water, pastries, beer, garlic, onions, meat (especially chicken and fish), honey, soda, milk, bread, tea, water, fruit/fruit juices, red wine, grains, and lettuce.

Catnip and cannabis. 

Lotus flower. 

Baskets.

Crystals: cats eye aquamarine, jasper, graphite, xenotime, black tourmaline, pyrite, lapis lazuli, sunstone, moonstone, mangano calcite, tiger’s eye, morganite, and shungite.

Wind chimes.

Cat hair, claws, teeth, whiskers (please don’t cut a kitty’s precious whiskers, wait for them to shed naturally - look for them mostly during summer and on the places your cats spend most of their time). 

Music.

Bird feathers (especially peacock).

Instruments, songs, music players, cds, and anything relating to music.

Dance related objects and imagery.

Incense: myrrh, jasmine, lavender, cannabis, and frankincense.

Sun catchers.

Bells.

Herbs: lemon balm, catnip, rose, jasmine, honeysuckle, and mint.

Lunar/sun images and items.

Art you’ve made of her.

Poems and literature.

DEVOTIONAL ACTS:

Love and respect cats, spend some quality time with them.

Protect your loved ones.

Stand up for what is right.

Explore your sexuality.

Do what you love, and love what you do.

Spend some time with your family, whether it be biological or chosen.

Include cats and cat effigies in your practice.

Use a cauldron to burn herbs as incense.

Learn more about Her, and her history.

Cleaning your house.

Donate to, volunteer at, or otherwise support cats at shelters.

Pray to her or write poems in her honour.

Research her.

Honour your mother or the mother figure(s) in your life.

Protect and fight for the innocent.

Dance!

Play music or create a playlist in honour of her

Learn about perfume and scented oils and how they were used and made in Ancient Egypt.

Take care of your home.

[spicy30]

Modernness of 1400s 010

Pairing: HOTD x Fem!Modern!Reader

Extra: The reader is noted to be bilingual (Spanish speaking) and is familiar with the majority of Latin-based languages, No use of Y/N

Rating: 18+ (domestic abuse)

Tags: @fan-goddess @meowmeowmothermeower @bunxia @your-favorite-god @coolalienstatesmansports @georgiatesulitsyeykite @qwerrtsworld @wegottastayfocus @dakota-rain666 @talilosha @the-deep-dark-abyss @101crows @agustdeeyaa @ggglich-exe @illjhhlisa @deepeststarlightmoon @cluelessteam @a-fruity-snack @i-zenin @justablondeeee @feyresqueen @yduimobsessed @pinkluv29 @xmenteria @itwaszzmoon @powllito @xadaboo @magdalenacarmila

WC: 12.4k

21st day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you. 

…

Jacaerys furrowed his brows looking over the letter. “To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.” Again.

“To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.” Again.

“To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.” One more time.

“To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.” Your name was signed at the bottom. He darted up from his chair going over to his night stand to read your last letter. Had he missed something in your last letter? They were sent only three days apart. What changed?

…

7th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

Today is a holy day—the holiest of days. The seventh day of the seventh month, when the Seven smile down upon their faithful.

There are few things in this world that can truly be called holy.

Today is one of them.

But you are not. Not in the eyes of the High Septon.

You are new. Different. Unexplainable. You are magic—a force beyond his comprehension. Like the dragons, like the Targaryens, who, despite their sins and misdeeds, remain inexplicably closer to the gods than he, the High Septon, ever will.

Today, the bells of the Great Sept toll in solemn rhythm, calling all to attend the sacred ceremony of the Seven. The air is thick with incense, the sweet and smoky fragrance curling through the stone corridors like a prayer whispered to the heavens. Worshipers flood the Sept, their voices a low hum of reverence, heads bowed, hands clasped.

You are there among them, standing apart yet undeniably present. Dressed in white, gold glinting at your wrists, the light streaming through the stained-glass windows dances over you like a blessing from the gods themselves. To many, you appear a vision—a living relic touched by divine hands.

But to the High Septon, seated at the heart of the sanctum beneath the seven-pointed star, you are an annoyance. A disruption.

As he leads the prayers, he does not meet your gaze. When his eyes sweep across the congregation, they glide past you as though you are invisible. Yet in his chest, a familiar irritation brews, sharper with every passing moment.

You are too still, too composed, as if you do not carry the weight of your sins. The others kneel with trembling hands and tearful eyes, pleading for forgiveness, but you remain poised, serene, as though you have no need to beg the Seven for their mercy. It is as though you think you are already favored—already holy.

The High Septon’s words rise and fall in practiced cadence, his voice steady and commanding. He preaches of humility, of repentance, of knowing one’s place beneath the gods. But his thoughts stray, circling back to you, unbidden.

He recalls the whispers about you. The miracles you claim, the illnesses you’ve healed, the strange knowledge you wield. He remembers the way the sun cast its colors over you that day, a spectacle he had never seen before, and how even now the faithful murmur your name in the Sept as if it is a hymn.

It infuriates him.

You are not holy. You are not chosen. You are not ordained by the gods to serve their will.

You are no better than the Targeyens dancing on their dragons, breathing fire and destruction in their arrogance. Magic, power, miracles—they are tools of chaos, not proof of divinity.

As the ceremony draws to a close, he stands beneath the great star, arms outstretched, his voice booming with finality. “May the Seven guide us in their wisdom. May we walk humbly in their light, never straying, never claiming what is not ours to take. For pride is the path of ruin, and only through devotion may we find salvation.”

His gaze lingers on you for the first time, sharp and pointed, his unspoken condemnation clear.

And yet, as the worshipers rise and disperse, heads bowed and voices hushed, you remain unmoved. You lift your chin ever so slightly, meeting his stare with an expression he cannot place—neither defiance nor submission, but something more elusive.

If he is waiting for you to falter, to shrink beneath his judgment, he will be left wanting. You do not need his validation. You have come not for his approval but for answers.

As the High Septon turns away, his robes trailing behind him, he mutters a quiet prayer under his breath. Not for you, but for the realm. For he is certain now: you are not holy. You are dangerous.

…

10th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

Aemond Targeyen had seen many things in his life, despite the lack of an eye. How could he not? He can see through Vhagar. Flying through the skies, seeing through the eyes of the gods. Aemond had seen more than those with two eyes ever will. 

An unfortunate side-effect to seeing through the Gods (Vhagar) is that not many things interest him any longer. He has grown bored of looking through the eyes of man. 

Yet by many, Aemond was considered no mere man—how could he be, as a Targaryen? Born of fire and blood, chosen by Vhagar, the queen of dragons. The gods had marked him. And though his Valyrian blood deemed him superior, Aemond’s sights were set higher still. To him, the eyes of a King—perched atop the Iron Throne, looking down on the realm—were the only vision worthy of comparison to the gods. The Iron Throne was the apex, the sole seat that could match his ambitions and cure his ennui.

But this sight in front of him might be enough to satisfy him, if only for a bit.

Here and now as he lies on your bed bare as the day he was born, his gaze lingers on you—a sight that, for once, stirred his restless mind.

You sat by the window, your lips slightly parted in concentration as you painted your lashes a dark, striking black. Your eyes, already piercing, became more prominent with each careful stroke. You held a mirror in your hand, one he hadn’t seen before. Encased in what looked to be silver or perhaps fine steel, it bore delicate engravings partially obscured by your fingers, which were adorned with rings. Your nails, long and polished, gleamed like tiny blades. (How you seem to glisten down to even your nails he will never know)

The mirror’s quality was far better than his own—his, with rusted edges and dim reflection, felt crude in comparison. Yours was pristine, untouched by decay, much like yourself. You seemed impervious to the filth and shadows of King’s Landing, as if you had stepped out of another world.

The light pouring through the window illuminated your exposed collarbone and the soft swell of your cleavage, making your skin glow. Your cheeks held a perfect flush, a rosy hue that mimicked the warmth of sunlight caressing your skin.

He watched, transfixed, as you set the mirror down and reached for a bag embroidered with golden letters that spelled DIOR—a name he did not recognize but found intriguing nonetheless. From the bag, you pulled a silver-encrusted tube, sleek and foreign.

Aemond’s sharp eye followed your every movement as you opened the tube and lifted the mirror once more, applying a glossy sheen to your lips with precision. For a fleeting moment, he believed that perhaps you could fulfill his longing for something—anything—worth observing through the eyes of man.

In this moment, you were more than a curiosity; you were a masterpiece, a picture of regality and otherworldly elegance. Aemond’s boredom, for once, began to waver.

Aemond remained silent, his sharp gaze unwavering as you tilted your head, inspecting your reflection in the mirror. The sunlight seemed to cling to you, as if it, too, were captivated. You pressed your lips together lightly, spreading the gloss evenly, and then set the tube down beside your mirror.

The motion was simple, yet deliberate, exuding a calm self-assurance he found rare in others. The people of King’s Landing always seemed to wear their unease plainly, their movements erratic, their gazes nervous. You, however, moved as if you had all the time in the world, as though nothing could rush or disturb you.

“You stare,” you said suddenly, breaking the silence without glancing his way.

Aemond’s lips curled into the faintest smirk, unrepentant. “Should I not?”

You finally turned your head toward him, an arched brow accompanying your unimpressed expression. “It’s rude, you know. People tend to find it unsettling.”

“Do they?” he asked, voice laced with amusement. “I wonder if anyone’s ever dared tell me that to my face.”

“First time for everything.” You leaned back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other. The hem of your dress shifted slightly, revealing the shimmer of gold-threaded embroidery along its edge.

Aemond’s eye flicked briefly to the fabric before returning to your face. “And yet, you don’t seem unsettled. Only... irked.”

“Maybe I’m just used to people staring,” you replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Or maybe I’ve decided it’s easier to let you stare and get bored than to tell you to stop and risk making it worse.”

Aemond chuckled softly, low and resonant. “You think I bore so easily?”

“I think you bore quicker than most.” You rested your elbow on the arm of your chair, propping your chin on your hand as you studied him. “Which begs the question—why are you still here?”

“So you are irate today.” Aemond’s smirk widened, a rare spark of genuine intrigue lighting his expression, yet it never seemed rare with you. It only fueled his amusement when your lips pursed, the gloss on them gleaming in the sunlight. Tugging at the robe that hung loosely off his frame, he stood, his eyepatch resting untouched on the nearby counter.

“Tell me,” he said smoothly, his tone baiting, “I figured it would’ve passed by now. What has you cross today? Did you not enjoy the ceremony of the Seven.”

You didn’t respond, your silence an act of defiance that only seemed to amuse him further. Aemond stepped closer, the faint rustle of the bedsheets as he moved towards you breaks the stillness.“Still upset that my mother hasn’t introduced you to the High Septon?” he murmured, his voice low, deliberate. “Everything is easier with a name to stand behind you.”

He leaned down slightly, and the sweet, almost otherworldly scent that seemed to belong only to you enveloped him. It was both maddening and intoxicating.

“I don’t understand why he refuses to meet with me,” you said, frustration softening your usually steady voice. “It has been a whole month yet he seems to despise me, but I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?”

Your wide eyes—framed by lashes that seemed longer and darker in the sunlight—looked up at him with an innocence he knew better than to trust. His hand moved before he thought, fingers brushing against your cheek, but when you tilted your head, it was your hair that became ensnared in his grasp, soft and impossibly sweet smelling.

“Good deeds are not enough for the High Septon,” he said, his voice quieter now, as if sharing a secret.

“Is that not what the Faith preaches?” you murmured, though your eyes weren’t on his. They lingered on his lips instead, and he knew you were aware of the power you wielded in that moment. “I don’t do it for recognition, though. Perhaps I did at first, but... it feels good simply to do good.”

Your gaze drifted from his lone eye to the sapphire, then back again, studying him in a way that made him feel both exposed and intrigued. Before he could respond, you leaned in, your lips brushing his cheek in a chaste kiss, the gloss leaving a faint shimmer against his skin.

For a moment, he was still, caught between the warmth of your touch and the unfamiliar sensation of vulnerability it brought. But when he straightened, the corner of his lips curved, though his eye remained calculating.

You were dangerous, he thought, but perhaps... that was what made you so interesting.

He leaned into your cupping your face and brought it closer to him as he kissed you. A practiced motion between the two of you. He felt as you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him down. He obliged to your wishes. His hands drop and inside hold your waist as he lifts you up from your chair. You both break and he can look at you admiring as the sun hits your eyes illuminating them. 

“Otto fights me on everything,” you murmured, your voice soft, as though you feared the walls might hear. To Aemond, it sounded almost like a whispered heresy, something that should never be spoken aloud in a place like the Red Keep.

“He sees you as a disruption,” He replied evenly, though there was a flicker of something in his tone. Amusement, perhaps? Or curiosity? “You challenge the natural order of things—his order.”

“Challenge? All I’m doing is suggesting progress,” you scoffed, leaning against him as your arms continue to hold him close to you. “Do you not see the benefit of what I’ve proposed? Patents would encourage innovation. Imagine what could be built—what could be created—if inventors and scholars felt protected, if their work wasn’t stolen by those with power but no imagination.” You speak into his chest.

Aemond’s lips twitched slightly, the barest hint of a smirk. “And yet, you expect my grandsire, the very embodiment of power and tradition, to willingly hand over control of such matters? You’re either bold or naïve.”

“Why not both?” You gave a sweet smile looking up towards him.

The corner of his mouth lifted further at that, though his eye remained sharp, assessing. “Adding a new position to the council is no small request. It threatens the balance of power.”

“Does it?” you countered. “Or does it merely challenge the age-old idea that men like Otto cling to with all their might?”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, studying you. “And who, pray tell, would you recommend for this new position?”

You hesitated, Aemond could almost see your thoughts turning. You hadn’t yet settled on a name, but you knew what you needed—someone older, someone with experience, yet not so entrenched in tradition that they would resist progress.

“I’m still considering,” you admitted, though your tone was firm. “But it would need to be someone who understands innovation, someone who values intellect over influence.”

“Someone you could control,” Aemond clarified while looking down towards you, his hand firmly on your hips

He watched you give a wide grin. “Control? No. Persuade? Perhaps. Influence? Certainly.” You gave Aemond another chaste kiss before turning around preparing your papers. “In any case…this needs to be passed.” He heard you hum out before turning around. 

Aemond gave a low hum, his tone distant, as he began dressing himself. He heard your soft farewell before the door clicked shut behind you, leaving him alone in your chambers. It was unusual. In the past month since your peculiar routine together had begun, Aemond had never lingered in your room for long. You always seemed particular about your things, shooing him out with a sense of urgency that he attributed to your underlying fear of his mother. It irritated him, though he wouldn’t admit it aloud.

You should not fear his mother—not when he stands between the two of you.

(But even as the thought passed through his mind, a quieter, less comforting truth lingered: what is a Prince to a Queen? And worse still, Aemond could not deny that it was his father’s favor, not his own protection, that truly shielded you from his family’s ire.)

He reached for his eyepatch, which lay discarded on the desk. As his fingers brushed it, the leather slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. His irritation flared for a moment, a small crack in his otherwise stoic demeanor. He knelt to retrieve it when something caught his eye—a faint glint of metal, hidden beneath your bed.

Aemond stilled, his hand hovering over the eyepatch.

“California love” Aemond turned around to his brother in…well Aemond didn’t know what it was. “California knows how to party. California knows how to party.” His brother sang as he threw back a drink. “What do you think brother?” Aegon grinned. “A wife beater.” 

Aemond furrowed his brows. “You would strike your sister-wife!? Our future Queen!” Aemond hissed out marching towards his foolish older brother. 

Aegon shook his head while grinning. “No brother, that is what this-” Aegon pointed towards his white…shift? (Aemond refuses to call it a wife beater) “It’s called a wife beater.” Your name came from Aegon’s mouth of how you had introduced him to ‘slangs,’ ‘gang wars’ and ‘the west coast vs the east coast’ (Aegon said that he much preferred the West coast) 

“In the city of LA, in the city of good ‘ol Watts. In the city, city of Compton. We keep it rockin', we keep it rockin' Now let me welcome everybody to the Wild Wild West. A state that's untouchable like Eliot Ness….thats all I know. Love that song. Sunshine state. Sunfyre and I would thrive in California.” As Aegon sang Aemond simply stood there. 

California?

Aemond Targeyen knows nothing. 

Your homeland, your past, the strange words that spilled from your lips when he pressed you beneath him—these were all mysteries wrapped in the enigma that was you.

This lack of knowledge gnawed at him, and in that moment, he justified his curiosity as natural. Expected.

Reaching beneath the bed, his hand found the metal handles of an oddly shaped bag. He hesitated for only a moment before pulling it into the light. Inside the bag were an assortment of objects: a neatly folded set of unfamiliar clothing, patterned bags, soft leather pouches, and a pair of sandals—the very ones you had worn when he first saw you. But one item in particular drew his attention.

It was green, with dark, rounded glass encased in what appeared to be a semi-translucent frame. Light and delicate, the object felt strange in his hands. Aemond furrowed his brow as he examined it, noting the fine, intricate metalwork at its hinges.

He carefully unfolded the arms of the object, marveling at the tiny mechanisms that allowed it to move with such precision. The craftsmanship was like nothing he had ever seen. What sort of blacksmith could forge such delicate pieces?

Curiosity overcame him, and he brought the dark glass to his eye. The world darkened instantly, and he frowned. He adjusted the arms until they rested over his ears, the glass sitting snugly on his face. He blinked, the dimmed view unnerving him.

Why would anyone wear such a thing? What purpose could it serve?

He removed the object abruptly, and the brightness of the room returned with a sharpness that made him wince, a faint ache forming between his brows. Looking deeper into the bag, Aemond found a small booklet with a box on its cover—a strange contraption with a glass eye at its center. Opening the booklet, he discovered what appeared to be miniature portraits. But they weren’t paintings; no brushstrokes marred their surfaces. They were impossibly detailed, lifelike beyond comprehension. They were reflections frozen in time.

One of the portraits featured you with another girl, her appearance as foreign as yours. The two of you wore what could only be described as scandalous—she in a strapless dress, while the both of you held food between your mouths, connected in a playful pose. Another showed the two of you in what he could only interpret as smallclothes, laughing as you stood knee-deep in the sea. In yet another, you were seated in a contraption he could only compare to a carriage, though it bore no wheels or horses. You wore trousers and a small white top that looked more like undergarments to his eyes.

Aemond continues to look through the small portraits. Countless photos of you in what seem like another lifetime. There you were, standing before a tower that soared higher than the Red Keep itself. Another portrait depicted you before an awe-inspiring Sept, the girl from earlier by your side. He turned the page to find you with a woman he assumed was your mother, standing before what appeared to be a glass pyramid. Each image offered a glimpse into a life so foreign, it might as well have been from another world.

One portrait caught his attention: you dressed in a long coat with an undershirt that covered your neck, dark trousers, and those same green-framed dark glasses perched atop your head. A strong wind seemed to whip your hair across your face as you stood before a grand landscape with a mighty river snaking behind you. In another, you were bundled in heavy clothing, yellow mirrors covering your eyes, and a rounded hat atop your head as you held two metal objects, white snow blanketing the scene behind you. Another showed you and a man he presumed to be your father, standing before a tower that leans precariously to one side. More portraits followed, featuring great statues, vast cities, and you with your family in settings so extraordinary they hardly seemed real.

Some of the portraits appeared to be breathtaking works of art, though most were self-portraits of you with the girl and others. One, in particular, showed you and a group of girls clad in tunics bearing numbers—outfits far too improper by Westerosi standards. Another featured a large gathering of people, all young, their attire beyond Aemond's comprehension. In that image, you were smiling brightly, your arm wrapped around a boy who stood close to you.

He turned another page and paused, his brow furrowing. The next portrait showed you standing beneath a floating banner that read “Happy Birthday.” A brightly colored cake sat before you, and your family stood gathered around you. You looked impossibly young, your smile radiant and unguarded.

Aemond thought the booklet had ended, but as he went to close it, he noticed a small folder tucked into the back. Pulling it out, he found more portraits—these ones more intimate. They showed you and the same boy from earlier, but now, you were kissing him. Each portrait captured moments of affection and closeness that felt invasive to witness.

His hand tightened around the booklet, and a strange feeling curled in his chest—part curiosity, part irritation, and something else he couldn’t quite name. Who was this boy? What life had you lived before this one? Aemond stared at the portraits, his mind swirling with questions he doubted you would answer willingly.

…

12th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

Daemon is not fond of you. That much is clear to everyone. To him, you are another green snake slithering in his path, another head to be severed when the time comes. It’s no matter; he’s already counting the days until your venom meets its antidote.

Yet, you don’t act like the other snakes. You bite the hand that feeds you, snapping at those who should be your allies. The whispers about you echo through the halls of the Red Keep, growing louder with each passing day. You sow chaos among the greens—retaliations and sharp words delivered like daggers—and though Daemon despises you, he finds himself lingering just long enough to see where the trail of destruction leads.

To Daemon, you’re not a player in this game; you’re a spectacle. A fire sparking in the middle of a powder keg. He doesn’t watch to see you succeed or to root for your cause—Daemon Targaryen watches to see who will fall first. Whether your bite sends the entire tower of greens crumbling or whether you’ll meet your own demise from their retribution, it doesn’t matter to him.

What does matter to him is his daughters. Daughters who now seem to be collateral damage to your venom. Daemon's loyalists, carefully reassembled during his prolonged stay in King’s Landing, begin to whisper of sour fruits. Letters—you’ve been sending them. Letters to someone caught in your vice, someone who ties himself to his eldest daughter. It gnaws at him, deep and persistent. You gnaw at him.

You shouldn’t have the reach to wrap yourself around a prince across the bay, to slither into places you don’t belong. You shouldn’t even be here, in this castle, weaving yourself into the threads of his family’s tapestry. To him, you are a mutt—a mongrel clawing at the edges of a world far above you, and yet, somehow, here you are.

It is that persistence, that audacity, that irks him most. He watches as you charm your way into rooms you should never enter, as you plant seeds in soil that should remain barren to you. And now, with every letter sent, every whispered scheme, it feels as though your shadow stretches closer to what he holds dear.

For all his hatred, Daemon couldn’t help but watch you, the way you slithered towards the council room with a grace that could captivate even the most hardened heart. Your hips swayed almost hypnotically, drawing his attention to the very room he had always longed to be in, only to be cast away from. "Well, if it isn’t the prattling bitch. Come to talk their ears off again?" he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

Daemon relished the way you stiffened, knowing full well that there was no one here to save you from his words. His gaze sharpened as he watched your brows furrow. "Jealous that you can’t?" you retorted, the challenge clear in your voice. "Let's try to remember, I’m in the room and—" You let your eyes trail over him, a deliberate move, “—you’re not.”

A small, defiant smile curved your lips as you began to walk away from him, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the stillness of the hall.

Daemon’s amusement flickered, and he couldn't resist a final jab. "And let’s not forget, you’re nothing but a mutt with nothing to your name."

"Me? The mutt?" You turned back toward him with a tilt of your head, a playful glint in your eyes. "But I’m not the one patiently waiting outside for my wife to come back and collect me, like a good stray who’s been fed. I’ll make a suggestion to the Princess to toss you a bone."

“My Lady.” Daemon’s eyes were drawn to the dornish knight who called after you.

“Ser Criston!” 

Daemon gave a scoff as you pranced over towards the Knight. “A bitch and a whore. Tell me when we will be expecting a litter of mutts?” That made you stop in your tracks and Daemon couldn't be bothered to acknowledge the look on Crispin’s face. 

“No,” you said sharply, turning to face him. "I am a woman who knows exactly what I want and how to get it." You took a deliberate step closer, your expression mocking. “You, on the other hand…” Your brows furrowed in feigned pity, “I almost feel sorry for you. Always last to be chosen, not even second, always third. I imagine it grates the most that your niece was chosen for the throne before you. How sad that must be, to have your bloodline suffer so.”

Daemon’s fists clenched as you continued. “First, Rhaenyra, then her younger brother—may he rest in peace—and finally, you. The third choice. That was of course before the birth of the King’s other four children. Even your son is nothing but a third choice, trailing behind Princes Lucerys and Joffrey. How truly tragic it must be, to know that the only way you can achieve anything as a second son is to marry your own niece.”

Your words rang in the air like a cruel melody, and Daemon gritted his teeth, anger rising in him.

You gave a high-pitched hum, shrugging your shoulders. "But I suppose you’ve always known your place, haven’t you? Best to start acting like it. I suggest getting yourself a seat while you wait outside for your wife, sitting down.”

Daemon’s gaze sharpened as you walked toward the door to the small council. He did not miss the small, self-satisfied smirk on the Dornish knight’s face. 

With a slow, deliberate motion, Daemon’s hand hovered near Dark Sister, a dangerous glint in his eye, but he refrained. The small council awaited, and for now, he would bide his time. But this… this humiliation would not be forgotten.

…

12th day of 7th moon of 129 AC

You were strange. Very strange to Ser Criston Cole. He had thought you a simple girl—fearful, fragile, like any other who came to King’s Landing with nothing to their name. (Like him all those years ago.) He remembered the day you prayed outside Queen Alicent’s chambers, trembling as though the gods themselves might descend to save you. If he was commanded to, Ser Criston Cole would strike you down. He would’ve struck you down that day had Alicent asked it of him, but she didn’t, only to observe. 

So he has. He watched that day as he heard sounds from your room. He watches as Aemond seems to leave their training sessions earlier, as Aegon sings songs no one has ever heard under his breath, and how Helaena speaks in more riddles since going to the Riverlands. 

“Beneath the dawn of gilded skies, a great age shall rise,” Helaena hums as she sows whilst her children play elsewhere. “Born of unity and splendor, a golden bond sworn.”

Alicent is right. You pollute and Ser Criston thinks that you are polluting a Prince's honor. (But should he go throwing stones from his glass house? If the Queen demands it of him, he will.)

However, until anything more is demanded of Ser Criston Cole he will not act, he will simply watch and now he watches you as you spit your words towards Prince Daemon. It brings him deep satisfaction. (Why? Criston likes to think that it is because Daemon has always been a thorn in his side but he knows better than that. Or does he?) 

No he doesn’t because in this moment Criston feels as though he is living vicariously through you. It is as though your words are his, as though he himself is insulting the Prince without consequence.

“But I suppose you’ve always known your place, haven’t you? Best to start acting like it. I suggest getting yourself a seat while you wait outside for your wife, sitting down.”

You pollute things around you, never caring who else ingests your pollution. You are selfish beyond belief and Criston will live through you if only for a moment because he was denied when he wanted to be selfish.

Criston was denied a life that he wanted when his white coat was stepped on. He was denied the only life he could live honorably. Criston is forced now to live a life he cannot help but detest. He lives as Ser Criston Cole, as an honorable knight who has taken an oath of celibacy, Criston lives as a knight who broke his sacred vows, but what else does he have? Nothing but the favor of a Queen, for he lost his honor long ago.

So Criston watches you, watches as he sees you earn the ire of the Queen who he is sworn to, watches as you earn the annoyance of the hand, yet you earn the favor of a King. Ser Criston knows the danger that comes with earning the favor of a royal, much more of a King. You are beautiful woman, he cannot deny, he doubts anyone else can deny putting aside your peculiarity, but if King Viserys continues on the track of health you have launched him to, Ser Criston knows you have failed to see the chain on your ankle that ties you to the King and soon you too will be launched with the King and thus sealing your fate. 

And like him, you will be forced to live a life you did not mean for. 

But Ser Criston has not been told to act yet, so he simply watches you. Watch as for hours you stand in front of the council speaking as if you have all the answers in life, as you speak with knowledge beyond your years. You speak as though you have all the answers, as though the path forward is as clear to you as the sun in the sky. You speak of radical ideas to launch Westeros forward. You talk so much and so loud for someone with no name and no bloodline to shield you, it almost irritates him, but why? Ser Criston cannot say why. 

You speak with everything. Everything is conveyed with every single part of your being. As if you truly believe the words you speak. But in his eyes you cannot be so sure of yourself. You cannot truly be putting your whole faith and trust into your ideas. You cannot hope to be so selfish and so self assured because when he was like you, he was not. You have nothing to shield you but the favor of a King and Ser Criston Cole knows that is not enough. 

Ser Criston continues to watch you. Watch as once more the council is adjourned once more and there is a displeased look in your face. He watches as you all walk out, yet you walk alongside the King as he asks for you and you politely agree to meet him later in the evening. There's a disgust that arises in him as he hears you agree. A disgust that the Queen shares as they both walk away. 

He can hear the Queen muttering beside him, her voice low but brittle with frustration. “The King grows too lenient. Too… infatuated with her nonsense.”

Ser Criston nods, a dutiful echo of her sentiment. “The council grows restless, Your Grace. Her influence spreads unchecked.”

Alicent pauses mid-step, turning to glance back down the hall where you have disappeared with Viserys. Her expression is tight, her lips pressed thin. “Unchecked, yes,” she murmurs. “But not for much longer.”

Ser Criston catches the cold edge in her voice, the glint of steel behind her calm façade. He has served Alicent long enough to recognize the slow, deliberate way she moves when she is planning something. His chest tightens, and though he knows it is not his place, he cannot stop himself from speaking.

“Your Grace,” he says carefully. He had danced with Alicent countless times. She never could admit what she wanted so it was up to him to decipher her. He watches her eyes, her body, her mouth, everything about her he watches. He gives a nod. Ser Criston is sworn to Queen, Ser Criston Cole always knows what is expected of him.

…

14th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

His lone eye looked over the letters you had received from his nephew on Dragonstone. Aemond crumpled the edges of the paper as his jaw tightened, his grip on the fragile parchment growing tauter by the moment. The words were innocuous enough on the surface—gracious, polite, and steeped in an almost boyish sincerity. But to Aemond, they were nothing short of treachery.

He read them again, his sharp gaze slicing through each sentence like a blade. "Your apology is well received." Aemond sneered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. What sort of relationship could the two of you possibly have that warrants such a familiar exchange? And why, by all the gods, had you accepted it?

Had you played the same game with Jacaerys that you had played with him? The same coy smile, the same allure that had drawn him into your chambers that first night? Had you ensnared his nephew as you had ensnared him? Opened your legs so obedient as you do for him? And what of that man in those strange, vivid paintings you kept so carefully hidden?

Aemond’s jaw clenched as his lone eye narrowed, scanning the lines once more, his ire growing with each passing sentence.

"You have shown me things that never in my life I would ever see, and for that I am grateful."

Just what had you shown him? Aemond cannot say because he does not know you—not truly—and it seems more apparent with every passing day. The inside jests you share with Aegon, the peculiar games you invent for Jaehaera and Jaehaerys while Aegon plays alongside you, the strange foods you bring to Helaena—why do his siblings seem to know you better than he does when it is Aemond who shares your bed?

"I truly do hope to see you once more here in Dragonstone."

He will not. Aemond will make sure of it.

But it is the most recent letter that cuts the deepest, the one that feels the most intimate.

"I would much rather share your burdens than have you face them alone."

Words you speak to a wife. Words meant for a partner, not a stranger. And yet his nephew has written them to you, without shame, without pretense.

There is no subtlety. None. What right does his nephew have to you? What claim?

And yet, for the first time, Aemond felt the foundations of his certainty falter. His hands trembled faintly as he set the letters aside, the crumpled edges a testament to the storm raging within him.

Pacing the length of the room, his mind churned. Were his fears unfounded? No, they couldn’t be. Not when Jacaerys's words were so plain, so brazen. Yet, deep in his chest, a whisper of doubt gnawed at him. Did he truly know you as well as he believed?

The thought clawed at his pride. Aemond paused, his fingers curling into fists as he wrestled with his frustration, his jealousy, and the painful shadow of uncertainty now cast over his mind.

The Valeyrons. To you they even feel entitled to. To his eye they felt entitled to you. It was clear in the arrogant tone he can hear as if Jacaerys himself was reading the letter aloud. The lofty prose his nephew promises you, the  offer of refuge, the veiled promises of protection—all laid bare in the ink of a boy who thought himself noble, thought himself better. "Here I can assure you that your head will not be on a spike..." 

If Jacaerys were to ever be King, he should be deemed Jacaerys the Hubris. (But he will not, Aemond knows this, for it is his foolish older brother who will sit the Iron Throne rather than his half-sister.)  The conceited words seemed to burn Aemond. Did Jacaerys believe you were so weak, so naïve, that his words would sweep you away to Dragonstone?

(Maybe you were, it is why you have Aemond. It is how you look at him, with big innocent eyes that beg for your life and Aemond indulges in them.)  

Aemond’s lip curled. It wasn’t just the content of the letters but their frequency—the familiarity they implied. The way Jacaerys wrote of shared moments, of private conversations, of flying on Vermax together. Aemond could practically hear the smugness in his nephew’s tone, feel the audacity of his offer to take you to the North or the Isle of Faces as though he had the right to show you the world.

…

15th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

“Tell me what other stories can you tell?” Viserys felt like a child asking you for such trivial things as you sitting and watching him while he sits in a mixture of lukewarm water and breast milk, just as you instructed. Yes, Viserys wishes you had come along much sooner.

Perhaps you would’ve been able to save him from this terrible fate he now must endure, though why the gods curse him as such, he knows naught. (But Viserys does know. He knows it must be some punishment for his dear wife Aemma. How he misses his wife.)

“What stories would you like to hear?” Viserys thinks. When was the last time he had someone tell him stories, or even read them to him. Not since Alicent all those years ago he supposes. 

“Tell me stories of your youth, or anything about yourself.” He settles. You are so very different and it almost feels refreshing to hear you. Yes, Viserys wishes you had come sooner. A calm yet determined soul you had. A soul perfect for his daughter, a soul perfect to stabilize the realm. Yes, Viserys knows he is much your senior but for a moment as you tell your stories as Alicent did to him all those years ago, he can imagine the Queen you would’ve been. 

A Queen that would have never let him rot like this.

Or mayhaps even sooner, to save Aemma.

“Sometimes, my dreams come true. Small trivial things though. I dream a memory, and days later I will be in the memory, but as it plays out in the present.” You speak and Viserys' lone eye widens.

“Tell me more.” Viserys leaned against the tub, the cool metal pressing against his sensitive skin. “Do you dream of things to come, or only what was?” Were you a dreamer? A dreamer that was not a Targeyen, or mayhaps you were a dragonseed. 

He watches you closely, his gaze lingering a moment longer than it should. The way your skin always seems to gleam in whatever light surrounds you, and whenever you move, it’s as though the very rainbow of the Seven is ingrained within you. Something about you is different, something that makes him feel as if you might be more than just a woman in his presence.“Both, I think. But it’s hard to say. Most are trivial moments. Other times, especially in times of sorrow, a feeling of déjà vu occurs.”

Viserys did not know what ‘déjà vu’ meant, so he ignored it. “The Targaryens…most think our power lies in controlling the dragons,” You are no Targaryen. He should not tell you. You are not heir to the Iron Throne. “It is a lie. We do not control dragons. Our power lies in the dreamers of our family.”

“Daenys the Dreamer.” He heard you murmur and he smiled nodding. 

“Yes, you know the story?”

“Prince Aemond has told it to me.”

“My boy? I suppose he has always been one for the books. It seems only natural for two intellectuals to speak to one another.” Viserys smiled, but his mind wandered. If you were a dreamer, perhaps it would be best to unite such a soul into the family. Have a stronger line of dreamers. He glanced at you once more, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.

“I had wished to be a dreamer, but alas,” he continued, his tone tinged with a quiet sadness. “Perhaps it was never meant for me... a king’s burden is not one for dreamers, after all.”

His thoughts began to drift, the weight of the crown and legacy pressing down on him. A dreamer. Could you be the one to change the course of this house? To alter the doom that was always foretold for the Targaryens? Viserys’s gaze fixed on you as if searching for something deeper, something more than the surface of your words.

Perhaps if you were a dreamer, a true one, you could save this house from the doom that waits. The dreamers had always foretold it, but could you be the one to change it?

Viserys's mind wandered, as it often did in these days of fading strength. The weight of his crown, the weight of the Targaryen legacy, felt like too much to bear, and yet he still clung to it, clinging to whatever semblance of control he could grasp. Perhaps this dreamer, this person who was so unlike him, could offer a spark of hope in a world that felt so very dim.

“Sometimes, the burden of a crown is not in the weight of the gold, but in the dreams that shape the future.”

“Kind words.” Viserys smiled. “Yet I feel as if I had no true trial nor tribulations. I find myself wishing that I had. After all, smooth seas never made a skilled sailor. Tis’ the favorite saying of the Sea Snake. A saying that I can understand. I do not think I am a skilled sailor and I am not fit to start trying now.” 

“Sometimes, Your Grace, it is not the storms we endure that define us, but the quiet strength to rise again after the calm. Courage is not always found in great battles—it is in the small, quiet choices we make, day by day, to try again, even when the seas are still.” Yes, a fine Queen you could’ve made. A fine Queen you still could make if you were betrothed to his oldest grandson, but he had slighted the sea snake enough Viserys supposes. 

“Have you ever given marriage a thought? What will you do once your act is passed?” He asked as he laid back into the warm waters.

“Briefly. In times of…weakness. In times when I find myself overwhelmed.” He heard you admit. The silence that followed was deafening. “Sometimes I imagine marrying a lord and living far from King’s Landing. Living in luxury that my lord husband will indulge me in. Living life never thinking of anyone else. It is a simple path, an easy path.”

“But?”

“But if not me, then who? If not now, then when? Sometimes you have to be the one to step up, even if others believe it’s not your place to begin with.” How noble you are. The embodiment of the ballads he hears of the strong and noble knights. Viserys does not doubt there will be a song written in your name. A song that will be sung throughout time. 

There is a prickle of jealousy when he looks towards you, but it is damning to him. How could he hold such prejudice to you, one so noble and brave.

…

18th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

Dear Jacaerys Velaryon, 

I thank you for your concern for me, truly. It is comforting to know that I have someone who cares for me as you do. In truth I find myself everyday more willing to take your offer, but alas I cannot allow myself to. There is much to be done. I do not doubt the validity of your words and truthfully your kindness is ever humbling. However, to leave now, tempting as it may be, would be to abandon a game in which I have yet to place my final pieces. However, I will admit, the thought of retreating to a quiet life with you—watching movies, sharing stories, and even introducing your younger brothers to the oddities of my world—is a dream I would gladly entertain when the time is right.

Continuing on, I must ask for forgiveness for my imprudence but you promised me something before you left. I wish to make good use of it now. I would like you to commission portraits of the photos. You see, I find myself being homesick and I long to look at my family, but my phone has limited time, and I plan to have it for a lifetime. If I can be so shameless as to ask this of you, I would be eternally grateful. 

(P.S-I have gone to see the weirwood tree. I am not a fan. It’s creepy. Why is it always staring at me!?)

…

20th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

You are not from here. Aemond knows that much. You are not from here, but Aemond knows naught of where your origins lay. You are not from here and you seem as if you have always lived an eternity away from him which is strange, because he feels you against him yet you stare off. 

You always stare off. Always traveling to a place where he cannot follow and it is starting to grate on him. It is starting to grate against Aemond that you have lived an eternity away from him, it is starting to grate on him that you cannot seem to let go of your past when he is here.

Why can you not let go when he has decided that your past is no longer relevant. The boy in the portraits that you hide under your bed is no longer relevant, your letter to Jacaerys will no longer be relevant. 

Across the sea of time, you seem to forever drift, and it grates on Aemond because he offers you land—solid ground to anchor yourself—but you seem content to float endlessly in the unknown.

“I have to go,” you murmur, your gaze finally meeting him. Why is it that you only truly return to him when you must leave?

“Why?” he asks, his voice low but laced with frustration.

“Because your father demands my presence,” you reply, your tone quiet but resolute.

“Why?” he pressed, his eyes narrowing, as if demanding an answer beyond your words.

“I don’t know,” you admit, the faintest edge of exasperation creeping into your voice.

“Why?” His question lingers in the air, heavy and unrelenting, and for a moment, neither of you moves, suspended in the fragile silence.

Aemond watches as you break it, rising gracefully to dress yourself in the silks that his protection affords you. The fabric clings to your form, a subtle reminder of the safety he has provided, yet you seem distant, as if you’ve already drifted away.

“In any case, all is well,” you say, smoothing the fabric over your skin. “A recent turn of events has granted me favor with the High Septon.”

“How?” His voice is sharp, suspicious.

“A series of coincidences has deemed me a blessing from the Seven themselves.” That smile crosses your face again—the one that first drew him to you all those months ago. But this time, it’s different. There’s no bloodied lip, no evidence of your vulnerability. It’s a polished smile, practiced and untouchable, and it infuriates him in ways he cannot express.

“We will ride Vhagar tomorrow when you return,” he says, his tone firm, almost commanding.

“Why?” you echo, tilting your head as you fasten the clasp of your gown, curiosity flickering in your eyes.

“There are things that need resolving.” His gaze hardens, his meaning clear, though unspoken. There is a weight in his words, one that promises that whatever "resolving" he has in mind, it will not be gentle.

“Alright then.” With a final glance, you turned and left, leaving Aemond alone in your chambers once again. The sound of the door closing echoed in the quiet room, and for a moment, he simply stood there, staring at the space you’d vacated, his jaw tight.

After a moment, he moved. His steps were deliberate, his gaze sharp as he rounded the bed and knelt beside your strange bag. The remnants of your past—your secrets—were hidden here, carefully tucked away as if they could be forgotten. But Aemond would not let them linger in the shadows any longer.

Pulling the bag closer, he began to sort through its contents. The odd garments, the mysterious tools, the painted portraits on strange paper—they all spoke of a life he could not fathom, a world entirely separate from his own. His fingers brushed over one of the small, glossy portraits, his gaze narrowing as he studied it. It was you, smiling, carefree, standing beside a man he didn’t recognize.

The past needed to be resolved. It tethered you to something beyond him, something he could not control, and that grated against every fiber of his being. Aemond was not a man to share, not a man to be content with half-measures. If you would not let go of the past, then he would tear it away for you.

Gathering the items, he placed them back into the bag with methodical precision. His mind worked as swiftly as his hands, formulating the steps he would take. He would unravel this mystery, strip away the parts of you that resisted him, and ensure that you could no longer float aimlessly across that endless sea of time.

By the time you returned, there would be no past to haunt you. Only the future he had carved out—a future where you had no choice but to anchor yourself to him.

Standing, Aemond slung the bag over his shoulder. He turned to leave, his steps purposeful as he strode toward his chambers. The items in this bag held answers, and he intended to find them, no matter how deep he had to dig.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, and the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air.

…

“I have been thinking of you, Your Grace,” you began, your voice calm and measured as Viserys watched you carefully mix your concoction. “About how you once said you wished for trials and tribulations to make your reign truly memorable.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, leaning back, intrigued by your words.

“Well… history is not only written by the Citadel,” you continued, glancing up briefly to meet his gaze. “The smallfolk remember too. ‘The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.’ Have you heard the saying?”

“I have not,” he admitted, tilting his head curiously.

“It’s a reminder, Your Grace, to be kind. Those who have been wronged will never forget it, even if the one who wronged them does. And right now, those who feel wronged are the smallfolk. I’ve visited them often. Their living conditions are abhorrent. If you could alleviate even some of their suffering, they would be forever grateful—and you would be remembered, not just in scrolls but in their hearts. The smallfolk are the foundation of a lasting dynasty.”

Viserys’s brows furrowed as he considered your words. “What would you have me do? They are lawless. I appointed Daemon once, and he managed to bring order, but when he left, they returned to their primordial state.”

“They lack even the most basic resources,” you explained, your tone firm yet respectful. “Even a lamb, content in its pasture, can turn into a hunter when cornered. Or, as you might see them, savages. But provide the lambs with proper protection, extend their pasture, and they will have no reason to act out of desperation. They will remain what they are meant to be—peaceful, grateful subjects. And in their eyes, you will be the shepherd who kept them safe.”

Viserys’s eyes softened, though uncertainty lingered. “And you believe this is achievable?”

“With the right measures, yes,” you said with a small nod, your voice steady yet laced with conviction. “The smallfolk need more than punishment for their perceived lawlessness. They need a reason to trust their king—to see him not as a distant figure in a tower, but as their protector. If you provide that, Your Grace, they will speak of you for generations.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair, your words lingering in the air. Protector. The notion struck a chord deep within him, stirring memories of his youth when he’d dreamt of ruling not just with power, but with compassion. He had envisioned himself as a unifier, a king beloved by his people, yet here he was, years later, presiding over a fractured realm with smallfolk who cursed his name more often than they praised it.

“And I suppose you are the one to bring me this solution?” he asked, a faint edge of skepticism in his tone.

“If you wish to hear it,” you replied without hesitation, your composure unyielding in the face of his doubt.

“Go on then,” he said, leaning forward despite himself, curiosity breaking through his habitual weariness.

“Where there is life, there is water. Clean water is invaluable—far more than gold or any riches you could offer. It is the foundation of health, of order, of life itself,” you began, your words precise, almost rehearsed.

Viserys arched his brow. “And?”

“I can give them that,” you stated plainly, your confidence unsettling in its certainty.

“How?” he asked, his fingers brushing the armrest of his chair as he studied you.

“A water system,” you explained. “I can design one. But I need help. I need to study everything that could possibly hold relevance to constructing it.”

Viserys frowned. A water system. It was such a simple idea, yet the implications of such a feat were monumental. Clean water in King’s Landing? In the city that had plagued him with its stench and disease? He had lived with its squalor for so long that the very thought of change seemed almost… foreign. Could it truly be done?

“Do you have a place in mind for such a study?” he asked after a pause, his voice laced with both intrigue and caution.

“I do, Your Grace,” you said.

“Where?”

“Winterfell,” you replied, your voice calm yet resolute.

Viserys blinked. Winterfell? Of all the places, why there? The North was distant, cold, and far removed from the politics of the capital.

“Winterfell?” he repeated, his tone laced with doubt. “You wish to travel to Winterfell?”

“I do,” You affirmed.

Viserys’s gaze drifted toward the fire crackling in the hearth. Winterfell. The seat of the Starks, the First Men. He had not set foot in the North since his tour when he was crowned King, but the memories of its ancient halls, its vast godswood, and its stoic people were vivid in his mind. The North had always seemed so unyielding, so untouched by the decay that plagued King’s Landing.

“And what do you hope to find there?” he asked, his voice quieter now, as if seeking reassurance.

“Winterfell was built atop a spring. I may be able to draw inspiration from Bran the Builder.” Viserys studied you. So much you have changed here, yet you ask for more, more and he has not been able to meet your first request. Despite it all, you too promise much. Could you truly deliver on such a promise? You stand here in front of him applying your remedy onto his skin standing with so much life, so much promise that it stirs a faint glimmer of hope within him—a dangerous thing for a man like him to feel. 

“You ask for much,” he said finally, his voice heavier now, tinged with the weariness of a ruler who had seen too many grand promises crumble.

“Only what is necessary,” You countered, your gaze unwavering. “If you wish to be remembered as a king who cared for his people, who built something greater than himself, then this is the first step. The choice, as always, is yours.”

Viserys remained silent, her words sinking deep into the crevices of his mind. You offer to give him the reign he had wanted. 

Could he afford to gamble on her vision? 

Could he afford not to?

…

21st day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

“A fucking hill.” Your voice was sharp, laced with frustration as you gestured wildly at the map spread across your desk. Aemond barely spared you a glance as he disrobed, the soft rustle of fabric barely audible over your rant. “And it’s fucking tall. How the fuck am I supposed to get around that!?”

“Cease your theatrics, woman,” Aemond muttered, his tone low and clipped as he sank onto your bed. The room was suffocatingly sweet, the cloying scent you carried clinging to every surface. It made his head ache. It wasn’t natural. You weren’t natural. Nothing about you ever was.

“Woman?” You turned toward him, your hands still planted on the edge of the desk. “I have a name.”

Aemond’s single eye flicked to you, unamused, as if daring you to continue. He said nothing, his gaze steady, and he watched as you rolled your eyes in exasperation. Without hesitation, you pushed away from the desk and strode over to him, your movements deliberate, your presence impossible to ignore.

“You’ve been so mad recently. What's wrong?” Aemond felt your hands linger on his shoulders. You looked smelled so sweet that it was nauseating. The soft hands you had reflecting you’ve never once been put through hard labor. Those soft hands that cradled his face as you looked down on him. It wasn’t long before he felt your lips on the side of his. Lips that were coercing him to turn and meet you, hands that held him so lovingly, your body slowly encompassing his own. Everything about you was so sweet. “I know I’ve been doing nothing but complaining about the topography of the land. M’sorry.” 

Aemond’s brows knit together at the unfamiliar word. Topography. It felt foreign, unnatural, like so many of the things you said. His frustration flared, and with a sharp exhale, he pried your hands from his face and unceremoniously pushed you back onto the bed.

Without sparing you a glance, he strode to your desk, his gaze falling on the map you had been fussing over. “What nonsense are you rambling about now?” he muttered, scanning the intricate lines and markings with narrowed eyes. 

Topography?” Your tone grated against Aemond’s ears, piercing and condescending. It was a tone he knew all too well, one that haunted him before he claimed Vhagar. It was the tone the Strong bastards used, the tone his drunken brother wielded against him. And now you—someone with no title, no standing—dared to use it on him.

“It’s like… like, I don’t know. You just have to know?” You giggled, the sound light and careless, yet it landed on him like an insult. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking with restrained anger. Have you always spoken to him like this? Him? A Prince of the Realm. A Targaryen.

“But basically,” you continued, oblivious to the storm brewing behind his eye, “it’s just… like… a map that shows the physical features of the land. Hills, mountains. The closer the lines are together, the steeper the slope of the hill. Stuff like that.”

Like. Basically. Stuff. The words felt beneath him, spoken with a lack of care or refinement he’d never tolerate from anyone else. His anger coiled tighter with every syllable. How dare you speak so unconcernedly before a prince, as if he were some common fool? A girl without rank, without even the most basic manners, speaking to him like this?

And yet, despite your audacity, you had humiliated him. The realization burned hotter than the fire in his chest.

Aemond’s fingers curled tightly at his sides as he stared at you, the map still spread out before him. You were completely unbothered, oblivious—or perhaps deliberately dismissive—of the offense you caused. Your casual demeanor only stoked the embers of his frustration, his pride demanding a response to put you in your place.

“How quaint,” he finally said, voice low and cutting, each word dripping with disdain. “Do you always explain things with such eloquence? Or is this condescension reserved only for me?”

You blinked, turning toward him with a frown that bordered on amused disbelief. “Condescension? I was explaining it to you.”

“Explaining?” he echoed, his tone sharpening. “No, you were speaking to me as though I were a child. A simpleton in need of your scraps of wisdom.” He stepped closer, towering over you as his single eye bore down into yours. “Do you forget who I am?”

You didn’t shrink under his gaze, which only added fuel to his growing ire. Instead, you tilted your head, defiance glinting in your eyes as a grin stretched across your lips—infuriatingly bold, maddeningly insolent.

“What in the mother—" You dragged the word out, the mocking lilt in your tone sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through Aemond’s veins. His hand twitched at his side, itching to silence you as your laughter spilled into the air, light and taunting.

“Fuck are you—”

“Hold your fucking tongue,” Aemond snarled, his patience snapping. His hand shot out, gripping your face with unrelenting force. His fingers pressed into the soft curves of your cheeks, silencing the laughter that grated against his ears.

Your wide eyes stared back at him, startled but not frightened—not yet. Aemond's grip tightened, his frustration boiling over into something darker, more dangerous. “You forget yourself,” he hissed, his breath warm against your skin. “You speak to a prince of the realm, and yet you behave as though you are untouchable.”

Your muffled words struggled against the hold of his hand, but Aemond didn’t loosen his grip. His teeth clenched as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near-growl. “You will learn respect, even if I have to carve it into your tongue myself.” 

His grip tightened as he shook your face, his fingers digging into your soft skin. He delivered almost taunting slaps to your cheek—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of his dominance. “That will be the first and last time you ever take such a tone with me. Do you understand?” His voice was a low, venomous hiss, each word dripping with restrained fury.

Aemond’s eye bore into yours, watching as tears welled along your waterline, threatening to spill over. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed against you, forcing you deeper into the bed. His mind was a chaotic void, his thoughts clouded by humiliation, betrayal, and the sharp sting of wounded pride. You had humiliated him—time and time again. You had fooled him, made him feel like a fool in front of himself and others. His patience had reached its breaking point.

Aemond wasn’t a bad person. He was a man who did what was necessary. A man who kept order, who upheld principles, even if it meant crossing lines others would not dare to approach. Aemond was merciful—he had given you time. A grace period. Time for you to explain yourself, to come clean about your secrets and lies. Time to confess why you wrote letters to his nephew, toyed with his older brother, and played coy with his father. But you had wasted that mercy, prancing around as if nothing mattered, as if your deceit would never catch up to you.

“Do you understand?” he repeated, his tone sharper, more insistent. He felt the warmth of your tears rolling down onto his hand as they spilled, unbidden, from your eyes. The sight stirred something he refused to acknowledge, something deep and unnerving.

You nodded, a trembling motion that seemed to sap the strength from your entire body. Aemond didn’t ease his grip immediately, his eye narrowing as if he needed to see the truth in your submission. Only when your tears fell freely, soaking into his palm, did he let go, pulling back with slow deliberation.

Standing up, Aemond towered over you, his gaze cold and calculating as he watched you shift away, retreating to the farthest wall as though distance alone could shield you from his wrath. Your tears began to fall freely now, silent but unrelenting, accompanied by soft sniffles that only seemed to echo in the room's stillness. He watched as you curled into yourself, shrinking into a protective shell, your arms wrapped tightly around your knees. The vulnerability you displayed should have stirred something in him, but Aemond forced himself to remain unmoved, even as the sight tugged faintly at the corners of his resolve.

He sighed heavily, brushing his hair back with one hand as his jaw tightened. He refused to meet your gaze, choosing instead to focus on the far wall as though it might grant him clarity. Your sobs were soft but persistent, and they grated against his composure. He felt them press against the edges of his self-control, an unwelcome reminder of how close he’d come to losing it entirely.

“Aemond, I am sorry,” you pleaded, your voice trembling as you struggled to regain your breath. “I didn’t mean it.”

He turned his head slightly, his single eye sharp as it cut back to you. His breathing was deliberate, measured, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that contrasted starkly with your erratic, uneven sobs.

“Do not be coy with me,” he hissed, his tone laced with contempt. “I am not my father.”

“Look, I don’t know why you’re so mad, but I’m sorry,” you insisted, your voice cracking under the weight of desperation. “I promise I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Aemond’s expression darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He took a step closer, his boots heavy against the floor as he loomed over you. “Your love letters to my nephew will stop,” he declared, his words cutting through the room like a blade. “Should I hear of you sending letters to anyone without informing me, I will leave you.” He let the threat hang in the air for a moment, letting its weight settle over you before delivering the final blow. “And everyone will know of your misdemeanors.”

Your eyes widened at his words, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill as you opened your mouth to protest, but no sound came out. Aemond felt a fleeting pang of satisfaction at your speechlessness, though it was buried beneath layers of frustration and mistrust. He straightened, his posture rigid and unyielding as he looked down at you with an air of finality.

…

1st day of the 8th moon of 129 AC

“I, King Viserys, First of my name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm hereby pass the Patent Act of 129 AC.”

The proclamation hangs heavy in the air. A decree so alien to Westeros, so far removed from its traditions, that it almost feels as if a foreign king has taken the throne. The weight of the King’s words settles across the council chamber like an oppressive fog.

There doesn’t seem to be a happy face in the council. Not even yours, or perhaps you have just gotten better at hiding it. Ser Criston Cole does not know. He watches you with his sharp, calculating eyes, searching for a crack in your mask. But there is none.

The Hightowers contingent looks as if they’ve swallowed something bitter. Otto’s knuckles are white against the polished wood of the council table. Alicent sits perfectly still, her expression unreadable save for the tight line of her mouth. Only the soft rise and fall of her chest betrays her agitation.

“My King,” Otto finally speaks, his tone carefully measured but laced with disapproval. “This act… it is unprecedented. To allow individuals to lay claim to ideas, to inventions, is to invite chaos. It disrupts the natural order. The crown may find itself overwhelmed by disputes.”

Viserys, though frail, raises a hand to silence his Hand. “Enough, Otto. I have heard these arguments. Time and time again, I have heard them.” He leans back in his chair, his tired eyes flickering to you. “But the Seven Kingdoms cannot linger in the past forever. Progress must be made.”

You incline your head, a faint shadow of a smile ghosting across your lips. Ser Criston notes how carefully you control it, how you refuse to gloat in the face of victory. He wonders if that’s for the King’s benefit—or the Queen’s.

“And yet,” Rhaenyra’s voice cuts through the tension, soft but firm, (It is a sound that annoys him. A wound that refuses to heal.) “progress must be tempered with care. This act grants power to individuals, but power without restraint can lead to ruin. Who will oversee these claims? Who will ensure they do not conflict with the crown’s interests?”

The silence after the King’s words lingers, thick and suffocating. Ser Criston watches you carefully, noting the faint twitch of your lips as you nod without a word. His gaze hardens, ever wary of what it is you are truly playing at. He knows that beneath the calm, beneath your composed exterior, there’s something simmering. He just can’t place it.

 “His grace sends me to Old Town to find a candidate.” You had won, and perhaps you knew you would all along, but Criston still doesn’t quite understand the depths of your plan. You, with no name, no true claim, standing before the council as though the world itself had bent to your will. (It had. You had bent everything to your liking and Ser Criston cannot help but feel a prick on envy. Why must it bend for you? You who had his exact standing but yet when he wanted to bend the rules, they did not bend for him and instead he was the one broken.) But now, as he watches you closely, he wonders if the weight of your victory has already begun to settle on your shoulders.

Your confidence has shifted. It’s a small thing, but Criston is a man who watches every detail, and it’s that shift he can’t ignore. Your silence is deafening to him. You speak but you are still so quiet. Nothing like the woman who spoke out against Prince Daemon. 

“Yes, you leave tomorrow with two of my Kingsgaurd.” King Viserys adds and Ser Criston’s eyes flicker over to you. Your face remains impassive, only a nod is given. 

“I should accompany you.” Alicent’s voice rings out. “It has been some time since I have visited. I long to see my son.” Ser Criston knows better. He knows his Queen, the hand he is sworn to. 

There have been talks recently, talks of your enlightenment, when only a month ago,the High Septon used to scorn your name, he now praises it. Old Town is a strong hold of the faith. 

Alicent does not want your pollution. Alicent does not want your ‘enlightenment.’

Note: After like forever, Aemond is finally gathering the pieces that shes not from Essos 💔 Anyways pls leave me your thoughts.

Previous I Next I Masterlist

To be added to Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑

[blue-lotus333]

💕Goddesses of love💕

Aphrodite: Greek Goddess of love, beauty, sex and lust.

Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, emerged from the sea in a scallop shell and sailed to Cyprus. She possessed a magical girdle and had many lovers, including Ares and Adonis. Ares killed Adonis out of jealousy, leading to the creation of anemones. Adonis became a god split between the Underworld and Earth due to Aphrodite's love. She travels with the Three Graces and bestows joy, brilliance, and abundance upon mortals. She aids in romantic love and is associated with myrtles, roses, and anemones.

Freya: Norse Goddess of love, war, fertility and magic.

Freya, the Norse goddess of love and ruler of war and death. She mediated conflict between warring groups of Norse gods and established peace in Asgard. She is known for her beauty, sorcery, and sexuality, as well as for riding a cat-drawn golden chariot. Freya wears a falcon-feathered cloak that allows her to move quickly between heaven and Earth and has an enormous palace in Asgard where she celebrates with the souls she chooses from the battlefield. In one myth, she obtains the famous amber necklace, Brisingamen, from four dwarves by sleeping with them, beauty for beauty.

Oshun: African Goddess of love, beauty, prosperity & femininity.

Oshun is a goddess of love in the Yoruba religion. She is one of the 7 orishas and the source of power for all the other orishas. Oshun has the ability to make all things flow in the universe through her love and strength. She played a significant role in encouraging Ogun, father of civilization, to continue creating. Oshun is the only goddess who can carry messages between the mortal world and the Supreme Creator in heaven. In Nigeria, there is an annual ceremony called Ibo-Osun where women dance for Oshun during a feast of yams, with the best dancer winning Oshun's favor and becoming the village adviser on healing and fertility.

Parvati: Hindu Goddess of love, fertility, harmony and motherhood.

Parvati is a golden Hindu goddess known for love and devotion, forming a holy trinity with Saraswati and Lakshmi. She was born in the Himalayan mountains and embodies nurturing feminine energy. Parvati won over her husband, Shiva, through patience and determination in asceticism. Parvati is the creator of her son Ganesha, the elephant-headed god of wisdom. She is also worshiped for her strength and ferocity. In one legend, she transformed into the fearsome goddess Kali-ma to overcome & destroy demons who threaten the earth, showing her protective nature.

Guan yin: Buddhist Goddess of compassion, love, peace and kindness.

Guan Yin, originally a mortal princess named Miao Shan, was known for her compassion and kindness. Despite her father's cruelty, she devoted herself to helping others and performing miracles. After her death, she chose to remain in human form as a bodhisattva to help suffering beings, eventually becoming a goddess. By simply invoking her name, people can receive protection from harm. Guan Yin is often depicted in a white gown on a lotus throne and is revered by her followers as a symbol of love, compassion & purity. Her devotees often follow her vegetarian diet on her sacred days. Guan yin is not only the goddess of compassion, but the literal personification of it.

Hathor: Egyptian Goddess of fertility, love, womanhood and the sky.

Hathor, ancient Egyptian goddess of love and joy, has been revered for over 3,000 years. Known as the Gentle Cow of Heaven, she provided milk to the Sun God Ra, making him and other pharaohs divine. Hathor created the Milky Way and is often depicted wearing a crown with cow horns. She is worshipped through joyful ceremonies of music and dance and is the most beloved goddess in ancient Egyptian belief. Hathor is also the goddess of the Underworld, protector of females, and champion of romantic bonds. She can appear in different forms and her symbols are the sistrum and hand mirror.

Laka: Hawaiian Goddess of love, wilderness, the hula & music.

Laka is a Polynesian goddess of love and wilderness who taught humans the art of the hula dance. She is married to the fertility god Lono, and rain is considered a sacred time for them. Dancers in training build altars to Laka with her favorite flowers and plants, and offerings are taken down to the ocean after performances to thank her for her blessing. She is a Goddess who rules over all vegetation. Plants sacred to her are: maile, Lama, hala pepe, `ie`ie, ki, `ôhia lehua, `ôhelo, and palai.

Aine: Irish Goddess of the summer, love, wealth and light.

Áine is a powerful and loving fairy queen in Irish legend, associated with agriculture, animals, and light. She is celebrated at the Midsummer Festival in Limerick, where people run up her hill to seek her blessing. She is also a survivor of sexual abuse in legends, where she shows strength and guides women to empowerment. Áine is depicted with red hair, a headband of stars, and surrounded by her animals. She can transform into a red mare who is unbeatable in speed.

Xochiquetzal: Aztec Goddess of fertility, beauty, flowers and love.

Xochiquetzal was a powerful and complex Aztec goddess known for her beauty and seductive nature. She was worshipped as a patroness of lovers and prostitutes, encouraging love-making for pleasure rather than reproduction. Despite her associations with sexual relationships, she also had the ability to absolve humans of sins unrelated to sex. She was married to the water god, Tlaloc, and was considered a consort to the creator deity, Tezcatlipoca. Xochiquetzal was widely worshipped and honored through great rituals that included acts of sacrifice and confessions.

Ishtar: Mesopotamian Goddess of love, war, fertility and power.

One of the oldest goddesses in the world, Ishtar, the goddess of war and sexual love, was the queen of heaven. Ishtar is considered a member of the special class of Mesopotamian gods called the Anunnaki. Ishtar is often called Inanna, she is also an astral deity, linked to the planet Venus, and was worshipped widely in the ancient Middle East. She was known as the Queen of the Universe and had powers attributed to various other gods. Ishtar was the very first goddess of love, Mesopotamians described her in her many legends and poems as young and strikingly beautiful, with piercing, penetrating eyes.