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melzula · 4 years ago

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Life Changing Field Trip

*part of the Fire Lililes series

pairing: Zuko x Princess!reader

warnings: heavy angst, lots of tears, fluff, 3.6k words in length so it’s a doozy

notes: it’s finally here! I’ve had so much fun writing this piece and I hope you enjoy

summary: “You cannot bend something that is broken, but you can heal something that is hurt.”

“You can’t just show up like that, give me a location, and then not tell me why or where I’m going,” you grumble to the moon as you load your bags onto Appa’s saddle. You’re not sure how long you’ll be gone or how far you’ll be traveling, but’s it better to be prepared.

Your bending had dwindled ever since Zuko’s arrival, and no amount of training or meditation ever seemed to help you get back on track. Zuko was a part of your team now, and you hadn’t forgiven him yet, not by a long shot, but you had been good about keeping your rage and your fury locked away inside of you. Scaring Zuko off and creating unnecessary tension wouldn’t help Aang with his fire bending, and so you kept to yourself and avoided the boy at all costs. When he entered a room you exited, if he tried to start a conversation you gifted him your silence as a response, and when he tried to apologize or chase after you you’d freeze his feet to the floor. It was simple and effective and, unlike your water bending, it worked.

But Zuko wasn’t the only obstacle in your life, and you knew you had to figure out your bending issue soon before the comet arrived. Your struggle must have been great enough to draw attention from the spiritual realm, because sure enough that night you were visited by the Moon Spirit in your sleep.

Even in your dream-like state your first instinct upon seeing her was to fetch Sokka, but she made it clear that she didn’t have much time. She gave you a location and stressed the urgency of your arrival to the coordinates. She gave no real explanation and no real direction, just some weird proverb like piece of advice that you were too tired and too dense to understand.

“You cannot bend something that is broken, but you can heal something that is hurt.”

You weren’t sure what exactly Princess Yue meant by that or how it would help you, and for a fleeting moment you wished Iroh were there to help you understand; all you really knew was that there was no time to waste. Whatever this location was and whatever importance it held, you were going, and nothing was going to stop you.

“What are you doing?”

Okay, maybe someone was going to stop you.

“It’s none of your business,” you retort harshly, glaring at Zuko who stands before you with bead head and drowsiness present upon his features. “Go back to sleep.”

“Y/n, come on,” Zuko begs earnestly. “You really expect me to just go back to bed when you’re about to sneak off with Appa in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, I do. Now go,” you scowl whilst settling yourself in the saddle and taking hold of the reigns. Your gaze is fixed straight ahead, but you make no move to go. It’s almost as if something is holding you back from leaving Zuko behind, anchoring you to him in a way that makes you nervous.

“Let me come with you.”

“I have to do this by myself. You wouldn’t understand, you never have,” you argue.

“Then let me try to,” Zuko pleads. “Princess, you’re the only one who hasn’t forgiven me yet. Neither of us can be happy until we at least try to fix it.”

A tense silence washes over the two of you as you mull over Zuko’s words. Princess Yue’s voice echoes in the back of your mind: You cannot bend something that is broken. Your resistance to mend your broken bond only seemed to make things worse for the both of you. You couldn’t sleep, you couldn’t eat, you couldn’t bend, you couldn’t feel at peace with yourself knowing that each day you pushed him away only led to more heartache. Your stubbornness and your pride kept you from accepting his apologies, but your heart cried out to you every time you found yourself missing him, and that was often.

It seemed your decision was made up for you before you were even able to decide it yourself.

“Fine. But I’m in charge, and just because I’m letting you come doesn’t mean we’re friends now,” you answer sternly, your tough exterior crumbling slightly at the sight of Zuko’s hopeful smile. Curse him and his stupid charm.

“Thank you,” he breathes in relief before climbing onto Appa’s back and settling down amongst the many bags of food you packed. A gentle utterance of the words yip yip and you’re off into the skies, truly alone with Zuko for the first time since Ba Sing Se before everything fell apart.

The stars twinkle brilliantly as they watch over your little group in the sky, the night breeze gently flowing through your loose locks and sending your sweet scent straight to Zuko’s senses. Despite being Princess of the Southern Water Tribe, you always smelled of fire lilies. You were sweet and warm and familiar, and being close enough to smell the scent of lilies reminded the prince of your nights together in Ba Sing Se. He had been a fool to throw it all away.

“So where are we going?” He asks finally to break the silence. Without turning to face him you toss your map over your shoulder for him to see. ”The Earth Kingdom? This spot isn’t even marked on a regular map. Why?”

“The Moon Spirit came to me in a dream and gave me those coordinates so that’s where I’m going.”

“The Moon Spirit? Wasn’t she a Princess?” Zuko asks, recalling the story Sokka had told him on their way to the Boiling Rock.

“Of the Northern Water Tribe,” you nod, and before you can stop yourself an admission tumbles past your lips. “You know, I almost left you during the Siege of the North.”

“What?”

“I was homesick and lonely, and you were always occupied with hunting the Avatar. When I saw what the Princess did to save her people I soon felt guilty too. Yue sacrificed her own life, her own happiness, to help her people, and what did I do? I ran away with the boy who was trying to destroy the world’s only hope for peace among Nations. But my love for you overcame my guilt, and so I stayed.”

“Wow...” Zuko murmurs in astonishment. “I didn’t know...”

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of things you don’t know,” you grumble, immediately closing yourself off again. Zuko sighs sinking further into the saddle, and the scent of fire lilies consumes him.

After three tense hours of flying Appa begins to tire, and you’re left with no choice but to stop for the night and rest. There’s probably only four hours of darkness remaining until sunrise, so you’ll be able to get a decent amount of sleep before you have to resume your travels. You say nothing to Zuko as you roll out your sleeping bag and immediately tuck yourself in for the night. However, due to the cool and frigid air, you find that you’re much to cold to be comfortable, and so you toss and turn for a good ten minutes.

“Cold?” Zuko asks gently.

“No, I just like to shiver in my sleeping bag for fun,” you retort sarcastically, and Zuko rolls his eyes. A small huff of air falls past your lips and it takes you a minute to muster up the will to apologize. “Sorry,” you grumble. “I’m very cold and tired.”

“Would you like me to help?” He offers carefully. A beat passes before he hears the sound of you shuffling around and pulling back the covers of your sleeping bag.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you point out firmly, and the Prince bites back a smile as he crawls in beside you. Already you can feel the warmth that radiates off of his body, and you can’t stop the little sigh of contentment that escapes you when Zuko wraps his arms around your trembling figure and brings you into his chest.

“Better?”

“Much,” you hum softly, face nuzzling into the crook of his neck as you try to soak up as much heat as you can.

You hate to admit it, but you really missed being in Zuko’s embrace. He was warm and safe, and it reminded you of the times before when you had still been together. During the first few weeks of your separation you had struggled to fall asleep, not used to being on your own and definitely not used to the absence of warmth that often slept beside you. Sometimes you’d wonder if Zuko also lied awake at night seeking your comfort, but your anger was quick to remind you that he was the one who had left you in the first place. It was Zuko who made you second priority to the Avatar, and it was Zuko who chose to turn against you in Ba Sing Se. Shivers tingle down your spine, and this time it isn’t the cold that has you trembling. He betrayed you once, and he could betray you again.

Zuko falls fast asleep with you in his embrace, but you find that you can’t sleep at all.

~~~

The snowfall is light outside as you anxiously sit through your healing class, constantly glancing towards the doorway in hopes of spotting a Fire Nation ship. The Fire Lord was due for another visit today, and that meant you’d get to spend the day with Prince Zuko.

“Princess, pay attention,” the healer chides, and you sheepishly turn your gaze back to the old woman before you.

“Water is a powerful tool for benders, used to hurt and to heal,” she explains. “Water benders fight to protect themselves and those around them. Soldiers with this gift learn how to use their power to defend our home. But these same soldiers cannot use the bending they would use in a fight to heal a wound.“

The little girls around her watch in awe as the water in her palms glows a gentle hue. She smiles, gracefully swirling the water through the air.

“A rough hand will only bring more pain and heartache. But a gentle hand? A gentle hand can mend even the deepest of wounds. As healers you must remember this: You cannot bend something that is broken, but you can heal something that is hurt.”

You wake slowly, eyes gradually adjusting to the sunlight that shines against your fatigued face. The ground underneath you has been replaced by the leather of Appa’s saddle, and you find yourself warmly wrapped in Zuko’s cloak. The boy in question is seated at the reigns, navigating his way through the clouds and towards the abandoned colony.

“Zuko?” You yawn, catching the prince’s attention. He smiles faintly at the sight of you sleepily wrapping his cloak tighter around your form.

“Good morning,” he says. “I didn’t want to wake you but I know how important it is that we get to the Earth Kingdom as soon as possible. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I... I guess I don’t,” you mumble as you rub the sleep from your eyes before digging into your bag for some breakfast.

“We should be there in about an hour.”

You only nod, looking down at the peach in your hand contemplatively. What awaits you at the abandoned colony? Will it help you regain your bending? Will you like what you find?

The journey goes by quickly when you’re lost in your thoughts, and before you even realize it Appa has landed on the ground and Zuko is helping you off the saddle.

“Good boy, Appa,” you murmur affectionately, gently combing your fingers through his fur as you feed him an entire bag of fruit. “You can stay here for now.”

Leaving the flying bison behind Zuko and yourself walk the rest of the way, finally stumbling upon the exact location the Moon Spirit had given you: a cave entrance.

“Spirits, not another cave,” you groan, and from beside you Zuko blushes in uncomfortable embarrassment. With a heavy sigh you grab Zuko’s wrist and give it a shake until he gets the message, a small flame igniting in the palm of his hand. Holding onto his arm as if he’s your personal torch, you begin your descent through the cave. This better be good.

Unlike your secret tunnel, there’s nothing seemingly special about this cave. It’s dark and dirty not romantic whatsoever, which you figure is good because this isn’t a romantic trip anyway. You’re here per Princess Yue’s instructions only and nothing else, and if Zuko doesn’t like it you have no problem freezing his feet to the floor for what will probably be the thousandth time.

“What do you think you’ll find?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m hoping that whatever it is, it‘ll help my bending,” you murmur thoughtfully.

“Maybe we’ll find another secret tunnel,” Zuko jokes with a quiet laugh that immediately fizzles out at your unamused glare. “Sorry.”

“I doubt that stupid tunnel is even there anymore,” you grumble.

“It is... I checked,” the boy murmurs thoughtfully, causing you to halt in your tracks.

“What?”

“When I returned home from Ba Sing Se I went to Elza’s end of the tunnel and found it still intact. I knew there was no way you’d be there, but I traveled to our meeting point and stayed there,” he confesses quietly, eyes soft and apologetic as they turn to face you. You shift uncomfortably under his gaze and look forward, continuing your pace through the tunnel. “I’m really sorry for how much I’ve hurt you, y/n.”

“Why did you do it?” You question. Your voice is weak and frail and your eyes glisten with tears, and Zuko doesn’t think his heart can hurt any more than it does now. “After everything we’d been through and everything we’d accomplished together, why would you betray me like that? I loved you Zuko.”

“I-“

“And then to betray Iroh? Your own flesh and blood?”

“I know it was wrong, and I wish I could take everything back. I never stopped thinking about you y/n. Even when I was with Mai, all I could see was your face in the cave looking at me with disappointment and-“

“Wait a minute, who’s Mai?” You retort, pulling away from the fire bender to look up at him with furrowed brows. Zuko’s face flushes and immediate regret fills him at having mentioned the girl.

“I umm.. After we broke up, I kind of started seeing someone else,” he admits sheepishly whilst nervously grasping at the back of his neck. The sight of your complete rage and fury makes him wish he was being swallowed whole by an unagi instead of having to face an angry Princess.

“I can’t believe you!” You cry in outrage. “I spent weeks crying over you and you just moved on to another girl like nothing!”

“She didn’t mean anything, I promise-“

“I don’t want to hear it, get away from me!” You demand, picking up your pace to try and get away from him as quickly as you can, but Zuko is hot on your heels.

“Princess, please!” You try to freeze his feet to the floor and let out a frustrated growl as your bending fails you yet again. “Just let me explain!”

“No! I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen!” You command, angrily jabbing a finger at his chest. “I left my people, my family, for you. When you pushed me aside on your hunt for the Avatar, I stayed even though I was unhappy. I stood by you despite all the mean and cruel things you did because I knew deep in my heart that you were still the same Prince I fell in love with. And when we got to Ba Sing Se I thought we could finally have the life we had planned together. Working in your uncle’s tea shop, taking walks through the upper ring at night, being able to enjoy myself without having to worry about what terrible thing you’d do next made me the happiest I’d ever been.”

“And then you threw it all away. For what? Honor? Approval from the man who abused you? Using my bending against you was the hardest thing I’d ever done in my entire life, yet you seemed to have no problem with fighting me the minute Azula asked you to. I knew then that you weren’t Zuko, not the Zuko I fell in love with.”

Tears steadily stream down both of your faces, your throat is raw and sore from yelling but you don’t care. You’re angry, you’re upset, you’re hurt, and you’re afraid of the emotions festering inside of you. But you also feel good, like a weight is slowly being lifted off of you.

“And then to hear you moved on to someone else so quick as if I meant nothing to you?!”

“I’m sorry,” Zuko offers weakly.

“You betrayed me, you broke my trust, you broke my heart, but no matter how hard I try I can’t bring myself to hate you because I love you Zuko! Despite it all I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone, and when I think about where we came from and where we are now I-I just...”

You burst into a fit of tears and welcome Zuko’s comforting arms that wrap around your figure and squeeze you so tightly to his chest. Your shoulders shake with each sob that falls past your lips, your hands clutch tightly at the fabric of his robes, and you bury your face into his chest to muffle your sobs. The boy says nothing for a long time, only holding you and soothing you to the best of his abilities as you let out all of your hurt, anger, and sorrow.

“I’m sorry I never realized how special you were and how much I truly needed you. Nothing I say can ever undo the hurt I’ve caused you, but I’ll do anything to show you just how much you mean to me. I love you y/n, you’re my other half. Uncle always said our love was a balance of yin and yang, and he was right.” You watch through your tears as Zuko takes both of your hands in his own and gives them a gentle squeeze. “Please, Princess.”

You sniffle, blinking away the tears as you gaze up at Zuko’a pleading gaze. The tricky proverb comes to mind again, only this time it isn’t as tricky. Ever since Zuko joined the Gaang you’d done everything in your power to keep him away to protect yourself, but it only made your heartbreak worse. Defensive maneuvers wouldn’t ease your pain, but offensive would. You cannot bend something that is broken, but you can heal something that is hurt. The water bender in you wanted to push him out, but the healer inside of you knew that this moment in the cave was exactly what you needed to finally feel okay again.

Without responding, you simply lean up and press your lips against Zuko’s in a loving kiss. His hands come to rest upon your tear stained cheeks as he bring you closer, kissing you so desperately it’s almost as if he’ll die if he doesn’t have his lips upon yours. The tunnel around you begins to glow, but you don’t realize this until after you’ve pulled away from each other. A tearful smile graces your lips and Zuko finds himself swooping in for another quick kiss.

“I know why the Moon Spirit sent us here,” you sniffle. “I know where we are now.”

“You do?”

“When I was younger my mother would threaten to send me to the cave of truths whenever I told a lie. It was a magical cave said to not only pull out the most personal truths of anyone who set foot inside but also grant them a lesson in exchange for their truth. My truth was my love for you, Zuko, and I learned that shutting you out is never going to fix things. Only by letting you in again, by allowing you the chance to redeem yourself, will we be able to fix our broken hearts.”

With a gentle smile, you pull the droplets of water from the air that surrounds you and swirl them gently in the palm of your hand until they freeze into snowflakes. Zuko watches in awe as the snow takes the shape of a butterfly, its wings flapping elegantly as it lands on the tip of his nose.

“My bending is back.” Zuko smiles.

“And so are you.”

~~~

The Gaang is waiting for you when you return, astonished at the sight of your intertwined hands and happy smiles on your features.

“What happened to you two?” Suki asks.

“Life changing field trip,” you reply with a simple shrug, smiling as Zuko wraps an arm around your waist and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“Aw man, you guys are giving me the oogies,” Sokka groans only for Katara to elbow his side.

“What changed?” Aang asks, prompting you and Zuko to exchange glances.

“Our relationship has a really good track record with secret tunnels,” you giggle.

“We’re both ready to start over,” Zuko says. “It’s going to take some time for things to be normal again, but we’ll get there.”

“I’m really happy for you guys,” Katara smiles gently.

“Yeah, I was getting kind of sick of the two of you moping around,” Toph grins, and you can’t help but return the smile.

You’ve got a long journey of healing ahead of you, but with Zuko finally back by your side you know you can accomplish anything.

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neonponders · 3 years ago

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I never thought I’d write a court jester!Steve x King!Billy fic, but here we are. I entirely blame @ghostofjellyfishforgotten and @drinkingbeerfroma for this 💋

The original king!Billy and jester!Steve fics are here~ (this is a gift for Ghost and meant to be read in tandem with their fics 🌹)

Drinkingbeerfroma’s fanart is here~ (the enabling source, send them some love 🌹)

P.s....you can probably tell how much of The Witcher: Blood and Wine influenced this for me lol Ch. 2 coming soon! Or, you know, some time!

Read on ao3.

• • • • • • •

Billy strolled into his royal chambers with a tune on his lips. Usually the rustle of clothing, the scoot of furniture, reacted to his whistle so that he could meet his jester right at the door. Or by the bed.

Then again, Steve did wander. Perhaps that’s why he worked as a jester: always the desire to move, to fidget, and it had lent into a natural proclivity for acrobatics.

Billy had never much cared for the athleticism of the job. Not that it wasn’t impressive, but the stunts were the bottom of his jester’s abilities. His Steve.

Steve, who was nowhere in the expansive rooms. Billy huffed a sigh through his nose. He began loitering around, investigating what his jester had left behind and what it could mean for where he’d gone.

Except…he’d left everything behind. Billy’s gaze locked on the sapphire and green velvet of the suit he’d gifted Steve himself, now left in a rumbled state on the bed. The gleaming silk fibers moved with the midday light of the window as Billy circled around the bed to touch them, as if to test that they were real. The fool as good as lived in the king’s royal chambers by this point, so he opened the dresser beside the large writing desk and—

Steve’s original suits and garments sat in the drawers, untouched. The yellow shirt Billy had torn—twice—until Steve left it in disrepair, tired of mending it. The red and purple suit which he’d first strolled into court wearing. His blue boots. The red boots. The god-awful yellow boots to go with that shirt apart from how stained they were from daily living.

What the hell is my fool wearing? Billy mused in disbelief, his amusement only checked by worry.

Amusement that snuffed out under the weight of a paper he finally saw on the desk itself. Both of Steve’s jester hats stood on either side of it, crowning the white square to garner Billy’s attention. More than once, Billy had marveled at his jester’s ability to read and write. This was not one of those times.

Majesty,

An emergency called me home. Nothing to worry about. I’ll return soon.

Yours,

Steve.

Billy read those four lines over and over again, worry tussling with indignant rage, and then confusion. He wanted more out of a note from Steve, which ought not be the prior concern in his mind, but there it was.

Why not address me by my name? This note is for me, nobody else. Who did you fear seeing it? In my own chambers? We’re far past courtly manners.

Largest understatement of his entire reign, but whatever. More annoying and concerning details eclipsed Billy’s focus.

He had no idea where ‘home’ meant for Steve. His Steve. Billy’s pride ordained that Billy is his home; what other place—or person—could have the audacity to yank his fool right out from under him?

Billy’s voice roared down the corridors outside his chambers. His staff was certainly used to making haste in their duties, but this was something else. The king had lost something precious to him, and hell would shiver until he had it back.

It is both a blessing and a curse that the lesbians in his court did not fear him.

“Would you shut the hell up?” Heather barked, swinging out of her room fully dressed in robes but hair a disaster. “Some of us like to do our own fucking now and again.”

“Where is Steve?” Billy growled, damned note in hand. “When did you last see him?”

“This morning,” she sighed with a tone that Billy did not understand until she added, “When he left with Robin. He warned me that you might be grouchy—”

“Grouch—” he began to seethe, but Heather took the paper right out of his hand to give it a look.

“He said he left you a note, your majesty,” she purred through a voice he now noticed to be quite raw. Overused. Her eyelids hung low like she was drunk, or three orgasms gone to the wind.

This only abated Billy’s nerves slightly. Steve genuinely left on his own?

“Where is home?”

Heather frowned at the lines. “For a musician, he isn’t great with words.”

“HEATHER.”

“Same home as my lady, Robin’s. They complain about their corner of the kingdom often enough,” she retorted while surrendering the note as if it had caught flame. “Good grief. How many months has it been? You really don’t pay attention. Your majesty.”

He grimaced pointedly at her lackadaisical manners this morning, but snatched the page up. The sour expression did not fade as he asked, “Who are you fucking if Robin’s not here?”

Heather’s groggy eyes rolled. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself many times over. You’re not the only one around here with an abundance of energy.”

Fuming and feeling too hot for his clothes, Billy marched back to his chambers, yelling orders about a horse.

* * *

More than one person urged against this decision. The more people who tried to talk him out of it, the more disheartening the whole point of secrecy became. Then again, roaring for the whole castle to hear, might not have been the wisest start.

So he sent a rider in one direction, on some pointless “errand for the king,” while he road in another.

It had been a long time since Billy wore commoners’ clothes. He also did not usually go clean-shaven, but he was a different person now. A lone rider on the king’s road, journeying his way to the edge of the kingdom. Two advisors had urged him to take an entourage, at most his best guardsman—but Billy is the best guardsman. First knight and crown prince under his father, The Tyrant. Every dawn stolen from him until the late king’s passing, utterly devoted to training hard, practicing consistent, and never, never losing.

Until the old bastard finally croaked from pneumonia. How simple. How mortal. And ironic, considering his playboy—rat of my blood—heir paraded around with open shirts whenever he was off duty. Constantly challenging gods and climate to do away with him whenever they wished.

The gods took a different king, though. Billy is the monarch now, and for a while, he will be nobody. A fool searching for his fool, and it was not lost on him how ironic his own death might become. But traveling alone on his own roads did not deter him. He’d been on these highways many times—hell, he’d even been assigned to designing and monitoring the reconstruction of the kingdom’s infrastructure.

His last steps on these roads occurred during the funeral tour for his father. An obnoxious tradition, but he’d made the journey in his first month as king. He wondered if anyone would recognize him now. He’d grown his hair out, and so often adorned his face with nothing less of stubble; often indulging in his own shaving kit to manage his facial hair himself and styled it differently whenever he wished. He liked the way lovers shivered against him when he touched their skin. When the lion pressed his lips against the lamb’s pulse.

He liked applying creams to Steve’s inflamed, beard-burnt skin.

He sighed over his horse’s even, medium paced trot. He was a fool, indeed.

* * *

The only thing keeping Billy from scolding himself for knowing so little about his jester, was the fascination of where he came from. Lady Robin entered court to jeers and teasing over her humble, bumpkin origins—before she rightly debated and venomously talked her way around every gnat who dared flaunt a lower intelligence over her.

Billy knew she and Steve got along, but not how much they had in common. Originating from one of the farming districts was one thing, but specifically the dairy and vineyard region proved a fascinating piece of information.

As well as a gorgeous journey. It took a day and two nights, but forests soon exhaled into rolling hills for lines of grape trees, pastures for cattle, sheep, and goats. Billy knew he was getting closer to the center of it all because grapevines began to line the road, with signs every couple of miles encouraging travelers to eat their fill, along with a number informing how far they were to more accommodating civilization.

The smell of shit and manure dampened the experience, but Billy could not claim ignorance over how his own city smelt during the summer. Even under royal decree that half the fleabags leave the capital in order to minimize summer fever and pestilence, the place still reeked.

The road began to veer down into a lush valley of hills; below was the bustling city of this region, and above stood a number of large homes. One ought to have appeared bigger than the rest, but such shared opulence suggested a wealthy middle class instead of one lord standing above them all. Economically, this was healthier. Socially, Billy felt utterly foreign to this hierarchal shape. His court was an uneven, pyramid hourglass. With himself standing on its point, a bloated pool of lords and deceit, then a strangled middle class before an even bigger pool of lower class just trying to feed themselves. It is a shape which cannot hold itself up, and yet he tirelessly managed it.

It’s not my fault, he defended to nobody. It’s what I inherited.

He pat his horse’s neck, feeling the silken grey fur that drew passersby’s glances. He had a beautiful mount: a grey so vibrant she looked blue under storm clouds. His saddle and bridle were humble; couldn’t very well walk around with his embossed leather saddle or a bridle glittering with the king’s golden medallions on every buckle.

When a woman gazed a little too long at him instead of his horse, Billy eased to a stop and smiled charmingly. “Excuse me, where might I find the House of Buckley?”

She adjusted the basket in her arms to hold it on her hip while she swayed coyly. “Peach-colored house on the hill, sir. May I ask what business you have there?”

“Visiting a friend.” Unless she’s in disguise too.

“Best to wait until evening time. Everyone’s in the market or out in the fields right now.”

Billy tilted his head at her. “Buckley is a noble house.” Nobody is working in the fields from that family—

Then she laughed. Laughed. “Are you from the capital?”

Billy’s charm faltered on his face, but he picked it back up easily enough. “Thereabouts. Why?”

“Because people from the capital believe everyone’s rich. Rich enough to sit or poor enough to not own a chair. We all work here, and we’re all in the market or the fields. I can tell you which are Sir Buckley’s, though.”

The little twit liked being a know-it-all, but it served Billy a great deal to be given the tour. Here, property decided who reigned, and property came in the form of land, livestock, or both. With that came a handful of useful names: Buckley, Hagan, Harrington, Wheel—

Billy’s eyes widened like a cat’s pupils dilating on prey. “STEVE!”

Because…there he was. His Steve, strolling right up the cobbled road from the hills and into the market with a donkey loaded with grape baskets beside him. He hadn’t heard his name, giving Billy the time to absorb every new detail about the man who vanished from his castle.

The white, puffy shirt held close to his body with a waistcoat. High-waisted trousers made his legs look long and lean over workman’s boots. He shoved up the colorful fabric ties around his biceps, holding up the shirtsleeves but failing due to all of the sweat from a day in the sun. A belt sagged a little diagonally around his hips, on which such things as pliers, shears, a garden knife, and a pair of leather and canvas gloves waited for use.

Steve took off a large sunhat and set it on the donkey’s head, combing both of his hands through his voluminous, brown hair—

“Steve!”

Billy began to walk his horse in that direction, having long since dismounted for the courtesy of his guide, but now the latter gripped his arm in warning. “That’s Lord Harrington to you.”

Billy blew a raspberry right into the air, scoffing, “Excuse me?”

The woman rolled her eyes so hard, she would have been thrown into a stockade for behaving like that to—well, to a king. But she let go of him and went on her way, leaving him to his fate.

So off he went. Billy walked his mount over to where a collection of people were attending to the donkey and the grapes, and Steve nodded in discussion with an older man.

“Lord Harrington, I hear?” he crooned in greeting.

Two heads rotated toward him, and Billy felt rather smacked in the face by the matching eyes and nose. Father. This is Steve’s father.

Lord Harrington. Twice over.

Steve’s features opened with shocked eyes and a dropped jaw. His eyes darted to his father’s frown, and Billy quickly backpedaled, “I apologize. I know the younger, but not the older. My name’s Billy Hargrove.”

He’d bowed his fair share as a knight, though the gesture felt far removed since he was out of practice. Never the less, Steve gaped at his king bowing slightly at the hips and extending a hand for Lord Harrington to shake.

Thing about being king, not many people actually know the monarchy’s family name. They knew William the Second. William of the Grove. Some whispered the Second Tyrant, but only because Billy was still young and new to being king. They were waiting for him to prove them right.

Lord Harrington shook his head with a glance at his son. “You didn’t say anyone was coming with you.”

“I didn’t think anyone was,” Steve answered bluntly, but he picked up the gist of Billy’s disguise easily enough. “Billy’s been a big help to me in the capital.”

“How so?”

Billy’s brows lifted, but before he could provide a veiled innuendo, Steve chirped, “Roommates. Got me a job. Kept me fed.”

“I did my best,” Billy crooned. He watched Steve’s apple bob in his throat.

Lord Harrington, with his similar, albeit shorter and silver, hair and weathered skin opened his arm to gesture Billy up the road. “You’ll be our guest, then. I’ll show you along. Are you staying at the inn?”

“No, my lord. I’ve only just arrived.”

“Very good. This way. Steve, remind Roger about the textiles. We’ve sheared the animals twice already this season. He needs to either wash it or sell it. We can’t hold onto it or else it will mold and be useless to barter.”

Billy peeked at Steve, who similarly veered to go on his separate way. He met Billy’s gaze for the briefest second, and he looked…not entirely happy to see Billy.

The king did not like that at all.

* * *

Billy looked around the Harrington estate, taking in every detail that Lord Harrington granted him. He had yet to see an inkling of whatever this emergency could have been to rush Steve out of the capital. Out of Billy’s bed. It made sense, now, why he had left everything behind, since he had a home and full wardrobe waiting for him here. Billy had not seen a glimpse of Lady Buckley, though.

People are supposed to ask my permission to leave, damn it. Or at the very least, inform him first. Not skip town like bandits.

The Harrington house looked out over the estate’s vast hills of grapes, goats, and sheep. It would have been endearing, the farmers using their canes to nudge the goats along the alleys of vines so they could snack on fallen grapes. Endearing, if Steve had been the one to show him all this. Billy wanted Steve next to him on this veranda—if it could be called that. The house and its balconies overlooking the city and hills were much smaller than his castle’s, of course.

Billy did not stay long in his rooms—room. Just a room. You certainly acclimated to luxury, he reminded himself. One of his first orders in the castle had been a complete renovation to his chambers. He would not live in his father’s rooms. Those were turned into a storage branch of the castle, and Billy had several walls knocked down to make way for the new royal apartments. Let the old bastard haunt the broom cupboards.

Billy trotted down the narrow stairs into what felt like an abrupt arrival at the dining room. Further down in the house would be the kitchen but there was a smaller, stewards’ pantry, of sorts, in which a woman stood and rotated upon hearing him. It took a second, but Billy remembered to bow.

“Am I correct in addressing the lady of the house?”

“You are,” smiled Lady Harrington. It came as no surprise that she looked at least ten years younger than her husband, but the blonde hair did catch Billy off guard. She offered her hand, which he took and kissed its back.

“For some reason, I didn’t think Steve took after his father so much.”

“In looks only. He has all his personality from me.”

Billy rocked a little on his heels, humming an acknowledging sound. He certainly did not voice his amusement that she might’ve just revealed more about her marital bed than she meant to. He simply replied, “I believe it. May I ask: Steve and Lady Buckley rushed out with hardly any explanation. Is everything all right?”

“Oh, everything’s no more out of the ordinary than it usually is,” she began, returning to her task of preparing what looked like a fruit-soaked wine for their dinner. She sliced up apples and peaches with a curved blade and a practiced hand. “However, our ordinary can be quite sudden and busy.”

A different hum came from Billy’s chest at that. “I understand. Is there anything I can do?”

“Well, if you’re offering, you can half those grapes right there.”

Billy sent the wooden bowl of fruit a dubious glance and then laughed breathily, “I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” she smiled. “For now, you can help me prepare the wine.”

A long dead growl moved through Billy’s mind. Woman’s work—

Stay dead, tyrant, Billy hushed with finality. He accepted the spare knife from her and did the task he was given. She couldn’t know that he was who he was, after all. No one in this town apart from Steve knew that Billy could supply the money, machinery, and manpower at a moment’s notice for whatever reason they might need—

Chatter and laughter moved like a reverse echo outside the house, blooming quickly until, of all people, Robin Buckley herself clapped on the stoop of the Harrington’s side door. Open as it is for the breeze to come and go, she waltzed right in, and stopped at the sight of Billy. Her laughter cut off only to be replaced with, “You!”

“Me,” he threw right back. He raised a brow at a woman of the royal court wearing trousers and boots.

Lady Harrington chimed, “Oh, so you are friends.”

Billy peered back at her. “Was there any doubt?”

“Oh, dear, you look like you’ve never worked a field in your life.”

Billy had never heard his jaw hit the floor until that moment. Robin’s chuckle arrived beside him as she ripped off a handful of grapes for a snack. “When did you get here?”

“Not an hour ago.”

“You could’ve stayed put.”

“You’re enjoying this,” he growled, hoping that she heard his meaning through the words. I’m still your king even if no one here knows it.

She smirked, hearing loud and clear. “Steve gave me the heads up.”

He matched her smile, tone dripping with charming venom. “And where is he?”

She shook her head at him, cooing a tone that was both soothing and condescending. “He’ll be around. You’re in…his house, after all. Thanks, Anne.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” came Lady Harrington’s reply, but Billy hardly heard it.

He was in Steve’s house. A lord’s house. Lord Harrington’s house…and Billy was just some nobody.

Robin really was enjoying this too much.

#harringrove #jester!steve #king!billy #ficlet #neonponders #ghostofjellyfishforgotten #here we go again #pondermoniums

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onemilliongoldstars · 5 years ago

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a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 27

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

27/33

clexa game of thrones au

read on ao3

Book Three: Chapter 6

The south almost falls to ruin in the few days following King Finn’s death. Lexa is saddling a horse in the stables, her Queensguard working fervently beside her, when the bells begin to ring, a feverish, furious clang that stops them all in their tracks. For one horrifying moment she thinks that Pike has ordered the gates shut to kill them all, but a frantic stable boy stumbles inside, reeling from drink and fear and says, his voice garbled.

“The king! He’s dead!”

Later, Lexa is ashamed that her first thought is of the king’s new bride, but in that moment all she can do is stride across the stables and grab the boy by the shoulders to demand.

“The queen?”

The boy shakes his head, almost mute with fright. “Alive, but weak.” His voice drops, trembles. “They found her in the bed with him, covered in his blood.”

The stories have only grown worse since then, becoming bolder and more horrifying with each tale. There are many that whisper that Clarke was involved somehow, that her hands are covered in blood. Those with more daring mutter that the new queen should be deposed at least, beheaded at worst, but with no other obvious heir in sight they do not raise their voices. Others wonder whether the southern lady is cursed somehow, with the death of her father and now her husband looming over her like a dark cloud. For her part, Lexa refuses to leave now. She expects a fight from her Queensguard, wonders whether Anya will forcibly drag her back to the north, but instead she is surprised to find that her cousin only nods grimly upon hearing her decision.

In utmost secrecy, she sends two of her Queensguard north in the dead of night to order Aden to prepare for the worst, and has her own guard and that of Lady Tris doubled. She sleeps lightly, with a dagger beneath her pillow and spends much of her nights staring at the canopy above her bed, stifling in the southern heat, wondering whether Clarke too is staring at her own canopy.

In the early days that follow the killing of her husband, the kingdom is not wholly sure that Clarke herself survives. The Grand Maester will let no one in to see her, and only reports that she is weak from her injuries and distraught by her loss. They are left with only whispers and rumours, and Lexa feels like a trapped wolf, pacing the corridors as she waits to hear of Clarke’s condition. Several times she walks by the chamber doors of the royal suites, but Octavia Snow stands guard every time, her expression dark and she will not let even her queen past to see her injured lady.

By the third sunrise, Lexa fears Clarke has waited too long. By all accounts, Lord Pike is holding court in Tower of the Hand with the wealthiest and most powerful lords and ladies in Westeros. He terrifies them with talk of a land unprotected and overrun by enemies and refills their wine goblets until they are too drunk to argue with him. Though he has not yet said so publicly, Lexa is sure he is plotting Clarke’s deposal or demise and the thought of enough to curdle her blood.

For her own part, several southern lords and ladies even go so far as to court her favour in this time of unease. Some she knows well: Lord Marcus is welcome company, though she suspects his level headed and empathetic words would be best spent in Clarke’s support elsewhere; Lord Jonathon Tully, brother of Lady Abigail Tyrell, is a fair minded man with a blunt, easy manner, and the Princess Arianna is a surprisingly fervent supporter of her new queen. Many are frightened away by the wolves pacing at her sides and the dangerous expression that she so often wears when she is troubled, and for that Lexa is glad. As little as she likes waiting for word on Clarke, it is even worse to do so with southern prattle about her.

The sun is only beginning to paint the sky with its tangerine tones when a hurried knocking comes to her door. Lexa, barely asleep for more than a moment, wakes slowly and with heavy eyes, squinting through the darkened room to find Anya pushing open her door. Her hand, which had been groping for the dagger beneath her pillow, falls down, and she groans softly, rubbing at her eyes.

“What is it?” Her voice is slurred with sleep. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Clarke,” Anya hurries to light the candle beside her bed, ushering in one of Lexa’s handmaidens to stir the fire into life. Lexa shoots up at the words, her heart suddenly thundering, but Anya holds out a hand. “She is well, she is hosting her first audience.”

“An audience?” Lexa pushes herself from the bed with none of her earlier reluctance. She hurries to the carafe of water on the stand in the corner, pouring it into the waiting dish and hurrying to wash herself despite its frigid temperature. “At this time?”

“I expect she wants to say her piece before Pike does.” Anya intones, grimly.

Lexa is half in a daze as she allows herself to be dressed by her handmaiden, her hair pulled back into a simple braided crown, her real crown placed within the curls as she is urged into dark hose and a tunic embellished with fur and silver embroidery. Her sword is strapped to her waist, several small daggers slipped into her high boots.

When she steps from her rooms Honour, Sage and Valour fall into step beside her, their presence comforting at her side. The sun has risen as she’s been dressed, though its light is still watery. From the courtyard, she can hear the sounds of the city beginning to wake up, as merchants call their fresh catches and the hammers and anvils of the city’s blacksmiths groan into life. The servants of the castle are bleary eyed and startled to have so many nobles rushing from their rooms, and already the soldiers that man the city gates are having to open them for the few lords and ladies in the city who the word has reached.

With the wolves at her side and her Queensguard at her back, Lexa moves through the hustle and bustle with ease. People scatter out of her way, half bowing, still unsure of the protocol, and she doesn’t deign to meet their curious gazes. Instead, she keeps her eyes set on the doors to the Great Hall, which stand wide open to allow in the streams of nobles entering. As she takes her place at the head of the crowds, closest to the dais, Lexa feels the eyes of the south upon her and wonders how far Pike’s vicious rumours have spread. It is only the thought of seeing Clarke that keeps her in her place. If she weren’t so desperate to see the new queen, or so confident that Aden could handle the north in her absence, she would have saddled a horse that first night and fled this poisonous city.

The sound of horns pulls her from her reverie, and she blinks up at the dais as attendants step out. There are only servers and handmaidens at Clarke’s side when she steps out onto the dais, and she cuts a stark figure. Alone but for her attendants, she wears a dress so dark she appears white beneath it. A heavy chain is slung around her neck, and her golden crown shines open her head, but otherwise she is utterly devoid of decoration. There is something simple and mournful and strong about her appearance, and a hush falls through the waiting crowd as she makes her way to the front of the dais. Lord Pike, Lexa notices, is absent from proceedings. She wonders whether the hour is simply too early for him with his late night revellers, or if he refuses to acknowledge the authority of his new queen. Either way, she suspects it is what Clarke hoped would happen and she finds her own breath baited as she waits for Clarke to speak.

Clarke looks down upon them all, regal and stern, and when the chattering finally quiets she begins to speak.

“By now I am sure you have all heard what has happened to my husband and our king.” Another wave of murmurs runs through the watching nobles, but Clarke does not allow it to stop her. “I do not need to tell you of my grief, I am sure you all feel similarly. The king was a strong, wise man and he was my husband.” Here her voice breaks, just slight and when she pauses to draw in a steadying breath, there is no denying the way her eyes shine. Several ladies cling to their friends and husbands, padding at their eyes with handkerchiefs at her words. When she speaks again, her voice is strong and steady. “I would not assume to sit on our king’s throne without your consent,” Here, she seems demure and retiring. “But there is no immediate heir to take his place, at least, not yet…” She glances her hand over her stomach so briefly it seems instinctive, but Lexa knows in one heart stopping moment that it is as rehearsed as every other moment of this speech.

“My lady,” A lord bedecked in gold and black steps forwards, his dark brows furrowed. “Do you mean to say…” He pauses and flushes, “Did you and the king know each other intimately before his death?”

Shocked gasps and scorning looks follow his question, several ladies offer him outraged glances and touch at their cheeks and head, but many more eye Clarke with undisguised curiosity. From her place on the dais Clarke nods somberly, passing her hand over her stomach again in a gesture that is much more considered.

“I cannot say for sure, of course.” She raises her gaze and looks out over them, bathed in the light of the rising sun she looks ethereal, like the Mother herself. “But the king and I felt afterwards that there was some chance,” Her voice stutters again. “That’s why I- why I hid for so long when the assassin came. The king bade me to protect our heir.”

Another round of muttering follows her words. There has been much talk of how the king died, but to hear Clarke speak of it so frankly astonishes them all.

Clarke continues as if she cannot hear them. “Our king was a good and noble man, and if the gods see fit to bless me with a son, I know he will be just as good a king as his father was.” She looks out over them all and Lexa feels as if she could fall into her blue eyes. “I was not crowned before my husband was killed, but he did choose me to help him lead. For those of you who truly loved him I hope that that is enough to support my claim to the throne of the south.”

A gasp runs through the crowd and Lexa feels a prickle of fear run through her. It is a bold thing to say in her first audience since her husband’s death, and with no one else on the dais to show their support she seems isolated and vulnerable. A moment of silence passes as people exchange glances, but then Princess Arianna steps forward, unsheathing her sword, and she places her weapon at the steps of the dais, near Clarke’s feet.

“Dorne is with you, your majesty.”

Clarke looks down at her and when their eyes meet something unsaid passes between them, before Princess Arianna bows. Lexa eyes the dark haired princess with curiosity, she knows that the woman is only the daughter of the true Prince of Dorne, a man confined to the south by his many ailments, and she wonders what authority the princess has, or expects to soon have, to make such a pledge.

“King Finn was noble, as you say,” Another lord from the Stormlands steps forwards, grizzled and old, but he stands tall. “He chose you as his queen, always said you were good and wise,” He glances back at some of his compatriots. “I trust him, your majesty, and I trust you.”

Something close to a smile, but laced with sadness and regret flickers over Clarke’s face and she nods as the Stormland knights call their agreement and step forwards to lay their weapons at her feet.

One by one, more knights of the south make their way forwards. Among their like is Lord Marcus, who bows so deeply Lexa fears his nose will brush the ground, and the lords of Riverrun and Highgarden. Lexa says nothing, but her presence and unwavering gaze upon Clarke she knows are enough to show where her support lies. As a queen, she has no need to pledge her loyalty to Clarke publicly and regardless she knows that Clarke already has every part of her that truly matters.

“Thank you all,” Clarke says at last, when only those loyal to her remain. Enough have slipped away to be noticed, but the Great Hall is still crowded with eager nobles. “If the gods will bless my reign, I will sit the Iron Throne for you until someone more suitable is able to take my place.”

The waiting crowd let out a great roar of agreement at those words and Clarke bows her head, slipping away through the door at the back of the dais like she is made of mist.

The King in the South lies in state for three days and three nights before he is buried. His body has been cleaned up well, and there is still a boyish youth to his lifeless face that only makes proceedings worse. Still, when Lexa approaches to show her respects, she can see beneath his high collar the hastily stitched wound that ended his life. The city is filled with crying women and drunk men, and the city mourns for their king so fiercely one would think he had been upon the throne for years rather than weeks.

His funeral takes place on the fourth day after his death, a dismal affair filled with long sermons from the Septon and the ominous presence of the Silent Sisters. Clarke stands at the front of the Sept, close to her late husband’s body, and she appears drawn and tired, but strong. She is not yet crowned, but nobles still bow in her presence and the dark veil she wears is held in place by diamonds that sparkle within her hair and give the illusion of a crown. Lexa watches her as inconspicuously as she can, wondering at how she remains so composed and stoic. It is only the twitch at her lips and the corners of her eyes that give away her despair.

The day is unusually drawn and clouded, and when the rain begins to fall proceedings are cut unceremoniously short for the sake of the many people, nobles and smallfolk alike, gathered outside the Sept and in the streets. Nobles hurry back to the castle, eager not to get wet or ruin their finery, but Lexa lingers on the street. The rain feels good upon her skin and soaking into her hair, and her northern clothes are made to withstand much worse. The streets empty, and it is as if the downpour is cleaning away the filth of the city, leaving it open and fresh for the first time in years.

Returning to her rooms, she dries off at the insistence of her handmaidens, and settles beside the fire. The castle is quiet today, as people retire to their quarters to contemplate the lost king and what will come next. She calls for wine and food, but when it arrives touches little of it. There are letters from Aden, who assure her that all is well in the north and as there is no sign of secret code for an attack or danger she believes him. He is well guarded and has sent letters to families he knows are loyal to warn them to be on their guard, but with Lord Bolton dead Lexa wonders whether the head of their northern snake, at least, has been cut off. Other letters and scrolls remain to be read, but nothing interests or engages her. Instead, she is plagued by memories of the young king, and though she had not known or particularly cared for him she is saddened by his loss. She wonders what he knew of Pike’s plots, or whether he was simply a piece to be played with and manipulated. Her eyes go to the tapestry on the wall, from whence Clarke had once appeared as if by magic. The day after she had had Anya and her Queensguard help her manoeuvre a heavy oaken wardrobe in front of the hole, to ensure it was safe.

When her thoughts will not quiet she sighs and pushes herself from her seat. Her cloak hangs over clothes horse near the fire, but it is still a little damp when she swings it about her shoulders. Her sword at her hip, and Faith, Honour and Sage padding along beside and behind her, she steps out into the hall. Anya stands to attention at the sight of her, her eyes narrowing as she sees that Lexa is dressed to go out. Nevertheless, she falls into step behind Lexa and when they reach the end of the corridor she beckons two Queensguards to accompany them and leaves two more stationed at Lexa’s door.

The rain has lightened to a mist that hangs in the air, curling the stray tendrils of her hair. She had thought to walk to the library and find herself something more engaging to read, but her feet carry her past the library and across the courtyard towards the Godswood.

It is only when she has taken a few steps over the soft grass, slick beneath her feet after the day’s rain, that she spots the dark figure kneeling at the base of the heart tree. She pauses, her guard hesitating around her, and feels her heart constrict when the person turns a little to glimpse them and reveals her ever familiar profile beneath the hood of her cloak.

“Guard the entrance,” She tells Anya, quietly, and though her cousin’s eyes wander between the two of them, she doesn’t protest. The wolves stay at her side when she starts forwards again, Faith loping slightly ahead when she catches Clarke’s scent in the air.

The rain still hangs in the air like a fine mist, softening the sharp edges of everything. The low clouds linger, caught by the tall tree tops like a bird in a net. Like this, the rest of the world seems to shrink away from them, the city turns to white and they are suddenly alone together.

From where she kneels before the blood red face carved into the white bark, Clarke’s cloak pools like dark wine around her body. She doesn’t look up when Lexa lowers herself to the ground beside her, and around her the wolves settle their bodies like sentinels, Faith sitting at her shoulder. For some time they sit in silence and Lexa lets her eyes wander to the heart tree and the face of the old gods staring out at her from it. She remembers quite vividly the misty mornings spent sitting with her father before the heart tree in Winterfell, as he sharpened his blade and talked of the power of the old gods. She had thought of those conversations many times since his death, thought on all he had taught her, but she knows that nothing he said about the importance of war and battle formations will help her now.

“I saw him die.” Clarke’s words startle her, pulling her from her reverie, but her attention is immediately fixed to the girl beside her. Clarke has not moved, she still remains knelt before the heart tree, her eyes downcast. Lexa cannot pull her eyes away from her and she realises for the first time that Clarke’s hands are curled in the damp grass beneath them, twisting the stems until they break and turn her fingers white. The silence fills the air for a few moments before she continues, her voice low and toneless. “On the bed, when I first stepped into the room, he was dying.” Lexa says nothing, isn’t sure what sort of response Clarke wants. “I didn’t think to help him, I only thought of myself.”

“Clarke-”

“I lay on that bed with him for hours, hoping that he would wake.” The grass snaps beneath her fingers. “He was a good man, he deserved a better wife than me.”

“He adored you.” Lexa says, ever so softly. “That was clear to anyone.”

Clarke snorts, disdainfully, and her words crack. “A cruel trick of fate.”

“Clarke-”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

A beat of silence passes between them as Lexa tries to decipher her true meaning.

“I couldn’t leave until I knew you were alright.” Lexa shakes her head, finally, her voice low.

“That isn’t-” Clarke’s voice breaks over her words and she swallows heavily, but continues, as if she is worried that if she doesn’t speak now she will lose her voice entirely. “That isn’t what I meant.” There is a rough, guttural note to her words that makes them seem all the more forceful.

“Then what?” She is almost afraid to ask, afraid that she knows what Clarke will say.

“You shouldn’t be here with me, you shouldn’t be anywhere near me!” Clarke’s voice is rising, taking on a note of hysteria.

“No one can see us Clarke, my guards are posted at the gate and the wolves are here. We are safe for now.”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Clarke’s brows twist, somewhere between fury and anguish. “You think I don’t know what they have been saying about me? That I’m cursed, that all who love me die.”

“Clarke-”

“They’re right.”

“They’re not, Clarke,” She reaches out and clasps Clarke’s fingers within her own, pulling them from where they are tangling in the grass stems and digging in the dirt. Carefully, she encloses them in her own, folding around the cold digits like a parent swaddling a babe.

“How can you say that?” Finally, Clarke meets her gaze, and her eyes are deep pools of stormy blue, sad and angry and despairing. “My father, Thelonious, and now Finn… I loved them all in some way and now they are all cold in the ground.” A tremble runs through her at her words, and Lexa can feel it in her fingers. “I’m cursed.”

“No,” Lexa shakes her head, and she cannot hold herself back any longer. She hitches closer and lifts herself up a little to wrap her arms around Clarke’s stiff body, holding her close. “No Clarke.”

“The gods are punishing me.” The hitch in her voice tells Lexa that she is crying now.

“This was not the gods’ doing,” Lexa insists fiercely, her anger burning in the pit of her stomach. “This was a man’s doing, Lord Pike.”

Clarke melts into her embrace and Lexa wonders how long she has been carrying this shadow upon her shoulders, letting it weigh her so heavily. “Even so, if he finds out…” She trembles again in Lexa’s arms and Lexa feels tears prickle in her own eyes. She clings more tightly, and for a moment she wishes their lives had not panned out this way, that they could simply give themselves to each other without the fear of vengeful lords or the duty of their families and countries weighing them down. “Please, please,” Clarke presses her face into the crook of Lexa’s neck, not entirely sure what she is begging for.

When Lexa speaks again, her voice is raw with emotion. “Not even the gods could keep me from loving you, Clarke. Some southern lord certainly won’t.”

---

The fire crackles in the place, though the day is hot and the sun pounds down upon the streets. It streams in through the window of her chambers, forming a bright square upon the cold stone underfoot. If she stretches her foot out she can reach it and feel the heat of the day upon her bare skin. This room has always caught the morning light nicely, glowing with warmth under the sun, and she tries not to think on where she will be sleeping come nightfall.

Her robe is light around her shoulders as Harper’s nimble fingers tug and pull at her curls, pinning them into intricate, twisting forms with the expert hand of someone who has been doing this for some time. She has been working in silence since she began and Clarke has appreciated the peace, what feels like the first she has had in days.

Despite the rumours, her days after Finn’s death were not spent in bed recovering from grevious wounds. When she thinks of her wedding night now, everything feels very distant and far away. She barely remembers the assassin’s face, though she does remember it sliding away to reveal a second the moment the last breath had escaped him. She doesn’t remember the wounds to her legs and stomach, which are still bandaged tightly and throb with pain at every breath. She remembers the smell of blood, and the feeling of the blood soaked cotton beneath her fingers. She remembers how it dried beneath her as the night went on, turning stiff and dry like corn kernels. She remembers Finn’s wan, shallow face, and his unseeing eyes staring back at her, at once adoring and accusatory.

The Grand Maester had come only when Faith had been howling outside the doors to the bedchamber for so long that one of the guards had run to find him. He had wrapped her wounds, given her milk of the poppy, and in her drowsy, drugged state she had fallen into his familiar arms and wept her story of Pike. If before she had been unsure whose side he was on, she had been certain at the sight of uniminitable horror on his face as her tale unfolded. He had seen to her wounds, had the king’s body wrapped and taken to the Sept, and put her to bed. When she had woken the next morning, the ache in her heart stronger even than the ache in her body, he had asked her to tell her story again.

“Can you stand, your majesty?” Harper asks, quietly, and slowly, with her handmaiden’s help, Clarke struggles to her feet. Harper unwraps her robe and sets to dressing her.

On the morning after her cursed wedding, Harper had come at the Grand Maester’s command, and set about bathing her as gently as one would a newborn babe. Though her fingers had trembled, she had not backed away when the Grand Maester had offered to fetch another. With gentle determination, she had brushed Clarke’s hair and braided it back, dressed her in a soft nightgown and her periwinkle blue robe, so that when the first of the visitors came, she was presentable.

Lord Marcus was the first, at her request, slipped into the chambers through the secret tunnels. His face pale, he had set by her bedside, her hand in his, and listened without interruption to everything she had had to say. When she had asked that he send for her mother, he had bowed his head over their clasped hands, until her knuckles brushed his forehead. Lady Arianna had followed him, her brows drawn tight as she listened to what Clarke told her, Lord Marcus at her side. Clarke hadn’t been able to finish her tale before Lady Arianna spat at the floor and cursed Pike’s name.

“Of course you will have my backing, your majesty. Anything over that treasonous cunt.”

A knock comes to the door, and Clarke calls entry. Octavia steps through the door and gives a low bow.

“Everything is ready, your majesty.”

“Thank you, Octavia.”

Octavia had burst through the doors to her room that day with the ferocity of a wild jungle cat from Essos. She had glowered at them all, taken several steps to Clarke’s bed, bowed and said. “I will be taking over the queen’s protection from now on.” No one had thought to argue.

After Princess Arianna had come a whole slew of other nobles. The lord of Riverrun, her uncle Lord Jonathon, had eyed her with a new sort of respect and promised to stand at her side if the time should come.

Her father’s brother had been less easy to convince. Lord Arthur had stared down at her in the bed as if he thought she was finally where she ought to be, and crossed his arms, ignoring the glare of Lord Marcus and Octavia at her sides.

“This is just what you deserve, reaching higher than your station.” He had shaken his head, his lip curling. “What can you be thinking, to take on the Lannisters? They are the most powerful house in the land, they have the most money and the most arms.”

“Not against us all united, uncle.” Clarke had told him, as carefully as she could.

“You are a foolish child, playing at these games.”

“I am no child, uncle.”

“You will get us all killed, our house will never know another generation!”

“I am your queen,” Her voice had become steely. “And I am asking for your allegiance.”

“Lord Pike will tell anyone and everyone that you are no true queen.” Her uncle had sneered at her, and she had risen a brow.

“If I am not your queen, then I am still the head of our house, and your opinion does not matter.” Her uncle’s face had dropped, and she had watched as he struggled for the right words.

Eventually he too had bent a reluctant knee, and she had four of the great houses at her command.

“It’s time, your majesty.” Octavia steps into the room again, and Clarke lets Harper surveys her one final time, before nodding her approval. She is escorted from the castle to the Great Sept with a tight, loyal group of guards at her sides and she can hear the cheers of the waiting small folk as if from far away, though she is only in her carriage.

The lords of the Stormland had needed a gentler touch. A land steeped in the history of traditions and knights, the Stormland lords had become used to one of their own sitting the throne and the privileges this afforded them. She had had the room emptied, but for the Grand Measter, and when Lord Mertyn, now the most powerful Lord in the Stormlands stepped into the room he found a wan, pale woman confined to a sick bed.

“My Lord,” She had offered him a seat, and graciously accepted his bow. Her voice had taken on a breathless, anxious quality. “I am so glad you came, I don’t know who to trust.”

“Your majesty, I am so sorry for your loss.” His sincerity had touched her. “His majesty…” He trailed off, shaking his head, and she brushed at a tear that escaped down her cheek. “We are glad that you at least were spared.”

“Thank you for your kind words,” She had touched uncertainly at her covers, “Many do not feel similarly, I fear.” At his curious look, she had continued. “I am not safe my Lord,” She hesitated and brushed at her stomach again, lingering long enough for him to notice. “We are not safe.”

His eyes had widened and he had stuttered. “You mean to say…”

“A woman knows, my Lord.”

He had pledged his support moments later, stating, “You are a Stormlander now, my lady.”

Now, as the door to the Great Sept swings open, she walks to her place on the dais certain that no one of any importance will rise to object to her. Her knees settle against the velvet cushion and as the High Septon speaks the ancient words, she feels the eyes of the kingdom resting upon her shoulders. Each one of these people will fight for her if they must.

“May the Warrior grant her courage, may the smith grant her strength.” The Septon concludes and glances down at her, his eyes cold. She knows he hates crowning a woman more than anything, but the Most Devout, who give voice to the wishes of the Seven in this world, have always had a good relationship with the Tyrells. Her father's frequent visits to Oldtown, where they gathered, had seen to that.

“Arise, your majesty.”

She stands, and the dark gown falls in waves against her, the golden embroidery and carefully selected sapphires heavy against her bosom.

“In the name of the Seven, I now pronounce Clarke of House Tyrell, first of her name, Queen of the First Men, Protector of the Realm.”

The crown settles upon her head and she feels her shoulders straighten, her chin tilt up. As she looks out over the watching congregation, she knows that no one will challenge her now that she is queen.

Particularly with Pike of House Lannister rotting in a black cell far below the castle.

—-

#clexa #clexa gotau #clarke griffin #commander lexa #clexa fic

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silverynight · 5 years ago

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Everything that matters

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Jaskier is not going to let that ruin his night. He decides to sing a few songs (princess Cirilla seems to like them) and try to get out of his head that Geralt called his singing a “pie without filling”.

It’s alright, it doesn’t matter. He had spent a couple of years admiring someone that wasn’t that good after all. He can get over it soon.

Although he also can take revenge by singing his popular “Toss s coin…” since Geralt seems to hate his voice. Perhaps the songs he writes are not actually perfect, but at least he made an effort to gather information enough to write them.

He was hoping to write a few more by asking the witcher himself about his adventures, but that’s out the of question now.

Maybe he should try to find his own adventures or get inspired by walking around the kingdom more often. The problem is that Jaskier is not really good at protecting himself and he’s sure it’d be almost impossible to ask Yennefer to keep him company.

Right now she’s fluttering her eyelashes at Tissaia and pretending she doesn’t care about her at the same time. Yen has learned a lot of magic on her own, but knows she needs a mentor. However, she refuses to admit it; she’s even more reluctant to do so in front of Tissaia.

Jaskier has always thought it’s their own way of flirting.

He sighs, plays one more melody with the lute and walks around the place to see if he can find a spot to sit. Actually, sometimes he kind of looks for a woman or a man in need of company and spends the night with them, but now he’s not in the mood at all.

Geralt would have no problem finding someone if he wasn’t always glaring at everyone that even looks in his direction or if he decided to finally be a little bit more polite with people. Although, it’s very clear he doesn’t want anyone near him.

Well… Calanthe talks to him, but she’s the Queen, she doesn’t get easily intimidated… Actually, judging by her expression she seems to find Geralt’s grumpy attitude quite amusing.

“You beautiful boy, would you keep me company tonight?”

Jaskier almost jumps at the sound of that voice and curses himself for being so distracted he didn’t notice Lord Ferguson approaching. In fact, he hadn’t even seen him in the banquet.

The bard thinks it’s better to make his disgust quite obvious and takes a step back, while grimacing at the man.

“Not today, not ever… Now, if you excu–”

“I don’t have a problem with making you my lovely wife first, if that’s what you want,” the man insists, getting closer; Jaskier ends up with his back against one of the columns and looks around to find his sister, but she’s at the other side of the room and pretty much distracted at the moment.

“Well… That’s the problem right there, you see, I don’t want to be your wife or anyone’s wife for that matter,” he smiles, although it’s an expression that clearly says ‘fuck off’… There’s nothing sincere about it.

A hand grabs him by the waist, which makes it clear that Ferguson is even more of an idiot than he initially thought.

“Come with me… I know you’ll like it–”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. If I were you I’d move my hand away.”

The first thing that surprises the bard it’s not the fact that Geralt is right there next to them and glaring at Ferguson like he wants to kill him, no… It’s that Geralt mentioned Jaskier’s name and he doesn’t remember telling his name to the witcher.

Before turning around, Ferguson considers protesting but as soon as he finds himself facing a pair of furious, yellowish eyes, he seems to reconsider it.

“I didn’t know you were interes–”

“I’m not,” Geralt cuts him off immediately, trying not to look at Jaskier. “I don’t even like him. I’m just saying you could choose someone else… He’s just a bard.”

“I’ll… I’ll do that,” Ferguson nods, clearly afraid because even though the witcher’s tone is not as terrifying as before, his eyes are still full of anger.

Just a bard, huh? Alright, Jaskier knows the witcher is helping him to get rid of the man, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to ignore that.

“You seem to get yourself in trouble quite often,” Geralt comments when they’re finally alone and for the first time Jaskier decides not to say anything and walk away.

The witcher follows him though.

“You know… A 'thank you’ will be enough,” Geralt mumbles and Jaskier stops only to turn around and narrow his eyes at him.

“I had it under control,” he lies, trying not to blush. There’s something about the witcher that always makes him feel flustered.

Geralt snorts and it’s so weird to see him smiling instead of frowning Jaskier forgets his irritation for a moment.

“Of course you did…”

“I don’t need your help,” he says. Geralt doesn’t like him, right? Then what is he doing there?

“Perhaps you did want to spend the night with him, huh?” The witcher growls, looking furious again. “Go find him, it’s not too late.”

“Just leave me alone.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be helping you next time…”

“Perfect!” Jaskier snaps; he’s not even sure why he’s acting like that… There’s something so irritating about Geralt.

At least he won’t have to talk to him anymore.

***

“I saw you last night,” Yennefer smirks at him during breakfast. “The witcher and you looked like you were getting along.”

Jaskier snorts, obviously she’s joking… She has to be. Last night was an absolute disaster, at least for him.

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,” she insists and Jaskier stares back with an incredulous look on his face.

“He called my singing a 'pie with no filling’,” he says through gritted teeth. That one still hurts, especially because most of his songs are about the man himself.

Yennefer chuckles, but at least has the decency to stop when she sees the murderous look on Jaskier’s face.

“I must admit that doesn’t sound like a compliment,” she concedes. “And that I lament not coming up with something like that myself.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and decides that it’s better to focus on his bread rather than trying to argue with his sister.

“But he was following you around,” Yen comments after a while. “That means something.”

“It means he was bored and wanted to bother me to entertain himself,” Jaskier huffs. He knows he’s being overdramatic, but part of him hates the fact that he dedicated a couple of years writing songs about a witcher who is actually a dick. “Please, just forget about it.”

For a moment the bard’s glad to see their mother walking inside the kitchen, but the moment vanishes quickly.

“I heard you turned down Lord Ferguson’s proposal,” she says, looking absolutely disappointed. “I cannot believe it. Jaskier, honestly…”

Yennefer flees from the room and Jaskier is left alone with their mother.

The perfect way to start his day.

***

Jaskier is sure his idea is a good one. In order to stop singing about the witcher, he needs to find inspiration elsewhere. The problem is that he doesn’t usually get out of the village often; he does it only when Yennefer is around because she could protect him (although he’d never admit that in front of her).

When he finally gets a little bit farther from the village as usual, he feels weird. It’s obvious he’s not really good at fighting and he doesn’t know anything about magic. In fact, the only thing that could be considered a weapon is his lute and he’s not willing to ruin it by using it like one.

However, it’s early in the morning and the forest seems to be quiet that day. He smiles and sits under a tree close to the river, remembering his days as a child when the only thing he could think of was to have his own adventures to sing about.

But those days are long gone.

Jaskier sighs and starts tuning his lute, thinking of the nature; some people like songs about rain and forests and magic… Perhaps he can sing about that instead of a witcher killing monsters.

A noise manages to distract him and when he looks up he sees a beautiful horse getting closer to drink from the river.

The animal doesn’t seem to mind his presence, in fact it seems to trust him; Jaskier notices the saddle then and laments for a moment that the horse has already an owner.

He gives in and strokes the mare’s muzzle.

“It looks like Roach likes you,” the witcher’s voice startles the bard and he’s back on his feet without noticing what he’s doing. “I have no idea why.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes at him. Why must Geralt be incredibly attractive and grumpy at the same time?

“What are you doing here anyway?” Geralt asks, not looking particularly pleased. “It’s dangerous.”

“I’ve been here dozens of times before,” Jaskier lies… again.

“Hmm…” The witcher does the kind of expression that people do when they’re listening to horseshit. He takes water from the river and gets closer to the bard. Someone else would be terrified, but not Jaskier. He feels safe around the witcher. “We’re going back now.”

“I hope you and Roach have a nice–Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Before he can do anything, Jaskier is being lifted like he weighs nothing and is quickly sat on the mare.

He wants to keep protesting, but it’s so difficult because he’s very much distracted by the fact that Geralt can carry him like that without breaking a sweat.

And then he gets flustered when Geralt sits behind him.

“Let’s go, Roach.”

Jaskier should say something… Anything, but he’s still trying not to move too much.

“I can take care of myself,” he finally says, trying to ignore the fact that Geralt knows exactly where he lives for some reason because he has just stopped right in front of his house.

“No, you can’t, brother,” Yennefer says, opening the door because of course she’s there when Jaskier doesn’t need her. “Thanks for bringing him home, witcher.”

“Hmm,” Geralt nods, ignoring the bard’s protests because of course he can get down on his own. But no, the witcher takes him by the waist and puts him on the floor. “You’re welcome, Jaskier.”

The bard sighs… He doesn’t know if he should thank him for what happened yesterday, although he decides not to when he sees the glimmer of amusement in his yellowish eyes.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he whispers to his sister as he walks by her and hears the mare trotting away.

***

You can read up to chapter 4 on my Patreon already. ❣️

Kofi / Patreon

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #geralt #jaskier #the witcher

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monsterywriting · 5 years ago

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Monster Demon Boyfriend (Dirrath) - pt 4

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Word count: 2,731

Growing up, you loved riding on your family’s old gelding. Deep in the outskirts, your mother had been the only healer for nearly a dozen villages. As such, you were often dragged along as a necessary helping hand in her work riding to and fro on various calls.

Most of your childhood memories were of you and your mother swiftly riding on the well-worn paths between different settlements, your saddlebags only filled with what couldn’t be obtained at your destinations.

But you weren’t on yet another couple hour ride to a neighboring village, you were on day three of riding on a barely-trained colt in uncomfortable armor on a path that felt like it hadn’t been used in a hundred years—coincidentally the same age of your maps, which had been drawn up before the closed borders and stored in the castle archives.

The navigator had informed you just this morning that the rough terrain would add at least another few days to the twelve days of the trip if the path didn’t clear up. Just last night the convoy had been forced to set up camp early in order to clear out the remains of an old mudslide blocking the path.

To make matters worse, to your complete dismay you were entirely out of shape for the level of rigor the journey required. After only a year of staying in the castle, you were nearly dysfunction with a few days of riding without lunch. In fact, just the few hours of riding since your breakfast of porridge and dried meat at daybreak with a long ways until dinner at sundown left you feeling weak and irritable. Not to mention the soreness of your entire body from riding and chafing in places you didn’t even know could be chafed.

Not long ago you were used to riding for hours to do seemingly endless work as an assistant healer and then riding all the way home late in the night with much less to eat.

You felt very much as though you’d been transformed into one of the retired farmers who moved into the villages your mother used to treat for arthritis and other ailments that came with old age, complete with complaints of the hardships of The Olden Days when poverty forced them to walk miles in the snow for work. Uphill. Both ways.

“Here,” a large, dried yellow disk suddenly dangled in your line of sight, snapping you out of your misery and nearly making you fall back from your saddle. You hadn’t even noticed Dirrath falling back from his position to ride beside you.

“What is it?” You asked suspiciously, eyeing the round object as though it were about to combust.

“Food,” Dirrath deadpanned, “take it or leave it, princess.”

Your trust of Dirrath hadn’t improved much over the past few days, though you appreciated that he made no effort to push to be your “right hand man” as you had spent your final night dreading.

But rather than antagonize Dirrath as you had while still in Altruria, you were now completely and utterly terrified of the possibility of being alone with a demon—muzzled with a contract or not—and definitely not about to accept anything from a literal demon.

Just as you were about to kindly tell Dirrath to fuck off back to his position, your stomach answered for you. Face burning as your hunger won out, you snatched the disk from his hand and turned it around in your hands, ignoring Dirrath’s smirk.

It was much larger than your palm, yellow with a darker orange center you assumed was the pit. Finally nibbling on the edge, you were pleasantly surprised by the sweet taste that flooded your mouth.

“What is it?” Your tone starkly different from when you had first asked the question, unable to contain your awe.

You were always surprised at how much food existed outside of what you grew up eating. Some things you had once only imagined—and most you hadn’t—you suddenly found in front of you once you became the 13th. It didn’t at all surprise you there were still things you had never heard of.

“Fruit,” Dirrath replied, his smirk turning into a full on shit-eating grin as he popped a small piece from a small saddlebag into his mouth.

“I know that,” you hissed in indignation, “what kind?”

“They’re called peaches,” Dirrath finally answered, watching as you savored your next bite.

You make a mental note to ask for more peaches when you return to the castle, not wanting to beg Dirrath for more but also completely hooked on the taste.

“What does a demon like you need with mortal food?” You quipped, changing the subject as you grew uncomfortable under Dirrath’s unblinking gaze.

“I do have tastebuds, you know,” Dirrath scoffed, finally looking away from you and towards the path ahead, “I still enjoy tastes.”

Before you could come up with some witty remark to shoot back at Dirrath, a loud whoop sounded from deep in the forest, echoing amongst the trees and making it impossible to tell where it came from or how far off it was.

The entire forest fell silent, including everyone in the convoy. The only sound that could be heard were the horses and the supply wagons’ wheels. You could even hear Olek order the guards around him to keep moving.

Even Dirrath kept quiet, his eyes analyzing both edges of the forest as though waiting for whoever made the sound to jump out from the underbrush, keeping you tense as well as you watched for any sign of movement in the forest.

Quiet conversations slowly resumed, but the mood remained largely subdued even after stopping for the evening, especially since a fallen tree and the horribly uneven paths meant there wasn’t nearly as much distance between the group and whoever made the noise as anyone would have liked.

“I’ve added extra guards for the night watch,” Olek informed you grimly just as you finished popping up your tent from the small box the 8th had given you as a going away present.

“Thank you, Olek,” you smiled, dismissing the captain before entering your tent.

It was fairly large, considering you were the only person staying inside of it, though you suppose that was due to you being a member of the court.

A small bed lay perfectly made on one side of the tent and a small desk and chair on the other. On the far end was an armoire constantly filled with clean clothing. In the corner behind the desk was a wooden door that should have led to the area behind your tent, but instead was a private bathroom nearly identical to your own in the castle, the part of your present you were the most grateful for.

You refrained from sitting down on either the bed or the chair, knowing you’d likely not be getting up for the rest of the night if you did. Instead, you stretched in the center of the tent, popping your various joints until you were feeling a bit less dead on your feet.

With that done, you made your way through the camp, the tension persisted as the guards went through the motions of their evening duties. However, as more people entered the center of the camp where dinner was being cooked, the sight of Olek on the undesirable duty for the night unsurprisingly lifted the dark cloud looming over everyone’s head—although you were the only one who dared laugh at the seething captain.

You sat close to the fire, eating quickly so you could sleep sooner in preparation of yet another long day ahead. You weren’t surprised that Dirrath was nowhere to be found amongst the group. A demon that didn’t absolutely need to eat wasn’t likely to find the watery beef stew very appealing.

Once you were done, you quickly retired to your tent, almost gleeful as you quickly undid your armor and nearly rushed into the bathroom.

You sunk into the hot water, soaking in the hot water for a while before finally scrubbing the dirt and grime that had accumulated over the course of the day. You even decided to use some of the oils that were bottled and lining the edges of the tub, knowing they would be refilled once you opened the tent again the next night.

By the time you left the bathroom wearing your clothes for the next day, you were feeling almost completely refreshed, collapsing in your bed and falling into the dreamless sleep that comes with complete exhaustion.

The next week passes surprisingly easy.

As luck would have it, the forgotten paths between the kingdom soon gave way to almost perfectly smooth roads around the fifth day of the journey. The convoy was surrounded on either side by endless fields of crops and grazing animals, with only a few patches of forest in between.

The navigators had even reported to you that the convoy was back on schedule to make it to the kingdom’s capital in two days as had been initially estimated.

The only caveat was that this made it harder to find a place to set up camp, as there was no way of knowing when the convoy would pass the next piece of available forest or if it would even be large enough to house all the tents and four supply wagons.

And, over time, you grew used to the taxing rides until you finally reached the point where you no longer felt as though you were constantly on the brink of starvation, nor were you as mentally or physically drained at the end of the day.

However, as though the universe had been waiting for you to let your guard down before unleashing yet another shitstorm on you.

In a particularly long stretch of forest between fields, a loud shout sounded from your right and men poured out of the woods with swords drawn.

Your horse sidestepped nervously as chaos erupted around you, the obvious enemies had waited until the convoy was nearly past before attacking, allowing them to cut off your half from those in the front—including Olek and Dirrath.

The guards that had been near you circled around you, but it was soon clear the men were targeting the supplies rather than the convoy.

“Protect the wagons!” You shouted the best you could over the cacophony of fighting, “They’re bandits!”

Dismounting, you drew your sword and began making your way to the wagons, soon loosing track of your guards, all the while muttering any and every curse you could think of against the attackers.

Some fell to the ground as painful boils erupted across their skin, other felt no immediate effects but would later regret their next meal, and still other escaped with only a few choice words regarding where they could stick their swords.

While you could fall back on magic when you needed to, you were grateful for your time with the 8th as you were able to conserve your energy as there seemed to be an endless amount of men coming at you.

While you wouldn’t call what she taught you “technique,” you were still easily able to keep the bandits relying on brute strength and not much else at bay without the aid of your guards.

As soon as you reached the first wagon, you jumped onto the front seat, keeping back any bandits that tried to climb on. From your new vantage point, you could see that, although the bandits had numbers, your guard clearly had the upper hand, their attempt to break up the convoy not working in their favor as they had hoped.

Unfortunately, you also noticed a few of your men lay injured on the ground and your guard was clearly growing tired as the fight dragged on.

Fortunately, both wagons were all entirely enclosed and the lock at the back was enchanted against any attempt to force it open, meaning the only way for the bandits to make off with any supplies was to try and take the entire thing, making it much easier for you to defend.

Your priority was the wagons above all else. Without it, the entire convoy would be stranded without any tents, food, or water. Not to mention the final wagon with the offerings of peace for the king and his court.

When you heard the creak of wood behind you, you swung your sword without thought or warning, Dirrath barely having time to duck his head down to dodge it.

“Great gods below, princess!” Dirrath shouted over the fighting behind him, pulling himself up onto the bench next to you, “Get down!”

Thinking Dirrath was trying to keep you from fighting, you almost made a biting retort until you saw him reach for the reins. As Dirrath struggled to calm the horses enough to listen to him, you were forced to keep the bandits from climbing on.

“So much for my hired mercenary,” you snarked as you smashed your foot into a particularly persistent bandits’ face.

Whatever flimsy truce that had been forged during the better pars of the journey was now officially broken.

Dirrath said nothing as he grabbed your armor strap on your side and pulled you down, sitting just in time for the wagon to lurch forward, the horses barreling through the throng that just barely parted in time to avoid being on the wrong side of their hooves at full speed.

“My priority is getting you away from danger,” muttered Dirrath as he grabbed the back of your head and forced you to lean into him just as an arrow whizzed next to your ear, getting lodged into the wood behind your head.

“Wait, we can’t go ahead, we have to stay and help,” you sat straight up once you realized Dirrath didn’t intent on stopping just outside the main fight.

“It’s too dangerous,” Dirrath snapped, “you aren’t a warrior and you have a much more important job to do here. It’s their duty to die for you not the other way around.”

Rather than reply, you elbowed Dirrath in his side as hard as you could, snatching the reins from him and bringing the wagon to a complete stop.

“Stay and guard the supplies,” you ordered, readying your sword as you prepared to throw yourself back into the fray.

It was clear your guard was clearly winning, some of the would-be bandits on the ground and most long since fled back into the forest.

“You are extremely aggravating,” Dirrath grunted as he caught up to you, pulling his axe off his back and standing in front of you.

A small smile escaped you before you pushed ahead of the demon and began cutting through the crowd, drawing the attention of the remaining bandits away from your guards to you, Dirrath staying nearby to keep you from being overrun.

Eventually, as though the bandits finally realized they were quickly becoming outnumbered as more broke away back to the forest, the last of the bandits fled from the road.

Finally having a chance to survey the damage, you weren’t surprised to find that the wagon Dirrath left had been taken. The rest, fortunately, had been kept safe as the bandits hadn’t been able to drive off with them without trampling their own on the ground.

There were a surprising few severe injuries on your side, only ten guards needed immediate help, six of which had been caught by surprise when the bandits initially attacked. One horse had a sprained fetlock, but the rest were fine and none had strayed too far from the road, glad you had the forethought to have the bridles enchanted before leaving the castle.

So, you immediately set to healing the all the wounded, hoping the adrenaline from the fight would keep you from passing out from the exertion. You were at least able to make it through all the seriously injured guards before you were too weak to continue, allowing the rest of the guard to tend to the minor cuts and scrapes from there.

As soon as you tried to stand from healing the horse, however, your vision began to swim with dark spots and you had the faint sensation of falling before fully blacking out.

#monster boyfriend #exophilia #reader insert #demon boyfriend #male monster #female reader

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ryder616 · 5 years ago

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Rewatching Beginning of the End

As AoS season finales go, I feel like this is one of its best. It may not have the same dramatic stakes as others - although, given the FitzSimmons’ situation, that is arguable - but it doesn’t feel rushed, it doesn’t sweep under the rug - or debris and a corpse - unresolved conflicts, it doesn’t ignore its established lore. So that’s already three season finales (wanna guess?😁) that, in my very personal book, fall behind this one.

More importantly, it gives everyone their moment to shine and wraps up the season nicely, leaving open only what it needs to be. Since this is season one, that’s obviously quite a lot, as evidenced by the last 10 minutes when:

Coulson and May taunt a banged-up Ward who is now directionless and lost. TBC #1

Skye and Mike have their goodbye - the two characters we saw first in the show - and Mike pledges to make amends for his actions. TBC #2

Garrett comes back to life - the GH 325 augmented Centipede formula in his blood the likely culprit - only to be disintegrated for a laugh. We’re done here. Bye bye John, you were despicable but fun.

Coulson unloads his season-long frustrations on Fury, gets some more answers and is promoted to a terrible job. TBC #3

The team arrives at the Playground, reunites with Jemma and learns of Fitz’s grave condition. TBC #4

Raina brings news of his not-so-lost anymore daughter to a mysterious gentleman with very bloody hands. TBC #5

Phil wakes up in the middle of the night to do some carving. TBC #6

The (new) Head:

The belief that drives us all is the same, whether it's one man or all mankind. -- That they're worth saving. -- That truth lives inside you, Coulson. Before it was torn apart, S.H.I.E.L.D. was a lot of moving parts. Guys like you were the heart. Now, you'll be the head.

Inaugurating the grand tradition of people being saddled with directorship or acting directorship despite their wishes - it will happen to Mack, twice, and to Daisy - Coulson is handled the keys to the kingdom, or, rather, the little black cube of knowledge. From his flabbergasted expression and everything else we have learned about Coulson, this isn’t what he was aspiring to nor obviously expecting. Leadership is thrust upon him and he will carry it in no small part out of loyalty to Fury. He is a “heart” turned into a “head” out of necessity and I think that part of his sometimes inconsistent characterization in the future - it’s a complaint I have read often, as anectodal as these things go - is just a reflection of this fundamental contradiction he has to deal with.

Daring Engineering:

Fitz does the math and then he doesn’t, when he finally confesses his platonic-no-more feelings to Jemma. He’s essentially dying for her and since this is the first time FitzSimmons are “cursed” and unable to imagine a world without each other, I dare anyone to remain with dry eyes. He also straps himself and Jemma to the backboards before they hit the sea, avoiding worse injuries for both, and rigs the EKG to send the distress signal that Fury eventually picks up.

Biochemical Shenanigans:

She refuses to let Fitz’ sacrifice stand, dragging him from 90 feet under to the surface, risking her already meager chances of survival for a shot at his. She’s also the one who realizes they can blow up the pod’s window, making those chances happen.

It’s (not) Time for Love:

As timing in matters of love go, fictional characters in general really suck and AoS doesn’t break the mold in this. Fitz expresses his feelings when he’s likely about to die, Jemma will reciprocate when he’s about to go on a potentially deadly mission. Skye has sex with Miles when she hardly had time to ask him questions, kisses Ward when he might die and will kiss Lincoln while they’re hunted by the ATCU task force (and of course Lincoln will tell her he loves her just before actually dying). Philinda will, quite literally, kiss under enemy fire. The only practical ones are Mackelena - not much of a surprise, come to think of it - who will have their first kiss safe and sound at the base before the little “welcome back Daisy” party in S4 and will make up in the aftermath of another party, both times when the crisis du episode is well past.

May’s Boundless Badassary:

Her showdown with Ward is the fighting highlight of the season, which maybe isn’t saying much since if S1 really has a flaw, that’s the fights coreography. This fight, however, stands up well with the later highs the show will deliver, as it’s charged with emotion - this is the first time May faces Ward after learning of his betrayal - and uses the environment in a brutally effective fashion (I’m a big fan of that).

Skye High:

The trojan horse she left on the decrypted drive in 1x20 and the upgrade she installs in Cuba pay off spectacularly, given her access to Mike’s hardware to ultimately gain his help in taking down Garrett. She also goes on her first mission as May’s padawan, bluffs her way with a fake bomb and gets a few more things off her chest with Ward, gleefully anticipating the ass kicking her Hate-fu master is going to deliver him.

Quake Rumblings:

Skye. We need Skye [...]The evolution he speaks of? She'll be an important part of that. More hints about Skye’s specialness linked to her “nature”, talk of monstruous parents and how the world is going to change, courtesy of the flowers enthusiast.

Lost Ward Watch:

Garret’s dead and everyone else he cared about hates his guts. And why not. He had a final chance to choose a different path, with Garrett going crazy and their plans spiralling out of control. Instead, he begged for orders and went to kidnap - and possibly much worse, that wasn’t a dinner date he was hinting at - Skye again. The bed is made.

Stuff that crossed my mind:

It started with me on my computer in a basement, and now look what we've grown into. I would make a joke about evil tech firms but that’s kind of redundant😁.

Well, with Hydra in the mix, we won't lack for volunteers. And if we run out, our Incentives program should help fill the ranks. That sounds positively lovely😏. Why can’t I be mad at Raina the same way I’m mad at Garrett and Ward? Maybe it’s the flowers. Because she’s really just as awful.

Bring the house down. I’m still waiting for Daisy to say something like this before she quakes an entire building on some bad guys’ heads. Alas, I have to make do with May and the Staff of Anger Mismanagement. Could be worse😉.

The trojan horse worked. It gave us access to the system we wanted. Our secret weapon. We now have eyes on their operation right in the palm of my hand! My, somebody’s excited! Geeks and their geek toys, uh?

It'll be just the four of us. We'll be outmanned and outgunned. But Fury always said a man can accomplish anything when he realizes he's a part of something bigger. A team of people who share that conviction can change the world. Fury has a way with words, but so does Phil.

So, what do you say? You ready to change the world? -- No. I'm ready to kick some ass. ICONIC. 😎 😎

I have no allegiance to Hydra, Centipede, Cybertek, you. I was only ever interested in -- Evolution. Back in the day, I think I squealed. Were we getting mutants?!

I like to think about the first law of thermodynamics, that no energy in the universe is created, none is destroyed. That means that every bit of energy inside us, every particle will go on to be a part of something else, maybe live as a dragonfish, a microbe, maybe burn in a supernova. And every part of us now was once a part of some other thing. A moon, a storm cloud, a mammoth. -- A monkey. -- A monkey. Thousands and thousands of other beautiful things that were just as terrified to die as we are. We gave them new life, a good one, I hope. This is *so* beautiful. Beautifully written and beautifully delivered.

Did you bring a noisemaker? -- Sir, I bring the noise and the funk wherever I go. I still haven’t decided if this line is supercheesy and a little cringey or actually really cool.

This is your strategy consultant? -- He's part time🤣 🤣.

Skye, we need Skye. The evolution he speaks of, she’ll be an important part of that. Skye is a mutant?! *squeals* (I mean, it was a reasonable assumption, aside from the corporate mess behind the rights at the time)

Skye detests me. She thinks I’m a monster. Smart girl. Snark aside, I always appreciated Ward’s awareness in these matters. When Kara will try to entice him wearing her face, for instance, he won’t have it.

Are you? Is that your true nature, or is that what Garrett made you to be? -- I don't know. That’s a very valid and important question. But I have another: does it really matter at this point?

Well, we know about Skye's parents, about the darkness that lies inside her. I believe in a world where her true nature will reveal itself. And when that day comes maybe you two could be monsters together. When *that* day comes she’ll actually shoot him four times and leave him to die. Which is still dark, but, you know. Only when his dead body will be taken over by a literal monster who will brainwash and enslave her they’ll be (sort of) together. But that wasn’t Ward and she had no free will, so, really, dear Raina is just playing Ward like a fiddle here. Not that he doesn’t deserve it.

Raina told me how special Skye is. I know you've seen that from the start.You want orders? Get her. -- Thank you. There you go again, Ward. Always the worst choice.

I couldn't live if you didn't. -- Well, I feel the same way. There has to be another way.[...] Why? Why would you make me do this? You're my best friend in the world! -- Yeah, and you're more than that, Jemma. Just imagine if Fitz had died or never woken up from his coma. The survival guilt would have been unbearable.

His brain was without oxygen for a long time, but you saved him. -- It was the other way around. Well, don’t hate me Jemma, but I think it was both.

I have to hit "snooze" on this every minute to keep that from blowing. Pfff, I didn’t believe you the first time either.

Fitz was a hero because he still wanted to give you that chance after everything. Reminder that at this point Skye thinks her friends are dead.

You and I aren’t that different. Yes, just like night and day aren’t that different. She wants to do good, you can’t even recognize “less bad” anymore.

Maybe I'll just take what I want. Wake up something inside of you. Well. How rapey of you.

I have a weapon much better than a bomb that will absolutely destroy you. -- And why's that? -- Because you slept with her. And she's really pissed off. The Hate-Fu Master has been summoned! 😁 😁

This packs a pretty good punch. -- I know what it does. This is of course a direct call back to The Avengers, where Coulson used the same weapon against Loki, first saying “Even I don’t know what it does” and then “So that’s what it does” after shooting it.

To the surprise of no one the “incentive program” is Hydra keeping loved ones hostage. They’re so predictably evil at every turn, it’s almost hilarious.

A part. A part of something bigger. -- Is that how it went? Hey, he’s the guy who worked for Hydra for years and thought it was limbs instead of heads being cut and regrown. Dude doesn’t pay attention to speeches.

Bwhahahahah the “bomb” is Ace’s favorite doll action figure.

Mr. Peterson’s free to do whatever he wants. Free at last.

Whatever you did, you did it for Ace. -- And what I do now? That’ll be for him, too. I really wanted more Deathlok. This is also the last true Mike and Daisy interaction and if that’s not a crime, I don’t know what is.

Agent May was on top of the situation and she says you’re fine. Aren't You? Weeeellllll....

Yes but that emergency was supposed to be the fall of an Avenger. -- Exactly. Phil is an Avenger. You heard it here first.

Fitz, is he okay? Please tell me he’s okay. -- He’s alive. Ah, poor Bus Kids. It’s the best news they have and it’s really tragic.

For the rest of you, lanyards will be handed out on a case-by-case basis. Can't be too careful with all those Hydra threats still out there, causing trouble. Not that you really need to worry about any of them, but please be stricter than Eric when using that lie detector in general?

I found your daughter. Well. OG Dad apparently bathes his hands in blood and nuDad has picked up carving crazy symbols as his new hobby. Season 2 is going to be fun😁 .

#agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#aos #aosrewatch #aosrewatchs1 #aos season 1 #aos 1x22 #phil coulson #daisy johnson #melinda may #jemma simmons #mike peterson #antoine triplett #leopold fitz #grant ward #text post #rewatchingaos #aos meta #rewatchingaos1

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gutsybitsies · 5 years ago

Note

Not the same anon but I would love to hear about the beauty and the beast version. I feel this fandom has greatly failed in not doing a beauty and the beast au for zimbits and you know what's up!

*cracks knuckles* im not sure if i’ve posted this before but i’d been talking about it with @fabbittle a while back:

OKAY SO the premise is the same as the amnesia one and it’s bitty living in a cottage in the woods and so one day he comes across this really injured beast/monster. the beast is jack under curse. when he turned, he was chased and hunted by his own royal guards and friends who didn’t recognize him, and chased out of his kingdom. he’s cursed to be a monster until someone falls in love with him, but alas, who can love a beast?

someone with a weird fetish like bitty, obviously. he takes one look and he’s thirsty. like jack’s still humanoid, he’s still muscular, and he’s got a lot of fur. and bitty can tell that he’s probably some poor guy who got cursed into a what to him seemed like a magnificent sexy beefcake. so while bitty’s nursing jack back to health there were two trains of thoughts in the cottage. the one that belongs to jack is “i’m a monster and he is so kind, i cant believe i love him so much, but there is no way he will ever love me.” while bitty’s thoughts are kind of just “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck meeeeee.”

bitty tries everything to seduce jack. but jack’s not picking up the hints, just lamenting about his ugliness and how he’s unloveable. but eventually bitty does say the words “i love you, you big handsome goofball!!” and then jack glows and poof. he’s human again!!!

and bitty’s a bit sad, because if jack was human again it meant that he’d have to go back home, just when the two of them got together. but jack actually said that he wanted to stay here with bitty, that he didn’t much like his old life anyway, and he loves bitty and he loves the town samwell and everyone who lived there. but one day, a while later, an old man rides into town. he’s tired, and hungry, and he says that he’s looking for his son.

jack was honest with bitty. he told him about his old life, as crown prince of the kingdom, about a fiance he didn’t care for, about the anxiety that he had about living up to his father, about his fear of failure. it all came to ahead when he was cursed and no one had recognized him, and he’d truly became something unworthy and disgusting in their eyes.

“do you miss your parents?” bitty had asked.

“yes,” jack replied honestly. “but i think it’s better that they don’t have me as a son.”

but here robert zimmermann was, cold and tired from his journey, asking for magical favors everywhere, trying to find his greatest pride. bitty knew that if he knew jack was here, robert would take him away and break the small comfortable life that they built up together.

“my saddle broke,” bob said at the inn. “do you know where i can fix it?”

“Tailor John knows how to do leatherwork for saddles and does most of the work in the town for it, but he just left yesterday to go to his daughter’s wedding and won’t be back for two weeks,” the innkeeper replied, “but bitty’s husband also knows how to do a quick repair, should last you until you reach another town. hey, bitty!”

“hey there Jim,” bitty says as he brings in the day’s bread into the inn. “did i hear anything about a broken saddle?”

“yeah, guy needs a fix, you think your jack can do it?”

“well he can certainly try, he’s busy fixing our chicken coop right now, a fox got in last night, but if you come over tomorrow at noon i’m sure he’ll take a look at it,” bitty replied, looking warily at the man who looks almost exactly like jack and who said he was looking for his son.

jack and bob see each other the next day, and bob bursts into tears and hugs his son as he finally got him back.

“why haven’t you come back? is there anything wrong? what’s this i hear about you being married?” he looked cautiously through the window at bitty, who was shooing away a deer that came near their garden trying to nibble at their cabbage.

“i was cursed, he helped me lift it, and i decided to stay. i’m sorry for not contacting you or maman sooner, but i don’t want to go back.”

bob became stern, “jack, this is your responsibility. you can’t leave your kingdom helmless in the future when it needs you. a ship without a captain steers itself into the waves and drowns. i don’t know what kind of dreamland you’ve been imagining yourself to be in but you need to snap out of it.”

“i can’t leave bitty.”

“then bring him with you, set him up in the capital with the finest things as repayment for taking care of you. he’ll have a great life as your lover.”

“he’s not just my lover, he’s my husband.”

“….is he a knight?”

“no.”

“has he ever went on a quest to save a kingdom, or defeated a dragon? do you think he can even hold a sword? will he be able to intermingle with the court life? how will he have any kind of dignity in the eyes of anyone in our circle as a prince consort now and a king consort in the future? what, are you going to give him a fake title and a dukedom to force him to integrate into our lives?”

seeing that jack can’t argue back but wasnt changing his mind, bob tried for a softer approach. “jack, you can bring him back with us. let him get used to how things are, and then we’ll talk about it, okay?”

so the three of them go to the capital and bitty is enraptured by all the beautiful things there, but there’s a slight hiccup. he’s ignored by every single person. the court, being very sensitive to the king and queen’s wishes, snubbed him on basically all occasions. he was given quarters in a small room far away from jack, and even though jack told him to just stay in jack’s room he wasn’t able to see jack often because jack comes back later and tired. when they first arrived bob and alicia didn’t even bother introducing him to anyone as jack’s husband.

jack introduces bitty to people, and in jack’s presence there would be stilted conversation that stops as soon as jack wasn’t there. he tries his best to get bitty situated, but he’s being inundated as it were by tasks and jobs and responsibilities that he has to pick up again.

and bitty realizes what’s happening, that no one wanted them to be together so they’re forcing this war of attrition. it comes to a head after a month, when bitty just couldn’t take it anymore and breaks down.

jack: let’s just elope.

bitty: what? we can’t do that.

jack: …go back home and i’ll come get you when i convince my parents to stop playing this stupid game. i’ll much rather you be happy away from me than suffer by my side.

bitty reluctantly agrees, and goes back. he waits and waits for a message from jack or jack himself, but doesnt get anything until there’s news that the prince of the neighboring kingdom, jack zimmermann, is getting ready to be married. but he still waited, because maybe that’s just a rumor and jack would tell him if anything happened, and that’s when a knight walked up the path to his cottage. and asked him to approve of a divorce from jack so that his next marriage can be legal.

enclosed was a letter in jack’s handwriting that basically said that he realized that it was impossible for him to change his parents mind and impossible to leave. and that he could be stubborn and bring bitty back no matter what but he knows that it would just make bitty miserable. he’s sorry that he couldn’t say this in person, but he knew that if he saw bitty he’ll never want to leave.

bitty signs, and then shuts the door in the face of the knight without even offering him refreshments for his long journey.

bitty: i know its selfish but i wish the curse on jack had never broke. he’d have never been found, he’ll still be mine.

and then, miles and miles away, a roar erupted in a panicking room as prince jack zimmermann transformed painfully into a giant beast in front of everyone. his parents grow frantic trying to break the curse, but no one could do it.

note: this is from a long time ago that i never finished so here’s the rough rough rough ending

basically more panicking from the royals and jack ups and leaves again and finds his way somewhere where he sees bitty again. they don’t get together quite yet but eventually they start talking more and jack apologizes.

bitty: “i made a dumb stupid wish and i wish i can turn you back but i can’t i’m sorry”

jack: “that’s okay. i think if i wasn’t still in love with you i wouldn’t have turned anyway. my parents love me, i know, but i could never live up to them. i would’ve never been good enough, might as well stay here and eat berries.”

they still don’t get together, until one day jack’s on a hunting trip and get’s lost in the winter and meets up with a bunch of kids who also got lost, and he saves them and eventually leads them home. they thank him a lot and and jack’s pretty content with himself, before going back to his hut. and bam human again -insert disney music-

jack knocks on bitty’s door with some flowers in hand, all “i know you’ve always wanted to see the world, and now i can take you places. we don’t have to be together, but do you want to come with me?”

and so they set off together and one day bitty looks at jack weaving a scarf for the winter and kisses him.

#Anonymous #omgcp #zimbits #jack zimmermann #eric bittle #i almost forgot about this au lol

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korkrunchcereal · 5 years ago

Text

Dusk

Upon a nearby hill Bal-Varos Eyvor watches the host that has gathered, sitting astride a destrier black. In the northern pass of the Tempest Coast he vowed to make his stand, sending out a call for aid from the remaining southern powers. The first to answer had been the Lady of the Coast herself, for the enemy threatened her home and she could not allow such sacrilege. Next had come the people of the Gilded Lands, fractious by nature yet when faced with a common threat were the fiercest of allies.

Beside banners silver marked with the grey flame he watches the unfurling of the Blackfyre banners, and beside that were such houses as Dawngrasp, Sol and Indaris. Every house had sent soldiers or were otherwise represented by fierce patriots of their homes. Even men he knew to be of low reputation had come in motley bands of cutthroats and thieves, yet come they did in defense of their home. As the morning sun rose above the pass, he watches a shimmering gleam of steel catching the first rays of light.

They had come to protect their homes for they could not bear to see darkness destroy the world. Bal-Varos feels the blood pumping in his veins at the sight; by the gods he had not commanded such a host in decades. It felt good to wear the plates again, rather than the statesman’s robes. It felt right. His eyes, wizened with age, stared out beyond the army now and instead to the pass. Unconsciously he taps his fingers against the steel of his helm tucked into the crest of his arm, mimicking the pounding of drums.

“It is an impressive sight.” A woman’s voice called from behind him. Bal-Varos turns in the saddle to watch as the Lady Greyflame herself approached. Upon a silver hawkstrider she rode, her armor that of the Tempest Knights she so famously commanded. Yet greatest of all adornments was that of her dragonscale cloak, dyed grey to subdue the bright ruby it had once been.

“Aye, it is.” Bal-Varos answers in acknowledgement. He turns back to eye the pass, brow furrowing in thought. “How many do you think we have? Two thousand?”

“People, yes. Veteran soldiers? Half that.”

“Mmm…” Bal-Varos nods with the assessment. He briefly glances to the black bear banner of his own house, forefront among all others. Greyflame was probably right. He could count upon his own soldiers he had brought, for none were as fierce or well trained in the Gilded Lands. Beyond that? The Greyflame Knights and some small smattering of soldiers. The rest were an uncertainty, yet he cannot second guess their intent or their use.

“There is less than I had hoped for.”

“More than I expected.” Bal-Varos sighs, a frown crossing his features. “Gods, it aches my heart. Two thousand…I remember when we had twenty thousand.”

“The Scourge’s wounds still linger to this day. We are not nor ever will be the same for it.”

“I know. It still boils my blood; damn the human boy. Reducing us to this state, with each battle a desperate bloody gamble for success.” Bal-Varos let go of the reins, realizing he had gripped them so tight as to turn his knuckles white. “Still, two thousand will have to do. We do not have time to rally anymore.”

“So the scouts reports are true then? The Blackbloods will be here soon?”

“Aye.” Bal-Varos nods once more. “They say by day’s end, but I think sooner. Foul purpose hastens their march upon us.” To slaughter us, though he does not speak those words.

“No doubt they will greatly outnumber us. You sent men ahead?”

“I dispatched several of my best just before the sun’s rise. I expect they’ll be back within an hour or two, I think.”

“Good.” Greyflame pauses before she speaks again, her tone neutral. “I don’t like the look of those clouds.”

“Clouds?” Bal-Varos looks up, squinting as he stares beyond the pass. In the distance were grey clouds swollen with rain, seemingly travelling south towards them. “Bah, it’s rain. Doesn’t it rain all the damn time in the Coast?”

“Yes, but rain dampens the strings of bows and turns the dirt slick and uneven. It’ll make for harder fighting should it arrive before the battle. I hear as well Blackbloods fear fire, and rain will rob us of such.”

“Oh? Where’d you hear that from.”

“Survivors of the Ridges massacre.” An awkward pause follows the statement, as Bal-Varos is uncertain how to respond immediately. He had heard of the tragedy of the Ridges to the northeast. It was already a land of ill omens before the invasion of the Blackbloods. Now? Bal-Varos can only imagine what horrors dwell in that cursed place.

“They say the Blackbloods fear fire?”

“The Blackbloods are undead given life by the void. Such abominations cannot stand the blessed warmth of fire, nor can they bring back our dead if the body is burned. Pray the rain holds, Bal-Varos. We shall certainly need any help we can get in this I fear.”

“Gods it is a poor day when I must battle nature too. Some evil purpose must favor our enemy, to bring the chance of rain on the day they’ll arrive.”

“Evil purpose, or simply bad chance. And as I said, perhaps the rain shall not reach us when battle is joined. I fear such is unlikely however, for those clouds swiftly approach.”

“Bah! It rained too the Day of Weeping. Up to our knees in muck and gore and death that day. Gods I can still feel the mud that seeped into your boots.” Bal-Varos sighs, remembering that day bitterly. Back then it had been Arcannon Indaris who ruled house Indaris, and no man ever lived so arrogant and proud. He had thought it possible to face the scourge invasion head on. He had convinced all the lords, including Bal-Varos, to meet the undead on an open field rather than fortify their holdings. It had been a disaster.

“Yes, the unfortunate truth of our part of the kingdom is that it often rains. Yet even still, I would take the rain over the temperate north. There, they breed only laxness for no hardship befalls the meadows and hills there. They have never known the harsh wave upon the crags, nor the fierce winds that howl. They do not know how to brace for the storm as we do.”

“They don’t even know how to brace for a shit, let alone a storm.” Greyflame chuckles at his joke, Bal-Varos spotting her shake her head out of the corner of his eye. “The fops in the north have been kept isolated by fighting. They were unprepared, and it shows. Took southern lords to save the north; men like the Truefeathers and the Netherstars. Fighting men.”

“They’re not saved yet. If the Blackbloods take the southwest, they have an easily fortified position to reinforce and expand dramatically. Already the Ridges are lost, and Havenblaze I imagine is in ruins or soon to be. As well, the rest of my lands and the Gilded Lands have all evacuated to the sea leaving our host the last stand.”

“Well, we certainly cannot afford to lose then, can we? Gods knows my ancestors would not allow me peace in death if an Indaris was all that’s left.”

“Speaking of Indaris,” Greyflame begins, “Have I heard correct in that he still marches north?”

“Aye, he’s with the Sunguard though I have had no word from him in weeks.”

“Nor have I. His brother and sister were on board one of the ships evacuating, but there was no sign of his betrothed or Cyvar.”

“Wrenth? Gods if there was ever a man with their talent wasted. No doubt he’s with the Indaris boy, or otherwise holed up in their pretty castle to wait out the storm.”

“Hopefully if anyone in that house were to live it’d be Wrenth. I can actually stomach his presence, which is more than can be said of his master.”

“Aye, a weasel shit that one. Still, the boy is damn cunning and is much like his father, for better or for worse. Besides, despite his many flaws he at least has the Gilded Lands interest at heart if only because it aligns with his own.”

“Perhaps…and perhaps he is simply just a snake with a golden opportunity.” The words hang in the air, broken only by the shifting of Bal-Varos’ horse. It stomps its hooves into the dirt, shifting nervously. Greyflame looks over, a brow raising. “I told you, you should take one of our hawkstriders. The Quilreven breed we have is the finest in the kingdom. They’d serve you better amid the Coast than your horse.”

“Bah; I hate the damn chickens. Besides, your birds are small. On the charge they’ll lose to a horse every time.”

“That I know to be false. None are as swift or as fierce as the Quilreven, especially on uneven ground.”

“And I’m telling you, a battle trained destrier is- “Bal-varos pauses as the sound of a horn interrupts him. He immediately looks northward upon the peak of the pass. The guards he had put there had spotted something. Blackbloods?

“Blackbloods?” Greyflame echoed Bal-Varos thoughts, though he shakes his head.

“I don’t think so. Perhaps it’s the scouts returning.”

“So early? That does not bode well.”

“Whatever it is, we won’t find out here.” Bal-Varos snaps the reins, his horse taking off. Behind him he hears the shrieking caw of Greyflame’s hawkstrider, the beast soon darting to move beside Bal-Varos. Down the hill they ride, past tents and soldiers still readying for war. Their destination is beyond the camp, beasts moving past armored knights and formations of troops until they stand at the forefront. Before them the maw of the pass looms, threatening to swallow them whole.

“A rider comes.” Greyflame’s eyes were true, for deep in the pass Bal-Varos watches a lone figure approach upon horseback. Bal-Varos could not make out which of the scouts it was, eyes narrowing. Why was he alone?

“Where are the others?” He voices with concern. There was something strange about the way the horse moved. It was awkward almost, as if unaccustomed to sprinting.

“Something’s wrong.” Greyflame announced. Bal-Varos turns to watch as she dismounts, moving to a nearby soldier armed with a crossbow. She does not ask for it, instead snatching it out of his hand. “Bolt.”

“Greyflame, what are you doing?” She ignores Bal-Varos, grabbing the bolt offered to her. Before Bal-Varos could act she pulled the trigger, a steel tip whizzing through the air. It slammed square into the torso of the horse, sending it collapsing to the ground hard. “What have you done!”

“That’s not your scout.” In bewilderment he turns to look at her, then the fallen body. To his horror, he watches the horse get back up, seemingly unfazed along with its rider. Another bolt is fired, finding purchase in the horse’s skull and causing it to fall once more. This time it did not get back up. Its rider however clawed its way out from under the corpse of its steed.

“What in the hell…” The rider charged at Bal-Varos, hands outstretched. This close, Bal-Varos recognizes the rider as one of his scouts, only the man’s neck was twisted at an unnatural angle and a hole was in his chest. A third bolt felled the man, piercing skull and brain and sending him collapsing to the ground. A miasma of black smoke oozed from the wound, shrouding the body in a foul cloud. Bal-Varos turns his attention to Greyflame for explanation, though he already knows as a sinking feeling hits his gut.

“We don’t have until day’s end. They’re here. Now.” Greyflame lowers the crossbow, face twisting in rage. Above them a great horn sounded once more, though this time there was a sense of urgency to it. It rang out thrice in a great boom that echoed through the pass. Bal-Varos feels a chill run up his spine, the hair on the back of his neck rising in protest to the horn.

The Blackbloods were here.

“Men, to your position!” Bal-Varos barks, wheeling his horse around to face the army. “Captain Eyvor shall hold the left flank. Captain Euwen shall hold the right, and I will command the center alongside Lady Greyflame.” He places his helmet on, vision narrowing to the slits in the steel. Swiftly he withdraws his sword, letting the blade ring out its cry. “Fear not this darkness that comes, for it cannot stand against true and just men! You are elves of Quel’thalas! Elves of the South! This is your land. Land you have bled to hold against the Alliance, the undead and now the Blackbloods! The day will be bloody and fierce, yet tomorrow a red sun shall rise over our victory. For Quel’thalas!”

“For Quel’thalas!” Hundreds of voices responded.

“The South stands strong!” Cheers echoed from near two thousand voices, and for a moment Bal-Varos feels hope. These were true sons and daughters of Quel’thalas. Today, they would prove why they are children of the blood. Yet as Bal-Varos turns to face the pass, his heart sinks in his chest at what he witnesses. By the gods, there were so many. Blackened horrors from the worst of nightmares crawled and writhed as they moved through the pass. The distance was well over a thousand yards, and from here it was merely indistinguishable shapes that squirmed with ill intent. Like a black festering wound they poured forward, the very shadows shirking from their presence.

“It was wise to make our stand in the pass.” Greyflame’s voice cuts through the air, nearly causing Bal-Varos to jump in his saddle. He turns to look at her, seeing a cavalry flail held loosely in her grip. “We can hold thirty men abreast at its narrowest. Their numbers will mean little in this funnel. Though we should move behind the front lines.” Bal-Varos nodded, pulling on his horse. The ranks of his men parted for their commanders, letting them move to safety. The terrain and battle left little room for cavalry, and so the two dismounted. This would be a meat grinder of infantry.

“Aye. Gods, look at them. What sort of evil is this?”

“The foulest of all. In men there is greed and lust and all manner of wicked vices, but in this? There is no motivation for power. There is no want or desire, save for destruction and annihilation. This is primordial in its hatred for life. In truth, I wonder if it is even capable of thought, or if its simply driven by the unconscious urge to consume?”

“Bah; a question for scholars, not warriors. It is a monster, pure and simple. Its thoughts and desires mean little to me. No better than a beast, and like a rabid dog it needs to be put down.” Closer now the enemy drew and from here Bal-Varos picks out mortals amid such monsters. The Void elves, or Ren’dorei as they called themselves, marched in formation amidst the chaotic charge of the Blackbloods. United in evil deeds, they were the worst of men. Bal-Varos grips the hilt of his sword fiercely in anger, blood boiling.

“Steady men!” Greyflame’s voice booms over the battlefield, though she mutters quietly to Bal-Varos now. “We’re outnumbered bad.”

“As you said; their numbers will mean little as long as we hold the pass, though I will confess I wished for the use of cavalry.” No response was given, for instead Greyflame raised her flail skyward, her voice strong with fervor and command.

“Archers! Fire!” In response, dozens if not hundreds of arrows and bolts flew through the air, arcing high for but a moment before raining down upon the Blackbloods. Before the first volley had even hit, a second was let loose. Shapeless abominations though they were, they were yet creatures bound in mortal coil and thus fell beneath the many-colored rain of fletching. Steel pierced flesh and bone and whatever else the gods had deemed these creatures be made of, felling scores. It did not slow them.

“We’re in for a tough fight alright…” Bal-Varos pushes aside the man in front of him, taking his place in the line with longsword drawn. He was a warrior king, not a philosopher. Many would deem themselves too important to fight on the front lines, and instead hide in the rear. Bal-Varos had never been such a man. He fights beside his men because how could he ask them to die for him, if he would not die for them?

Amidst his people, Bal-Varos was quite large in size, and towered a full head over even the tallest here. He would be the rock to hold the line and as long as he stands, it would not bend or break. Gods these monsters were hideous. Many did not hold a singular form, for they writhed and shifted in jerking motions. Some had two eyes and others a great many, though even that would change on a whim. This was chaos given an evil form for evil deeds. Yet among these monsters and the Void Elves marched the dead. Elven faces twisted with malice shambled, a faint violet hue to their movements.

Whatever foul sorcery had brought them back had allowed them at least the ability to wield weapons however clumsily, for spears and swords were gripped with ill intent. That was all they were afforded in this cursed resurrection for they marched with mindless obedience to whatever commanded such a host. Bal-Varos bares his teeth, though such his hidden behind his helm. He can smell them now, a sickly stench of rotting meat and fruit assailing his senses. He suppresses a gag, though others beside him are not so fortunate.

“That smell…it’s terrible!” A voice cries beside him.

“That it is. No worse than a goblin’s brothel though, I imagine. Little less oil here though.” Bal-Varos’ jest has the intended effect, easing the panic that was growing in the soldiers around him. Some had even chuckled.

“Can we win, my lord?”

“Yes.” Greyflame moves to stand beside Bal-Varos now as she speaks, looking to the world the warrior queen she was. Bal-Varos remembers the rumors of her with amusement; none had ever bested her in battle in the Coast. She was the tempest itself from which her land was named, unstoppable in her fury. The Indaris boy had bested her true, though the fighting had been fixed to ensure the safety of Greyflame’s people. Had it not been? Bal-Varos was unsure who the victor would have been, though he guesses it would not have been Aurelian.

“Men of the South! Brace yourselves!” Bal-Varos’ command was met by a wall of spears around him. The Blackbloods would break themselves upon the steel and flesh of elves, ready to die for their home. He grips his sword with both hands now, the great mantle of the bear cloak waving lightly around him in the soft breeze that rose. Overhead the clouds had darkened, the sun fading in the approach of the storm. Yes, it did look like rain.

A final volley landed amidst the Blackbloods before they struck with the force of a thunderbolt. In the opening charge dozens died, their blackened forms oozing away from spearpoint and sword tip. Bal-Varos claims the first strike with a roar of anger upon his lips, sword hewing a monster with a dozen eyes and as many limbs in twain. Steel pierced and sliced against the flesh of the Blackbloods, yet more charged over the bodies of the fallen.

Like a great wave they crashed against the rock that was the elven line. The great numbers of the Blackbloods was meaningless in this small pass, though they had a great many to throw against the elves. Arrows and bolts continued to rain down upon the Blackbloods, for their great horde was clumped up so stymied as they were. Sorcerous fire too began to rain down in bolts of lightning and fire, for the magi of the coast and of house Blackfyre commanded each with fierce precision. Battle had a funny way of making strangers allies, for together they struck with fury.

Bal-Varos himself was a god of war. Each sword blow brought ruin and death upon the Blackbloods, for they balked against his rage. Beside him, Greyflame was an avatar of vengeance. They had said she possessed supernatural strength and was blessed by gods, and right now Bal-Varos believed such tales. She smote the Blackbloods with ease, sending their bodies flying as if they were little more than dolls. Bal-Varos watches a void elf charge her, a sword and shield in hand. She strikes against the shield, crumpling it like parchment and sending him flying in a broken heap.

Around him men bled and died. Though the Blackbloods could not use the full force of their numbers, they still had many to throw. They were seemingly infinite, whilst the elves were finite. Each death is a loss Bal-Varos can barely afford, and dying the elves were. A colossal beast with two heads smashed into the elven line, sending men scattering like dice. Behind it the Blackbloods surged, trying to pierce further the wall. Concentrated fire brought the monster down, and stout hearts pushed back the Blackbloods.

This happened all along the battle line, however. Wave after wave of monsters charged fearlessly against the ichor laden steel of the elves and though they died, they could afford such deaths. Exhaustion would set in, for no man can keep fighting forever. Even Bal-Varos begins to feel his arms ache, for he slays monster after monster with great rending hews. Sweat beads his brow in exertion, though he keeps fighting.

By now the ground had become slick with blood and gore, causing men to slip and stumble. The screams of the dying were matched by the roars of monsters, and the smell…gods the smell. They never tell you about the smell. Bal-Varos gags as he cleaves a Ren’dorei in twain, the odor of death and shit pungent as blood spews across his tabard. He was getting tired, and there was no end in sight to the Blackbloods. He takes a brief moment to look skywards, cursing for he could not tell how much time had passed yet.

The ground shakes beneath Bal-Varos’ feet, drawing his attention down to the earth. There is a great hissing sound, followed by a low wail. He looks up, going wide eyed. A fog of purple miasma was racing towards the elven line, the source hidden behind the horde of bodies. Though it did not affect the Blackbloods, Bal-Varos knew such would not be the same for the elves. An elf too far forward is caught by the fog, and his screams pierce the battle. In seconds he dies, body a sickly hue. Moments later he pulls himself up, and Bal-Varos curses.

“They use foul magic!” He cries out, voice hoarse from shouting. “The mist will doom us!” Greyflame must have heard him, for she stepped forward against the fog. The fog seemed to shirk away from her presence, being dispelled by the simple act of her existing. The hair on the back of Bal-Varos’ neck rises, recognizing there was some power afoot though one he did not recognize. Yet Greyflame’s very presence cast back the fog long enough for her storm magi to cast fierce winds, and the fog was no more.

Yet despite this, the elves were losing ground. The sheer weight of the Blackbloods was slowly pushing them back. Men tripped over their fallen, only to be consumed and swallowed whole by monsters. Each inch brought more Blackbloods against the elven lines, the gap of the pass widening. Though hundreds of the monsters lay dead, they simply kept coming.

“Hold you bastards!” Bal-Varos commands. He stands his ground, a giant among men. For a time he is alone amidst a sea of darkness, dozens of blows raining down upon him. Most do nothing against the thick plates he wears, though some find purchase in the gaps. His bones ache now, and he swings his sword with great effort. He cannot break or fall back, however. He must stand and fight.

Bal-Varos bleeds now, faint stains of crimson beneath his tabard. A Ren’dorei had driven a dagger into his side, piercing plate and mail. Bal-Varos’ response was to separate the Ren’dorei’s head from her shoulders, but the damage was done. The great bear was wounded, and it began to show. He is slow to block and parry, and for a moment it looks that the bear would fall. He is made of sterner stuff however, and the bear is fiercest when met with death. He lets out a mighty roar, his sword cleaving in a great arc. Creatures guided by malice and instinct, the Blackbloods shirk away for in some recess of their twisted forms they recognize fear.

Fear that the bear will devour them.

Thunder booms overhead, and Bal-Varos is joined by Greyflame and the troops, who stand beside their lord. Lightning cracks in the sky, and they strike. Some unknown command forces the Blackbloods back and for a brief moment there is respite. Bal-Varos collapses to a knee, panting hard. He is exhausted, the weight of his sword aching. A hand clasps his shoulder, and he looks to up Greyflame. She is covered in blood but suffers no fatigue. Damn magic.

“Stand, Eyvor. The enemy threatens us still!” Slowly Bal-Varos rises, leaning upon his sword for a moment. With a deep breath he readies himself. He hears the wounded cry out, and the panting of men. He sees the broken bodies of his people scattered amidst the stygian hordes they have felled. They’ve put up a good fight so far. They-

A great horn pierces the air. The sound is ugly and cut short.

It is terrified.

It is doom.

Bal-Varos looks up to where the horn sounded and goes wide eyed with surprise. The Blackbloods were upon the crest of the peak. The horn was a warning; the enemy had scaled the walls of the peak itself. There were dozens, nay hundreds descending from the rocky outcropping. No mortal man could scale such a face without dedicated equipment and time, but these were not men. Some of the creatures fell to their deaths, unable to keep their grip yet many more still were behind.

Numbers counted for nothing within the pass, yet past it? Numbers were everything. The Blackbloods would flank and swarm the elves like locusts. They were going to be surrounded, and Bal-Varos cries out in rage. Damn them and their trickery and damn himself for not expecting such tactics. The situation was desperate now. He knows they could not retreat in any organized fashion; such would be too slow, and the Blackbloods would devour them all. A disorganized route would also doom the elves. No, there was only one course left, and he gives a silent prayer before uttering his command.

“Stand your ground! Greyflame gather the cavalry; we will need them very soon.” She gives a silent nod, her eyes trained on the descending Blackbloods as she leaves. The elves had exhausted their supply of arrows and bolts, leaving the creatures unmolested as they climbed down the pass. “Men of the South! Today is the day heroes are made. Swords will shatter! Spears will splinter! Yet we will not go quietly into the void that awaits. The South stands strong!”

The enemy had rallied now, and once more surged against the elves. Bal-Varos does not hold his ground, however. He meets them on the field, charging against the tide. He is tired and he is wounded, but he is not dead yet. Behind him dozens follow their lord and commander, ready to charge into hell itself should he order it. Not all were of house Eyvor, yet they follow the bear as if he is their lord. As thunder boomed overhead once more the two forces collided. There is great slaughter as man and monster alike fall in a desperate battle of survival. Bal-Varos hears fighting from behind and knows the Blackbloods upon the peak have reached the ground. He knows his daughter fights there yet and prays for her safety. Yet he cannot think further on it, for the battle was in front of him.

His sword is slick in his hands from blood. How many has he killed now? It felt like dozens. Even still hundreds if not thousands more were behind each monster he slew. He cannot fight forever and he knows it, yet he fights until death claims him. Death has already claimed many. He would be but one more amidst an endless sea of bodies, yet until that moment comes he fights. Slowly he finds himself surrounded, for the others are dead.

He is alone.

He does not stop fighting.

He cuts down another of the monsters, turning as a great force strikes him. He is sent flying through the air from the blow, and lands hard. He feels several ribs are broken, and it hurts to breath. He tries to rise, though stabs up as something lunges. Sword pierces flesh, and a mass of writhing limbs falls on him before going still. He is pinned under the weight of the creature, and more come yet. A lumbering monstrosity, no doubt the beast that had struck him, looms overhead. It raises its fists to deliver the killing blow.

The blow never comes.

Something charges behind Eyvor, a great shadow leaping overhead. He looks up, seeing feathers and a cloak dull grey. Greyflame has come to save the bear. She roars, her lance she has brought piercing the giant aberration. It falls hard, lance tip broken in its skull. She discards the broken weapon, flail now in hand and she smites the Blackbloods with fury. Her hawkstrider battles too, pecking and clawing at any that approached.

“Get up, Eyvor! Your gods are not done with you yet.” He strains against the weight, and with a roar he throws the corpse off him. Slowly he rises, breathing heavily. It hurt, but the pain was good. He was still alive. Greyflame was still fighting as if not burdened by fatigue, each blow as strong as the last. Witnessing her, Bal-Varos is certain now Aurelian would not have stood a chance in a real fight. She was an unstoppable goddess, each blow met with thunder above. For a moment he wonders if Greyflame commands the sky above, though cannot voice such questions.

The ground seems to shudder under him, as if quaking in fear. Behind he hears panicked cries, and he turns quickly. A great pillar of darkness strikes down from the sky upon the surviving elves with such force as to temporarily deafen, and when he regains his hearing he is met with panicked screams. Then he sees it; the route. The elves were fleeing as more strikes from the very heavens rained down. He turns back to Greyflame, shouting for her.

“Greyflame! Our lines are breaking. We must go and rally them!” She does not answer at first, though quickly pulls the reins of her hawkstrider. The beast caws, before turning and taking off. Greyflame offers out a hand to Bal-Varos, easily pulling the large man upon the saddle as if he weighed nothing. Gods she was strong. The two rode hard down the pass, past Blackbloods that shirked away momentarily. Yet Bal-varos hears them behind shrieking and howling, and he knows they follow behind. The two emerge from the maw of the pass into disaster. The elves were beginning to flee. The foul magic from the sky had broken several holes in their lines, and the Blackbloods filled the gaps.

“Stand your ground, damn you!” Bal-Varos shouts, though they cannot hear him. There is a howling tempest growing around him and Greyflame now, as if the very sky is threatening to swallow them. Dark magic coalesced around Bal-Varos in a fine mist, and he felt fear. Gods this was the end. There was no hope of victory this day, nor any other day. He had led his men to die, and for what? A hopeless task. Dully he hears his name, though it sounds as if underwater. They were going to drown be-

“EYVOR!” Greyflame’s voice snaps him from his stupor. He blinks rapidly, shaking his head to clear it. The enchantment over him faded with the mist, and he felt courage in his heart once more. “My magi are dead as well as the Blackfyre warlocks, and without them the enemy is free to bewitch our forces. The Blackbloods have someone powerful to curse our forces.”

“Do you know where they are?”

“Yes. They are deep amidst the host of our enemy, protected by a living wall. We cannot reach them.”

“Damn it. We must rally who we can and hold.”

“It is too late; we cannot reform in time to mount a proper defense. They’ve broken through the pass.” Bal-Varos swore, though he knew Greyflame spoke true. Their defeat was sealed when the Blackbloods scaled the walls of the pass.

“We must get word to the surviving commanders! We need to rally at Seahallow! We can mount a defense there.” And let the others die. He does not voice it, but they both knew what it meant. The Blackbloods would have free reign to raze the countryside and slaughter any that had remained behind. The Tempest Coast and the Gilded Lands would burn.

“It seems we have no other option. We- “Greyflame pauses before she pulls hard on the reins, wheeling the hawkstrider around. Bal-Varos does not see what strikes them, simply feeling the overwhelming force. A bright light blinds him, a great heat burning at his face. He brings a hand up to shield his eyes and he hears a grunt from Greyflame. The hawkstrider jerks beneath him, before taking off in a full sprint with a shrieking caw.

When he regains his sight he sees they are fleeing the battle eastward in the direction of the coastline. Behind him the Blackbloods howl, though they do not catch the Hawkstrider so easily. Greyflame is wordless as she rides, though something is wrong. Bal-Varos senses a strange tension in the woman and can all but feel the uncertainty. Finally, he finds his voice.

“What was that!”

“A spell.” She replies and he can hear how weak she now sounds. “A powerful one.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. I stopped it from killing us, though it sent the beast into a panic. I cannot control the Hawkstrider, anymore. It flees with us on it.”

“Damn it, we need to find the other commanders!”

“If your daughter is as smart as I think, she will know what to do if she yet lives. If not? No force on Azeroth will save our army.”

“If there is one left.” Bal-Varos mutters grimly. With time to breath came time to realize the full extent of his injuries. He is wounded badly and exhausted and struggles to stay conscious now. He closes his eyes for a moment. Sleep sounds nice right now. Just a little sleep.

“Stay with me, Eyvor.” Greyflame’s command keeps him awake. He cannot rest. Not yet. Gods he hurts though. They ride for what seems an hour before the hawkstrider collapses from exhaustion. Dismounting, he sees now the front of the beast was horrifically burned. Surprisingly Greyflame was untouched save a strange scorch mark against her breastplate though she paid it no mind. She instead looks outwards, and Eyvor realizes they are overlooking the sea.

“It’s beautiful.” He mutters, a hand pressing against his wound. In truth Bal-Varos has always loved the coastline. There was something awe inspiring to watch the waves crash against the rocks, unbending and unbroken. Yet in a thousand years even the rocks would erode against the waves and would swallow the world.

“Yes. I- “Greyflame pauses, turning to look at her hawkstrider. He follows her gaze and hisses, for the hawkstrider’s wounds had begun to fester and bubble.

“What is going on with it?!” In answer the beast roars, the sound unnatural. From its wounds ooze black ichor, and Bal-Varos realizes now what’s happening. He runs forward, thrusting his sword into the Hawkstrider’s neck. Steel parts flesh with ease, and soon the beast was still. “Whoreson magic. Now we’re without steed.”

“And we’re not alone.” Greyflame warns. She points to the west, and Bal-Varos looks. There were a dozen Blackbloods rapidly approaching. He curses, realizing they had been following the hawkstrider. Undoubtedly the beast had been marked and like moths to a flame attracted the Blackbloods to them. “Can you fight?”

“Do I have a choice?” He hoists his sword over a shoulder, grimacing.

“No.” With that Greyflame charges forward, Bal-Varos fast behind. They would meet the Blackbloods head on. They would not go whimpering into the afterlife, but instead face it with steel drawn. Lightning lit up the sky as the two elves smashed against the Blackbloods. Bal-Varos hacked and hewed his way through the beasts in desperation, each swing harder to do than the last.

He howls as something pierces his side. Bal-Varos looks down at the oily purple tendril that has broken through the plating into flesh, and with a cry he brings his sword down upon his assailant. Something hard presses itself against his back, and he cranes his neck to spot Greyflame. Back to back the two hold their ground as the monsters roar, biting and jabbing in some attempt to kill. Bal-Varos hears Greyflame grunt in pain but does not see what caused it.

They are few now, and one leaps at Bal-Varos. He brings his sword down hard but cannot raise it in time to stop the other. Jaws bite down hard into his shoulder, teeth piercing plate and biting deep into flesh. He does not cry out but instead slams his head against the monster. It weakens its grip but does not let go. Bal-Varos shoves his sword upward into the jaw of the beast, and it finally stills. As it falls, it brings Bal-Varos down with him.

Greyflame slides down with him, the two sitting in the dirt back to back. Struggling, he weakly saws at the monster’s neck, leaving its head still buried in his shoulder as the rest of it collapses. There is nothing in him except exhaustion, now. His wounds are a dull throb, and the haft of his sword has long grown slippery with ichor and blood. He can rest now. The midden heaps of Blackblood corpses around them is still and slain.

Time passes.

“It’s over then, do you think?” he asks, of the knight behind him.

“Mm.” Greyflame’s reply is weak.

“Hardest fight of my life. Should’ve…should’ve sent my daughter off with your boy now that I think about it, eh?”

“It’s bad luck to talk about regrets before dying, Eyvor.” Her voice trails off.

“Ah, I guess you’re right.” He grunts, letting his sword drop into the dirt. “We need…we need to rally the others. We might be able to strike against the rear of the Blackbloods before…before they destroy our lands.”

…

“Greyflame?”

…

“Wake up. Wake up. You’ve got a people to lead, don’t you?”

…

“Ceana?”

…

Bal-Varos sighs.

It begins to rain.

#World of Warcraft #The Phoenix War #Skullcrusha writing #Heroes salute #Part 1

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acourtofhopeanddreams · 6 years ago

Text

Letters

Written for day 7 of @jonsaspringblossoms based on the prompt CLOTHES or LETTERS or FOOD

King Jon of Westeros is traveling through the seven kingdoms and while Sansa waits for him to return she writes him letters about their daughter Runa.

post canon // canon compliant // canon divergent

Sansa stared at her daughter, bent over her embroidery work with the tip of her tongue between her slightly parted lips.

Her daughter had Sansa’s piercing blue eyes, focussed on the piece of fabric and the stitches she was trying to perfect. But she had Jon’s dark curls, surrounding her angelic looking face. But her daughter didn’t just have Jon’s hair. She also had inherited his stubbornness, his loyalty and most of all a burning fire in her veins that made her fight for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. In a very unladylike manner.

My beloved Jon,

When this letter reaches you, you’re most likely on your way back to Winterfell, on your way back home. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms again and to share those small moments of wonder with you that I now have to write down so you can still be a part of them. Because with each and every passing day Runa grows up to be everything you had wanted your daughter to be and so much more.

A few days ago I discovered that Runa had fled from her septa again. The poor old lady had been looking everywhere for her. She had barely dared to come to me, afraid that I would be angry, especially if something would have happened to Runa while she was supposed to be under the Septa’s watch. It took me half an hour to explain her that I didn’t expect her to cage a free bird.

Even father never fully tried to cage Arya, something I’m still thankful for until today. If father had not allowed Arya to take those sword fighting lessons to wield needle, our future might not have looked this bright and long. I know that mother would still wonder how we are every going to find a suitable husband for our Runa, but I hope that after the big war, and the roles both Arya and Brienne played in it, our men have learned to value a weapon wielding lady.

We found her in the kitchen. Both her nose and her lip were bleeding and small wounds covered her knuckles, but she didn’t look half as bad as the boy opposing her, who had the length to tower over her, but was on the ground with two black eyes and a few broken bones. And yet our daughter still believed he had not gotten what he deserved.

When I asked Runa what the poor boy had done to deserve her beating, she assured me that she had proof that he had threatened quite a few girls and had stolen kisses and touches from them. And even though I had to teach her that she couldn’t take such matters into her own hands, but had to come to me with them so we could serve justice, I couldn’t be prouder of her either.

I hope that dealing with people like him will be the worst of her problems, now and in the future. Because I’ve seen war and I don’t want my children to live through one. But if another war ever happens to Westeros, I know who will be winning said war, easily. She will make powerful enemies. She will probably lose a few battles here and there. And she will need someone with a sharp mind at her side to keep her from throwing herself recklessly into situations she can’t oversee completely. But she will also inspire loads of people to rally behind her and to give their lives for her and those she loves.

Just like you.

Sansa looked up from her letter when Runa cursed.

The sharp needle had pierced her daughter’s skin and drops of blood were staining the white cloth. Not that there was much to ruin. Runa had never displayed any talent when it came to embroidery. She had never dared to ask to not have to do it anymore either though. Most likely because the customs of Westeros were hard to shake and Runa was afraid to disappoint her parents. As if she ever could.

“Why don’t you put that aside to take Black Wind on a ride?” Sansa smiled. “Your father will be home in two weeks from now. He will certainly want to race the two of you to see if you have improved during the last few months.”

“Will you join us, mother?” Runa stood up from her seat and she put her bleeding finger in her mouth. “I promise not to race away from you.” Runa smiled and Sansa couldn’t help but smiling back at her.

“I want to finish this letter to your father first.” Sansa saw the disappointment on her daughter’s face. “But you can already saddle the horses. I will come down in a few minutes.”

Runa wrapped her arms around her mother and pressed a soft kiss on Sansa’s cheek. “Tell him that I’m counting down the days already.” She hurried out of the room and rushed down the stairs, her footsteps echoing through the castle.

A few minutes later Sansa saw Runa running across the courtyard to the stables. Sansa never liked being without Jon, especially not for so long. But no matter how far apart they were, she cherished the piece of himself that he always left with her.

But for now I want her to stay like this. Carefree. Lighthearted. Innocent. Just like we once were, before King Robert showed up at our doorstep and asked father to be his hand. And even though the future didn’t turn out as bad as I once feared, I wouldn’t be able to go through the pain of seeing her harmed in anyway.

Just like Runa, I am also counting down the days until you are safely back home with us again. No matter how awesome Runa is and no matter how often Bran and Arya visit, Winterfell only feels complete when you are here too.

With all my heart,

Sansa

She read over her words once more while she waited for the ink to dry. She had sent countless of letters during the last few months and she had gotten just as many back. But no letter, no matter how sweet, was as good as being in Jon’s arms and kissing his lips.

#jonsaspringblossoms #jonsa #jon snow #Sansa Stark #game of thrones #got #got fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #sansa stark fanfiction #jon snow fanfiction #jonsa fanfiction

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pontmercyingtil · 6 years ago

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Beds, Grief, and Carriage Rides (Queen’s Thief Fic)

In the past few months, the room where the Attolian royals eat their breakfast has heard a great deal of disagreements. Not the sort one might expect from royalty; shouting about power and wealth and privilege. Rather, these arguments, to an outsider, would seem both petty and ridiculous.

Which was exactly how at least half of the arguing couple wanted them to appear.

“Carriage.” The boy-king says, flipping a coin from hand to hand. He was draped over his chair, sideways, and offered his wife a lazy smile.

“No.” his queen replies. As always, her posture was perfect, and her expression was… the opposite of lazy. Her makeup had been applied with a painter’s precise hand, her expression, of unsmiling lips and narrowed eyes, only amplified the result.

“Two carriages.”

She shakes her head, glittering earrings bouncing slightly with the movement. Not rubies. Not today.

“Three!”

Her hand goes to her face, delicately pinching the bridge of her nose. She’d prefer to rub her eyes, but that would smudge the kohl and set her back a good number of hours.

“You’re injured,” he starts.

It is the exact wrong thing to say. “I’m fine.” The words comes out like a sword sliding from a scabbard.

The king’s eyes grow very wide, and his face turns young. Not too young to have a wife, but perhaps too young to have one who is so old. She knows she’s too old, too bitter, too much a harpy for him. It’s her fault. Her age and her coldness. That’s what’s to blame, for her tears last night and the night before, she reminds herself. Not his fault. But the words have already been said, and the pain already set into this expression.

“No, no. I mean. Ire-” he stops himself, just in time from using her name. “I meant, it was, a…”

“A mistake? An accident? Yes, I’ve heard both from the doctors.” She wishes it could be blamed on a doctor, on medicine, on anything except for the cruel capricious nature of life and death.

Now it is the king’s turn to close his eyes, and he, having none of the concerns she did for his appearance, rubs his face. She looks away, too afraid to see if there would be tears.

“I wasn’t referring to that. I was just joking. Remember? You stubbed your toe, yesterday, and I…”

She leans in, to whisper for his ears alone.“Some jokes land like shots fired, Eugenides. You of all people should know that.”

If it was possible for him to slump even lower in his chair, he does so.

The queen returns to her breakfast. The experts thought perhaps she needed to eat more fruits, to make the fruits of her womb blossom. She’d pointed out the goal was not for her to give birth to a garden, but today, she eats her bowl of fruit anyway. Dutifully, like she’s tried every other suggestion they’ve made.

The only part of this whole process she’s enjoyed has been the part she shares with her husband, an area that she certainly will not be inviting the expert to study. Her nights are hers and his alone. Even if that which they do at night is as important to the future of their kingdom as it is for the future of their own happiness.

Attolia needs an heir. In fact, Attolia the nation needs an heir more than Attolia herself needs to be happy. That’s what she tells herself, when the tears threaten, as she eats her fruit like a good patient.

Twice now, it had happened. The second, only two days ago, and the pain is still so raw. Had her husband truly forgotten with that slip of the tongue? Was the carriage really an offer of pity from him, rather than some silly topic to argue over, like the color of his robes?

Perhaps it was because he was a man. He didn’t know what it felt like to carry, and then to lose.

But she stopped that line of thinking with a single glance at his right arm. No. Her king knew a great deal about loss.

It was, she decided, that he was an optimist, and used to figuring out a way to win, no matter what. But there were somethings, like time that has passed and starlight and the growth of new life, that even the Thief could not steal for her. She speaks softly, “we will ride.”

He set his expression. “In a carriage.” His eyes flicked toward her, offering so many things, apologies and tenderness and yes, stubbornness, because he had, for whatever reason, decided they needed to take a damn carriage on this trip to a far-off lord’s estate.

“You have recently stubbed your toe, my queen, leaving you injured.”

What he was really saying flutters beneath his words, like a tune played counterpoint. This is the joke I wanted to tell you. And, to prove his sincerity, to show he too suffered, he raised his right arm, and lay the hook on her thigh for a moment. “As am I.”

She ran one delicate finger over the metal curve, avoiding the honed side. “As are we,” she breathed out, “both.” It was his loss too, what had happened two days ago. She must force herself to remember that. But she’s suffered for so long alone, that it is a hard skill to learn, this sharing of pain.

So, she says, flippantly, “Shockingly enough, one does not need both hands to ride a horse.”

“Oh really?”

And the queen, with that feeling that had become familarsince the moment she’d put those ruby earrings the first time, cursed whatever had possessed her to give him an idea.

The next day, the Annux got his carriage as well as a very cross queen. From the other side of the closed carriage, she folds her arms and says “Telus informed me that you had quite the odd way of attempting to climb into the saddle this morning.” “Yes, you see, my queen tells me that I need no hands to ride, so I simply hopped from the mounting block. Oddly enough, without a hand to grasp the saddle, I fell.”

“Into the mud.”

“Quite.”

“Ruining the perfectly good outfit your attendants had made ready.”

“The grey outfit, my queen.”

“Silver.”

“More of a pewter, really, but the sort of color of that metal that one might find in a bedpan;”

She closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of her husband, dressed in shades that any songbird might envy, across from her. How strange it is to both miss him and wish to be away from him, all while he sits across from her.

An hour later, or perhaps an eternity, she speaks.“I enjoy riding.”

“Oh, I know you do.” he replies, and there was enough lavishness in his voice for her to blush, as red as her earrings.

She’s put the rubies in today. Little good they do her mood now.

Anything she said, any light swat she might have given him, no matter how deserving, would only encourage him on that topic. In fact, just her blush is enough for him to add, “I find that my queen looks most beautiful when she is astride a truly handsome mount.”

Her cheeks burn darker than a ruby now, and she wonders if there have ever been carriage seats that might swallow one whole. If so, she deeply hopes these ones will do so, and soon. It's not the content of the joke, though she's glad no one else is there to hear it, but more... the matter at hand.

She's not sure she wants to try again. But she has to. They have to. They must keep trying, and trying, and perhaps someday... Someday. It is a far-off word, for a future that had seemed so close at hand only a week ago.

There is knitting to be done in the basket a well-meaning attendant has left at her feet. But there's no point in crafting a little blanket, when there is no one for it to keep warm.

A long silence, of only the lack of words, not the lack of sounds, passes. Wheels creek, straining as the great draft horses surge forward. Around them, the carriage walls shake and jostle with each bump in the road.

There are a lot of bumps.

“Were you really looking forward to the ride?” he asks, as if considering it for the very first time.

Her gaze is not on him, nor straight ahead. No, for once, it is out the narrow window of the carriage, watching the riders around them, each comfortably seated, reins in hand, in control of their own journey.

She sits, and she stares out the window, half thinking of freedom, and half of spilled perfume.

“Yes,” she says softly.

Their midpoint stop is a lord’s home. The lord is both old and heirless, which means his land will be swallowed up when he passes. It also means that her choice to rest there cannot be seen as a threat or a favor, as he has little but hospitality to offer his queen.

It was an easy choice to select him, but it is all too uncomfortable a reminder of how important heirs are. And how rare.

At dinner, Eugenides tries very hard to be charming, which only results in her face tightening, as if the meal is only made of lemons and the wine, vinegar. Because she doesn’t need charm.

She needs a king.

But that is not an argument to be had in front of others, though the tension between them over the matter lingers. It is there in all the pauses where she would usually smile at his jokes, in all her silence as the dinner progresses.

It is there too, when the music starts, and he does not ask her to dance. She doesn’t look at him then, because she might break. They'd danced together so often, up until two days ago, in the privacy of her rooms, and in her bed. Learned all sorts of twists and turns to make with limbs and lips. They had been so in harmony, so happy, while the music had been sweet.

The carriage ride gave her too much time to think, and, more over, time to mourn a life that she had only begun to imagine.

The queen is both tired of mourning, and quite new to it.

Dinner ends, and so does the night.

“Your majesty, if you will follow me,” the lord’s head servant leads her, and Eugenides, and their guard, down a long hallway. “My lord has offered his own room.”

“I hope he washed the sheets first,” Eugenides mutters, just low enough only his queen hears.

The servant pushes open the door. It is a well appointed room, with only three high windows, and finely carved furniture. Her careful eyes see no threats, no assassin lurking in the shadows. Instead, they land on something more terrifying.

“Is there a second room, attached to this one?” she asks, trying hard to sound conversational.

“Ah, no, your majesty.” The servant bows his head. “But if you wish for your retaining staff to be nearby by, we can move them from the servant’s wing.”

Next to her, Eugenides shifts his posture like a cat, gone from lazing at an window to spying a particularly fat robin, just out of reach.

It is not a good sign. Few, however, watch him closely enough to see the way opportunity makes his eyes dance with fire.

The one attendant she has brought coughs. “Their majesties do, uh, prefer, the older Attolian tradition.”

But this servant is young, and does not understand. “Is there something the matter with the room?”

Oh, damn it all. Now to refuse will be to make this a diplomatic offense.

Delicately, she speaks. “I do not wish to sleep in the same room as my king. His mind is troubled with matters of state.”

No. Just filled with nightmares of her.

“Ah. I… see.”

“It is better for us both to be alone. In our own beds.”

Because this room has only one bed. It looms in front of her, offering both comfort and fear. The fear of this careful rude they have sliding away. The fear of showing just how much she needs her husband.

No one says anything. Suddenly, the silence, which has been her only comfort all day, is too much. “Do I make myself clear?” she speaks, now, like the queen who ordered death. Not the almost-mother who had to hold death in her hands. “I do NOT wish to sleep with my husband.”

Everyone backs up.

Even him. Shifting from stalking cat to kicked puppy, all too easily.

She strides forward, and shuts the door. Latches it tightly.

WIthout any attendant, she simply flings the pins out of her hair, not caring where they land, not caring even when the crown falls, and throws herself onto the bed.

It is plush and soft, and far too big for one lonely person.

Her sobs are as silent as the day has been.

The moonlight, streaming from the high windows, wakes her. She lifts her head to look. The moon, inconstant, changing, yes, but always there. Perhaps she should see if there is an old goddess of the moon. Someone who would understand how one can wax and wane, all in such a short time.

Does the moon miss its fullness, when it is a crescent? Or does it trust the time will come once more.

While she stares at the moon, he drops down, from a high corner of the ceiling. So soft that anyone but her would not have heard it. “You,” she says softly.

“Me,” he agrees, but he does not come to bed. He stands there, and he hides his hook behind his back, the way he has not done in months. And when she reaches out, he trembles.

But he does not pull back, and she strokes his cheek, the one scar she feels she did not give him, of all of those on his body. She’s told him that before, and he’s cheerfully explained that the shackle marks weren’t from her, nor were a multitude of other small nicks and scrapes, but that does nothing to take the feeling from her.

All he does is make her feel, which, in many ways ways, is more than anything else in the world.

“I thought you might have meant it this time.” He whispers.

For a moment, he’s a boy and she is so, so aware of it. Of the youth he should have had to spend elsewhere, of the kisses from gentler people that he deserved, of the warmth and love and affection he’s been denied, all by her and her choices.

He makes her feel, and so, she makes him suffer.

Waiting there, waiting for his wife to invite him to bed. Suffering. He stands there, shifting his weight from soft-soled shoe to soft-soled shoe. It’s no surprise he’s brought what she considers his Thief gear, no surprise he found a way to her. And it’s not even a surprise that he doubted her love.

She could scold him. She could point out how the earrings still glittered in her ears while she sent him away. She could tease him, call him boy until he blushes.

But this time, she doesn’t. Her hand pulling him a little closer to her. They haven’t kissed for two nights. She’d been so angry, not at him, but at herself, at the stars in the sky. And, if she admits it, a little mad at him too, because she had not seen, before, that he grieved too. But his grief he hides with jokes and smiles, because he refuses to give her any indication he’s in pain. Refuses to burden her with any more than the heavy load she carries.

“I’d understand, if you did mean it,” he mumbles. “We don’t have to… you know. I could just… I could hold--” his voice breaks, and all that pain she’d thought he hadn’t been there erupts. Cuts across his face and into his words. “Hold you.”

Because the word hold brings up the memory of what happened the day before the loss. She’d walked in on him practicing cradling pillows laden with fruit, figuring out how to hold the most precious thing in the world with a weapon for his right hand.

“I want to keep her safe,” he’d whispered when he noticed her watching, her hand to her belly.

But in the end, neither of them could do anything at all to ensure safety for the one they waited for. Easier to plan against assassins, than simple facts of life and death.

Now, kneeling in that bed, too big for just her, she kisses him, soft, gentle, and so full of tenderness her own heart aches. The heart he’d had to steal to remind her she had.

It takes him a moment to kiss back, but when he does, there is none of the boy in him. Just her husband, her king. Hers.

“You shouldn't be alone,” he whispered. “Not tonight.”

“I'm good at being alone,” she replies.

“Just because you're good at it, doesn't mean you should be.” His thumb brushes over the earring, and travels down her neck. Then, re-finding all his confidence, he kisses her like a drowning man fights to reach shore.

They fall backwards onto the bed, him always a little more careful than any other lover might be, with that bladed hook. Sometimes he doesn’t take it off, and she can see her reflection in the gleam of the metal, her eyes gone wide with passion, cheeks flushed with passion, mirrored by the object that came from her coldest moment.

Other times, she is the one to remove it, and kiss the skin beneath.

Tonight, the hook cuts through her gown, and it is he who kisses skin hidden, underneath all her layers of silken armor. Only his kisses can cut through the mental armor too, finding all that is tender underneath.

Her breathing melts into soft moans, little whispered prayers to gods that honestly are probably quite enjoying this spectacle, given how much work they put into making it.

She’s naked now, beneath him, spread out on the bed that’s meant for two. “Eugenides,” she whispers, both a prayer and his name, her fingers in his soft hair, tugging him up so she can kiss his lying lips.

“This is a much nicer bed than they gave me,” he muses, rolling over after the kiss, flopping back onto the mattress. “It feels… why it’s full of feathers! Mine is straw.”

“Fitting, for one as goat-like as you.”

He glares at her.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Well, feathers are suited for a harpy like yourself.” he says, putting one hand behind his head, looking up at the ceiling he’d dropped from. There’s a small crack between that wall and the next. They’d both seen it, when the servant had brought them to the room. “We ought to get you a nest. You could curl up and…”

“Hatch my young?” she asks. It’s a tone that her advisors, and Gen, only know. Bitter. Not at the world, but herself.

“Irene. I…” He curses, pushing himself back up. The pain exists between them, though now, she realizes, she has carried all of it. Cradled it the way he sometimes cradles his right arm. Cradled, the way she still dreams of…

Like he dreams of opening and closing the hand she took from him. Is this the goddess’s doing then? To punish her, for taking so much?

But she’d taken what she’d found. It was the gods who led her to him, who… Her hand goes to her temple, because her thoughts have circled back around, swirling like poisoned wine down a drain.

His voice cuts through the twisting thoughts around her, as only his can. “Why do you keep me around, if I’m so good at breaking things?”

“You are not the only one who has broken things,” she reminds him. “Inkpot.”

His eyes flash in the darkness. “Goblet.”

“Dented.”

“Irreparably so.”

“Still useable.” In fact, she was rather fond of the dent, since the reason he'd flung it had been so adorable. He’d not know a woman’s mouth could do more than kiss his lips, the fool.

He replies, “mirror”

“Wait.” She paused. “I broke that.”

“Yes, we’re switching to things the other has broken.” He replies. Typical him. To change the battlefield to one better suited to his maneuvers.

“Fine then.” She waits a moment and then says, accentuating every syllable. “Glass. Windows.”

“My heart.”

“Oh come now, that's not even tangible!”

“Mm…” he nips her shoulder. “Come now? Is that an invitation?”

Her fingers twist in his hair and tug. “You broke my favorite chair.”

“You sit too much already. I did you a favor.” He nuzzles her neck. “What about that book of mine you spilled wine on?”

“You read too much. I did your eyes a favor. You, however, tore just tore a dress I quite liked.”

“Fine. What about the ceramic statue of my cousin’s great uncle? Hmm?”

“Oh? And My own great aunt’s pearl necklace?”

“It was glass! A fake. How was I to know?”

“Isn’t that your occupation? To be aware of the quality of the things you steal?”

But they’re both smiling now, and his fingers brush down her neck, her shoulder, slide lower. Searching, so skillfully, for all that will give her pleasure. Then, they press, in that little dance he’s perfected, each fingertip like lightening to her skin. “Oh I am … very, very aware of such things’ quality.” “Mm. Perhaps you should inspect such things more closely.”

He smiles, and shifts his body down, kissing her hips, her navel, and then lower, until her fists are clenched in the pillows. Yes, he is impulsive and stubborn and so good at breaking things… but he is even better at putting them back to right. She gazes down at him, resting one hand in the tangle of his dark hair, and for the first time in two days, smiles.

He lifts his head to smile back at her. They don’t need to speak. Not now. He’ll steal this pain from her heart, replace it with all the pleasures he can give, and in the morning, they will both be better. They will be together.

Together, as they had been in the carriage. Only now does she see what he did. Beyond his equestrian dislike, of course, there was a second reason. With him, there is always a second reason, if not also a third, fourth, fifth, and so on.

Tonight, as with most nights, he counts her pleasure the same way. Not once, not twice, but more than she truly deserves, until he rests, his head on her thigh, his hand moving to relieve himself of the burden he earns from such generosity. He doesn’t ask for her assistance, and he’s done before she even can think to move. While he pulls himself back from his blissful half-nap enough to undo his hook, she reconsiders what the carriage ride might have been.

How he could have held her and whispered to her, and kissed away each tear. Undone the knitting together, rewound the yarn and tucked away safe, for another time, another try.

Because he had been right that morning. She was injured. Not fragile in body, as she’d thought he meant, but fragile in spirit. The sort of wound only he, and not the doctors, knew how to heal for her.

She turns then, and pulls him to her, as soon as he sets down the hook. Kisses him deeply. The sort of kiss that tells him exactly what she’d like from him.

“So soon?” he whispers.

“If you can,” she teases, and her voice is light for the first time in days. “I believe it is certainly possible though.” Her hand snakes between them, touching him lightly, coaxing him. “The benefits of a younger husband.”

“Not that young,” he mutters. The tips of his ears are red.

No. Not that young at all. Old enough to be a father, to a child that still may yet be.

Only after, when they’re tangled in the silk sheets, both skin and hearts bared once more, does he whisper. “Perfume amphora.”

“Oh, just shut up and kiss me, Gen.”

#queen's thief fanfic #attolia/eugenides #eugenides fanfic #attolia #megan whalen turner #my fic

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imjustthemechanic · 6 years ago

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Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk

As long as everybody’s together, they decide to hang out a little. It goes pretty well, mostly.

Once they’d given Clint his badge, which appeared to delight him, and told him about their date with the mummy, the group decided they should take this opportunity to have lunch and spend some time together. Nat worried that there was no way six people would be able to agree on a restaurant, but Clint’s suggestion quickly carried the day.

“How about one of the Asian places in Whitechapel?” he asked.

“I could go for Indian food,” Natasha said. It wasn’t something she had very often.

“It’s not my own favourite,” Clint added, “but I asked Laura if she wanted me to bring her anything back from London, and she asked for some real curry spices from Brick Lane Market. The stuff you buy in bags from Tesco is no good at all.”

Allen grinned. “Well, if your pregnant wife wants curry, I say we go get her some curry!” His memories weren’t real, and he knew that, but Natasha also knew that they seemed real to him. It made her wonder what he remembered his wife Kathy craving when she was carrying Natasha.

So with their cars safely parked in the palace garages, they took the tube to Brick Lane, and ended up at City Spice, a well-lit Bangladeshi restaurant with red and white walls. It smelled wonderfully of ginger and onions, and they sat down at a round table to a meal of kebabs, naan bread, and vegetable bhaji.

“How are your studies going?” Allen asked Sir Stephen.

“Slowly,” Sir Stephen replied with a sigh. “History has always interested me and I’m having no trouble with that, but the quantity of mathematics people are expected to know is simply absurd! When will I ever need to calculate the hypotenuse of a triangle?”

“Probably never,” said Sam. “I don’t think I’ve done it since undergrad.”

At the same time as this conversation, Natasha was talking to Clint. “Do you know yet if the baby’s a boy or a girl?” she asked him.

“Hmm?” he asked, mouth full of naan. Clint was partially deaf, especially on the left, and if he wasn’t looking at somebody he often missed what that person was saying – even if he were wearing his hearing aids.

“The baby,” Nat repeated, a little louder. “Boy or girl?”

“Oh!” He chewed and swallowed. “It’s a boy! If it was a girl we were going to call her Natalie, so this one’s going to be Nathaniel.”

This was so unexpected that it actually took Nat a moment to realize what was surprising about it, and then a chill ran over her. “You’re naming him after me?” she asked, astonished. Nobody had ever made such a gesture towards her. She’d never even dreamed that anyone would do such a thing. It was the type of honour Natasha Romanov simply didn’t deserve.

Allen had overheard, and he was delighted. “Congratulations!” he said.

“You’re the one who was lying there grabbing at the Grail and shouting that we were all going to be okay,” Clint explained to Nat. “If anything got me my memory back outside of me just wanting it really badly, that was it.”

“Well, thank you,” said Nat uncomfortably. She felt like she really ought to say something else, but couldn’t imagine what it would be. What she wanted was to protest that she didn’t deserve it, and that this innocent unborn child deserved better than to be saddled with the name of someone who’d done far more harm in the world than good. That was no way to accept a compliment, though, so she just took a big bite of lamb off her kebab so she wouldn’t have to say anything more right away.”

“Are you two planning to have kids?” Clint asked, pointing from Sharon to Sir Stephen and then at Sharon again.

The two of them looked at each other, and Sir Stephen turned a bit red while Sharon burst out giggling at his embarrassment.

“We’re not yet married,” Sir Stephen protested.

“That doesn’t matter to some people,” Clint pointed out.

“I know! Marriage is not as sacred as it once was,” said Sir Stephen, “but I will hold it so.”

“He just doesn’t want to have to confess it to the priest every single week,” Sharon teased. “Anyway, I don’t know if I want to have children before I make Chief Inspector. When I was a girl everybody was always telling me I’d have babies someday, but nobody ever told me I’d be a detective.”

“She does enjoy doing the opposite of what people say,” Sir Stephen said affectionately. “Even myself.”

“Especially yourself.” Sharon poked him in the nose. “Anyway, Natalie – I wanted to ask earlier, but did the Egyptians actually put curses on their tombs? Or is that just an urban legend?”

Nat’s mouth was full, and she had to finish chewing before she could answer. She washed her bhaji down with a drink of water and said, “not really. At least, not any worse than Shakespeare’s.”

“Shakespeare’s tomb has a curse?” Allen was surprised.

“It sure does,” she said, and recited: “good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbeare, to digg the dust encloased heare. Blese be ye man yt spares thes stones, and curst be he yt moves my bones.”

Allen was startled. “Does it work?” he asked.

“I don’t know, nobody’s ever dug him up to check,” said Nat. “I think the Egyptians probably wrote some similar things on their tombs, although I’d have to look it up to be sure. I know there were a couple of accidents that happened to Howard Carter’s people when they opened the tomb of King Tut. On the other hand, archaeology was dangerous back then and they weren’t very careful, and Carter himself lived to be sixty-five, so I doubt there was anything to it. It just makes a good story.”

“So you’re trying to reassure us that the mummy won’t get up and start breaking necks,” said Sam.

Natasha shrugged. She wanted to say that no, it wouldn’t, that she didn’t believe in that sort of thing, and that perpetrating such stories made Egypt sound like a fairytale kingdom instead of a perfectly ordinary country with an impressive past and some very serious modern problems. And yet, after the Battle of the Tower, when the world had found itself confronted with the Holy Grail, the Loch Ness Monster, and a variety of other mythology come to life… she no longer felt qualified to say what was real and what wasn’t. She doubted anybody was.

“I certainly hope not,” she snorted. Making a joke out of it would hopefully help.

“If it does,” Sir Stephen mused, “how shall we stop it? We found the two witches to help us shake the goblin Zola. How does one break a mummy’s curse?”

“I imagine a flamethrower would do the trick,” said Nat.

Allen snickered for a moment, then stopped himself, unsure if she were joking or not.

A waiter stopped by to ask them how their meal was. They assured him it was great, and Clint took the opportunity to ask about the best place to buy spices. The waiter started to recommend some brands, but then Clint mentioned it was for his pregnant wife. Hearing that, the man pulled a page off his order pad and wrote the name and address of a shopkeeper on it, along with a guide to what it ask for and how to pronounce it.

“That’s where I went for mandaputtu when my wife was expecting our daughter,” he said, handing the page to Clint.

“Thanks,” said Clint. “Much appreciated.”

Clint was the first to bid the others namaste and leave the table, to get his shopping done before catching the train home. The others drifted away one by one, until there were only two left. One was Natasha, who wanted to finish up the shatkora Sharon had tried but decided she didn’t like. The other was Allen, who had ordered a beer and was drinking it slowly, so he’d still be able to drive home.

“So what’s been keeping you busy?” he asked Nat.

“The usual stuff,” she said. “I’m teaching two classes this term, and I’m working on a paper about how King William had to alter the original plans for the Tower of London to get the Grail in there. I’m not dating or anything, and I’m not doing field work, so I doubt it’s anything you’d be interested in.” Did he think her silence meant she was hiding something? She hoped not, because she really wasn’t. She didn’t answer his emails because there didn’t seem much to say.

“I am interested, though,” Allen said. “It doesn’t have to be anything world-shaking. All I do when I email is tell stories from work and things like that. I just like to hear from you.”

Nat shrugged again. “Do you? Or do you want to hear what your daughter would have said?”

“No. I want to hear from you,” said Allen. “I know you’re not the daughter I remember. I want to know who you are.” He wasn’t upset at all, just gently encouraging.

That was the problem, Natasha thought. She wasn’t used to letting people get to know her. She’d been trained to keep herself bottled up, to never get close to people lest they compromise her dedication to the task at hand. When she did communicate, it was essential information only. That was one thing her students remarked on when they did those professor evaluation surveys: she was very focused and sometimes had to be asked to slow down and give more detail. She wanted to treat Allen like her father, but it was hard.

“I don’t do it on purpose,” she said. “I just… I don’t know how to do that.” Even being that honest was uncomfortable for her.

“Then you should practice,” he said. “If you feel like you need something to talk about, why don’t you tell me about your life? Where you grew up, how you ended up here?”

He was trying to help, but he really wasn’t. “You wouldn’t want to hear it,” she said. “I told you, it’s not a nice story.”

What Natasha would have liked, actually, was to learn what he thought her life had been like. What memories did he have of her as a child, or of his wife? These things hadn’t really happened, and yet Nat was curious what forms they took in his memory. She’d never asked, though, and she didn’t plan to do so no matter how tempting it was. Whatever he told her would be a lie. Her truth would only hurt him, but his lies would make her miserable thinking of the life she could have had. She’d had enough lies.

“You told me an ugly truth is better than a beautiful lie,” said Allen.

She had said that. It had been on her mind at the time. “Sometimes it might be better to have neither,” Nat replied.

“Then what are we supposed to talk about?” Allen asked.

“I don’t think we have to talk at all,” said Nat. “Families don’t always talk to each other. We could do something together instead.” That seemed much easier, much better for not scaring anybody off or boring anybody to tears. “Why don’t we go to the Victoria and Albert Museum? I doubt we’ll get to look at the mummy while it’s being shipped, so let’s go see it while it’s still here.” She was curious about it anyway.

Allen didn’t look happy with that, but he nodded. “All right. Let me finish my drink.”

As they left the restaurant a few minutes later, Nat decided she owed Allen an apology. “I’m sorry, Dad,” she said. It still felt weird calling him that, but she was working on it, trying to force it to be natural. “I’m not used to this. I’m trying, I promise.”

“I believe you, Ginger Snap,” Allen said gently. “You can take all the time you need.”

#fanfic #steve rogers #natasha romanov #sharon carter #clint barton #sam wilson

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dfroza · 4 years ago

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A History lesson

is the topic of Paul’s writing for Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the Letter of First Corinthians about how God chose the Jews to carry His truth and to reveal it to the world, although they were not always faithful to God in the process. but truth prevailed anyway as we see in the True illumination of the Son and the revelation of grace beginning in Jerusalem:

[Chapter 10]

I wouldn’t want you to be ignorant of our history, brothers and sisters. Our ancestors were once safeguarded under a miraculous cloud in the wilderness and brought safely through the sea. Enveloped in water by cloud and by sea, they were, you might say, ritually cleansed into Moses through baptism. Together they were sustained supernaturally: they all ate the same spiritual food, manna; and they all drank the same spiritual water, flowing from a spiritual rock that was always with them, for the rock was the Anointed One, our Liberating King. Despite all of this, they were punished in the wilderness because God was unhappy with most of them.

Look at what happened to them as an example; it’s right there in the Scriptures so that we won’t make the same mistakes and hunger after evil as they did. So here’s my advice: don’t degrade yourselves by worshiping anything less than the living God as some of them did. Remember it is written, “The people sat down to eat and drink and then rose up in dance and play.” We must be careful not to engage in sexual sins as some of them did. In one day, 23,000 died because of sin. None of us must test the limits of the Lord’s patience. Some of the Israelites did, and serpents bit them and killed them. You need to stop your groaning and whining. Remember the story. Some of them complained, and the messenger of death came for them and destroyed them. All these things happened for a reason: to sound a warning. They were written down and passed down to us to teach us. They were meant especially for us because the beginning of the end is happening in our time. So let even the most confident believers remember their examples and be very careful not to fall as some of them did.

Any temptation you face will be nothing new. But God is faithful, and He will not let you be tempted beyond what you can handle. But He always provides a way of escape so that you will be able to endure and keep moving forward. So then, my beloved friends, run from idolatry in any form. As wise as I know you are, understand clearly what I am saying and determine the right course of action. When we give thanks and share the cup of blessing, are we not sharing in the blood of the Anointed One? When we give thanks and break bread, are we not sharing in His body? Because there is one bread, we, though many, are also one body since we all share one bread. Look no further than Israel and the temple practices, and you’ll see what I mean. Isn’t it true that those who eat sacrificial foods are communing at the altar, sharing its benefits? So what does all this mean? I’m not suggesting that idol food itself has any special qualities or that an idol itself possesses any special powers, but I am saying that the outsiders’ sacrifices are actually offered to demons, not to God. So if you feast upon this food, you are feasting with demons—I don’t want you involved with demons! You can’t hold the holy cup of the Lord in one hand and the cup of demons in the other. You can’t share in the Lord’s table while picking off the altar of demons. Are we trying to provoke the Lord Jesus? Do we think it’s a good idea to stir up His jealousy? Do we have ridiculous delusions about matching or even surpassing His power?

There’s a slogan often quoted on matters like this: “All things are permitted.” Yes, but not all things are beneficial. “All things are permitted,” they say. Yes, but not all things build up and strengthen others in the body. We should stop looking out for our own interests and instead focus on the people living and breathing around us. Feel free to eat any meat sold in the market without your conscience raising questions about scruples because “the earth and all that’s upon it belong to the Lord.”

So if some unbelievers invite you to dinner and you want to go, feel free to eat whatever they offer you without raising questions about conscience. But if someone says, “This is meat from the temple altar, a sacrifice to god so-and-so,” then do not eat it. Not so much because of your own conscience [because the earth and everything on it belongs to the Lord], but out of consideration for the conscience of the other fellow who told you about it. So you ask, “Why should I give up my freedom to accommodate the scruples of another?” or, “If I am eating with gratitude to God, why am I insulted for eating food that I have properly given thanks for?” These are good questions.

Whatever you do—whether you eat or drink or not—do it all to the glory of God! Do not offend Jews or Greeks or any part of the church of God for that matter. Consider my example: I strive to please all people in all my actions and words—but don’t think I am in this for myself—their rescued souls are the only profit.

The Letter of 1st Corinthians, Chapter 10 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is chapter 16 of 2nd Samuel that documents the continued strife facing David:

Shortly after David passed the crest of the hill, Mephibosheth’s steward Ziba met him with a string of pack animals, saddled and loaded with a hundred loaves of bread, a hundred raisin cakes, a hundred baskets of fresh fruit, and a skin of wine.

The king said to Ziba, “What’s all this?”

“The donkeys,” said Ziba, “are for the king’s household to ride, the bread and fruit are for the servants to eat, and the wine is for drinking, especially for those overcome by fatigue in the wilderness.”

The king said, “And where is your master’s grandson?”

“He stayed in Jerusalem,” said Ziba. “He said, ‘This is the day Israel is going to restore my grandfather’s kingdom to me.’”

“Everything that belonged to Mephibosheth,” said the king, “is now yours.”

Ziba said, “How can I ever thank you? I’ll be forever in your debt, my master and king; may you always look on me with such kindness!”

When the king got to Bahurim, a man appeared who had connections with Saul’s family. His name was Shimei son of Gera. As he followed along he shouted insults and threw rocks right and left at David and his company, servants and soldiers alike. To the accompaniment of curses he shouted, “Get lost, get lost, you butcher, you hellhound! God has paid you back for all your dirty work in the family of Saul and for stealing his kingdom. God has given the kingdom to your son Absalom. Look at you now—ruined! And good riddance, you pathetic old man!”

Abishai son of Zeruiah said, “This mangy dog can’t insult my master the king this way—let me go over and cut off his head!”

But the king said, “Why are you sons of Zeruiah always interfering and getting in the way? If he’s cursing, it’s because God told him, ‘Curse David.’ So who dares raise questions?”

“Besides,” continued David to Abishai and the rest of his servants, “my own son, my flesh and bone, is right now trying to kill me; compared to that this Benjaminite is small potatoes. Don’t bother with him; let him curse; he’s preaching God’s word to me. And who knows, maybe God will see the trouble I’m in today and exchange the curses for something good.”

David and his men went on down the road, while Shimei followed along on the ridge of the hill alongside, cursing, throwing stones down on them, and kicking up dirt.

By the time they reached the Jordan River, David and all the men of the company were exhausted. There they rested and were revived.

By this time Absalom and all his men were in Jerusalem.

And Ahithophel was with them.

Soon after, Hushai the Arkite, David’s friend, came and greeted Absalom, “Long live the king! Long live the king!”

Absalom said to Hushai, “Is this the way you show devotion to your good friend? Why didn’t you go with your friend David?”

“Because,” said Hushai, “I want to be with the person that God and this people and all Israel have chosen. And I want to stay with him. Besides, who is there to serve other than the son? Just as I served your father, I’m now ready to serve you.”

Then Absalom spoke to Ahithophel, “Are you ready to give counsel? What do we do next?”

Ahithophel told Absalom, “Go and sleep with your father’s concubines, the ones he left to tend to the palace. Everyone will hear that you have openly disgraced your father, and the morale of everyone on your side will be strengthened.” So Absalom pitched a tent up on the roof in public view, and went in and slept with his father’s concubines.

The counsel that Ahithophel gave in those days was treated as if God himself had spoken. That was the reputation of Ahithophel’s counsel to David; it was the same with Absalom.

The Book of 2nd Samuel, Chapter 16 (The Message)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Thursday, november 5 of 2020 with a paired chapter from each Testament along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

Today’s devotional message sent by email from The Passion Translation:

I Hear His Whisper . . .

Let love rule.

The revelation of truth can only come through my love. As you live in my love, I will show myself through your life and through your words. Many are those around you who need me; love them, and they will see me. As my Word says, I have not given you a spirit of fear, but the spirit of love. My holy presence will spill from your heart as you overflow with my love. Many will attempt to distract you from this treasure, but your eyes are fixed on me, and I will hold you fast in my love.

Let all other things become supplemental to love. Love must rule your life, words, actions, and mindset. Loving must become the primary motive of your life. The deepest desire of your heart must be to know and love me first, then to pour that love out to others. Let love compel you. Let compassion lift you. Let wisdom lead you, and the enemy will never be able to trick you into guilty service. See what I’m doing and remain in sync with my Spirit, and you will never be sucked dry or step outside the healthy boundaries of love.

Whispers written by Brian Simmons and Gretchen Rodriguez

1 John 4:20

The Passion Translation

Anyone can say, “I love God,” yet have hatred toward another believer. This makes him a phony, because if you don’t love a brother or sister, whom you can see, how can you truly love God, whom you can’t see?

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research:

November 5, 2020

Mortify Your Fleshly Members

“Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication, uncleanness, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, and covetousness, which is idolatry.” (Colossians 3:5)

This imperative command is very important for the twice-born. It is nothing less than an active execution of passionate, evil deeds born from the lusts of the flesh. “For if ye live after the flesh, ye shall die: but if ye through the Spirit do mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall live” (Romans 8:13). The list that follows is unyielding.

Fornication (porneia) includes all deviant and extramarital sex (Leviticus 18:6-23; Romans 1:26-28).

Uncleanness (akatharsia) references that which is “dirty; foul, wanton, or lewd” (Ephesians 4:17-19).

Inordinate affection (pathos) is a word used only of homosexuality (Romans 1:26; 1 Thessalonians 4:5).

Evil desire (epithumia) describes evil cravings (1 Peter 4:3; Jude 1:17-19).

Covetousness (pleonexia) is simply greediness that is idolatry (2 Peter 2:12-14; 1 Thessalonians 2:5).

This evil behavior will surely bring the “wrath of God...against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who hold the truth in unrighteousness” (Romans 1:18). That judgment will be carried out on such people because of an impenitent heart that is “treasuring up” the “righteous judgment of God” (Romans 2:5-6).

The most startling fact of this behavior is that those who willfully participate in it know “the judgment of God” and that “they which commit such things are worthy of death.” Not only does this behavior signify a rebellious heart but also an open desire to “have pleasure in them” (Romans 1:32).

“Let no man deceive you with vain words: for because of these things cometh the wrath of God upon the children of disobedience” (Ephesians 5:6). HMM III

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gloomy-goober · 7 years ago

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A Graceless Spell

Roman Day 3: Princey is cursed to be clumsy in everything he does for one whole week! I wonder how that plays out?

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 (You are Here!) / Part 5 A quest to kill a witch...only this time more Fam ILY bickering.

“I feel like I am going to go to wizard school!” Patton squealed happily as he spun around in his new robes. The light blue fabric billowed out around him and made the silver pattern around the hem shine brightly.

“Yes, those do suit you well,” Roman said as he suppressed a chuckle. At least one of his new ‘party members’ was happy for the costume change and excited to be helping him.

When they had returned to the mind palace castle, Princey’s first order of business was to get up off the floor where he had fallen. This time he was sure it is Patton that said the empire joke earlier because he mumbled it to himself now with a few giggles.

The second order of business was to usher them all along to his room to change into more appropriate outfits for this quest. He was back into his princely garb, which was very important to note.

Logan questioned the functionality of the outfit he had been given but just accepted it as something weird. He did not understand how cool being a paladin was but that was just his own problem. Patton was overjoyed with the robes he had been given and seemed to accept this easily.

Virgil was the most difficult.

“I am not being a bard.”

Roman looked up at his ceiling and than back at the stubborn side in front of him. “You don’t want to be a rogue either but you are going to have to choose one. Those are the only black things I have.”

“I don’t even want to go.”

“You are wasting time, Anxiety,” Logan called over to the two of them, “Just choose something. We don’t have time for this. The longer this spell stays on Roman the longer everyone is in danger.”

“Yes. Exactly,” Roman agreed and held out the garments again. “So choose.”

Virgil looked over the two outfits and grumbled as he grabbed one at random. “I’m not going to be happy about this.”

“Yeah, whatever, Mr. Emo. Just be the rogue and hurry up with it.”

Roman moved to hand the other outfit back up and let out a VERY MANLY scream shout as the whole closet fell on top of him. At least that got an amused snort out of the anxious side as he went to change.

This going to be the long quest.

“Patton, I could use some assistance.”

“Coming!”

Entering the land of make-believe was something very strange for sides that normally did not go there often. This was, after all, Prince’s kingdom for a reason. When they stepped out of the grand front doors of the castle the three that were not used to this had to take a small moment to adjust.

While a normal medieval village would have smelled and looked awful this one was a weird mix of modern and fairy tail. People were healthy and happy and the place smelled of roses. The clouds that floated in the impossibly blue sky were perfect in every way and even made easily distinguishable shapes.

Roman smiled to himself as he watched his friends take in this new world for the first time.

Patton looked on it with wonderment. The eyes behind his glasses wide with excitement as he took in every vivid detail. Logan looked on it with disbelief. Roman could tell the logical side was having an inner war about what was possible and what this room could do. Virgil seemed to just squint and the bright surroundings as if burned his eyes and than pulled the hood of his new robe over his head to shield his pale face.

“Welcome to my kingdom,” Roman said with a flourish. His arm went out and almost hit Patton in the face. “Apologies, friend.”

“It is no big thing,” Patton said and pushed the arm away from his face gently, “But we should get a move on. The sooner we get this spell lifted the better you will be.”

“If we can get this spell lifted, Anxiety sighed and his hands twitched. It seems the side realized he did not have pockets to shove them into.

“Well this is Roman’s creation. I doubt there is any room for bad endings,” Logan said slowly, almost as if he was unsure about the words he is speaking.

“Exactly, Logan,” Roman chimed in. “Now, to the horses! We have a witch to slay!”

The prince took out his sword and pointed it dramatically to the side of the castle. He took off without another word at a fast pace. The creative side was very, not anxious, but ready to get this spell off of him so he could return to normal.

Logan and Patton were quick to follow. The two sides not willing to be lost in the unfamiliar world. Virgil followed along at a slow yet brisk pace

“Put that away before you fall and stab yourself!” He called out to Roman. Honestly, how could the guy forget about the spell that fast?

Prince was about to shout about about how that would never happen but stopped himself. With the currently curse over his person there was no telling how deadly some of these accidents could be. To his party’s surprise he actually slowed down and put the sword away.

“Right,” Roman mumbled and took a moment to breath before the blinding smile returned. “Anyway, choose any steed you would like.”

He crossed the small distance that remained and pulled open the stable doors. Patton bounded in without much care in the world and looked around at all the different horses in there. He was quickly drawn toward a lovely mare.

“Can I have the brown speckled one, Roman?”

“Ah, a perfect fit,” Roman smiled and walked over to where his friend stood, “Rosa is a fine lady. Gentle in riding yet powerful when ever someone is in need.”

“Does that mean yes?”

Logan shook his head. The logical side had already started to saddle a slate grey horse. “Yes, Patton, that means yes.”

“Oh goodie! Logan, would you help me saddle her?”

Logan sighed and made sure his horse’s saddle was on properly. “Just give me a moment, than I shall assist you.”

The prince sighed and walked away now that he knew two of them were settled that just left himself to find a new steed since Reginald was gone and-.

“I think I will just walk.” Anxiety said as soon as he walked into the stable.

Roman looked at the darkly clad side with confusion. “Walk!?! You will never be able to keep up with us on our horses. If one were to walk to where I met the witch it would take them almost all the day light. You must pick a horse.”

Anxiety glanced at all the animals in the stable with a small look of...fear? Apprehension? Roman could not tell.He just knew that it was a waste of time and they had to get this spell off him quickly.

“Look, if you are not going to choose a horse than you will ride with one of us.”

“I think I am fine with keeping both my feet on the ground.”

Roman looked up at the sky in a plea for help before he moved towards a jet black steed. “Ten it is settled you will ride with me.”

“That is even more dangerous then being on the back of an animal! You have a curse that could double the accidents that could happen to us.”

Roman paid Virgil no mind as he began to saddle the horse carefully. “Then that is even more reason for you to be riding with me. To keep me cautious of anything that could happen.”

“But-.”

“No buts, kiddo,” Patton called from atop his horse, “We don’t got time for them.”

Virgil looked around and saw he was out numbered before he gave a groan of annoyance. “Fine. Whatever.”

“That’s sort of the spirit! Glad to see you are coming around,” Roman said. He probably deserved that death glare.

Riding into the forest for the second time felt like a very strange dream to Princey. With two more horses at his side and a death hug around his waist from his unwilling travel companion he almost did not think this was actually a thing.

But here he was, racing through the forest once again to defeat a witch he had thought he had slain already. This time with his other sides to help him; something he never actually thought would happen. They were technically here to save him. Save him from the curse that had befallen him. What were the odds that this would-

“Stop thinking and look out for where you are steering this thing!”

Anxiety’s voice snapped Roman from his musings and the princely side pulled the reigns to direct the horse away from trees and back onto the path. By the looks of how dark the woods was getting they would be near the clearing soon.

“How much further?” Logan asked as if on queue.

Roman turned his head to answer but one of Virgil’s arms move to push his face back to facing forward. The prince gave an irritated sigh and held tightly to the reigns of his steed.

“We should be coming up on it soon,” he said over the wind, “Once there I do not know where to go.”

“This is your world, correct?” Logan shouted back, “If you want them to be there then they should be there. It would make sense in a nonsensical way.”

“Yeah!” Patton shouted, “If they know you are going to figure it out and come back then they should be there.”

“Unless they aren’t and than we could be coming all this way for nothing. We may never find them.” Virgil clung to Roman tighter as the words left his mouth. It wasn’t that the side was trying to be pessimistic but it was just function.

“Come now, Virgil! This is my world, like Logan said, there will be a happy ending.” Roman said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

He snapped the reigns and made the horse go faster. At least, he hoped the witch would be there and he hoped that he could stop them.

#'A' fic #my fic #fic #sanderssidesappreciationmonth #Roman #Roman Sanders #prince #Roman's week #princey #virgil #anxiety #patton #morality #logan #logic #I know nothing about horses

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fableweaver · 5 years ago

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Arc of the Blind Warrior

Ian had grown used to life in a saddle, and so too had Will and Matt. They took to riding much like walking, and Ian wondered what imprint this would make on them when they grew older. When he thought of his sons he thought of the future and wondered when he could about what it would bring. He found he couldn’t imagine a simple life in Daun anymore, but his own limited experience could not tell him what life would be like in Alda. Besides what change the Phay might bring to the world as well.

He had plenty of time to ponder on the road, there was little to do as they rode. Bailey had taken to knitting as they rode, the soft clicking of her knitting needles only audible to Ian over the tread of the horses and wind. Ian felt almost at home with that sound. Matt and Will often babbled and talked nonsense to each other as if having a conversation. Rork was the only silent one of their party.

Since they had left he had been unusually silent, Ian unable to read his mood by his aura. Unwilling to breach the silence Ian let him be until one-night Rork broke it himself by the fire after dinner.

“Ya’ll want ta go beyond L’acrimaros,” he said softly.

“Aye, ye kenned that already Rork,” Bailey said. “Ye can take us baint?”

“It be a better idear ta just wait in L’acrimaros,” Rork said. “If the King aint there we could get word ta him.”

“Rork, why baint ye wanna take us beyond L’acrimaros?” Ian asked.

“It aint be I don’t wanna,” Rork said, Ian sensing his apprehension. “It be I aint able ta. No body gonna let ya beyond the falls.”

“Ye mean soldiers would stop us?” Bailey asked.

“I mean ya won’t even get a dingy ta take ya,” Rork said. “Outsiders have never been beyond the falls.”

“Ye said that afore,” Ian said remembering. “Baint be like ye hidin any what, ye’ll just baint want yer ways disturbed.”

“We won’t disturb yer ways Rork,” Bailey said.

“I coggin that lass,” Rork said. “N so do many, but it be more en that. Ya’ll coggin o the great plague?”

“Aye, the un that I saw with the Piper,” Ian said.

“I suppose,” Rork said with a shrug. “Any o the little nasties that spread, there be many from the Cursed Age.”

“They spread from Daun ta Xin takin whole villages,” Bailey said.

“Except Hyria,” Rork said.

“Ye do it take keep disease out,” Ian said amazed.

“Aye, we make sure ta introduce new diseases slowsome if at all,” Rork said. “There be more reasons too, ta control trade n goods, ta protect those other kingdoms would kill, n much else besides. Ya’ll be asking me ta break a cardnal law o my people, n I won’t do it.”

The silence lasted some time, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the night.

“N we won’t Rork,” Bailey said kindly. “The king’ll be at his palace at L’acrimaros most likely, n ifn he baint we’ll send a message.”

“That be it?” Rork asked surprised. “Ya’ll aint gonna argue more?”

“Be pointless,” Bailey answered. “Like ye said, I’d have ta convince a lot more en ye.”

Rork didn’t seem convinced, so Ian spoke.

“Bailey kens yer people will see our power n respond,” Ian said. “I ken too, we’ll be let beyond L’acrimaros if the need be.”

“How?” Rork said. “How do ya’ll coggin that?”

“The Elder Magic be strange,” Bailey said, and left it at that as she stood to put Matt and Will to bed.

“She likens ta be all misteriousome,” Rork grumbled.

“Nowt, she baint ken really what’ll happen,” Ian answered. “She has faith.”

Rork didn’t answer, Ian taking his silence as doubt. He had come to find his faith again and went to Bailey to share her bedroll. They simply slept together, the habits of their marriage coming to them again as easily as breathing. Somehow Ian’s body just remembered Bailey, and though he had slept next to her many times, each time seemed special.

The only difference now were her dreams. Ian did not know what plagued Bailey’s dreams, but she often twitched or moaned in her sleep, sometimes even her body jerked, or she would get up and sleepwalk. He knew her spirit was wandering and feared asking what she saw while she slept. As always that night she slept fitfully and Ian woke to her already awake in his arms.

“Mornin,” Ian said softly, their faces inches apart. Her indigo eyes seemed so deep as she stared at him, Ian unsure if she was even awake.

“I be searchin,” Bailey said softly.

“Fer what?” Ian asked, knowing what she meant.

“Fer the triplets,” Bailey answered and Ian felt his heart break. “I ken they baint be ours but I just…”

“Shhh lass,” Ian said pulling her closer. “I ken.”

Bailey cried, a soft whimpering cry she tried to muffle in his chest. He knew she couldn’t help her spirit wandering, and knew she knew the dangers that came with it. When she calmed they rose to begin their morning routine as if nothing had happened.

Setting out again on the road they joined regular traffic of Rhodin, traders, and farmers, on their way through the kingdoms on their tasks. A ragtag party they may have been, somehow they drew little attention through the villages and towns they passed through. Riding through the Mark however was showing the signs of the Legion active and thriving in many villages. Sects were either burned down or torn down, the people skittish and cautious around strangers. They took little chances in staying in villages and camped when they could with the Rhodin.

The Rhodin were armed to the teeth and so wary of strangers that at times it was dangerous to come near their camps at dusk. They took to riding with some Rhodin when they could, but the wagons moved much slower than their horses so often they left them behind. Ian wondered why the Rhodin were still out on the roads if it was so dangerous for them, but it seemed the wandering people would not be stopped from their wandering if they could.

The weeks of travel soon brought them through the borderlands at last into the fens of western Hyria, just a moon after they had left Alda. Ian began to wonder if there would be any time to gather an army in Hyria let alone march it all the way back to Alda, but he knew they had little choice in the matter. What they would do if Alda fell he had no idea. Yet word still stood that the forest had yet to fall to Lir.

Travel through the fens went on by boat, Rork stating that it was far faster to navigate the water meadows by the lazy boats of the Hyrians.

“Be the rest o Hyria like this?” Ian asked one day as he sat next to Rork trying to fish unsuccessfully. The swirls and shapes he perceived in the water could be fish or undine, and the Wild folk were more likely to tug at his line in a trick than to take his bait.

“Like the fens?” Rork said as he laughed. “Naw mate, the mater ways only twist here cause it keeps bothersome folk from going too deep. By the time any outlander managed to march any army through the fens they were too exhausted, and midge bitten ta give a lark about L’acrimaros. Then they got a real good licking, I can tell ya ja.”

“So the heartlands baint be twisty?” Ian asked and Rork’s aura glowed with more mirth.

“Naw, they be more so. Most of the land be marsh or bog, flooded with cypress knees the only ground to walk on. We all live on boats or houses raised on stilts. It be hot too, n there be gaters, manatee, n turtles luring in the water.”

“How do ye live in that?” Ian asked intrigued.

“Like any other,” Rork said as he shrugged. “Many build houses on stilts, some live only in boats. We grow rice n the likesome in the water, much else we get from the earth n water.”

“Like fish,” Ian said.

“Aye, naw thing better en a good piece o fish,” Rork said, pulling in his line to show a fish.

The Hyrians ate much else besides fish; turtles, snails, crabs, crawfish, shrimp, and even frogs could be found in stews, deep fried, or just plain grilled onto the dinner table. Bailey, Ian, Matt, Will, and Rork ate well on the river boats, Hyrian hospitality holding in the fens. Bailey and Ian wisely kept their desire to travel into Hyria to only Rork, they weren’t willing to trust anyone else yet.

Despite their winding path and seeming easy pace, they arrived in L’acrimaros in a week’s travel, the Buck Moon giving way to the Red Moon. Ian could hardly perceive the city with his limited sense, but the sounds and smells were enough to overwhelm him. He was forced to let Bailey lead him, though he didn’t mind having her hold his arm as they walked through the crowds.

Rork led them through the bustle until they arrived at the King’s residence. Ian could see nothing of the building but Bailey told him it was a big house made to look much like a boat. Rork spoke with the guard in Hyrian for some time before he returned to them.

“The King’s gone inta Hyria,” Rork said. “Aint likely he’ll be back soon.”

“Where in Hyria?” Bailey asked.

“Nawt matter sweetie,” Rork answered. “He aint here.”

Bailey stared at him, Ian sensing the stir in her aura.

“Ye right,” Bailey said. “It baint matter, cause I’ll find him.”

“Sweetie, ya aint goin inta Hyria,” Rork said. “I aint leading ya.”

“You don’t have to,” Bailey said. “We will go on our own.”

“Ian,” Rork said looking at Ian, his aura shifting with worry.

“Sorry Rork,” Ian said as he shrugged. “I ken Bailey can do it.”

“Best ye leave Rork,” Bailey said as she walked off. “Ye baint wanna get tangled in with us.”

“Naw lass I’ll tag along,” Rork said.

“Won’t you get in trouble?” Ian asked.

“Naw, aint a crime in Hyria ta lead outlanders in,” Rork said. “Just the outlander gets in trouble not the Hyrian. Sides which I wanna see how ya gonna pull this off.”

Bailey didn’t answer, Ian still able to imagine her look of smugness as she led the way back through the city. Ian wasn’t sure if she knew where she was going but he knew she wanted to get to the edge of the city to the exposed waters of the lake.

“Ye sense it baint?” Bailey said lowly to him.

“Aye, the bones o the city,” Ian said. He could feel below the wood and water of the city a stone city throbbing with power. He couldn’t perceive the wood of the city, but he could sense the stone below in a dark blue aura. “It sank baint?”

“Nowt,” Bailey said. “It be a city o the Cold Children, the Merrow. It were always underwater.”

“The Merrow baint marched,” Ian said, remembering sailor’s tales of the Merrow.

“Nowt, but they left ta the sea after the March,” Bailey said. “Probably because their Queen went ta sleep.”

Ian nodded and they at last arrived at the edge of the city. Bailey let go of his arm and handed Will to him, walking out to the water’s edge. Bailey reached out over the water, murmuring under her breath as she sought the name of the one she sought. Ian could almost perceive her call through the air as a ripple, sensing it go deep into the water. At last one answered her call, Ian grinding his teeth at the power of its aura. The water seethed and rippled, fish fleeing and the air growing latent with power.

The Greater Undine rose out of the water in a great leap, falling back a drenching them with its wake. It rose again more gently to face Bailey. Ian could not see it, but sensed it by its deep blue aura. To him it resembled a giant glowing fish, he had no idea what it really looked like.

“Greetings,” Bailey said to the Undine. “I seek the King o Hyria, the leader o the people that ply yer waters.”

Ian knew things such as kings were meaningless to the Wild Kin, but Bailey projected the meaning to the Greater Undine with her power. A great deal of power was needed to make this spirit understand her and what she sought, as the greater spirit’s mind was hardly like their own. Ian watched as the Unine swished its tail in slow contemplation.

At last it responded with a simple nod; Ian unsure what that meant but Bailey seemed content.

“He be ready, get on,” Bailey commanded. Ian didn’t hesitate, taking Will and Matt he stepped off the dock onto the back of the Undine. It was spongy and wet, Ian unable to keep his foot and fell onto his rear on the soft back of the Undine. It didn’t seem to mind, and Ian was content to sit despite the soaking he was getting. Will and Matt seemed fascinated, both trying to wriggle free to explore the wide back of the Undine.

Bailey joined them, sitting as she set their packs next to Ian. Rork scrambled to join them, Ian guessing that even he could see the Undine if he was able to mount it. Without a word the Undine set out over the lake, Ian’s senses unable to process much other than the sound of the waves and water.

“Hail!” A shout sounded from the water, Ian guessing they were passing a boat. The Undine’s speed didn’t change but Ian guessed they were moving fast by how quickly they passed the sounds of shouts and pursuit.

“Bailey,” Rork said sounding very worried. “We be approaching the falls lass.”

Bailey was unconcerned so Ian wasn’t worried, he wondered how the Undine was going to deal with the falls. Rork however wasn’t as settled, and he screamed as they went over the falls. Ian didn’t sense much in their speed or motion other than now they were going down, the Undine’s back still level under them. They landed gently in the water and continued on down the river.

Ian could tell nothing of their speed, the ride gentle and smooth. Though telling by the sound of the river the water around them must have been chaotic rapids, no one able to speak over the sound of the water. Eventually this soon quieted and at last they could speak.

“It be a whiles down these twistsome water ways,” Rork said. “Then we’ll hit the bogs when we get out o the highlands.”

The twisting waterways continued for the next week, a maze of water through the hills and grottos of Hyria. They saw no other people, either because of their speed or because few Hyrians lived in these waterways. They traveled at a fast pace despite the twisting ways, resting briefly at night on the shores. Their Undine stayed with them the whole time, seeming unbothered by the long time it traveled with them.

At last the river lands emptied into the flooded waterways of the lowlands. Bailey described the land for Ian, who could only perceive everything as green and blue blurs. They were traveling through a forest of cypress trees, knees of twisted roots sticking up out of the water that covered the entire ground except for a few muddy islands of reeds. Moss and lichen hung from the trees in veils, pond scum and moss even growing on the still water. Mosquitos were their main pest, though Bailey spotted a few caiman and alligators in the water. Birds sang in droves in the trees, heron and storks wading through the water hunting fish and frogs. Giant turtles floated in the water, their backs the size of wagon wheels.

“There,” Rork said one day pointing out into the water. Ian could perceive a glow of animal life under the water, large animals he couldn’t make out. There also seemed to be a boat telling by the dark spot in the vegetation he could see. “It be a herd o sea cows n the boat must be their hand ja. We must be getting close.”

“To where?” Bailey asked, Ian surprised that the Hyrians herded sea cows. “The palace?”

“Ifn ya’ll cogging the King lives in a palace ya going ta get a big surprise ja,” Rork said. “Naw we getting close ta the Jambles.”

Bailey didn’t ask so neither did Ian, he suspected they were about to find out. They continued on, Ian hearing the sing song voices of songs in Hyrian. They were passing boats now telling by the songs, most falling silent when they saw the party on the Undine. Ian wasn’t sure what it looked like to them, if they could even see the Undine, but he doubted it mattered. They were the first non-Hyrians to enter the Riverlands probably since Absalom of the Deep Woods, reason enough for the silence that followed their arrival to the Jambles.

Bailey described the scene because to Ian it was a mass of color and life. Thousands of boats clustered together to make a haphazard city, lashed together on the shallow lake. Giant cypress trees stood over the maze of boats sheltering them from the sun and weather. It was hard to tell where the Jambles began and ended, and from what Bailey described he wondered how they would find the king.

The Greater Undine took them to the edge of the city and deposited them on a dock before vanishing into the aether.

“Well?” Bailey said turning to Rork.

“I taint cogging where the king be in the Jambles,” Rork answered. “The city shifts n changes lass. But I cogging what his boat looks like ja. Come.”

They entered the city, Bailey leading Ian as they walked through the city. Sounds of songs and laughter faded as they walked, but none stopped them. The smells of the city were unlike any other Ian had been to, spices and cooking mixing with the early stench of rot from the boggy water that sat under the city. The sound of the city was raucous and musical at the same time, shouts and calls mixing with an undertone of laughter and music.

At last they reached what seemed to be a town square telling but the opening up of sound and more crowds of people. Bailey pointed out a fountain in the middle of the square where some people seemed to be gathered drinking. They approached only to have a few Hyrians surround them. They spoke in Hyrian to Rork who answered, Ian guessing them to be guards and they had at last found the King.

The conversation turned heated, Rork arguing back with the guards until someone interrupted in the trade tongue.

“Let ‘em pass ja,” a woman said. The guards moved away and they were permitted to walk forward until they stood before two people. One sat on the edge of the fountain, his aura telling Ian he was a man and someone with a lively aura which spoke to humor and unpredictability. At his feet sat a witch, Ian perceiving her aura much like Bailey’s. She must have been the one to have spoken.

“So ya’ll have come,” the woman said. “Took ya long enough ja.”

“Ye have the sight,” Bailey said.

“So that is why ya whined we dink here by the fountain,” the man muttered. “Well aren’t you going to introduce us then ja?”

“This is King Wildlough,” the woman said. “I am his betrothed Romsca.”

“Betrothed?” Wildough sputtered, his aura shifting to embarrassment. “I’ve not meant to ask ya.”

“Ya will,” Romsca answered.

“Well who are they?” Wildlough asked haughtily. “Wedding guests?”

“I don’t cogging,” Romsca answered. “All I saw was this meeting and the power of the woman, which is far greater than my own.”

“Thank ye,” Bailey said. “I be Bailey, this be my husband Ian, n Rork our guide. Our need is dire, majesty. Ye ken o what be happenin in the east?”

“So ya’ll here ta call me ta war for that prick Elrik?” Wildlough said sounding bored. “Came a long ways fer nothing darling.”

“No, I came for Alda,” Bailey answered. “I am a princess of the house Alvar, n we need yer help.”

“Well an army will cost ya a pretty penny ta be sure,” Wildlough said. “And from what I recall Alda didn’t have the money ta buy us in the King’s Wars. Doubt they’ll have it now after losing the crown.”

“I can offer no money,” Bailey said. “But if Alda falls the rest of the Nine will follow, ye ken this.”

“If Alda falls en it’ll be just eight kingdoms,” Wildlough said with a shrug. “Why should I risk the lives of my people for the lives of Alda with no reward? Don’t blabber ta me bout the threat of the kingdoms, we Hyrians will wait it out like always.”

Bailey paused, her aura shifting and churning as she thought.

“Ye haven’t told him,” she said realizing something, speaking to Romsca.

“Saw no point,” Romsca answered. “He be thick as molasses n stubborn as a mule, best ta let him learn on his own.”

“Nowt, best be now,” Bailey answered. “The Phay mean ta march.”

“Ya mean those wives tales n rumors,” Wildlough said as he snorted through his nose. “Nawt but horse shit.”

“Ye best listen,” Ian said lowly, a n idea forming.

“Er what?” Wildlough said. Ian looked to Romsca, her aura strong and bright. He reached out and with a tug of his power he pulled her aura from her. She fell senseless, men shouting and steel being drawn.

“Kill me n she dies,” Ian said.

“What witchcraft is this?” Wildlough asked angrily. “Wake her!”

“Nowt til ye listen!” Ian shouted, everyone growing still. “Ye care fer her, n baint ye ever lie bout that. If the Phay don’t march, if Alda is destroyed n everyone o the Aldan be killed, next will be Hyria. Do ye ken what’ll happen ta her? Much worse en what I’ve just done, much worse majesty. Think on what ye just felt now seeing her go limp, do ye ever what ta see the likes again?”

Wildlough was silent, his aura a turmoil of pain and fear. Ian decided he had enough and let Romsca’s spirit back. She woke with a start and Wildlough was at her side instantly.

“I’m fine,” she said softly. “I did not foresee yall’s power,” she said wryly to Ian. Wildlough stepped back as if he wasn’t as concerned as he really had been.

“Ifn I were ta help Alda,” Wildlough said cagily. “When would ya need the aid ja?”

“As soon as ya can,” Bailey said.

“N this isn’t ta help Elrik?” Wildlough asked.

“It’ll put a real bone is his craw fer sure majesty,” Rork said, Ian seeing Wildlough’s aura shift with pleasure.

“Aye that it would,” Wildlough said and laughed. “Alright, lets go ta battle.”

He said it so casually, but the cheer that went up around them spoke to what kind of power the king of Hyria had with his people. The sudden action that accompanied that announcement was immediate even if the King did not act. He swaggered off and they followed, unsure what was happening.

“So ye’ll march fer Alda?” Bailey asked unsure after such an easy reaction.

“Naw love,” Wildlough answered. “We’ll sail.”

“Sail?” Bailey asked. “Would that be faster?”

“For the Hyrians aye,” Rork answered wryly. “We’ll get there faster than on our feet ja.”

“Don’t ya worry yer pretty little head,” the king said. “We’ll get there lickety split.”

Ian wondered but decided not to argue the point. They had arrived at the water anyways and Bailey whispered the description of the boats. They were deep bellied and built in the Hyrian style with colorful triangle sails and gaudy paint. Ian wished he could have seen them because they sounded like a sight to behold.

“We only have three here ja,” the King said casually. “We’ll be taking my flag ship, the King’s Wind, on ahead while the other two work ta gather the fleet. Should be ready ta go by the time we reach the coast.”

They boarded the boat surrounded by a buzz of activity as men and women prepared to sail. The King led them into his cabin and they sat to get comfortable, an easy task in the luxurious cabin. They sat on plush pillows and rugs from Xin, Ian setting Matt on his lap so he could nap.

“It baint take long will it?” Bailey said. “Ta gather the army.”

“Aye well I’d have ta be a moron ta put my feet up in these times ja,” the King said. “Not hard ta see through me eh lass?”

“Ye were waiting fer the High King ta pay up baint?” Ian said and the King laughed.

“A little ja, but truth ta tell I aint too keen on that lad n wasn’t really willing ta lend a hand ta the likes o him.”

“Ye be alright then?” Ian asked. “Ye’ll be helpin Elrik.”

“N worse I won’t be paid,” the King said with another chuckle. “Naw I be fine, it’ll sure stick in Elrik’s craw ifn the Aldan survive this war.”

“I aint see how they will though,” Romsca said. “Their population never recovered form the last war I hear, n then this one.”

“The Phay mean ta march,” Bailey said. “You must have seen the signs.”

“Aye but what does that have ta do with it ja?” Romsca asked.

“The Aldan be kin o the Phay,” Bailey answered. “More en likely they can mingle un more ta have more children. Besides which the Phay will need space ta live.”

“The merfolk, did they march?” the King asked leaning forward.

“Naw ya cogging that given all those tales from sailers,” Romsca said annoyed. “Ya looking fer un ta spend a toss in the hey with?”

“Naw lass, they have cold feet so I hear,” Wildlough answered lightly with a laugh. Romsca didn’t laugh, but Ian could see her humor and affection for the King.

“The Merrow baint marched,” Bailey answered. “Though I baint ken more o their fate other en that. Likely they’ll come out o the sea when the Phay march.”

“Well I cogging some sailers that’ll be keen on that idear,” Wildlough said. Ian saw Romsca’s aura shift with jealously though she said nothing.

“Sos the Hyrians will welcome the Phay with open arms baint?” Ian asked. “Even inta yer boarders?”

“From what history says we baint able ta do much ta stop em,” Wildlough answered.

“That were a long time ago,” Ian answered. “When ye Hyrians were little more en wanderin tribes o’er the rivers n marshes. Er pirates stealin any what nowt tied down. The Daunish were hill folk prey ta the dwarves ta the north. Xin were all nomads, ifn even that then. Lir were the only real rival ta the Phay n Aldan, n they had as many civil wars as Emperors.”

“Yar point lad?” Wildlough asked.

“Ye can drive off the Phay now,” Ian answered. “It baint be like afore, they will be beholden ta us.”

Wildlough was silent, Ian the only one to see the emotions he was sure the King kept hidden behind a courtly mask. Greed and lust stirred in him as well as pity and malice. Ian saw however over all this was a varnish of wonder in a dusky rose over the King’s aura.

“I doubt that lad,” Wildlough said at last. “Ya cogging how those Dridians lord over us all high n mighty like, well I bet the Phay’ll do the same with the powers they have. They’ll stir the pot alright, till it boils over.”

Ian watched the emotions of wonder and excitement in the King and realized Wildlough was just a bit mad. He didn’t care what was to come, the blood that would be spilled, so long as it was entertaining. At the same time this wild-life in the King was almost intoxicating, Ian could understand why his subjects liked him so much; he truly was the King of the Hyrians.

“DA!” Matt said interrupting the silence with a needing wail and Ian realized he needed his nappy changed.

“Aye lad, sorry,” Ian said to him pulling him away as Bailey joined him.

“I’m going ta the deck ja,” Wildlough said as he stood and quickly left. Romsca followed leaving them alone to tend to their children, with only Rork as company. Rork though soon left as well, seeming bored with just sitting. Matt and Will though soon fell asleep, leaving Ian and Bailey the first private moment they had for a long time.

“Ye be alright?” Ian asked, trying not to read too hard into Bailey’s aura.

“Aye, but ye can tell that baint?” Bailey said, not unkindly.

“I try nowt ta Bailey,” Ian said.

“Why?” Bailey asked. “Is it not better to see into the heart of the one you love. Then ye never have ta doubt.”

“Do ye wish ta see inta my heart?” Ian asked. “Cause ye ken ye can just look at me n see fer sure.”

“Nowt Ian I can’t,” Bailey said. “Sometimes I baint able ta tell what ye be thinkin.”

Ian had always thought his mind and mood were easily read by others, realized he might have been a closed book to some.

“Ye baint ever have ta doubt my love fer ye Bailey,” Ian said. “N it baint take me feelin yer aura ta ken yer love fer me. Ye’re pain o’er what happened be plain.”

“I baint doubt Ian,” Bailey said reaching out and taking his hand. “Well when we’re tagether I never doubt, but sometimes when we’re apart those dark thoughts come. But when we’re tagether I feel yer love in every little action er touch.

“I want ta see yer heart cause I want ta ken what ye be thinkin. I want ta ken more bout ye, n what ye like er ken sos I can ken what ye want n what makes ye happy. I want ta ken more about ye Ian.”

Ian felt his heart swell with so much emotion he reached out to hug Bailey closely.

“Bailey ifn ye could see inta my heart right now ye’d see it burstin with light o joy,” Ian said.

“En I’d be a blind as ye baint?” she said playfully and he laughed.

They settled down and continued to teach Matt and Will words or little acts of ritual for the Elder Magic. Ian was surprised that Bailey had insisted on this for their sons, though he supposed it was important to learn control of such forces. They eventually moved to the deck so Bailey could teach them about Slyphs and Undine. Ian doubted Matt or Will would ever have her command, but he was sure they would not out grow their power either, given their birth and parents.

The sailors and King let them be, unable to see the Wild Kin they could only see the effects of their manipulation of the water and wind. The ship sailed on a deep river, the shore far and speckled green with trees from Ian’s sense. The river was full of life, he could sense fish and alligators moving through the ripples of blue of the river he could sense. He could even sense the currents, watching them swirl around Undine in hypnotic beautiful patterns.

They passed villages and more water pastures where sea cows grazed peacefully under the water. It wasn’t long before more ships were joining them, Ian wondering how they communicated.

“Aye ya aint able ta see the flags ja,” Rork said when Ian had asked. “We use colored flags, fly em from the mast er have a sailor wave em about like. Each un has a meaning n the way they’re waved does to ja.”

“Ye always use those?” Ian asked.

“Aye, be best, surprised other ships aint use em,” Rork answered. Ian guessed Rork was right, though he knew little about sailing so could not state why other nations did not employ such a method.

They sailed on until they reached the ocean, five days from the Jambles, Ian only knowing it was so when his sense showed him nothing but water around. The blues of the water to him swirled and churned around Greater Undine, who seemed to swim with great ease beneath the water. He sometimes spent hours just watching the patterns out on deck, even at night since his sense was not hindered by light.

“What ye doin?” Bailey asked him one night up alone on the deck.

“I can sense the sea,” Ian answered. “In all swirls n currents, it be amazin. N the greater Undine, n…”

He stopped dead because out there in the sea he could sense a shoal of something that was not fish. He stood straighter, leaning out over the rail. Whatever was out there was big, five shapes moving under the water unseen to others in the night.

“What?” Bailey asked.

“Tell em ta turn that way,” Ian said pointing. The creatures were swimming parallel to them, looking to make an arch away from them. “They be getting away.”

Bailey nodded and hurried off, Ian sure that she could convince the captain or at least the King to turn the ship. It wasn’t long before the ship was turning to follow Ian’s directions. They peeled off from the fleet alone, lanterns this time signaling the other ships to keep their course. They sailed on with Ian’s direction, the shapes in the water still swimming ahead at a good pace. After a few hours an island came into sight of the ship, the shapes swimming towards it. Ian could sense the island as a dark shape with shades of gray of the earth.

They stopped outside the entrance of a cavern, the shapes in the water having entered it.

“What be this bout ja?” the King asked coming up to Ian. “What be here?”

“I baint ken,” Ian answered. “There were somewhat in the water. We need ta go ashore.”

“Alright,” the king said puzzled but intrigued; not asking about how a blind man could have seen anything in the water. He whistled, calling his sailors to attention. Bailey was suddenly at Ian’s side taking his hand.

“Ye ken it be…”

“Aye,” Bailey said interrupting. “Merrow.”

Ian nodded, surprised that they had found the younger Phay in the ocean. There were plenty of tales of the Merrow, but they were rarely seen. They didn’t have to surface for air so they could just dwell in the depths of the ocean. The only time they were encountered was lone sailors when rescued from sunken ships. Which made Ian wonder what the Merrow were doing so close to the surface at this island.

The dingy was prepared, Ian, Bailey, Rork, Wildlough, Romsca, and three sailors boarded it and rowed out to the island. From what Ian could sense of it, the island was little more than a collection of tall boulders sheltering a lagoon. They rowed into the lagoon, Ian sensing the Merrow under the water. Bailey was the one to lean forward towards the water, putting her hand on the surface.

“Ye can come out,” Bailey said. Ian was probably the only one to sense the shapes under the water move toward Bailey until a head appeared just under her hand. Ian could only make out a blue haze of aura, strangely with a red smear around her head.

“Greetings,” the Merrow said in trade tongue. “You found us.”

“Aye we did,” Bailey said unnerved as she withdrew her hand. “Yet I baint be sure how unless it were what ye intended.”

“No, we came here to meet another,” the Merrow answered.

“Another?” Bailey said puzzled. The Merrow merely laughed and withdrew into the water, joining her kin to swim around.

“Bailey, I baint like this,” Ian said breathlessly, feeling the air thrum with power. The Merrow were swimming together in a pattern, one that seemed like many of those that Bailey had taught him. He could sense the lines of the power, weaving through the water like the strange ripples of the ocean. They were doing a greater working, one beyond Ian’s ability to understand.

“A calling,” Bailey breathed, able to sense the same Ian was.

“A summoning,” Romsca said amazed.

“Who?” Ian wondered as he sensed the aether coming into the cavern like a thick mist. It swirled and shimmered, Ian able to see it like the others he was sure. A shape formed from the aether, consolidating into the shape of a bird. The great eagle flew out of the aether, veering and crying out in a great cackle as it nearly crashed into the stone walls. It quickly righted itself before its form blurred and changed into a man. He dropped down and landed elegantly on his feet, straitening to look around. Ian was surprised to see it was Ghillie Dhu, unchanged since the last time he had taken the triplets away.

“Who has summoned me,” Ghillie Dhu said sounding annoyed.

“Why be he here?” Ian asked afraid. “Wasn’t he suppose ta be guardin’ the Triplets?”

“He baint have been able ta be summoned from beyond the Gates o Bone n Horn,” Bailey said equally worried.

“I have,” came the answer to Ghillie Dhu’s question. The voice seemed to come from all around, deep and low like the reverberation of a drum. Another Merrow emerged from the water, this one twice the size of the others. She was speckled like a giant whale shark, a large fin coming from her back. Her skin was black with white stripes and spots, her red hood a shimmering woven net of coral and shells.

She swam to the shore and shed her hood, becoming a naked woman who stood ten feet tall. Immodest of her nudity she walked over to Ghillie Dhu, staring him down.

“Ika-Roa, Long Shark of the Early Dawn,” Ghillie Dhu said, naming the Queen of the Merrow.

“Ghillie Dhu, He who Runs in the Wild,” she answered, her voice rich and deep. “I have awoken from my slumber, the aether rings with the song.”

“Yes, we are to march,” Ghillie Dhu answered. “Is that why you have summoned me?”

“You seemed the best choice, others would not wander as much as you,” Ika-Roa answered. “When will the answer come?”

“I do not know, but it should not come soon,” Ghillie Dhu answered. “There is a soul eater loose on the lines, it means to eat our kin should they march.”

“With Hors to lead the way I do not see it as much of a threat,” Ika-Roa said with desertion.

“Much has changed Ika-Roa,” Ghillie Dhu answered. “Hors went missing when we marched, the Dullahan slumber in Tir Aesclinn, and ages have passed in Miread since we marched. Have your children not informed you?”

Ika-Roa turned to the other Merrow, a frown upon her face.

“I admit they have tried to tell me tidings yet I would not listen,” Ika-Roa answered. “I had believed it would be simple thing that our kin would return.”

“Not as simple as we have wished,” Ghillie Dhu answered. “I need to return to Tir Aesclinn, I left it in a bit of a knot. If you wish to know more speak to the humans there.”

Ika-Roa turned to Ian and the rest, her dark blue eyes without pupils so they seemed as deep as the ocean.

“Why them?” Ika-Roa said surprised.

“They are powerful witches and have been chosen by Arke to carry her will,” Ghillie Dhu answered. “Work with them to aid our kin. For now I must go.”

Ika-Roa turned to him seeming annoyed with his sudden departure, but Ghillie Dhu had already vanished into the lines. With that Ian’s sight returned to the limits it had once been in, Ika-Roa becoming a large colorful aura. Ian could sense her aura shifting with annoyance, but then Bailey spoke.

“Queen o the Merrow, we be pleased ta serve ye,” Bailey said. “Ifn ye wish we will answer all yer questions.”

Ika-Roa’s aura shifted to a more pleased tone, and she nodded.

“Very well,” Ika-Roa said. “Come, tell me of what I have missed while I slumbered.”

They rowed over to the shore where they could gather and sit more comfortably on the rocks there. Ika-Roa sat so that she seemed more the audience, Bailey becoming the center of attention so that she might relate their story. Ian didn’t interrupt as Bailey told her story, even going over their travels though some played little into the March of the Phay. Ika-Roa and the other Merrow did not speak, their aura’s shifting with the story. Ian knew tale telling was a power of the Elder Magic, one that held a truth and a life of its own. A witch with a deal of power could tell a tale that evoked images and feelings in a listener no other teller could match; and Bailey had a great deal of power. The fact their story was something like the legends of old also made it worth telling.

Bailey finished her story just as the moon set, her listeners silent as they digested the tale. At last Ika-Roa stood and bowed to Bailey.

“Thank you for the tale and the telling,” Ika-Roa said. “And for the aid to our kin.”

“I be kin ta ye as well,” Bailey answered. “I be o the line o Eileen, n so I be Phay.”

“True,” Ika-Roa said bowing her head once more. “Then you may call upon us as kin. You speak of battle on the land, battle with creatures intent on the death of our kin. If you will have us, we the Merrow will aid our kin the Aldan.”

Ian could sense the shift in Bailey’s aura, the weight of her coming words laying on her spirit.

“Aye,” Bailey said. “We call upon ye fer aid.”

“Then you shall have it,” Ika-Roa said. “I will gather all the Merrow and we shall join you.”

“Thank ye,” Bailey said, her voice thick with tears. “Thank ye fer yer aid.”

“As you said, we are kin,” Ika-Roa said. With that she donned her hood again and slipped into the sea, disappearing quickly into the depths.

“Come, we need ta return ta our ship,” Wildlough said, his voice betraying the awe he felt.

“So that be it then,” Romsca said in awe. “The Merrow shall fight with us?”

“Aint sure they’ll be much help been only lasses,” Wildlough said, then yelped as Romsca dug an elbow into his ribs.

“The Merrow be different,” Bailey said. “N the Aldan women fight too, n in Daun in days o old women fought. Ye mistake our reluctance ta fight as weakness King, but it be far from it. We be slow ta anger er fight, but when we do we be mightier en men when it come ta guardin our kith n kin.”

“There be male Merrow too ta be sure,” Ian said. “But the lasses be the real warriors ta be sure.”

Wildlough decided wisely to keep his mouth shut as they returned to their skiff to row back to the ship. They set out once more and it was no long until the caught up to the fleet once more. They kept the coming of the Merrow a secret for now, Bailey couldn’t answer how long it would take Ika-Roa to muster the Merrow.

They sailed into Windfall Bay a moon into their journey over sea, the late summer sun burnishing the water gold. Ian and Bailey found the King of Hyrian lounging in a hammock, sunning like a lizard.

“What be yer plan fer gettin an army through Hyria?” Bailey asked but Wildlough didn’t even open an eye.

“Bluff,” Wildlough answered.

“Bluff?” Bailey said puzzled.

“That whelp Drasir has been hounding me to send troops,” Wildlough answered with a wicked grin as he opened one eye to wink at Bailey. “I’ve brought troops, just not for him. I’ll just say I’m on my way to Regis to report to the High King when stopped and then we’ll just march right past Cair Leon to Alda.”

“There still be quite a bit o land betwixt the two,” Bailey said. “What’ll ye do ifn Drasir sends a force ta stop ye?”

“From my sources he aint got ‘em.” Wildlough answered as he pulled himself to his feet. “Most be at the Lirian boarder ta the east guarding in case the Orc army moves their way. By the time he’d get ‘em turn round bouts we’ll be nippin at the Orc’s heels.”

Bailey nodded once and thanked Wildlough, moving away.

“Will it work?” Ian asked.

“I suppose,” Bailey answered. “I baint ken state work er the High King, Wildlough does so I hope he kens what he’s on about.”

“I baint ask you ifn’t ye thought it’ll work,” Ian said. “Ye can do a reading baint?”

“I baint have the sight Ian,” Bailey said. “It be a true talent er trick o birth what makes un able ta see inta the future, n it often makes em mad as rabbits.”

Ian nodded remembering Meredydd, he would not wish that fate on Bailey.

“Looks like we have ta trust the king then,” Ian said.

“Ye can trust him,” Rork said sauntering up. “None better ta keep his word ja.”

“It baint be his word we be worried bout,” Bailey answered.

“Well we surely have enough fighters we’d win any scrap,” Rork answered. “I’d be more worried bout those beasties.”

Ian nodded, the Orc army should be their main concern.

“N also ifn the Merrow ever show,” Bailey answered.

“They will,” Ian said sure of it.

It only took them a few days to arrive finally at the port of Bayton, a small Regarian town. The town seemed over-whelmed with the arrival of the army, but the officials let them land though there wasn’t much choice in the matter. Ian stood on the edge of the dock with Matt in his arms, his senses bent towards the open water.

“Ya shouldn’t look back,” Rork said. “It be unlucky ja.”

“I baint be ‘looking’,” Ian answered and Rork chuckled. “N they be arriving.”

Rork quieted, looking out into the bay. Ian wasn’t sure what he could see, but for him he could sense the thousands of auras under the water there. They were moving fast, having just come into the range of his senses. The largest aura arrived at the shore first and emerged from the water. Ika-Roa shed her red hood and stood on the shore, more merrow doing the same. Ian heard Rork whistle in admiration and turned to him.

“Their armor, it be o shells n mother o’ pearl,” Rork said, “I wish ye could see it.”

“Here,” Bailey said as she touched Ian’s arm. She let aether flow into him and for a moment his sight returned. He saw Ika-Roa wearing a long coat of mail made of thousands of tiny seashells sewn together, plate mail of shimmering mother of pearl covering her shoulders and thighs. She wore a great breastplate of a scallop shell, and a helm made of a nautilus shell. At her hip she carried a conch horn, magnificent covered in mother of pearl and trimmed in gold.

Then the vision faded and Ian was left once more with the smudged auras.

“I’d been wantin’ ta try that,” Bailey said softly. “Did it work?”

“Aye briefly,” Ian answered. “But I’d rather see ye en Ika-Roa.”

Bailey’s aura blushed and she laughed.

“Well Iak-Roa be a sight ta behold,” Bailey answered. “Baint be often ye get ta see a Queen o the Phay equipped fer war.”

“Aye,” Ian said. “Next time though ye should try that when we be alone.”

“Aye I will,” Bailey said, her aura glowing with pleasure. “I baint do it often though, yer spirit could become engorged with aether ifn I do.”

“Aye, I trust ye ta use it wisely,” Ian said. “Thank ye.”

Bailey’s aura glowed more as she leaned up to kiss him lightly on the lips.

“Well we’d best go greet the Merrow before the townsfolk tear em ta shreads,” Rork said.

He was right, the arrival of the Merrow was causing a panic in the village, shouts and screams ringing in the streets. Luckily the villagers seemed to be fleeing rather than gathering to fight, doors slamming and being bared left and right. They walked over to Ika-Roa, who hardly seemed to notice the villagers. She was busy giving orders to her kin.

“Hail,” Bailey said as she bowed.

“Hail witch of the moors,” Ika-Roa answered. “We have come to kill the enemies of our kin. Are you ready to march?”

“Nowt, we have ta unload our ships,” Bailey answered.

“Good, much more of our kin must emerge still,” Ika-Roa answered.

“How many have ye?” Ian asked.

“I have gathered a thousand shoals,” Ika-Roa answered. “Each have committed about thirty fighters.”

“They all be women,” Rork said.

“Aye, the males of our kind tend to the young,” Ika-Roa answered. “I have brought all that I could.”

“That be all,” Bailey said shocked. “O the Merrow only thirty thousand can fight?”

“Aye, fewer and fewer have been reborn of late,” Ika-Roa answered. “The Phay need to march if our numbers are to be restored, their exile has been too long.”

Ian wondered then if the Crippled One might also be the reason fewer of those with Phay blood were being reborn. No, Fors guided and guarded those who rode her wheel, there might be a few who were taken by the Crippled One but not enough to be such an impact on population as now. Ika-Roa was right, the Phay needed to march.

“For now, we will march for war,” Ika-Roa said. With that she raised her conch horn and blew into it, an almost musical note ringing out over the land, calling her people to battle and war.

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