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lilyharvord · 3 years

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Until the End

Summary:

I've been thinking about the entire Harbor Bay arc in War Storm for weeks now, and decided that there absolutely was a missing scene. So here it is, exactly what I think comes after that little fade to black when Mare slips into the room and Evangeline drops her off like a parent leaving their child for kindergarten. :)))

Notes:

I feel terrible that it's taking me soooo damn long to get the next chapter of the chain done. So I pulled this out from my drafts folder since it was 99% finished and gifted it to you all. It's unedited because of that, but consider it a little something something to apologize for taking so long with chapter 14 of the Chain.

Also if you could give it a little love on AO3 too I’d appreciate it ((: Link

Choosing not to choose.

She almost laughs at the words. Only he would say something so evasive and politic. It’s his style to avoid the truth at all costs, pretend they are anyone other than who they are. As if choice is a luxury they are not privy to, as if he did not make a choice weeks ago that tore her heart from her chest.

Even now, the memory cuts her to the bone. The brush of his hand along her neck, and the trail of his fingers through her hair eases the ache, reminding her why she even followed Evangeline to this room in the first place. He never judged her, never held her own choices against her. It makes it easy to always fall back against him. He is always a safe harbor she can find refuge in, a means of hiding from the truth they both are dancing around in this moment.

In the light, he still looks pale and drawn. He doesn’t wear his exhaustion as aesthetically as Maven. His makes him rugged, cracking the façade he wears like the crown on his head. That monstrosity is nowhere to be seen now, and without it in the picture she can almost forget that he chose that over her. Over her brother’s life and everything Shade had stood for.

Even with all that mounted against him, the sight of him still burns a fire in her stomach, and turns her innards molten. Every brush of his fingers along her skin drives her a little closer to the brink. The rest of the armor needs to go, and so does the thin undershirt. After seeing his skin grey on the sand, she wants to tear every last barrier down, just so she can rest a hand above his heart and feel it’s reassuring beat. Whether or not he lets her is another matter.

Mare Barrow has always been a thief though, so when she claims his mouth with hers, it is a stolen moment, pickpocketed along with the breath he exhales.

He doesn’t stop her. His hands trail along her back until they find her hips, and with a decisive tug, he pulls her flush against his body. Be rough, she almost whispers, grab on until I bruise, bite my lip, bruise it, squeeze me into one piece so I can feel whole again. She knows he’s strong enough to do it, that when he really wants to, he can show her just how much he loves her.

Knotting a hand in his hair, she pulls to lift herself up an inch more, keeping the kiss as her teeth catch his lip. Underneath her palm she imagine his heart pounds as he finally grabs fistfuls of her shirt and digs his fingers into her skin.

Panting he grabs her face instead, and immediately her hair falls out of the messy braid she threw it in. It’s a battle as much as any they’ve fought before, and she is determined to be on top in the end.

“Tell me you want this.” He pants as he cups her face, lifting it so she drowns in his eyes. Burning ore, fire made flesh, his gaze could burn her alive, but it never does. It holds her steady, warms her core until all she wants is him, the smell of him, the feeling of his hips meeting hers. All of him, she wants all of him, even the parts she loathes.

“I want you.” Mare breaths, running her fingers through his hair, shorn a little shorter than normal to correct the haircut he’d given himself. What she wouldn’t give to have it be the length it had been at the Notch. What she wouldn’t give to go back to him being that person instead of this. Closing her eyes and standing on tip toe, she rests her forehead against his. “I want Cal.”

His eyes burn, and a fluttering uncertainty crosses those lovely irises before Mare slides back down, dragging her hands along his body. The armor is beautiful and cold, a testament to what he is supposed to be. He’s never been that though, even in the times when she believed he was.

Tracing the grooves and dents left from the siege, she follows her fingers with her eyes. If she were to look up now, she would kiss him again and drown in him. With gentle hands, she finger the buckles, twisting her lips at the unnecessary complexity. “Without all of this.”

His fingers find hers, brushing along the skin of her hands. Finally, she looks up, only to meet his eye. The fire in them darkens, and with a scrape of leather the buckles come undone. The space between their bodies is so tight, for a moment, Mare wonders how he will be able to remove the thing. But he’s taken it on and off so many times, it slides over his head with ease, leaving him vulnerable before her.

The heat from his skin washes over her, finally free from the dam holding it back. His inhale is ragged when she traces his ribs. Glancing up through her lashes, Mare tilts her head to the side a fraction. “Sore?”

“They were fractured.” He murmurs in reply before dropping his lips to kiss her temple. The barely there touch and his exhales make her flutter her eyes closed. He continued to explore her face with his lips while she gently helps the gauntlets off his wrists, and removes the belt with that useless sword. He never had need for the thing, it’s all ceremonial, but it’s a pomp and circumstance that she hates.

“Want me to make them feel better?” She whispers as the belt clatters to the floor with the sword. He steps beyond it, forcing her back a half step to give him room. She almost stumbles, but his arm around his waist keeps her upright and pulled tightly to him. He captures her lips again, and becomes the thief when he inhales her gasp.

When he breaks away, his eyes are dark, the pupils so dilated they almost swallow that lovely amber. “I want you.” He repeats her words from earlier, his fingers flexing in her shirt as if he wants to tear it to pieces and is only barely holding back.

“Then have me.” Her words are an exhale against his lips as she arches against him. The last of the tension in his body melts like candlewax as he shifts his hold to put her on her feet completely. His mouth claims hers once again, and he surges forward, laying claim to her just like they did with the city beyond the balcony doors. It’s part violent passion, part regretful tactics. Her fingers knot in his hair on instinct, and for a heartbeat she can taste the salt of he bay still on his lips.

“I hate you,” She whispers to him, and earns a panicked glance. Tracing his jaw with a finger, she observes the lines of his face, imagining what he might look like years from now if they even live that long. “But I love you all the same too.” He will only become more handsome as he ages, Mare decides. At least Evangeline will have something pretty to look at.

His face falls, and the next kiss he gives her is a half apology. It lingers, and he pours every emotion in it. She catches the after taste of his regret as he pulls away to cup her face and caress her cheeks with his thumbs. His eyes slide closed as he rests his forehead on hers. Maybe he thinks he can hold this moment forever, polish it like a coin to store for when she is long gone. If it wasn’t obvious already, when this is finished, she will vanish and be nothing more than a fever dream for him to wake gasping from some day. For a heartbeat, her own regret over saying anything at all mixes with his.

“I’m—”

“Don’t,” she cuts him off before he can say anything else. Cradling his hands with hers, she leans into his touch, closing her eyes. If she does that she can imagine they are back in Piedmont in his bunk room or in the glen. “We both know the truth.”

When she opens her eyes, his expression is neutral. But she’s known him long enough to see the emotions hidden behind the curtain. Dropping his forehead to rest it against hers, he exhales slowly.

“Then I won’t. But I never lied to you. I want you more than anything in this world… and I—I love you Mare.”

“Please don’t.” She pleads with him, treading a hand through his hair, and tugging so that he opens his eyes again. “Please.” She breathes the word this time, and he swallows. Her heart aches in her chest, even as it relaxes in his grip.

His hands fall from her face to her shoulders and then her hips. She turns her eyes to the ceiling painted like a sunset. Tears want to gather, tears of exhaustion after the battle, tears of relief over Kilorn, tears of regret that she’s here and not there with him, tears of anger that she still loves this man after what he did, and tears of true misery that he is the one that lit the match and burned the bridge between them.

His hands squeeze her hips, and she finally drops her chin only to watch him sink to his knees before her. He looks up at her reverently as his hands cup the back of her legs to keep her from running. Looking down at him, she can see the light cutting across his face differently. He’s still so young, and so is she. Can she really fault him for the decision he made? He’s only ever known one path for his life, and so has she. Can he fault her for hers? Can she really hate him for choosing what he knows and understands?

The words clog her throat, choking her. Yes, she can, and she can’t. He’s been brave before, even in the face of true fear. He could have trusted her, been brave enough to stay by her side and trust Farley and Dane. He made his choice, and right now they are dancing around that choice.

“I will only ever love you, for the rest of my life.” He whispers before resting his forehead against her stomach and pressing his lips to the tiny bit of skin he exposed on her hip. She stands frozen with the weight of his admission. The tension in her body is unmistakable, the hitch in her breath impossible to hide. But then she melts against him, and a single tear manages to escape as she closes her eyes. Knotting her fingers in his hair, she curls around him, lets him press delicate kisses against her skin; each one like a delicate flower blooming.

“Let’s—let’s pretend for a little bit. I want to pretend.” She hates her weakness, and that her knees buckle into his grip when he looks up at her again. His face falls when he sees the tears leaving trails down her cheeks. Reaching up, he wipes them away, barely brushing his skin against her own.

They remain in silence as they have always been: a future king on his knees before the Red girl that brought him to them numerous times before.

“What do you want to pretend?” He asks her.

“That there was never a choice made at all.” The words are coated in her tears, and they fall from his lips like shards of glass and honey at the same time. They burn her throat and she half regrets them.

The silence stretches, almost longer than she can stand. But then he rises slowly, bringing one of her hands up to kiss her palm and her fingers. “What choice?” He asks, playing the part and stepping into the game with her.

When she kisses him this time, it’s soft, gentler than any kiss they’ve had before. He slides a hand down and crouches just enough to lift her off the ground. Without breaking away from him, she wraps her legs around his waist, the salt of her tears mixing with their kiss.

He carries her to the bed like she weighs nothing, and with careful movements, he lays her down among the silk and sheets. With her eyes closed, Mare can pretend, she can imaging there was no choice, that they are simply two people in the world that found relief with each other. Squeezing his hips with her knees, she sighs as he slides on top of her, and rests his weight on her. His fingers grip her thigh and he squeezes as he rocks against her tentatively, testing the pace and the timing.

“Tell me you love me.” She breathes between kisses, and runs her fingers up along his sides, counting his ribs and sliding her knuckles into the contours of his back.

“I love you.” He whispers, pressing a kiss against her lips.

“Again.”

“I love you.” Another kiss against her collarbone.

“Again.”

“I love you.” His hand slides under her shirt and lifts it to her neck so he can kiss her sternum.

“Once more.”

“I love you.” She drops her arms above her head so he can remove her shirt effortlessly and slide down to press a kiss against her stomach. Slipping her hands underneath the collar of his shirt next, she trails her fingers along his burning skin there. His teeth nip at the skin of her hip, before he leaves a kiss behind as an apology. Her belt goes next, and without breaking contact with her skin, he slides her pants off. His lips trail her thigh, and pause to kiss the inside of her knee as he guides them both over his shoulders.

“I love you.” He breaths against the inside of her thigh, before dropping between her legs completely.

Mare exhales in a silent gasp, her nails digging into the skin behind his neck. His fingers curl around her hips as she bucks when his tongue finds the most sensitive spot she has. Holding her down, he continues, whispering those same words as he works.

By now, he’s a master of his craft with her, and she grabs his hair to pull him back up before she can finish. His eyes lock with hers, shinning in the dusk. Panting, she trails her fingers along his jaw, and then his lips, memorizing the feel of them.

His lips quirk up in the smallest of smiles before leaving one more kiss on the inside of her thigh. Resting his cheek there, he closes his eyes and says, “Say my name, just one more time.”

She’s almost spiteful, almost calls him that disgusting excuse for a name. It’s what he chose, but because it’s part of the game, and he is playing so well, she sits up and forces him to sit as well. Resting a hand against his chest, she slides onto her knees to stand above him once more. A warm breeze off the ocean cools the sweat on her back, and shifts her hair so that the strands whisper across his face. She drops a kiss between his brows, and he closes his eyes as she rests her lips there.

“Cal,” she breathes against his skin. She doesn’t even have to think about it, the name comes as natural as it always has. “Cal,” she says it again as she tilts his head up to meet her eye when he shivers at her gentle touch. He pulls her into his lap, his expression and composure crumbling.

“Mare.” He echoes her sentiment, craning to kiss her and pull her against him completely. His voice breaks on her name, like a wave on the shore. When she cups his face again, she feels the hot tears running in long trails down his face.

“Love me like you did in the glen.” She whispers against his temple. If she could go back there, she would trade anything. And in her heart of hearts, she hopes he feels the same way. Maybe he would, Evangeline seemed too confident that the events would tumble in this direction after she left Mare here. She must have seen or heard something, and if she had, there might be hope still. Smash that thought to pieces, Mare closes her eyes and banishes any other thoughts like it. Hope was a dangerous thing, her father warned her about it months ago. She understands it now. Before, she’d never had a chance to hope, now, she knows the sting of losing it.

His hands soften their grip on her hips and he shifts her to reach behind his head and pull his shirt off. Throwing it to the side, he remove the bracelets next, tossing them unceremoniously in the same direction. They clatters on the marble floor, but he ignores the sound, his eyes never leaving her face. “Thank my colors for the rain.” He says with a small smile before lifting up to his knees and kissing her again.

She laughs, the sound real and warm. It fills her chest and lights the space between them. Dropping her fingers to the buttons on his pants, she undoes them with ease, smiling against his lips the whole time. This is her last chance to turn back, to remember her vow to let them all kill each other. She made it for a reason. But in this moment, she can’t quite remember it.

“Will you love me like you did then?” He murmurs against her shoulder where he presses light kisses against the scars creeping toward her neck.

“Yes.” Her answer is immediate, dangerously so. He doesn’t’ comment though, just helps her remove his pants before lifting her up into his lap again. Straddling one of his thighs, she rolls his hips, feeling the exhale he releases along her jaw. Shifting to drag her legs open and completely straddle him, she settles against him, relaxing into his hands as they settle on her hips.

“I’m going to tell you a secret you will take to your grave.” She murmurs against his ear, and he shivers at the cadence of her voice at the same time that he nods in understanding. The truth had been bubbling up in her throat for the past few minutes. In this position, she can actually admit it without it feeling like stabbing a knife in everyone else’s backs.

Resting her lips against the curve of his ear, she exhales softly before whispering it to him. “I haven’t stopped loving you, and that is the hardest part of all of this.”

The breath he’d held released in a sharp exhale that pained even her heart. Shifting, she rolls her hips one more time, before guiding one of his hands to her chest. Immediately his thumb began to rub slow circles on her skin, tightening the radius until she groaned softly.

Without a word, he lifted her hips just enough to guide her. Even as she sank down, and whimpered his name, he didn’t reply to her words. They both knew there was nothing else to say, nothing could change what had happened. For a short while though, they could pretend, simply exist as whatever they wanted to be. They could have everything they wanted, walk two paths at the same time and still be within reach of the other.

This was so much gentler than any time before. The glen had been different, a frenzy of movement and passion spurred on by the storm raging over head. The bunk room had been different, with its tight quarters and stifling humid heat. Then they had felt like they were running out of time. This place though, this moment, existed somewhere else. It could last for eternity or it could last for a few minutes. And every movement, every touch cemented that fact.

His hands continues to trail along her skin, his fingers digging into the skin of her back at the same time that hers pressed into his shoulders. She squeezed her thighs around his hips when he found the right tempo and angle, her breath catching for a moment as she closes her eyes and lets her lips trail along his temple.

With a sigh, and a whisper of the silk sheets, he lays her down among the blankets again. She let him with relief, let him control the pace and the tempo of the gentle rocking. She didn’t dig her nails in like she used too, or rush him, or demand to be in control by flipping over to be on top. He practically worshiped her though, laying kisses all over her skin, and running his hands along every inch he could find.

“As long as we’re telling secrets,” he whispers against her jaw finally, never losing pace. “Let me tell you one.”

Panting weakly as her insides tighten and she begins to approach her climax, she closes her eyes and tilts her head back to expose her throat to him. He immediately rests a kiss against the spot where her pulse pounds. He dragged his lips up to her ear and squeezing one of her hips so tightly she half expects to bruise right that second, he whispers, “I regret it, every second I am apart from you. Every time I look at you, I want to take it back.”

Her back arches and she whines as he thrusts just a little deeper and tugs on her earlobe with his teeth. “I still want you. Every second of every day. I want you so badly it aches, Mare.” He pants against her temple, his jaw tightening so the words almost don’t escape.

She feels his muscles tighten in his shoulders as he shudders against her, at the same time that she gasps and finally digs her nails into his skin to anchor herself. They lay panting for a moment, and she took that eternally long moment to just listen and revel in his heartbeat. Tears burn down her cheeks again, painting her lips with salt. She almost lost him on that beach today. As she stood there praying and bargaining with whatever gods may still listen, she realized a horrible truth. She couldn’t lose him. Everything she had done, from demanding he be spared at the end, to rushing from New Town to Harbor Bay had been because of this indescribable truth. In a strange way, he completed her. Complimented her and matched her. She didn’t believe in soul mates, and she still didn’t. But this, this went beyond that, beyond the universe and everything it contained. She could not lose him, and that is why, she knows when the times comes to leave him completely, it will destroy her.

It’s a mutual, silent agreement when he pulls away and falls among the blankets. Without a thought, she rolls, putting her back to him at the same time that he bands his arm around her waist. His heart pounds against her shoulder blade, and she lets the most simple sound in the world lull her to sleep as his pulse slows.

“Stay with me, until the end?” He whispers against her shoulder, when the sun has finally kissed the horizon and the shadows have stretched over the bed. She slides her hand along his forearm to interlace their fingers. For a moment, she debates breaking the rules of their little game, ruining the mirage. Instead, she brings his hand up to kiss it.

“Until the very end.”

#red queen #glass sword #kings cage #war storm #broken throne #post broken throne #marecal #THE eternal ship #i've just been thinking about this moment alog #and I wrote this a while back #consider it an appetizer before the main course #((:#a little light angst and smut #my writing #my fanfics #enjoy everyone

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avengershumanresources · 3 years

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blood 4 - Strange/Stark!Reader

Relationship: Dr. Strange/Princess!Stark!Reader

Rating: M

Warnings: Adult Themes, eventual smut, adult language, implied sexual violence, general violence

Synopsis: Reader is the daughter of the legendary King Anthony Stark, Uniter of Lands, The Iron Defender, and leader of the realm. When the king disappears during battle, hope is lost and he is presumed dead.

When the late king’s uncle, Obadiah, takes the throne until your brother Peter is of age, he quickly arranges a marriage for you with a wicked king in a neighboring kingdom.

With the realms politics in question, and rumors of an upcoming siege to overthrow Peter’s rule before it starts, you quickly learn who is loyal to the crown and who is not.

part 3 - part 5

Masterlist

Chapter Playlist

4 - a reign

It was the middle of the night by the time Stephen returned to the observatory. He’d only meant to stop for a few minutes to grab a book Wong had asked for, before retreating to his quarters for some much needed sleep.

That was, until he saw you sleeping soundly, sprawled over the cot he kept in the corner for those late nights he spent tinkering with spells and potions. A book on the mystic properties of herbs was open on your chest, lifting and falling with each gentle breath you took.

By Vishanti, you looked so peaceful, a far cry from how you’d held yourself since the funeral. His chest gave a throb when you shifted slightly, snuggling deeper into the pillow under your head, a small shiver that made him wish more than anything to crawl in next to you and cradle your form in his arms.

It was almost unbearable sometimes.

He had his vows and duties, his status as a council to the king, your tutor, and a protector of the castle, while you were the eldest princess of this important kingdom.

Though he’d been born of decent lineage, there wasn’t a world where he could feasibly see a long term future by your side.

Instead, he settled on what he could have for now. Stephen would cherish these moments until some prince (probably Loki, as much as the thought disgusted him), whisked you out of his reach.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” you voiced, opening your eyes and shifting the book off of your chest with a sleepy blink.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he explained, lifting the book he’d come for off a nearby table. “Wong needed a reference for shields at the border.”

You stretched your shoulders, slowly rising and sitting at the edge of the cot. You were still wearing your gown from dinner, suggesting you’d been reading there for quite some time.

“How was the council meeting?” you asked.

He made a noise of disgust, crossing his arms and dropping into a nearby seat by the fire.

“Dreadful,” he confided in her. “I’m not sure where I can draw the line at my ethics as a sorcerer and stating clearly that this man is a maniac.”

Your expression darkened at his words.

“What is he proposing?”

“He wants to invite Rumlow to the castle to discuss a peace treaty during the coronation celebrations,” he explained, pinching the bridge of his noise. “No matter how many times Steve, Wong, and myself went over why that was a dangerous and reckless idea, he would remind us who is king. I thought perhaps he’d be more amendable to reason, but I was wrong.”

Listening intently, you looked down at your lap. Something else was on your mind and Stephen was afraid his words had confirmed some unspoken fear within you.

“Peter was right not to trust him then,” you stated with a glance up at him. “Why would he bring that monster within these walls? To stand him where our father once stood?”

That was the question Stephen kept asking himself while the other councilors and the king argued around in circles. What benefit did Obadiah get from such a conversation with King Brock? Perhaps it would yield some answers, but not any they couldn’t get from a more secluded, neutral location.

“Was a final decision made?” you pressed when he fell silent.

“Not yet,” he heard you let out a breath of relief. “We’re adjourned until tomorrow afternoon.”

“The ball is tomorrow night,” you jumped on the same point he’d made when Obadiah had dismissed the councilors.

“Rumlow has a new Master Sorcerer at his castle,” Stephen grunted. “A lot of changes for a kingdom that pleaded innocence during our first inquiry into your father’s death.”

“What happened to Mordo?”

“No one knows,” Stephen sighed. It was the very reason he’d returned to Kamar-Taj. After news of Master Mordo’s replacement with the Enchantress from Asgard, rumors had circulated and a number of masters had approached him confessing they were nervous about what that meant.

It wasn’t unusual to change Masters within a castle. Your father had done it enough after quite a few had resigned or been scared off by your ferocity before he’d arrived.

The problem was that the Enchantress had a reputation of her own, having been exiled of her homeland and banished from Kamar-Taj for abusing dark magic. Appointing her to such an important and influential role within a kingdom was beyond concerning, it was downright dangerous.

It would be impossible to tell where Rumlow’s own ideas converged with Amora’s mystic control. He knew Mordo, while flawed, still had the good sense to provide sound council. From the beginning, Stephen had a feeling that the sorcerer hadn’t been involved in the invasion and attack on the kingdom that killed your father.

“Now what?” you queried softly.

“We stand on the defensive,” he admitted, taking your hand when he saw it shaking in your lap. Running a thumb over your palm, he met your gaze. You still looked uneasy and he didn’t blame you. This wasn’t a usual transition of power and he feared more deception was hidden under the layers. “This kingdom is resilient, and Peter is strong. Whatever arises, I’m more than confident we can stand against it.”

You pursed your lips, probably about to argue against him, but a quick sweep of his face and you let the issue die. He must have looked terrible to silence you so abruptly.

“I should probably get back to my quarters,” you reasoned with a murmur, letting him guide you to your feet, hands still connected. The two of you stood silently, his hand wrapped around yours, waiting for the other to make the first move.

And Gods if he wasn’t so exhausted, he would have stood there an eternity.

“I can-,” he cleared his throat, withdrawing his hand and drew up a portal to your room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you flex the hand he’d touched before you stepped through, a small smile playing on your lips.

“Sweetest dreams, Stephen,” you hummed with a small wave goodbye.

“You too, princess.”

The portal closed and he froze, his heart beating ferociously against his sternum.

In another life, you could have been his.

Hell, if your father had returned from battle, there could have been a tiny flicker of hope.

Tony had trusted him after all, requested him to the castle personally after you’d scared off the previous few Masters.

There could have been a chance.

Now? Peter would eventually need to marry you off to secure the future of the kingdom. It was your duty after all, your birth obligation as a female royal.

You’d carry some other man’s child and, maybe, he would see you from a distance at a ball or royal visit.

And Stephen would live the rest of his days in solitude.

His heart aching for the princess just at his fingertips but never allowed to touch.

(—)

Natalia Romanov reasoned herself a fair woman. Sure, she killed for money and ran illicit goods across borders, but she considered herself just and never acted with true malice against the innocent.

She had a personal set of rules that she held above any amount of gold, and those rules included keeping your name off of her or anyone else’s list of targets.

Since the two of you had been young girls, only a little older than Princess Morgan now, you’d proven time and again that you were not only a trusted ally, but a dear friend.

From the first time you caught her trying to steal some apples from the kitchens, you’d ensured her safety until she had been old enough to take care of herself. Even then, you were always more than happy to share your coin, a meal, or a jug of wine with the infamous assassin.

So, when a threat on your life had been attempted, Natalia had taken that personally.

The lead from the cook at the pub had been more than enough for her and James to work off of. Within a day they were on the mystery assailant’s trail and by nightfall on the second day, they’d traced him to an inn at the border of your kingdom and Asgard.

She’d detailed the plan carefully with James earlier in the day. Wait for him to settle into his room for the night, bribe the innkeeper, and steal him away before anyone was the wiser. She had a cottage a few miles into the woods where they could interrogate him and dispose of a body, if needed.

It was a nearly perfect plan, and Natalia was quite proud of it, until certain unpredictable circumstances had stepped in their way.

Those circumstances being the younger Asgardian prince, Loki.

“I thought they’d closed the border,” James had grumbled, hood pulled over his face while they surveyed the inn from the street. “What is he doing here?”

“Maybe he fancied a drink?” Natalia joked dryly, watching the dark haired prince try to blend in with the crowd. To the untrained eye, he did quite well, slipping between the villagers as they fussed about, readying themselves for the evening.

Natalia and James, however, spotted him almost immediately.

“I’ve never been fond of ale,” a voice noted casually over their shoulders.

James instinctively threw a protective arm over Natalia, a knife spinning up from his fingers menacingly. As if that would be a threat against someone as powerful as the prince.

“I come as a friend,” Loki held up his hands, amusement at their reaction clear on his face. “Though I have to say, the more friends of the princess I meet, the better insight I’ve gained. Did you know she befriended a bard two towns over? How she does that will always be a mystery to me.”

“Scott?” James quirked a brow. “He’s great.”

“Quite the entertainer,” Loki agreed with a nod. “Shall we retreat to somewhere more private?”

Natalia bobbed her chin toward the inn, and the men followed in suit, taking a seat in the back of the pub inside. She made a point of positioning herself in such a manner that she had full sight of the entrance and exit, ready to intercept the cook if need be.

“This man you’re after, what do you know of him?” Loki asked, waving a hand and muffling the sounds of the crowd around them. Natalia was sure it was some kind of sound cloaking spell to the surrounding patrons.

“How do you know we are after him?” Natalia challenged.

“I’ve been following you over the last few days,” he admitted casually. “When I heard of the attack on the princess and saw the sorcerer at the pub, I put two and two together. It wasn’t particularly difficult.”

“You’re supposed to be in Asgard,” James pointed out. “They’ve sealed the borders. It’s been hell trying to move anything around.”

“I am-,” his eyes glowing green. “In a way. The incident with the king was far too intriguing to ignore. Not to mention, there’s now this situation you two have stumbled your way into.”

“We don’t stumble into anything,” James countered sharply, leaning on the table with a glare.

“You stumbled into the princess’ life and became attached,” he clarified, waving over a barmaid and ordering a jug of wine. “Don’t blame yourselves, it’s nearly impossible to avoid.”

“What do you want?” Natalia cut straight to the point. The man hadn’t come down from his room or tried to leave the inn just yet, but she wasn’t going to miss him because the trickster decided this was how he wanted to amuse himself.

“To help of course,” he threw a charming smile in her direction. “This man isn’t a mere commoner.”

“Is he also a barkeep?” James guessed sarcastically, but Loki ignored him and continued.

“He possesses significant magical energy within him,” he explained. “He has hidden it well, it was no wonder the sorcerer couldn’t detect him before. Fortunately, he’s lowering his guard now that he’s further away.”

That was certainly a challenge. Natalia and James had experience bringing in or even killing magic users in the past, but they’d been warned ahead of time. Without being able to prepare the necessary potions and restraints, capturing the elusive assassin would prove difficult.

The barmaid placed the jug on the table and lit up when Loki pressed a gold coin in her hand. Her words were muffled to Natalia, but Loki seemed to have no trouble communicating with her until she stepped away.

“As far as anyone is concerned, I’m drinking alone,” he explained. “The assailant has a meeting with someone this evening, I assume regarding the failed attempt on the princess’ life. I propose we follow him and find out who is behind this plot.”

“You think there’s someone else?” Natalia questioned.

“He’s trying to break up his trail,” Loki stated. “Otherwise his route makes no sense. You did hear a magic user tried to kill the prince as well?”

“No, we hadn’t,” James exchanged a look with Natalia.

Another complication.

“I’m not a betting man, but I would wager it’s the same man. The timing between the attacks aligns perfectly.”

“How do you know about the attack on the prince?” Nat asked suspiciously.

“Now Natalia, would you so willingly divulge your own secrets?” he smirked up at her. “Rest assured, my information is reliable.”

Despite this, Natalia was still suspicious of his intentions. Loki had a reputation for not only acting in his own self interest, but also toying with those in his association for the fun of it. The offer to help almost seemed too good to be true.

“What do you gain from this?” she asked directly, narrowing her gaze.

“You were too young to know during the last major war,” he replied quietly. “My people have long lives, and I saw the devastation and misery that brought upon the kingdoms. It is to everyone’s benefit that Prince Peter secures the throne and the royal family remains safe.”

“So you can marry the princess?” James asked stubbornly.

“The thought never crossed my mind.”

“Don’t act like I didn’t see you at the last ball-,” he started but Natalia held up a hand to quiet him.

“You truly think this will lead to war?” she questioned seriously.

“My queen mother has foreseen a number of possibilities,” Loki’s expression fell from its usual amusement to something far more somber. “Some happy, but far too many end in grief. It is an added benefit that I can help someone I consider a dear companion.”

“How noble,” James rolled his eyes.

Natalia considered his explanation. They didn’t have much of a choice, especially if the man was a magic user. If she and James charged in like they’d planned, it would have ended badly.

Loki, from the stories you’d told her, was a formidable magic wielder himself, having been trained by his mother and studied throughout the realm under the best magic teachers.

Aside from the concern of betrayal, an issue they could address after they secured the man or his employer, she could see no downside to the alliance.

“Fine,” she stated with a nod. “We will work together until we have a better idea of what this man is capable of.”

(—)

For a kingdom nearing war, Obadiah had made sure his coronation was the grandest event in all the land.

While it had been planned in haste, the ceremonies had been well decorated, the feasts extravagant and the ball- it was like you’d been transported to another world.

The ballroom was draped in fresh spring florals, the table dressings matching in freshly pressed and cleaned pastel linens. The entire royal court had apparently found time to go to the seamstresses as almost everyone within sight was sporting some new dress or tunic in matching pastels.

And the masks.

In the spirit of revelry, renewal, and spring, the ball had ended up being a masquerade. The challenge to the guests had been to come up with clever interpretations of the theme. Many ladies and lords sported masks covered in fresh blooms, others used bright colors or exorbitant feathers that shot up in the air.

Your own outfit had been something relatively conservative compared to the finest dressed of the ladies. You’d elected to pull out a lavender dress that had belonged to your mother and with the help of your maid, Violet (the irony was not lost), sewn violets, springs of lavender, and other color appropriate flowers through a simple silk mask.

All in all, it was a sunning event, even if it was in terrible taste. Though it seemed the esteemed of the land didn’t seem to care that there were villages that didn’t have a crop to prepare that season as they grazed the massive offerings.

You found Peter toward the edge of the ballroom, his hands folded behind his back and speaking with Lady Michelle.

“Has he been behaving?” you asked the lady, appearing from behind your younger brother.

“A perfect gentleman, your highness,” she curtsied with a light laugh. “We were just discussing the intricacies of poisons versus venoms. The prince seems to think they’re the same thing.”

“Are they not?” he exclaimed, looking to you for support. “They both kill. A snake can poison you.”

“A snake injects venom, not poison,” you clarified, earning a smirk of approval from the young lady. “You ingest poison, you inject venom.”

“You hang out too much with the sorcerers,” he complained with a scowl. “No normal person knows that.”

“Why, Lady Michelle knew that, is she not normal?” you asked playfully, watching in amusement while the prince tried to apologize profusely to the sniggering woman between you.

It was almost as if you could look up at the front of the room and expect to see your father whispering something into the queen’s ear to make her blush.

Instead, Obadiah sat on that throne, laughing at something a visiting Kree ambassador had said, guzzling at a massive goblet of wine.

“I’ve never seen someone look so miserable at a ball,” Stephen commented, approaching from a conversation with Wong.

You glanced around you, noticing that Peter and Michelle had stolen off out of sight, leaving you standing and staring around the room, alone.

“That’s not true,” you chimed back. “Remember the first night we met? I was equally, if not more, miserable then.”

“Was that before or after Thor had trampled on your feet?” he asked, amusement in his eyes.

“That was well before,” you stated with a chuckle. “I was expecting some stuffy old man. Low and behold I find a sorcerer who actually knew a thing or two about what he was teaching.”

“But am I a stuffy old man?” he challenged wit ha quirked brow.

“Oh, definitely you are now,” you grinned back, noting the apparel he had chosen for the evening.

Instead of his usual worn robes, he’d changed into the maroon colors of your house. The robes looked newer, seldom used, an he clearly taken time in picking his belts and other accessories, though his mask looked like it’d been selected at the last minute.

As if reading your thoughts, he thoughtfully touched the simple black mask around his eyes.

“I borrowed it from Wanda,” he confessed quietly. “I’d nearly forgotten it was a masquerade and by the time I realized, the shops had all closed for the festivities.”

“I think it looks nice,” you assured him, the dark material making the icy blue of his eyes even more impressive in the glowing candle light of the ballroom.

“I’m amazed you found time to craft your own,” he commented, reaching and tussling one of the dangling strands of wisteria. “You do look lovely, by the way.”

Your voice caught in your throat, his expression was so earnest with the compliment. And you didn’t miss the way his hand lingered just close enough to cradle your cheek if you so inclined.

Heart racing you did you best to regain your composure from the momentary brain hiccup.

“You look very gallant yourself, are those new robes?” you asked. His hand dropped and he flattened out one of the folds in his clothes proudly.

“New in that they’ve barely been used,” he explained. “I wore them… once at Kamar-Taj and another occasion before coming here.”

“And here I thought you picked our colors on purpose,” you smirked up at him, tugging at his sleeve.

“Maybe I did? Someone has to show a little loyalty around here,” he huffed, catching your hand and pulling you out of the way of a drunken lord stumbling around the room.

Pressed against him in the corner, your heart raced even faster (a feat you would have thought impossible). Eyes meeting, hands intertwined, his expression softened as he looked down at you.

There was something about it all; the music, the lighting, the masks and intrigue, that made you want to fill the small gap between you. To see if his lips were truly as soft as they looked.

“Get a room,” Wong complained, breaking the spell.

You ripped yourself away, remembering you were in public and being caught in such a vulnerable position would have been a scandal in its own.

“Wong,” Stephen greeted, voice tense from the interruption.

“The king wishes to see the princess,” the Master reported, obviously annoyed that he’d been reduced to the level of a lowly messenger.

Exchanging identical looks of confusion, you bowed your head to the men and exceed yourself, moving toward where Obadiah waited at the far end of the room. He was in the middle of eating a massive leg of turkey when he spied you and dropped the food, opening his arms for an embrace.

“My dear, I feel we haven’t had an opportunity to speak since my arrival,” he stood up and pulled you in, his breath smelling of wine and mead. “Let me get a good look at you.”

He lifted your hand and made you give a small twirl, the way his eyes searched up and down your body made your stomach churn.

“You’ve grown,” he stated when you returned to face him. “How old are you now? Twenty and five?”

“Twenty and seven,” you clarified.

“And still unmarried?” he looked positively bewildered at the thought. “My late wife, gods bless her, was betrothed to me at her first blood.”

“My father didn’t feel the need to secure alliances with marriage contracts,” you stated, your adrenaline suddenly picking up at the direction of the conversation. “In that, I was able to make my own decisions regarding marriage.”

“And no suitors then?” he continued, reaching for his goblet and taking another large swallow. “What about the Asgardian prince?”

“Thor is betrothed to Lady Sif,” you explained patiently.

“No, the other one, Loki,” he asked, watching you for a reaction.

Fortunately your mask hid any negative emotions that may have arisen from the suggestion. The idea had been tossed around between Odin and your father, especially given you’d practically shared a childhood between the two kingdoms.

Unfortunately, despite the closeness between you and the prince, it wasn’t a love match and the kings had ultimately respected the decision. It was a fortunate outcome, given the power the two men had maintained respectively, even you could recognize and heir of a Stark and an Odinson would yield favorable means.

“It was decided we would focus on other endeavors,” you answered firmly. He nodded his head, considering your words.

“Then there is no one waiting for your hand? No secret rendezvous in the moonlight?” he laughed but you did not miss the way his eyes trailed to the back of the room where you knew Wong and Stephen to be standing.

“Why do you ask?” you questioned before giving a firm answer.

“A proposal has come up that I was considering on your behalf,” he explained briskly. “I wanted to see if it would be an issue. I wasn’t certain of arrangements your father may have made, so I figured I would ask you directly.”

A proposal?

Your head spun at the idea.

Right now? Just after your father’s death?

You couldn’t imagine leaving your home, leaving behind your family, your siblings and your mother… and in this tumultuous time?

“Is a wedding in the best interest of the kingdom, your majesty?” you asked sheepishly, all nerve and confidence draining quickly from your body as you realized that your fate rested in the easily agitated man before you.

“I think that’s for me to decide,” he replied, throwing on a smile and laughing at your reaction. “I believe it’d be a wonderful match.”

“Do I know him?” you tried a different approach. Perhaps, if you were familiar with the gentlemen in question, you could offer reason as to why it would be a bad idea.

“You know of him,” Obadiah replied, keeping his answers vague. “He’s agreed to meet with you in the morning, so enjoy your evening and we can discuss this more in the morrow.”

He returned to his conversation with the ambassador, ignoring your existence as quietly as he’d destroyed it.

Your whole body felt like it was drifting along a churning sea as you walked back toward your companions. Laughing partygoers danced and twirled around you. What had felt like a warm spell had fallen into a devastating curse.

Sensing something amiss, Wong excused himself, leaving you and Stephen alone, the latter suggesting you step outside to get some fresh air.

Part of you felt foolish. You knew that you wouldn’t be able to spend your life as a spinster, not when you had been born into such a role of privilege and importance. Perhaps you should have married Loki when you had the opportunity. You knew him, he was safe and familiar.

There was no lust there, and to that, you didn’t mind. He could have had his mistresses. You…

“Your highness?”

Stephen.

He looked to you with genuine concern, waiting for something- an explanation, a reassurance of your well being, and you had nothing. Your heart felt like it had shattered in your chest, the emotions so overwhelming and consuming all at once.

“I’m betrothed,” you finally choked out after leaning on the balcony for support. You watched him for a reaction. Anything. If he could give you a reason, convince you that this was something you should fight for yourself or even for him.

“To who?” he barked out the question, his voice strained.

“I don’t know, Obadiah arranged it,” you explained with a frustrated wave of your hand. Taking a breath you shook your head, ripping your mask off and holding your head up in an attempt to blink back the hot tears that threatened to spill over. Stephen moved to your side, his own mask coming off.

“Fight it,” he stated, taking your hands. “If you don’t want to wed, then push back against this madness.”

“He’s the king Stephen,” you reminded him in a harsh whisper. It went unspoken the fate that could await you if you went against Obadiah’s wishes. His grip tightened and he bowed his head into your knuckles. He was shaking.

Please, you mentally begged. This was it. This was his last chance.

You’d known.

Gods you’d known for so long and had done your best to push your own feelings aside. You’d hoped, deep down, that if the right time came your father would have given his blessing. It was the reason why you’d stepped away from Loki, and why he’d backed away.

It’d been this unspoken affection you’d shared for one another that had seemed so innocent until now. Until you had to stare him in the eye and tell him that you belonged to a stranger.

“Regardless of who it is,” he started, looking up at you desperately. “Would you-? Would you marry willingly?”

“Say it,” you challenged instead. Say you don’t can’t lose me. Say you oppose this.

“Is that what you want?” he searched your face for direction, but the decision was with him.

Dropping his hands in frustration, you grabbed the front of his robes and pulled him toward you in a frantic kiss. If that didn’t make your intentions clear, you didn’t know what else would.

He returned in a fervor, hands moving to pull you closer, taking the moment to taste fully what the two of you had danced around for nearly a decade. He took his time and you relished every moment of it, your soul wishing it could be bound in his embrace forever.

When he pulled away, his hand lingered on the back of your neck and he pressed his forehead against yours.

“Then we stop this.”

And even if the promise fell through, or the world crumbled around you, in that moment- that perfect moment- you didn’t care so long as he remained by your side.

(—)

5 - a gift for the princess

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ktheist · 4 years

Text

saving grace | 1

muses. duke!yoongi x lady!reader

universe. arranged marriage / minor traces of magic in history

concept. driven into a corner with the new king, seokjin, offering to marry you off to a prince in a foreign land and a persistent mother who would seize the chance of a lucrative marriage for her daughter, you’re forced with the only other option to secure your freedom ‒ enter into a beneficial agreement with the man who reaped the seeds of war, the duke of cralon, yoongi min.

words. 6.1k

warnings. mentions of war, it’s cliche and cheesy all in one package

index. 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / finale

“that’s not a reward,” you heatedly claim, somewhere in your periphery, the royal assistant flinches from your tone, “that’s banishment! you wish to banish me to another country where i’ll be of no threat to you because of the information i hold!”

“l-lady ___, please lower your voice.” jungkook, seokjin’s new advisor, tries to placate only to stagger back from a glare you shot.

the music and chatters is loud enough to drown a scream - and you haven’t reached that point of wanting to yell your heart out at this man. the area you are in - on the second floor on the veranda overseeing the ocean of people dancing in the hall - is secluded enough to give the king his privacy.

“now, why would i do that to my most trusted confidant?” the smile on seokjin’s face could not have been more dubious. though he may wear the crown and sit upon the throne, his crude nature is what he truly is.

it’s not a secret that seokjin is the son of a maid who rose to the top but it couldn’t have been possible without the help of the count’s daughter. he needed information but his status as a prince born from a mere maid, hadn’t allow him to attend the social functions nor received any acknowledgement from the aristocrats. it was you who offered to be his eyes and ears in exchange for moving into the royal palace once he becomes king after the siege.

“as i recall, you wished to live in a palace like a princess,” his voice is unusually high pitched, laced with mockery of what you can only assume is an attempt to mimic yours, “and it just so happens that the prince of aflar is looking for a bride - who knows, despite being the 12th prince, perhaps he’ll be able to rise as the king. that way, you’ll become queen.”

“i don’t wish to become queen! i wish to live a free life without my parents dictating who i should marry just because a lady cannot inherit the family title.” this time, the heel of your foot hurts from the stomp but the anger rushing through your veins allow forbids you from showing it.

“___,” he’s used to calling you by your name - of course, it’s been five years since you’ve known each other. five years after finding out the second prince’s true nature and regretting choosing his side every waking day of your life, “you wish to live in the palace but refuse to take lessons to prepare you as my queen - what would people think of the respectable lady who doesn’t have any prior relations to the second prince-turned-king suddenly living with him under the same roof?”

“there are thousands of servants living in the palace.” you plainly point out - he must’ve expected this if he doesn’t even bat an eye at your words.

“servants don’t go prancing around the palace looking for the king as they please.”

“th-that’s because you’ve been avoiding me under the guise of the workload left by the previous king,” the stutter is what brings about the sly smirk on his lips.

“my, then your reputation is already ruined,” he feigns a disheartened sigh, almost as though he truly cares, “it’s not like the servants are loyal to me so they’ll talk - they might even be talking now - if news gets out that we’ve been acting like lovers, your chances of marrying well has dwindled to zero. you ought to quickly find a marriage prospect to mend the mess you made.”

something in the way he pans out his words causes your shoulder line to jolt backwards - as though physically slapped by the truth of his narration. though not proven yet, and though the thought of having a man to call your husband would fix everything makes you sick - you can’t deny the simple-minded way of thinking of these aristocrats.

the fact of the matter is, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. whether you’re seokjin’s - as he had time and time indicated - lover. what matters is the double-edged sword you’ve forged for yourself.

one wrong move, and they’d believe seokjin if he’d called you his lover and then claimed you a traitor who tried assassinating him in his sleep.

but as of now, despite becoming the king, he’s still struggling with the lack of support from the aristocrats. and having managed to wedge your way into the top circle is possibly the only reason you’re still able to do whatever you want.

all of a sudden, a disarming smile curls on your lips - seokjin must’ve noticed if he’s trying to control the curiosity that flashes in his eyes before he sports a bored expression.

“very well, i thank you for giving your blessing for me to pick out any marriage prospect i want.” the smile stretches gleefully over your features as the man’s eyes widen at your next words.

“what are you-”

“i wish to wed the duke of cralon and head knight of the kingdom, yoongi min.”

“the min family is rumored to be the wealthiest family in the kingdom - perhaps far surpassing the previous king. one word from the duke and these filthy aristocrats will grovel at his feet,” the voice you use trickles with sweet honey while seokjin’s hands tightly grip the seat, “but for some reason he’s staying quiet after coming back from the war and finding out the king he serves has had his head cut off.”

“what are you trying to say, lady ___?”

it’s the honorific that tells you he’s speaking as the king and everything that allows him to sit on the throne. his features, when he’s glowering, is heartbreakingly beautiful.

that’s how it feels to be driven into a corner, seokjin.

“i never told you but the duke fancies me. every year, he sends me birthday gifts,” technically he isn’t the only one - it’s just a formality to maintain an amicable relationship between the houses of nobles but having been out of touch with the ways of the nobility, you’re almost sure seokjin isn’t aware of said ways, “but my parents wouldn’t allow us to meet because of his infamous reputation and i never had any interest in marriage,” the pleasant smile on your lips is a contrast to the man’s contorting features - he must understand where you both stand now, “but if i accept his proposal, the duke won’t stand and watch as the new king sends away his fiance, will he?”

when the king glares up at you but doesn’t seem to have anything to say, you thought that’s the end of it. thought you can curtsy and call it a night whilst devising plans on how to get the duke’s attention and make him fall for you within the limited span of time you have to show seokjin how smitten the knight is for you.

...until the man himself steps out of the shadow without even a scrape of his boot against the ground. the duke is a man of many things but graceful had been far beyond your imagination. and yet here he is, in his knightly attire in black and hints of yellow lines on the sleeves and shoulders - a glaring contrast to his porcelain white skin and silvery grey hair yet perhaps what contributes to highlighting his crimson eyes. the color that’s rumored to be the curse of the goddess for the min family’s generational brute and violence that lead them to winning wars and coming back unscathed.

“your ma-” it all happens too fast.

he’s about to greet seokjin - whether it is with weighty contempt or newfound alliance, you’re not sure - with a hand on his chest and an uncaring glance your way. then you’re running towards him and before you know it, your arms are around his neck and your voice is pitched higher than you would like, “your grace, i’m glad you came back safely!”

you never thought someone could actually turn into stone in a split second but you don’t think the man in your arms is breathing at the moment. and you know exactly who’s fault that is - your own.

“please, play along,” in contrast to the high pitched tone from earlier, you curse yourself for sounding meek and timid - if your heart isn’t beating like a galloping horse and your body isn’t heating up like a baker’s oven, perhaps, you would have had better control of the situation, “my life depends on it and if we walk out of here alive, i’ll do anything you wish, duke.”

...was what you said but it all seems too far blown out of proportion, you might as well forego all your worldly desires and surrender yourself to the church and become a woman of god.

“perhaps, marrying the foreign prince would have been a better option after all.” you lament out loud, pressing the sleeve of your nightgown to your eyes but instead of being engulfed in darkness, you see a vivid replay of seokjin’s knitted brows and troubled expression. and if you’d just focus, you would still feel yoongi’s muscles underneath your fingers as you held onto his arm after flinging yourself at him whilst you make your way back to where you were standing - in front of the king.

pleasantries were exchanged while a dark cloud loomed over the three of you before yoongi excused himself and since you were clinging onto his arm, you ended up leaving as well. before you’d managed to conjure up a plausible explanation for your behavior towards a person you’ve never met. but right in that moment, leslie, your maid had called for you to inform you of the carriage waiting outside.

relief threatened to paint your features but you’d hid it with a dip before peeking at the crimson eyes that’d stared right into your soul. ‘letter’ you’d mouthed before leaving joining leslie in search for the carriage.

it’s been three days since then and there is not a single spot on the table perched in front of your window that isn’t covered with the thin bundles of papers leslie has presented you with when you ordered her to find out more about duke min. he isn’t particularly a social butterfly but his reclusive nature had extended to a point where only the butler is the only one who ever spoke to him. besides that, ever since he’d came back from war, he’d been swarmed with reports and the recent issue of missing goods from the iyesgarth port owned by the ducal house. none of which are useful for you to attract the attention of the duke for an exchange of protection.

“what was that, my lady?” at the familiar fluttery voice, your whole body shoots up.

“leslie!” the woman’s name tumbles out of your lips in surprise, “when did you get in?”

you didn’t even hear her enter-

“a few minutes ago while you were still snoring off,” she answers simply as she walks over, inspecting the teal dress she must have gotten from your closet while murmuring to herself about the ‘handiwork is terrible. we shouldn’t order dresses from vivian’s boutique anymore.’

it didn’t seem like she heard anything but if she did, leslie has always had a knack for going about her day as though she knew nothing. you wonder how much information she holds just from that uncaring personality of hers that allows people to feel at ease with knowing she wouldn’t tattle.

but this isn’t something you could let go, “leslie, how much did you-” but it’s her rambling that almost has you biting down on your tongue as you clamp your mouth shut.

“...won’t do. you need to dress pretty for the duke, my lady.”

almost as though the traces of sleep has flown out of the window, you’re crawling over the bed and grasping onto the maid’s shoulders for dear life, “d-did you say duke?”

an unsuspecting smile graces your lips once the realization that your unusual behavior, is caused by the news of the duke, “yes, he’s on his way here as we speak!”

it takes a moment for you to register her words. another for you to blink back at her as though waiting for her ever smiling face to fade into the dark before you finally wake up, wishing fullheartedly that this is all just a bad dream.

“my lady?” leslie cocks her head to the side, as though searching for your conscience that’d retreated so far back into your existence, she realizes she’s staring back at nothing but a shell.

“why...” the lowest murmur leaves your lips like a calm before a storm before a hurricane rages and whirls out of your entire being, “why is the duke coming here?”

“___! what did you do to summon the rage of the duke to our home!” your father, dressed unusually impeccably, stopped in the middle of ordering the butler and servants for when the duke arrives.

“m-me?” yes, you knew you had sounded utterly audacious for someone who boasted - and even blackmailed the king - about the duke’s affection for you, “i didn’t do anything!”

it was in that moment that the clamor of a carriage had echoed from outside. the sound of the horses neighing comes a second later. but nobody heard the footsteps of duke min as he tread towards the open doors of the mansion.

he wasn’t named grim reaper for nothing.

“my apologies for coming on such short notice,” at least he's rational enough to admit his fault.

you catch the sight of the tip of his fringes falling over his face as he bows, before you curtsy, head lowered and eyes fixed to the ground.

your mother had scolded you an earful about peeking while curtsying, “___! have some refinement! a lady does not peek like an uncivilized cavewoman!”

if you’d lived in a cave, you wouldn’t have to be constricted to such formalities in the first place.

“please, don’t apologize,” your father presses smoothly, unlike his frazzled self from just a minute ago - it must have taken him years to hone such composure as to not tremble under the duke’s crimson eyes, “we at the ___ manor, are honored to have you as our guest, your grace. though we are quite puzzled by your grace’s reason for coming here.”

“reason.” the duke echoes, it seems the only thing delicate about him is his features but you’d be lying if you said you don’t find the low gruff of his voice thunderous to your heart.

a short silence lapses as though he’s sifting through his memories and finally letting his gaze travel to you - though his tone doesn’t seem to harbor any murderous intention, those crimson eyes that seek yours render your body cold. you clasp your hands together out of needing something to hold onto as you fix him one of your schooled, noble smile.

“i wish to speak to the eldest daughter of this house,” he says simply, “about our engagement.”

that same smile on your face falters into a pressed line.

“my, my,” your mother laughs, royal purple fan that’s been fluttering over his face now being lowered to her lap, “what troublesome rumor has spread about our beloved ___.”

the slightest twitch on her pristine smile tells you otherwise. but you can’t challenge her genuinity - not in front of the yoongi, at least.

and to be truthful, the more pressing matter - one that plagues your very talk as of now - is the fact that the conversation pertaining your supposed blessed marriage had only been attended by seokjin, jungkook and you - there were guards but you doubt any of them were interested in gossips about a count’s daughter’s affairs.

...could seokjin be the one to have spread the rumor?

before you can even come to a plausible conclusion as to why the king would do such a thing, you’re brought out of your train of thoughts by the woman covering your hands that are on your lap, grasping onto them tightly - at first glance, it would appear she’s genuinely concerned for you, “how do you plan to take responsibility over daughter’s wounded reputation, your grace?”

it’s commendable how your mother is still able to let her lips stretch over her face as though the man’s red eyes aren’t piercing through her skull like a spear. you’ve always known she was a scary woman - she wished to pass on her legacy onto you and perhaps that was why you would always end up huffing and trudging back to your room every time you tried to tell her you didn’t want to follow such path.

her ways were effective but you weren’t looking to gain something out of another’s suffering.

“mother!” your voice bounces over the walls, “his grace’s reputation is also tarnished by the rumor, how could you ask him to take responsibility as if it was his fault?”

the woman stares down at you with her signature glare but after years of being on the receiving end of it, you’d grown a spine or two, “silly child, who’s going to marry you now that the rumor of your engagement with the grim reaper has spread far and wide?”

“mother!” it almost comes out a chide at the word she uses to describe the man sitting right across from you.

“d-dear wife,” your father is sweating bullets from his seat as he bravely speaks up, “why don’t we let the duke and ___ discuss this matter privately? it is, after all, their reputations that are on the line.”

“theirs?” your mother’s hiss causes your father’s shoulder line to shrink back.

yoongi’s reputation may have been borne by only him but for a lady, everything you do reflects on your family name. that, you understand and for once, your mother’s outburst is well-founded.

the roots of rage almost tangles around your ankles as well - but the uncertainty of the source of rumor lingers on your mind.

it is the moment when the door shuts behind the butler after your parents which required a lot of pleading from your father, do you allow yourself to feel the heat of yoongi’s eyes on you - if looks could kill you’d be dead for simply and foolishly meeting his gaze.

“your grace, i apologize on my mother’s behalf... my mother, she’s only worried about my future like any mother would,” the head that’s held up high, the shoulders that line straight and the schooled smile on your lips - does well to conceal the inner turmoil inside you. but when all you receive is a steel gaze and a pin-drop silence, you’re forced to change the topic, “i was in the middle of writing you a letter.”

in other words, you mean to say you’re too hasty, duke.

unlike you, the man has his legs crossed languidly, his sword - said to be forged by the spine of the devil himself - is leaned next to his foot, almost as though ready for him to pull it out of its sheath if you so much as move, “i thought you would chip a nail writing me one so i decided to spare you the pain and pay you a visit, my lady.”

the underlying mockery in his words does not go past you yet it takes a moment for it to register - he looked like a straightforward man based on the menial conversation he shared with seokjin and you as a witness.

but it’s true what they say about judging books by their cover.

“that’s very considerate of you, your grace,” the smile you force on goes against the normal order of nature but the man doesn’t seem fazed. his crimson eyes fixes themselves on yours as though trying to take a peek into your soul and find out your darkest secret. if there’d been any trace of humor, it’s all vanished into thin air now.

“your grace, i told you my life was on the line that night. and you helped me regardless of who i was - i’m thankful for you. there’s no way i’d start a rumor of us being engaged and trouble you further,” you begin, capturing yoongi’s gaze with yours - where you get such courage for someone who’s about to spew half-truths, you don’t know, “but that night - it was because seok- his majesty was about to marry me off to the 12th prince of aflar because i’d offended him with my words.”

“so he does whatever he wants just like his father,” his eyes glazes over you, as though picturing the new king at the back of his head as you speak. the matter of what he came for no longer as pressing as he made it out to be - dare you say, it was just an excuse to for him to come barging in.

“no!” the hurried denial warrants a narrow of eyes from the duke - as though wondering why the lady whose pleas were ignored, is defending the very person who’d ignored them. you only wanted a way out - not breathe the flames of an uproar from the nobles who chooses to remain neutral, “what i mean is, i’m sure his majesty will understand if you let me stand by you for a short while - i promise i won’t get in your grace’s way.” the last part is added as an afterthought when his eye twitches just the slightest bit as though displeased by the thought of some lady sticking to his side like glue.

the silence that lapses between you is tangible as your body screams to be released from the frozen state you’re in - you couldn’t move a finger even if you’d wanted to, at least not until yoongi seems to finish thinking.

“what exactly did you say to the king to have him want to send you away for good?” comes the million gold question.

this is it. you know he’d catch on but you’re not so prepared to give an answer. you’re not sure if the hesitance shows in your face but you doubt your mastery for hiding your emotions is as spectacular as his.

and so, with a tilted chin, you set a resolute gaze upon the duke, “the missing shipments from the port iyesgarth,” you state, noticing the curious raise of brow, “how are armwells doing these days?”

“impossible,” the frown that etches itself on his face is another kind of heartbreaking beauty. leaning back against the chair again and consequently allowing you to let out the breath you never knew you were holding, he continues, “the armwells own the warehouses. why would they steal shipments from merchants who pay them plenty just to leave goods in their warehouses?”

“the answer you’ve been looking for is right there,” the smile that blooms on your face is a pleasant one and the knit of yoongi’s eyebrows is all heartbreakingly adorable. “their spendthrift son has been gambling away the money and however much they make over the warehouse fee is starting to not be enough.”

there’s a light in his eyes that shines with doubt and with that, births the shadow of, dare you say, plausible confidence in what you’re saying.

“the goods from the shipment are being sold in the black market,” those crimson eyes follows your every movement as rise from your seat, hand clasped together in front of you - a habit you’d developed to appear small and unsuspecting, “ask around for a franny.”

franny is baron armwell’s alias. he couldn’t go around selling stolen goods under his name because the authorities - namely, the duke as part of his line of work after coming back from war - would catch on. it had just so happened that isabelle armwell, a lady you occasionally talk to at gatherings was sporting a long face at the debutante ball. she was spilling every single family secret after a trip to the washroom and a consoling hug.

with a heavy heart, you wave at the girl with the brightest blue eyes and blonde locks that flows past her bosom in waves. she’s wearing a light blue dress with minute diamonds pooling around the hem and dispersing up her waist. it’s been exactly five days after the duke min’s visit and over one week of celebrating the knights’ victory.

“___, i didn’t think you’d be here!” her beaming smile reminds you of the smudged makeup and tear stained eyes you bore witness just a month ago.

“why would you think that?” you blink despite having an inkling of where this conversation is going-

“well, since the rumors of you and duke min’s engagement...” she fiddles with her fingers from what you can only assume to be jitters. of course, a lady her age who’s just debuted into society would be curious of how you tamed the beast laying dormant.

to be frank, you did not.

“-remains a baseless rumor.” you speak rather loudly, hands on your hips as you steal a glance at the throne where seokjin sits, his eyes already on you, “i’m not sure who started it but duke min and i are-”

“lady ___,” a familiar guttural voice greets you from behind you. isabelle’s shock-stricken gaze that’s fixed at something - or rather, someone - past your shoulders is enough to confirm who the bearer of your doom is.

and true enough, standing before you, in the min family’s signature black suit and maroon undershirt, is none other than the devil himself. as opposed to last time, there’s a suave smile on his cherry pink lips - perhaps, nothing more than a show - and his silver hair is swept back, revealing his round visage and making his otherwise soft feature appear sharp and clean.

“your grace,” you dip down, dress lifted midair just below your hips before coming up and noticing the man also in the middle of standing back straight after bowing, “for a moment there, i thought it wasn’t you, but a shapeshifter who looked like you and attended this ball.”

if there’s anything you know - and you know plenty - about the duke of cralon, is that he rarely shows his face at balls and parties. even the ones held by the previous king.

the first time you met him was purely coincidental but not unprecedented. granted, the ball was held to celebrate the victory of the winter knights in the war. if there was any celebration duke min would attend, then it was that one. and he did attend.

but for him to appear at a regular ball held by the new king...

“alas, it is i and not some monstrous shapeshifter - i was hoping you’d spare me a dance, lady ___.” a gloved hand extends your way, hovering in the air as you scrutinize the man’s uncharacteristically smiling face - as though he’d found humor in your underlying tone.

his motives are unclear but the fact that you have his attention must mean your lead has lead to a fruitful discovery.

“why, this will pour oil to the flames,” you murmur under your breath - low enough for only him to hear and yet slip your own hand in his.

“so you’re friends with lady armwell,” the mellow tune of the cello pours into the room as a new song begins.

the feeling of the hand on your waist is unsettlingly gentle and careful - almost as though he’s fearful that your bones may break if he held on tighter.

“she only tearfully told me about the her brother’s unmanageable gambling habits, the information i gave you was out of my own findings - i can find out a plenty of many things for your grace if you choose to help me shake his majesty’s eyes off me,” you search for those crimson eyes as he twirls you around once, “i trust it’s been helpful to your grace, but if you are still unconvinced of my expertise-”

the bells of chuckles that drums in your ears are the last thing you expect to hear - quite frankly, the chances of gaining a threat for whatever reason is much higher than bearing witness to the duke’s laughter.

“there’s no need,” this time, his hair doesn’t brush over his eyebrows when he shakes his head, “you’ll make a fine fiance, ___.”

the lack of honorific doesn’t entirely go past you but that isn’t a material matter at the moment.

did he just said... fiance?

“your grace, unless my ears are-”

“yoongi.”

“p-pardon?” the warmth on your hip and hand seeps into you as he directs your body to move with the melody of the instruments, reminding you that there are hundred pairs of eyes on you and if the lady were to stop dancing all of a sudden, then there is no doubt of a new kind of rumor surfacing.

but judging from the way he dips his head and his hot breath fanning the shell of your ear, you can almost hear the squeals and gossip that will fill tomorrow’s tea party, “since we’re engaged, shouldn’t we at least call each other by our names?”

words die in your throat, as does the music. you barely notice the hands that held you falling away as you watch the man take a step backwards and lower his head - so much for formalities after deciding to forego it just five seconds ago.

“i’ll send a letter tomorrow notifying my visit in three day’s time.” with that, you’re left staring like a fool at the black and red insignia engraved on the back of his jacket.

it is a moment later that isabelle and the other ladies begin to crowd you, that you finally come to your senses.

“it it true? you’re engaged to the duke of cralon?” lady irene’s beaming smile is far too close for your liking.

“calm down, lady irene. don’t make a-”

before lady krystal manages to finish her sentence, you already find yourself slipping past bodies and out of the ball room. your destination is unclear but you saw yoongi take a left and that could only mean that he’s heading towards the garden instead of the double doors of the exit.

lights line the tall walls surrounding the palace but you wouldn’t have spot the grey locks that appear almost white if not for the moonlight. the crimson dragons on either side of the shield symbolizes the min family’s pledge to protect the crown. the fact that he’s wearing this and not the official knight outwear means he’s not here as the head knight but as a-

“your grace,” you send a prayer to the goddess for the sternness in your tone but it easily dwindles down and hits the ground as you’re met with the echoing footsteps of the duke who doesn’t seem to acknowledge your presence.

your temple throbs as the image of the duke’s handsome features come unnervingly close to you whilst he whispers-

“yoongi.” you almost scream.

it is settled knowledge that the duke of cralon possesses inhumane abilities that helped him and his predecessors win wars for the kingdom, cearis. if his unfailing reputation isn’t enough, then you’ve already seen how you would be completely helpless in his undetectable presence that night when you failed to notice him until he presents himself to seokjin and consequently you.

but in your haste to right the wrong, you’ve forgotten the possibility of abruptly calling his name ending up with your face buried in his chest when he whirls around to face you.

with cheeks that feels like they’re surrounded by a thousand suns, you quickly clear your throat after taking one step back. his raised eyebrow, however, tells you he thinks nothing of the minor mishap just now.

still, you meet yoongi’s gaze with a pair of knitted brows and a distraught tug in the corners of your lips, “i believe there’s been a misunderstanding, your grace,” the briefest lift of eyebrows as though he is painfully aware of the way you address him, doesn’t go unnoticed by you though you wish it would, “when i asked if i could stand by your side, i did not mean as your fiance - it makes me think you don’t trust me enough to believe that it wasn’t me who spread the rumor.”

“i do believe you,” he says simply, “but wouldn’t you say the rumor plays in your favor, ___?” there he goes again, addressing you informally, “since everyone saw us dancing together, they’ll feed into the rumor. it doesn’t matter if the king doesn’t buy into it. as of now, his position is vulnerable and if he were to break two lovers who are mad for each other apart and marry the other off in the name of political gain, the aristocrats won’t sit still.”

“so just now...” you trail off, the image of isabelle and the other nobles’ fallen jaws flashing at the back of your mind, “it was a return of favor because i helped solve the mystery of the missing shipments?”

“you don’t seem pleased,” his eyebrows begin to knit together.

“how can i be when i was not consulted of such plans prior to this?” the silence that lapses between you is no different than back in the parlor in your mansion, except yoongi seems to consider your request more seriously this time judging from the hard lines set upon his otherwise smooth forehead.

“then, what would you have suggested, ___?” the blinking red doesn’t seem too menacing now that he’s staring at you with genuine concern.

sighing, you curse yourself for admitting the truth in his words, “your grace is correct that the rumor gives us an advantage. however, next time we are to make a public appearance, i’d like to have a say on how it’s to be executed.”

his gaze lingers on you for the longest time - you’re not sure whether he’s debating on foregoing your investigative expertise or whether he should reveal to seokjin that this is all a faux. but what he does next could never have crossed your mind in the list of things he duke yoongi min could be thinking.

“i understand,” the figure in front of you dips to a bow, a gloved black hand levitating midair as a shadow casts itself over his gentle features and contrasting glowing eyes, “my apologies for acting without taking your feelings into consideration just now, lady ___.”

the title returns in his mouth yet your chest caves in displeasure. you’re not too fond of him calling you just by name but you’re not any glad that he’s back to using that honorific.

“v-very well, you’re forgiven,” you force out after realizing you’ve made him wait long enough, cheeks warm as you place your hand in his, eyes fixed on his lips that presses against your knuckles - they really are as soft as they look.

a halo encases his body when he stands straight. and if it weren’t for his abrupt remark, you would have pondered on the faintest hint of smile on his features, “now then, may i ask another favor from you, ___?”

another one? right after you assisted him in finding out the culprit?

“your grace may, though please bear in mind tonight doesn’t count as you returning the favor so you’ll be owing me two public appearances.” you shrug as casually as possible.

“that’s fair,” he nods a little too nonchalantly before getting to the point - and perhaps a tendril of regret wraps around your heart for agreeing without hearing his request first when he utters his next words-

“i wish us to call each other by our names - it’s suffocating to be so polite.” he sighs, hand ruffling his silvery tresses like a child tired of the etiquette lessons forced on him and not at all like the man that had you on the edge of your seat back in your mansion.

“th-that’s-” the words teeter on your tongue but refuse to leave your mouth as you fumble for a reason to object but the longer you stare into those indecipherable eyes, the emptier your mind gets and the harder your heart races.

“r-reasonable,” you stammer out, the flash of anticipation across the duke’s face leaving you no choice but to add, “yoongi.”

note. hello!! i’ve been working on this for a month or so (whew) bc i got super into historical au’s and just wanna write something without prince and princesses as the main leads and this happened!! hope you guys enjoyed it and are looking forward for more. drop your @ below if you want to be included the taglist!

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butterfly-winx · 4 years

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SHE! ✨

Light of my life, Daphne Aglissier, Elder Princess of Domino. I am way too attached to underdeveloped side characters I pour my own headcanons into, but Daphne specifically takes the cake among them all.

Full Power:

This is my re-imagination of the dress we see her wear on the show. It’s a bit more closed and more structured, featuring her signature teal eye-symbols on the dress detail. Technically the skirt is open and her bare feet can be seen when she moves around. Her wings are pure fire and she trails a little bit of it behind her wherever she goes. The dragon symbolism is modest on this one, it’s only the little arm circlet.

This is her at the height of her power at around 18, when she became the Head of the Circle of Nymphs of Magics.

Siege of Domino:

Self explanatory, this is Daphne in her final moments, when she was defending Domino from the Ancestral Witches. She is much more solid, much less ethereal and much more vulnerable in this form. As the planet takes damage, so does as she as she tied her life and power to it having become ts Guardian Fairy a long while ago.

Spirit Nymph:

As Madame Roccaluce, shining with light from within, a lot of details of Daphne’s appearance get lost. Bloom interprets the crown of flames she wears as an elaborate headpiece in her dreams and drawings of her sister. The mask is permanent on her face and obscures the majority of her expressions, so Bloom truly has never seen her face until she holds her sister in her arms post resurrection.

Nymph forms have a tendency to appear ageless and this hits Daphne harder in her 20 year underwater slumber.

Post resurrection:

Immediately post her resurrection Daphne looks and appears the same as she did 20 years ago despite pushing 40 at that time. It takes time for her to catch up with all that trauma, have her body recover physically from being idle for so long, and for her and Bloom to figure out how to share the Dragonflame. (Remember, Butterfly fic!Daphne is non-magic without the Flame). So this form is somewhere more down the line, when her body and posture slowly start to match her age.

Scars: The one on her arm is from the curse the Ancestresses cast that destroyed both her and her home. This is only really visible when she is transformed, as she sustained it mid-transformation. (Normally magic forms smooth over any and all blemishes). The halo around her sternum is from when she passed the Dragonflame on to Bloom and that one is visible in all her forms. It’s the final mark the Flame leaves on its Bearers and usually it’s much smaller, but the last minute transfer was such a hack job, it’s a wonder it worked at all.

Another physical repercussion of her long time spent as a spirit is that her hair bleached out to a warm blonde and refuses to grow back red. Daphne initially dyes, it but you can see with the colour fading out, she doesn’t exactly bother with it for long, since she has little stamina for metamorhosymbiosis.

Immortal Queen:

This is Daphne’s fullest and most final form she gets in her life. The wings when not folded out nestle against her back as part of the cape she is wearing, as if they were part of the dragon that curls around her. (You can see the head and tail, it continues around her back under the cape.

The shape of the outfit is more Dominian and less revealing than her first form. It does have her scars on full display though, which are something she grows into being proud of. She survived. Everything and everyone wanted her gone, and yet she is still there.

But she learned that she is not untouchable, so there are a lot more armouring details to reflect that. The scale detail on them makes for a lovely recurrence of the dragon theme.

All nymph forms are larger than life, as in she grows taller and shines from within. There is less glitter on these forms than there usually is in fairy transformations.

#winx club #winx redesign #winx daphne #winx club daphne #nymph of domino #nymph of sirenix #locally sourced art #extensive design notes in the read more sorry #and then I haven't even touched on the symbolism of the chains

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ships4you · 4 years

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midnight promises {zuko}

Part 2 to flames & deception

avatar the last airbender MASTERLIST

Pairing: Zuko x Earth Kingdom!Reader

Prompt: Once Azula finds out about the readers relationship with her brother, she sends the Dai Li to lock the reader up in a prison in Ba Sing Se. Iroh sends a friend to sneak into the capital and save the reader before the comet arrives, fearing that she would be transported during the fight. Zuko then arrives at the White Lotus camp with the Gaang and rejoins with the reader.

lol guys, In my mind Zuko is such a baby. Honestly I am thinking about coming out with another part to this. I just love the dynamic, so lmk if you guys want more!

“Dinnertime!” the guard spoke through the metal door, sliding a tray of mushy gunk through the small opening. You rolled your eyes, picking up the plate to sit on you rock of a bed. You slowly picked away at your food, knowing all too well if you were ever to escape this hell you would need the energy.

After the fire nation took control over Ba Sing Se, many generals and war officials; including your father, were taken captive. Just a few nights after your father was arrested, the Dai Li showed up at your house and took you to the Capital’s prison. Apparently, Princess Azula of the fire nation had heard of your ‘treacherous acts’ and demanded you be thrown in jail. (All for being a peasant dating the crowned prince of the fire nation. The audacity.)

As for Zuko... He had been gone for half a year now. Disappearing the night before the siege of the city. For all you knew he could be dead. You would often playback the memory of the last time you saw him, in search for any hints to what may have happened to him.

***

“Hey.” you walked over to Zuko pressing a light kiss to his lips. “Why’d you guys shut down the shop early?” you questioned, picking up a stray tray of dirty teacups. “We have been invited to the royal palace to serve tea to the Earth King!” Iroh sang out, his belly bouncing as he giddily paced around the shop. “He’s been humming and dancing around the shop ever since he got the invitation.” Zuko shook his head, grinning from ear to ear.

Iroh swiftly swooped past you sliding the tray out from your hands, “I will finish cleaning up down here. Now you two run along, go upstairs and pack the supplies.”

Zuko was already halfway up the steps before Iroh could finish. “Congratulations,” you said giving Iroh the biggest hug, “I’m so happy for you, you deserve this.” As you pulled away he rested his hand on your shoulder, “I am sure I am one of many tea-makers awarded with this honor. It is just nice to be recognized.” You placed a kiss on his cheek before running up the stairs.

You only made it a few steps into the apartment before feeling his hands wrap around your waist, warm fingers caressing into your skin. “Do firebenders always have warm hands?” you pondered, feeling him dig his face into the side of your neck. “Mmm what kind of question is that?” he mumbled into your skin as you wrapped your arms over his, swaying with to non-existent music. “We are always warm; its in our nature.” he said pressing his parted lips into your skin.

You turned to face him, lifting your hand over his head to rest on his shoulders. “Sounds like you would freeze to death in the snow.” you teased messing with the short raven strands of hair on the nape of his neck. He leaned into your touch, “Mhmm, spirits, don’t remind me.”

Before your could question his response Iroh boomed from downstairs, “Lee, the carriage to escort us to the palace has arrived.”

Zuko groaned, “Alright Uncle, I will be down in a second.”

He hesitantly left your arms to grab a beaten up green and yellow case, “So can I come see you later tonight?” you shrugged, “My father will be home till late, military stuff. So just come over when you’re done at the palace.”

“Good girl.” he purred and cupped your chin to pull you in, his soft lips claiming yours.

He broke away before you had time to react, jogging down the stairs. Leaving you standing in the middle of the apartment. Flustered and dumbfounded.

***

Awoken in the middle of the night by harsh grunt and an ‘oof’, you sat up in bed; listening to the footsteps inch closer and closer to your cage door. The lock clicked open causing you to jump up. A tall man in a dark red robe stood in the doorway before you, the faint outline of a sword peeking out from his coat.

“Who are you?” you said holding your hands up, prepared to attack. (Being the child of a military general often meant self defense classes on the weekends). The man pulled back his hood, “I am Piandao, member of the white lotus.” he said bowing.

Is he fire nation? You wondered, noticing the placement of his hands as he bowed.

“I’ve been sent to break you out. Iroh sends his best.” he says with a wink, before stepping to the side, gesturing for you to exit your cage.

***

It had been a week since your rescue. Uncle Iroh had greeted you when you first arrived, the both of you sharing a few tears during the reunion. Since then you had not seen him around camp. According to your new friend Bumi, who you had spent most of your time with sparring, Iroh was leading a revolution to take back Ba Sing Se. You could understand he was busy.

As much as you grew to love all the members of the white lotus, they still were old men. There was only so much Pai Sho you could handle. So, you set up your tent on the outskirts of camp. Far enough away so you could have some privacy. You weren’t disturbed often, so when the front opening of your tent began to open you yelped, throwing your discarded shoe at the stranger.

“Oof, what the hell?”

You immediately recognized his voice.

“Zuko?!”

He ducked further into the light, his hair longer than before. Instead of wearing brown and green garments, like you were used to, he wore a red tunic lined with gold outlines. He looked worn, his eyes slightly sucken and tired— accompanied with a nice set of baggage.

“Y-you’re alive.” he whimpered, practically falling to his knees, pulling you into him.

“Of course I’m alive,” you said, “Why would I be dead?” You barely finished your sentence before Zuko pressed his lips into yours, hands reaching up to cup your face. You gripped to his shirt, pulling him closer to you, worried he may disappear again if you were to let go.

He pulled away, “Azula said... I thought she had killed you.” he explained. You studied the gold specks in his eyes, glimmering from the candlelight. You chuckled, “Nope, I’m still here.”

“Thank the spirits.” he praised swiftly pecking your lips once more, “Cause I am never letting you out of my sight again.”

You spent the next few hours talking non-stop. He explained his return to the fire nation- distraught after being told by Azula that you had been targeted and killed by the Dai Li. He spent a lot of time telling you about his confrontation with his father, finally standing up against his years of abuse. You listened carefully to each and every word, making sure he felt heard, and even shared a few tears with him. But when he would talk about the avatar and his new friends would light up. Explaining their adventures and new experiences. You couldn’t keep yourself from smiling.

He was absolutely outraged to hear about your time spent in prison. At one point he had been angrily stomping around the tent, “I- I- How could she do this!! You did nothing to her- you were not a threat! And she just-“ You had kissed him to calm his nerves, helping to forgive what had happened.

***

The sun had set hours ago, the candle slowly simmering to a low dull. The two of you had somehow ended up on the floor, ears pressed against your single pillow to face each other. You had been quietly combing your fingers through his hair, his eyes rested shut.

“I like long hair on you.”

He opened his eyes, peering at you through his long eyelashes. “It gives me something to grab onto now.” you teased lightly clasping your hand into a fist. He snickered, “Oh really.” His hand made his way down your backside to reach and grab your leg, pulling it to hook around his hip. “Oh god, don’t even get me started on the red. I mean, I knew you were fire nation, but flameo hotman.”

He practically lunged at your lips, pulling your hips to flush against his body. “Shuttup.” he playful murmured placing another light kiss to your lips. “Spirits I missed you.” Your hands fiddled with the golden wrap tucked around his waist, slowly unraveling the cloth from its knot. “The comet- This whole battle everyone is talking about...” you whispered-- eyes avoiding his, “It’s tomorrow isn’t it?” Zuko rolled onto his back, skimming a hand through his hair. He exhaled anxiously.

“Yea...”

“Are you going to stay here? Help take back Ba Sing Se?”

“No.”

You lightly leaned onto his chest, “Where will you go?” you questioned. His hand came up to caress a strand of your hair. “ I have to confront my sister. Someone needs to be at the capital... To take over the fire nation once this war is finished once and for all.” His hand slid to your cheek, rubbing his thumb against the side of your face. “Come with me.” your eyes widened at his sudden offer as he begged, “I can’t defeat her alone. And when its all over you can live in the Fire Nation. With me.”

“I- I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I can’t”

“Why not?”

You could tell he was serious. He stared at you, waiting for an answer. “I just- My duty is here... I have to help get my city back. Get my father back.” He groaned, throwing his head back. “You’re right, you’re right.” he murmured folding his hands behind his head. You crawled up his body, turning his chin to look at you. “Hey.” a low hum echoed from his body as he grunted in response.

“I’m going to follow you no matter what. Once I’m done here I’m getting on the first boat to the fire nation.”

“D’you promise?”

You laid you head against his chest, tucking your hand through the opening of his tunic to rest on his midriff, “Promise” you whispered as he wrapped his hands around you. “Good.”

Tag List: @11mb0 @svgakookie @coldlilheart

#Zuko #zuko x reader #zuko imagine #avatar the last airbender #zuko headcanon #atla #atla fanfic #atla imagine #atla x reader

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the-girl-in-the-box · 3 years

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Not Today XXXII

A/N: It's wedding time, folks! Which, of course, means new drama, and toward the end here, new trauma. Why do I do this to these characters? Because the plot demands it, I'm afraid. But hey, hopefully it makes for good reading. So, with that said, I hope you enjoy! Skål!

Summary: When Ivar takes the throne of Kattegat, Lagertha flees to Wessex along with Björn, Ubbe, Torvi, and the Bishop Heahmund. There, they seek the aid of King Alfred. This aid comes in the form of his sister, Aethelind, who agrees to travel to Kattegat and try to reason Ivar, who she spent some time with during their youth, when her grandfather King Ecbert hosted Ragnar Lothbrok in their castle. Now, she is the only hope for Lagertha and her supporters to retake Kattegat from Ivar the Boneless.

Masterlist

The palace was buzzing with activity as the wedding of Prince Oleg and Princess Katia drew ever nearer, and Asta found herself glad that the Prince and Princess were both kept rather distracted and busy with the arrangements for the occasion. This meant that she and Ivar had almost entirely unrestricted time to theirselves, and also an abundance of free time with Igor. It was easy enough now to get time with him, so they could grow closer and closer to the boy, until they’d grown so close to him, that he almost felt like…

Well, Asta had grown to think of him like a son. Their son, truly, though she’d never referred to him as such with Ivar. It wasn’t that she couldn’t see such a bond forming between the two, it was more that she knew that could force a discussion between them about what exactly they were, what they meant to each other. They didn’t realize they were very much on the same page, the care for each other being quite strong in them both, that it was even the same kind of care. Of course, they both remembered the kiss they’d shared in Novgorod- or, the kisses, really- but they hadn’t kissed again since, for fear the other hadn’t really meant it.

But the wedding was coming, and on the day of, both Asta and Ivar seemed to have the startling revelation that they’d be expected to attend, as the guests of Prince Oleg. As his honored guests, what with almost the whole of Rus believing she was Ivar’s Queen. This had sent them both into a frenzy of getting ready as quickly as they could, even down to braiding each other’s hair so that they didn’t waste time on fumbling with each braid themselves.

Ivar found himself stunned into silence at the sight of Asta in such formal apparel as they were expected to wear for the wedding. He’d not seen her dressed like a Princess since before the Siege of Kattegat. Since then, she’d put her everything into being a Shieldmaiden, and appearing as such, so it was a shock to him to see her dressed this way, now. But, there was a difference now.

Now, she wore a dress more like those the women of Kattegat had worn- the Queens of Kattegat had worn. Her hair was done in many braids, giving her a look which still very much called back to a Shieldmaiden, and her eyes were lined black, only adding to the look. Truthfully, she looked exactly like he knew a Shieldmaiden Queen would look, sitting in the Great Hall to hold court. This brought about Ivar’s second startling revelation of the day.

He gave a small hum, which brought Asta’s attention to him with raised brows, expectant. She even prompted him with the question of, “Yes?” which she spoke with quite the same tone as if she were asking if she could help him. This only caused Ivar to chuckle softly.

“I was only thinking how you would look sitting on the throne of Kattegat,” he confessed, and her eyes widened a bit.

“The throne?” she questioned. “I’d have to be Queen to sit there, wouldn’t I?”

“Mm, you would,” he confirmed, nodding slowly. “But I think you would make an excellent Queen. Don’t you?”

Asta chuckled softly, shaking her head a bit and leaning against the wall. “If you think a Saxon woman would make an excellent Viking Queen, then perhaps,” she said. Her answer had been far less committal than he’d have liked, but he didn’t figure he could do very much about that. Not without pushing a bit for a more exact answer, of course, which he was not at all above doing.

“I would think so,” he said. “You are not just any Saxon woman, though, are you?” She gave him a pointed, yet amused look. “You were born to be Princess of Wessex. A role you have… given up, yes, but one you were still prepared for most of your life. You would have been taught the sorts of things which make a successful Queen, wouldn’t you?”

With a deep breath, she did nod. “I would have been, yes,” she conceded. “But you are the son of Ragnar Lothbrok. You’re the heir to his throne, not me. If we return to Kattegat, triumphant, then you will be King, and I would be your Prophet again.”

“Maybe so,” he said, “but either way, I would like to have a Queen, and you are the most fit I can think of.”

Asta chuckled softly. “That would require I be your wife, you realize?” she pointed out, and the way he smirked made her cheeks flush pink. She blinked a few times. Oh. Well, then that was his whole point, wasn’t it? He was telling her a very specific intention he had when they eventually returned to Kattegat, and the thought made her blush.

He wanted to marry her there.

That, or they were preparing to attend a wedding, and he was messing with her. Messing with her, or… trying to see how she felt on the idea? The lack of certainty as to his meaning by presenting this idea to her made her shift a bit in place, and eventually just answer, “We can’t be late. Oleg will serve our heads at the feast after,” before ducking out the door.

She could hear him laughing to himself at her response, and her cheeks burned a little hotter in her embarrassment. Probably, it was only the impending wedding putting thoughts in his head of what he might like when all of this was done. Maybe it was true, he wanted to marry again, and she was the only woman he felt close enough to that he felt comfortable considering it with her. But surely that would change, if they only met some Viking woman who was better suited for him to be Queen in Kattegat.

What Asta didn’t realize, was that Ivar didn’t think there was a woman better suited to the position, to the throne, than she was. She knew and loved the people there, had been close to the Queen who had served during her time there, and now was close to him. Not only that, but she could fight better than any shieldmaiden he had met on the battlefield, and had been trained in the art of ruling a Kingdom before she left Wessex. Add her loyalty to him, and the connection he was fairly certain they shared? No, he couldn’t think of a better woman to be his Queen than Asta the Prophet.

They ended up walking to the wedding together, of course, but neither of them could quite find it in themselves to speak. It was incredibly clear how strange this would feel, to watch a woman who so closely resembled Freydis to them, marry a man who wasn’t Ivar- and a man neither of them trusted so far as they could throw him, at that. No, it wasn’t a pleasant day at all.

But still, they were escorted to a place of honor when they arrived, close enough they would be able to see the wedding take place with no difficulty, and they shared an uncomfortable glance as the wedding got underway. It was torture to them both.

Nothing felt any better as they watched the rings be placed on Katia’s and Oleg’s fingers, as their hands were bound together by a pure white cloth, and as crowns were placed on both their heads. Each of them holding a candle in their free hands, they began to follow the priests around the altar in a circle, and as they came around, both Prince and Princess looked to those they believed to be rightful King and Queen, though Oleg looked away before Katia did. Asta wrapped her arm around Ivar’s, hoping to bring him some slight comfort as he watched the woman who looked so much like his late wife, who he still couldn’t be sure wasn’t her, marry another man.

After all, how much would Asta’s own heart ache if she had to watch Ivar do the same?

They ended up being brought to feast privately with the newly wedded couple once the wedding was over, and as they sat, Ivar decided to speak up, to make sure he and his wife were in a good place with them both still, as strange as things had seemed during the ceremony.

“May we be the first to congratulate the bride and the groom on this momentous day?” he said, and lifted his drink in a toast. “Skål.”

Asta, Oleg, and Katia all returned the toast, taking a sip of their drinks in turn, though Oleg spoke up to say, “And may Odin, Frey, and Freyja also bless our marriage.”

“Yes,” Katia agreed. “To Odin, the Allfather. And to Frey, and Freyja.”

Oleg dismissed the servants who were waiting on the group, and they all bowed, before slipping quietly from the room. Asta watched them go, always perceptive to everything happening in the room. The poisoning of Prince Askold had warned her to be ever on guard with Oleg.

“To Odin,” he toasted, once the servants had all gone. “And the gods. Skål.” Asta wasn’t sure why he seemed to be toasting what he just had, but she figured the difference must lie in a toast to the gods, as opposed to a toast in hopes that their marriage would be blessed by the gods. Still, it made very little sense to her, in all honesty. “Katia told me that she reminds you two of someone,” Oleg began, as Ivar and Asta set their cups down. They each lifted a brow, and then looked between themselves in slight concern. Though, it should be noted only they could read that expression, from so long of being in such close quarters. Neither of them could be a closed book to the other, not anymore.

They also glanced to Katia herself, before Ivar finally nodded, and confirmed, “Yes. My first wife.” They had to be careful when Freydis came up, not to accidentally give away that Asta was not his wife now.

“You had a child with your wife, no?” Oleg questioned then. Ivar shifted uncomfortably, and Asta’s eyes narrowed. She knew she needed more tolerance for Oleg and his games, but she found her patience with him often running quite thin.

Well, not when he played his games with her. She could tolerate someone messing with her. But when she cared for someone, she couldn’t bring herself to tolerate someone messing with them. And this conversation turning to Baldur, Ivar’s lost son… She was already gearing up to argue Oleg down from this topic if she must.

Ivar remained silent for quite a long while, thinking something over for a good bit of time. Asta, having not been involved in quite a few of Oleg’s conversations with her ‘husband’, wasn’t shocked to hear him ask about this. But Ivar was, and so when he spoke, it was to ask, “How did you know that?”

“I know a great many things about you…” Oleg replied vaguely. Asta’s guard went further up. “Ivar the Boneless.” He paused a moment, before asking, “Am I not a Prophet?”

“I have my doubts,” Asta answered honestly, and all eyes turned to her in complete shock. “Unless the gods reveal all things differently to each of those they choose to speak to, it appears you simply have excellent information, information I know you have ways of finding out besides hearing it from the gods.”

She referred to what he’d said about Princess Anna, how he’d known she would be marrying Prince Dir before they’d even been wed, and Oleg’s eyes narrowed as he realized this.

“You are questioning if I speak the truth when I say I am a Prophet, then?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly. It was meant to be a threat, but Ivar watched with curiosity- and truthfully, a touch of pride- as Asta didn’t back down, and only narrowed her own eyes. She was retaliating, beat for beat.

“I am,” she confessed. “All information I have ever been given by the gods has been far less… precise than this, as I know it was for the Seer in Kattegat, while he still lived. So unless they speak to you more directly, in less of a riddle than anything they have spoken to us, I would doubt your information truly does come from them. Not in the way you claim it does, anyhow.”

“You should be careful in your accusations, Queen Asta,” Oleg said, his voice low and threatening. “Questioning me is questioning what the gods have shown me, and who knows what the gods may show me about you?”

Ivar watched incredulously as she leaned forward, her arms crossed on the table now to hold herself up, and her lips stretched into an easy, almost dangerous smirk. “And who knows what they will continue to show me about you?” she replied.

It was brilliant, and Ivar almost grinned with pride. Oleg sat back, and the battle of wills was won by the woman he was convinced now was sent to him to be his Queen. Who else could have worded that so brilliantly as to make it seem her questioning came because the gods had revealed something already, not because of what she didn’t believe they had? Sometimes, he truly wondered if she were not aided by the silvertongued trickster himself. Then again, if Asta didn’t believe in Loki, he couldn’t be sure if he would help her or not. Maybe Loki was helping him, then, through Asta? He couldn’t say, though her mastery of words made him wonder.

The air in the room had become tense and uncomfortable, even if it was slightly diffused by the end of the contest, and Katia gave a strained smile, before standing and approaching her new husband. “Do you mind if I take off this dress?” she asked him. “It’s too hot in here.”

“Of course, my darling,” he replied, and the perfect revenge on Asta came to him. “I’m sure our friends won’t mind.”

“They can help,” Katia said, and turned to walk to their end of the table. Asta stood and stepped forward, as if to help. Ivar looked very much like a startled deer. Because she’d stepped up, Katia asked, “Can you… undo it, Asta?”

Ivar was clearly miserable as Asta nodded, and set to work undoing the back of Katia’s dress, pulling it down off her shoulders once it was done. But it wasn’t what Asta was doing that made him uncomfortable, no. It was the look on Oleg’s face as she did so. In fact, Ivar found himself standing as Katia thanked Asta, smiling at her and letting her hair fall around her shoulders once she took the comb out from it.

“We should go,” Ivar said to Asta, putting a hand on her shoulder to draw her attention to him. His eyes- readable still only to her- were silently begging her not to make a fuss, and to just agree with him. “My legs are…” He cracked an embarrassed smile, tilting his head side to side as if to say they weren’t feeling well.

“Aching?” she supplied, and nodded. “Of course, my love.” She lifted her hand to cup his cheek affectionately, then turned to Katia and Oleg, who seemed surprised at this.

“Oh, but you have to stay,” Oleg countered. “It would be good for you.”

“No,” Asta protested. “We really must be getting him to bed. He stood for quite some time at the ceremony earlier, he needs to rest his legs, now.”

Katia sighed, as if disappointed, and pressed a kiss to Asta’s cheek, then her other cheek. The Shieldmaiden knew that was a common form of greeting, in some places, and so didn’t question it, but did return the gesture. “We are happy to have had your company for the time we’ve had it, then,” she said graciously. “And we hope to have it again soon.”

“Of course, Princess,” Asta replied, and smiled to her, before simply nodding to Oleg, and taking Ivar’s arm so they could go.

Oleg glared at her retreating form, the moment she’d turned her back to him.

The rest of the day passed without very much of note, as Asta really had taken Ivar back to their chambers and convinced him to go to bed. He’d been frustrated, but as his legs had actually been aching, he’d finally conceded and laid down- especially once he realized she intended to lay down with him, curled into his side as always.

Their conversation turned naturally to the meal they’d shared with Oleg and Katia, and he commended her for the way she handled Oleg. It was another point to her being an excellent Queen one day, he’d said, and she’d simply given him a light smack on the chest before telling him to go on to sleep. Amused, he’d laid back and promised to do as she wished, even calling her ‘Your Majesty’, which had earned him a roll of her eyes.

But she was amused as well, he could tell, and so he’d fallen asleep with a smirk on his face, and the woman he intended to make his Queen in his arms. And, for most of the night, they slept in peace.

That peace ended in the early hours of the morning, when Asta sat up gasping for breath, her eyes filled with unshed tears as she panted, her chest heaving as if she had great difficulty breathing, and Ivar quickly sat up with her, his arm wrapping around her shoulders immediately.

“My love, what is it?” he asked her, a near panic laced in his voice which she might reflect on later, as well as the way he had addressed her. But for the time being, she felt as though she were choking on grief, on pain and on a devastation she seemed to feel calling out from the earth. It was all she could do to choke out her response.

“Lagertha.”

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passable-talent · 4 years

Note

hi roe, i’d like to request something !! can i request a zuko x reader with a hanahaki AU? the hanahaki can be either reader or zuko, doesn’t matter. if u don’t want to do the hanahaki part that’s fine🥺 thank you ♡

ya boi is back and he brings angst and mild body horror

tw: lots of talk abt veins n blood n arteries and lots of stuff inside the body.

It took root in winter.

Prince Zuko had been a focused man for a long time. His goal in life was singular- he intended not to do a single thing other than capture the avatar. That would let him go home, and that was all he was worried about.

But then he saw you, in the northern water tribe. The second eldest child of the chief, younger sibling to Princess Yue. You didn’t have her striking white hair, but your looks were astounding all the same- and unlike your sister, you were a waterbender.

It was in his duel with Katara in the spiritual oasis that Zuko came across you, protecting the avatar and your sister. Your father, so protective of his children, kept you hidden from many things, including traditional bending training. It didn’t stop you from mastering your craft, though, as you would escape to the cliffs surrounding the city whenever you could, and create your own techniques.

As a result, your waterbending was unlike anything Zuko had ever seen. It wasn’t like water- it didn’t take the shape of waves or streams like that he had seen from Katara. Instead, your bending took the shape of something much more primal, sinister. Like floodwaters, dangerous and sharp and capable of just as much destruction as fire, maybe more. It was with the ferocity with which you protected the avatar that he first witnessed your unique waterbending, which terrified him and stuck in his mind.

In the brief time he saw you, before the siege of the north was over, and as he travelled into the earth kingdom with his uncle, he was fascinated with you. He wished he could know more about you, and understand your bending, your movements so unlike others of your tribe. He wished he could see the way you learned, or practice alongside you, and some part of him that wanted peace in the world could imagine someday you being an ambassador to the Fire Nation on behalf of your sister, the chieftess.

And so wallflower took root in his heart.

He didn’t notice it for months, as it got worse, and worse, as its roots spread throughout his arteries. He didn’t know, couldn’t possibly guess at the reasoning for his phantom pinches in his muscles.

He didn’t see an issue in thinking further of you, and falling deeper in love with the future he had planned for the both of you in his head. He was going to return, someday, and take his father’s throne. He would open up peaceful communications with all of the nations of the world. He would send aid to help in the rebuilding of the Southern Water Tribe to gain the favor of its sister tribe, and you would become a friend. He understood that now, you were in direct line to the title of chief, and so you wouldn’t be an ambassador. But maybe, you could lead your tribe, and he his nation, and the two of you could be together, fostering peace for the world.

He didn’t think much of it when his chest felt tighter, as he assumed that it was just his exercise exhausting him. He couldn’t see the wallflower, its roots spreading down through the bronchus of his lungs, squeezing its way through them. How could he? It was deep beneath his chestplate that the roots spread to his ribs, until its hold was tight, and his every breath came with just a little sting.

Even though he’d heard of the disease, back at his time at the academy, he still didn’t make the connection, and still allowed his love to grow deeper, his wallflower growing larger.

He could imagine a world in which the two of you would come and meet in Ba Sing Se. You’d dine with the Earth King, and the Avatar, and the four of you would set about changing the world together. He could imagine standing from the table and taking your hand, leading you into a separate, private room.

He could picture the way the two of you would clash, water and fire, the passion and intelligence and drive that you would share, but manifest in opposite elements. He dreamt of visiting the North Pole, and wearing traditional chieftan clothing as he stood behind you, and you visiting him in the Fire Nation with traditional fire nation royal robes behind him.

It was spring when he coughed up the first petal.

It didn’t look like a petal, just a slimy lump of something vaguely orange, and so Iroh assumed that he was coming down with a cold. He was on bedrest, just for a few days, which only worsened the issue, as now all he could do was spend his time thinking about you.

He knew it was silly, to be so in love with someone who was on the opposite side of a war, who he’d met only once, but he couldn’t help it. Even as he pulled slimy lumps of orange from the back of his lungs, as every breath stung as though he’d been running for hours, he recalled your sparkling blue eyes, fierce and determined in the moonlight. He remembered how you interacted with the avatar and Katara while he was stuck up in a collumn of ice. He couldn’t help but be in love with you, even after all this time.

He couldn’t help but want to be a part of a future in which he could be with you. It radicalized him, made him want to do one of two things- either regain his throne through pleasing his father, or regain it through overthrowing his father.

He wasn’t sure which, but he thought that circumstances would make one easier than the other, and his sister became that circumstance in Ba Sing Se. She killed the avatar, and Zuko returned home a triumphant prince, heir to the throne, son of Agni. He, in private, voiced his plans to his sister of winning over the rest of the world when the war was over by launching humanitarian campaigns and proving that the Fire Nation was caring, benevolent. She may have laughed, but she saw her own genius in his plans- it would smooth over war-torn scars.

He just wanted to engineer a life with you. Humanitarian ideas made that easier.

On one particular visit to his uncle, he let out a lick of dragon’s breath, and within the plume of flame was a singular floating ember, fluttering and glowing orange until it burned up midair. The sight piqued Iroh’s curiosity, and he asked Zuko to turn around and lower his head.

With the black lines through Zuko’s veins, Iroh finally realized what was happening.

“Hanahaki,” he told Zuko, reaching between the bars to press down on a black line, feeling the hard, thin root of a plant inside of it. The pressure made Zuko flinch. “It’s probably all through your bloodstream. That’s what’s been hurting your chest. It’s what you’ve been coughing up.” As though on que, Zuko broke out in coughs, two slimy orange petals landing on the floor in front of him. He’d long learned not to cough into his hand, lest he had to deal with the slime on his skin.

“Zuko, doesn’t Mai love you?” Iroh asked, withdrawn from his nephew but still concerned for his safety. If the roots had reached the back of his neck, it would likely reach his head soon, and that was when the disease began to threaten life.

“I’m not in love with Mai,” Zuko answered, eyes drawn to the floor.

And he realized that he needed to join the avatar.

When Katara cast him out of the western air temple, it was only the second most painful wound of the day. The first was that you weren’t there- you hadn’t followed the avatar, he didn’t get to see you. And so still he suffered, coughing up more and more petals each day.

He prompted his own coughing fits, hoping that he could get more petals out, and he would still be able to breathe.

His firebending kept it from growing up his throat, but it didn’t stop the spread through his veins. It wasn’t choking the blood from his brain, but it did give him headaches, and sometimes he wondered if it would kill him before the end of the war, let alone when he would meet you again.

He tried to hide it, one afternoon, when from a scrape on his shoulder erupted a flower. It hurt like nothing else he’d ever experienced, but he managed to slice it off with his swords, hoping that his skin would close over it.

Toph sees all, didn’t he know that?

She could see the unusual blotches in his lungs, and she knew what it meant. It clouded her ability to read his heartbeat, but that didn’t matter, because she knew the answer when she asked the question.

“You have Hanahaki?” she said, her greyed eyes wide, looking almost innocent. “Who is it?”

“The next leader of the Northern Water Tribe,” he answered, the slightest of bittersweet smiles on his face, his days of yearning long gone. Now he merely hoped to see your face one more time, because he didn’t believe he had enough time to earn genuine love from you before the roots of his wallflower stopped his heart.

He had enough time, though, to dispose of his sister with the calmness of a dying man. He faced his victory, and his crown as Fire Lord, with a splitting headache, blackness invading the edge of his vision. He knew his heart wasn’t pushing hard enough to move his blood past the roots of his wallflower, his permanently cold fingers were his proof. But the avatar was his friend, now, and brought with him a little bit of pull.

So you, the young future chief of the Northern Water Tribe, attended the coronation of the Fire Lord.

You were dressed in thin but formal water tribe clothing, a deep blue offsetting the tan of your skin, your sleeves long and flowy, hiding in your palm a small tissue.

In the celebration afterward, you approached the new Fire Lord. You excused yourself from your conversations with the other warriors to visit him, in his chambers. He was withdrawn from the festivities, the effort of speaking before the nation too much for his state of health.

Just outside his door, you coughed into your tissue, straightening your back before striding in.

“Coriander,” you said, your first word one that caught him off guard. He didn’t know what you meant.

Sensing his confusion, you sat down beside him on his bed.

“It’s a flower with little white petals. Smaller than your pinky finger. Hence why it took me so long to figure out.” Zuko gazed sideways at you, narrowing his eyes as he puzzled over your meaning. As a royal, he was no stranger to the language of flowers- but why would you be referencing ‘hidden worth’ to him?

“What was yours?” you asked, your expression soft.

“My what?”

“Your flower. Aang said you had come down with Hanahaki, like me.” Zuko’s eyes widened, and he raised his chin.

“You- you had- too?” Your expression got softer, and you tilted your head with even more kindness in your eyes.

“Imagine how angry I was at myself, considering the circumstances we met in.” A smile broke out across Zuko’s face, but his sharp intake of breath caused him to fall into a fit of hacking. Gently you rubbed his back.

“It gets better in a few weeks,” you promised him, speaking from your own experience, as the voyage to the Fire Nation capital had been your detox. The letter from the avatar had explained everything, and let you heal before you even saw the Fire Lord.

“Wallflower,” answered Zuko, pulling himself from his coughs, “an orange flower.” Only now did he consider the meaning of such a flower- faithfulness in adversity. Did the flowers truly have some sort of meaning in their relationship, to the nations, to the world?

It didn’t matter, really. Zuko was happy to watch the roots recede from his veins, and cough out the last of the petals. He was happy to have you by his side, through it all, turning over a new chapter of the world’s history.

Orange and white- a combination the world hadn’t seen much of, before the story of the chief and fire lord spread. But wallflower and coriander, soon, became the symbol for love in all of the nations.

-🦌 Roe

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slightlyrebelliouswriter23 · 4 years

Text

To Dance With Danger | Jurdan Whump Fic

Anon asked: “Can you write something about how Jude gets hurt somewhere and the Court of Shadows and Cardan go looking for her.”

Summary: These feelings lingered, dripping as fresh wounds. He felt them all anew. “I wish it had been me instead,” Cardan said.

Rating: T

CW: No content warnings. Just broken hearts.

Part I | Part II | AO3 | Masterlist

Part III- From the Woods

The High King of Elfhame was overwrought and pacing.

In the sitting room of the royal chambers, time became a blur of hushed voices and pitying looks, little clay cups filled with tea and a panoply of offerings. Everything from handkerchiefs to the strongest wines from the farthest bowels of the palace cellar, shoved in front of him as if they beheld some magical cure to the awfulness of what he was feeling.

They did not.

Cardan knew the oblations were meant as comforts, but he didn’t want them. There was a sickly feeling in his stomach. It curdled like bad milk and guilt, and only made the consoling worse.

So the High King refused everything, even the wine. Wine was what he used when he could afford to feel nothing, and this was not one of those occasions. A twisted part of him wanted to soak in every horror of the last day—to make a tender meal of pain.

It was the least of what he deserved.

Cardan was busy wearing a faded track into the great ornate rug in the sitting room, tail lashing back and forth, when Vivienne showed up.

The eldest Duarte flew into the antechamber, face sallow with panic. Suddenly, every explanation Cardan had mulled over these many hours burst in his head like overripe fruit when he grasped for them.

How could he explain this to Vivi when he could hardly explain it to himself? How could he tell her that he’d stood by as Jude stumbled to the brink of death, yet again?

So, Cardan stood frozen near the bookshelf at the opposite end of the room, watching Vivi cross the length of it. Her hair was plastered to the sides of her face, the mortal clothes she wore soaked through as if she’d rode through a torrent to get there.

Just as he opened his mouth to speak, a heavily pregnant woman entered.

Cardan stilled. For a heart stopping moment, it was Jude coming through those doors in a gown of dusky rose that swished about her ankles like bulrushes when she walked—one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly.

A ludicrous thought, if he’d ever had one. Jude was not pregnant, at least as far as Cardan was aware. He frowned.

Always he’d been able to tell his wife from her twin. Only when his wits had been poison addled and bewitched by Grimsen’s monstrosity earrings had he ever mistaken one for the other. Now, it was some cruel taunt his mind had spun up from its sleep-deprived and fraying edges.

A lump nestled right in Cardan’s throat. He was unable to meet Taryn’s eyes after that.

“How is she?” Vivi asked as they approached.

Cardan swept up a sprig of baby’s breath from a cut crystal vase on the bookshelf and swallowed. “I do not know.” He leaned back against the wall. “They have barred the door to everyone.”

Vivi’s mouth set into a hard line. “Even you?”

“Especially me,” he said, voice stretched taut. He twirled the stem between his fingers. “The Bomb forbade it.”

“Forbade?” Vivi’s eyebrows rose high on her forehead.

Taryn looked like he’d told her something offensive.

“Well, not expressly. But the implication was clear enough,” he told them, which made Vivi’s face turn a half-amused expression, though Cardan could not imagine why. He lolled his head back against the wall, looking down the bridge of his nose at the pair of them. “I would be too overcome by my emotions to be of any use.”

“You’re the High King, though,” Vivi said, as if he needed reminding. “If you want to be in there, you need only demand it.”

“Yes,” Cardan sighed. “But alas, I’m afraid she is right. I would only get in the way.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. A shrill, sharp pain had started in his feet.

The sitting room was not devoid of places to sit, by any means.

There were several cushioned chairs of fern-green velvet, a handful of upholstered stools dotted about, a large plushy sofa by the fireplace. In the corner, sat a divan crafted to look like a mermaid lying on its side in the waves—an opulent wedding gift from Nicasia, if not a bit on the nose.

Even the rug he’d been pacing probably would not be so bad to sit on.

Instead, Cardan slid down the wall, taking up a spot on the floor. Vivi followed suit, sitting cross-legged in her wet jeans and hoodie on the carpet. Taryn perched herself atop a small cushioned stool, surprisingly prim for a woman at her ripe stage of gestation.

They sat together in exhausted quiet. Runny green light from the wall sconces made the room seem bathed in faerie wine. A pixie with citrine hair brought a towel to Vivi, who was doing a good job of dripping a small pond onto the rug.

Cardan hadn’t cared enough to notice.

Vivi gave an appreciative nod to the chamber maid and began patting her hair with the towel. The pixie returned a few moments later with a tea tray, and placed it on a nearby bench before making her exit.

Cardan peeled at the stem in his hands. Taryn fidgeted with the tassels on her stool. Vivi dried herself as best she could, observing the High King while she worked. He could feel her curious stare as he tore off little blooms and scattered them across the floor.

“How are you, Cardan?” Vivi finally asked.

He picked another white bud. “How do I look?”

“Like death.”

Cardan furrowed his brows. “I feel much worse than that.”

In the last day, such a riot of emotions had lay siege to him, he could hardly tell one from the next. They all smeared together, like someone had swiped a hand through the oil painting of his mind.

“What happened?” Taryn said, when a moment had passed.

Unable to lie and unable to give a concise excuse for Jude’s plight, Cardan began to recount the day’s tale. How it had all started with a deceptive note and had quickly spiraled into a horror from hell.

Leaving out his personal sentiments did nothing to ward them off. The fear that something had happened to Jude, the dread he’d felt when he figured out where his wife had truly gone, the terror of finding her in her grave state. Anger, too. Flashes of it, hot and streaking across his fretful night like stars.

These feelings lingered, dripping as fresh wounds.

He felt them all anew.

“I wish it had been me instead,” Cardan said, at last.

Speaking everything aloud, he felt no less awful, but he was far less alone. The stem of baby’s breath in his hands was now just a stem; having picked off all the blooms and leaves. Silence draped heavy festoons in the air around them.

When Cardan glanced up, Taryn was giving him a strange look.

“Have I told the story wrong?” He asked her, adust. Whatever Taryn was piecing together in her head, she need not gawk. He was tired of all the gawking, the tiptoeing. As if he was a thin layer of ice and not the whole frozen lake.

“It is no small thing to offer your life in someone’s stead,” Taryn pointed out. “Especially when you could live forever. Even more so when you are bound by your word.”

“Well, and I would,” Cardan said. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Unfortunately, no amount of words or promises from me will make it so.”

Taryn folded her hands in her lap. “You must love her very much.” Then, hastily amended, “I knew you cared for her, of course. I just did not know how deeply.”

Cardan blinked. He was unsure of whether to be glad for his transparency now, in such dire circumstances, or offended that anyone had doubted the depth of his feelings for his wife in the first place.

He was saved from deciding when the doors to the chamber opened.

Cardan, Vivi, and Taryn scrambled to their feet. Two nurses exited the royal bedroom, one with great horns sweeping skyward from the crown of her head, the other with brown feathered wings sprouting from his back. They kept their expressions carefully neutral, and closed the doors behind them.

“Any news?” Taryn asked, breathless.

Cardan could barely breathe, himself.

“Her Majesty is stable, my Ladies. Your Majesty,” the horned nurse replied, giving the High King a polite curtsy. The entire room seemed to exhale, at once. “The doctor will be out shortly to oversee your visitation.” With that, the nurses quit the chambers.

Cardan’s eyes flitted to the large oak doors of their bedroom. They suddenly seemed very small and very far away.

Cardan felt a hand alight on his shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking.” Vivienne’s voice came to him. Ripping his focus from the doors, he turned to face her fully.

Vivi’s cat eyes nearly glowed in the verdant light. “This is not your fault, you know.”

“Isn’t it?” Cardan lifted a brow. “Jude is my wife. We are supposed to tell each other things. I have little doubt she knew the danger, and yet, she did not tell me of this. What does that say about me?”

“It says more about Jude, I think.”

At that moment, the Bomb slipped out of the bedroom, carrying a basket of bloody rags. She placed it on a lectern, close by. “I had to put her under with a sleeping draught,” she told them, eyes darting from face to face. “She’s still out, but she will recover eventually. You may see her now.”

Taryn and Vivi rushed for the doors without hesitation. When Cardan made to follow, the Bomb held out a hand to stop him.

“I should like to speak with you alone, Your Majesty,” she said in a low voice. Her gaze was sharp, turned shard-like by fatigue and worry. “I have to tell you something.”

Cardan’s heart sunk low in his chest. Whatever news the Bomb bore, he suspected it was not happy. She glanced toward the door, making sure Vivi and Taryn were well inside the room, before turning back to him.

“What is it, Liliver?” Cardan dreaded the answer before it came.

The Bomb pursed her lips. “It’s about something Jude said. Right before she went under.”

☽☽☽☽☽

The High Queen of Elfhame was dreaming. She was sure of it because her husband, whom she was fairly certain resented her dearly, was reading something aloud.

She heard the fluttering of pages. Perhaps it was their terms of annulment.

His voice came soft and muffled, as if through several closed doors. “I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says ‘Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.’”

That was indeed how his voice sounded. Like a downy quilt, cocooning her. Through the thick sludge of sleep, she wondered if, after everything, he could still love her as the snow did the trees.

☽☽☽☽☽

When Jude woke once more, she was too warm. A sheen of sweat clung to her skin like morning dew. Or, more probably, like a layer of dirt. A film she couldn’t quite pare.

It felt like she hadn’t bathed in a week.

She recognized the royal chambers. The great sweep of their bed; the large cherrywood wardrobe where they kept all their clothes, heaps of chiffon and lace spilling out of looking glass doors. The writing desk by the window, a mess of papers and ink pots.

On the beside table, there sat the well-worn copy of a familiar two-book bind-up she’d once pilfered from Hollow Hall.

Everything was quiet. Still. Only the crackle and low amber light from the fire filled the room. Apparently, everyone had vacated.

Everyone, except for one person.

He sat next to the bed in a chair, scooted right up close so he could hold her hand. He was holding her hand in both of his, head bowed to press against them on the mattress. His hair stuck up, every which way, as if he’d been raking anxious hands through it.

Jude felt her heart hitch in her chest.

“Your hair looks like a coppice,” she croaked.

Cardan’s head snapped up. He stared at her with bleak eyes, rimmed in red fatigue. He was staring at her, not saying anything; but he was holding her hand, and that was all that mattered.

Then, he dropped it.

Which was the opposite of what she wanted.

Jude surveyed him more closely. The dim light threw shadows across Cardan’s face that made him appear more haggard than she’d ever seen him, though still ruinously beautiful.

He was looking at her like if he blinked, she might turn to dust.

After a long moment, Jude cleared her throat. “How long have I been out?” Speaking felt sand-papery, but she had to say something.

“Three days,” Cardan murmured.

Her brows snapped up. Had it really been that long? She must have been completely unconscious for a lot of it.

Her muscles did feel stiff. She tried to stretch, but winced, remembering her leg. It didn’t hurt, not like before. Now, it was a mere dull throb.

Jude dared a look down.

Her trousers and tunic had been removed, replaced with a thin, white nightgown. Her left knee was wrapped in a heavy chrysalis of bandages and propped up by a pillow.

“The Bomb stitched it up,” Cardan informed her.

“What about my magic?”

“The magic only works if you remember you have it.”

Right. The glimpses. They could make you forget your very person. It was likely they could make one forget the powers they possessed, as well.

“What about your magic?”

Cardan shook his head. “Only you can heal yourself, Jude.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. Jude misliked the idea of her husband speaking in double. No matter how right he was.

Cardan’s eyes stole across her face. “There’s, um…” His bottom lip wobbled. “A coat of peppermint leaves under the bandages. For the pain.”

Jude had never seen him at such a loss for words. Nor so distraught. Her heart ached at the worry lines on his face, that trembling lower lip. She’d never cared overmuch about her own pain. Only his. She wanted to smooth it all away with her thumb, her lips.

Instead, she reached for his hand.

Cardan sat up straight, the wooden legs of the chair groaning as he drew back. He dragged his fingers through his hair, pulling out the curls. He seemed to be gathering himself, spooling himself back in.

Something bobbed in Jude’s throat.

“What happened?” She meant it in the sense of how they’d come to find her, but maybe she was speaking in double, too.

When Cardan looked at her, his eyes were dark, like the way it might feel to swallow a cold stone. “What happened, Jude,” he said with frightful calm, “Is that you lied.” He pulled a piece of folded up parchment out of his pocket and cast it onto the duvet.

“What’s this?” she asked, picking it up.

“Your note.”

Jude winced. She’d completely forgotten.

“A lie of omission, to be sure,” Cardan said, “But which was also very nearly a lie in earnest.” The temper in his eyes seemed to eddy, a roll of thunder through a storm cloud, pinioning her to the spot.

Jude knew which words he meant.

I won’t bore you by dying.

She’d scrawled them across the paper in such haste to depart, she hadn’t thought about the implication if she failed to return. Now, it seemed glaringly obvious.

She pressed her lips together, then folded the paper back up. “You’re angry with me.”

“That,” Cardan scowled, “Is a gross understatement, I assure you. And entirely irrelevant to the heart of the matter.”

Her brows knitted together. It unsettled her, not knowing his meaning.

“How could you do it?” He wondered, and Jude’s eyes went wide.

Suddenly, she was back in the cave, fever dreams flitting before her eyes. Locke. Valerian. Balekin. Cardan. All looking down at her in disgust. Her stomach roiled, as if it might turn itself inside out all over the coverlets.

Jude reeled, but she was no coward. This was the conversation they ought to have. Except, she hadn’t prepared any words, and she hadn’t caught a glimpse. So how was she to explain herself?

She was wholly unprepared for this. She was wholly unprepared for Cardan to hate her again.

“I- I don’t know.” Her voice quavered. “I was so angry. So full of hatred. It just happened.”

“If I had known, Jude…” Cardan blew out a breath, looking down at the floor. “You should have said something. I did not know.”

Which was confusing. Had he somehow found out about Balekin, and what she’d seen him do to Cardan? Had someone told him of everything Balekin had done in the Undersea? There was a part of her that would feel glad if she did not have to speak to it.

But then, why had Cardan asked for an explanation?

Jude turned a wary eye on him, but found his face unreadable. “I was afraid to tell you,” she said.

The corners of his mouth turned down and he fixed her with a long look. “If you are unhappy here, Jude,” Cardan said in a strained sort of voice, “If you are unhappy with your life as Queen, or unsatisfied by your life with me in any way, you need only say it. I would never hold you against your will. I would not begrudge you or bring you harm for leaving, if that is what you so choose.”

Nothing of what her husband was saying made any sense to Jude. Her head was spinning.

“But do you truly hate me so much,” he continued, “That you would risk your life to voice your discontent?”

“Discontent?” Jude’s brows drew together. “Cardan, what are you talking about? This is my home. I am happy here.”

“You don’t have to lie anymore, Jude.” His tone was needled with such derision that Jude almost flinched. Cardan’s features turned knifelike.

She balled her fists at her sides. “I’m not lying,” she huffed, her cheeks blooming with heat. “If this is some sort of trick to get me to leave again, I swear to—”

“It’s no trick,” he interrupted. “The Bomb told me what you said.”

“And what, exactly, did I say?” Jude clenched her jaw, defiant, spearing him her most ruthless glare.

I will always be a challenge, she had promised Lady Asha many moons ago.

She might be mortal, unbeholden to her words, but that had been a promise Jude intended on keeping. She would not go quietly, if that was her husband’s hope.

“‘Tell him that I hated him. Tell him that’s why I did it.’” The words seem to grit at Cardan’s teeth as he said them. Then, his eyes shuttered, and squeezed shut. He ran a hand down his face. When he spoke again, his voice held none of the contempt it had before. “I knew you hated me, once. I did not know how deep that well still ran. You must hate me a great deal, however, for it to be your dying wish to tell me.”

Oh.

Oh, no. They had sorely misunderstood one another. There was a largeness rising like a parachute in Jude’s throat.

“Cardan,” she choked out, “I don’t— That’s not what I… Come here.” She held out her hand, reaching for him.

Cardan looked at her like she held a poison apple in her palm. Like she was a death trap. Maybe she was. She certainly felt like it sometimes.

“Please,” she rasped.

The High King assessed her for so long, Jude thought he might very well reject her. To her surprise, however, he stood from his chair and circled the bed slow.

Cardan slid onto the duvet with her but remained sitting upright, leaning back against the headboard. He’d left ample space between them. Enough so that he did not feel any closer.

To Jude, that short span of satin sheets was a wide chasm. She hated every inch of it.

It would be a small thing, she thought, to close that distance. To take him into her arms. Instead, Jude twisted as much as she could without sending a spike of pain through her knee, and scooped one of his hands into hers. She fiddled with the rings on his fingers.

“You’ve mistaken me,” Jude said, suddenly feeling very shy. “I did not go to catch a glimpse because I hate you. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Cardan gave her a blank stare. “I am not sure I know your meaning.”

A movement behind him caught Jude’s eye. The dark tuft at the end of his tail. It whipped through the air, to and fro.

Jude gnawed at her bottom lip. “I am not good at conveying the depth of my feelings.” She traced a thumb down the centre of his palm. “I am much better at showing them.”

He shivered at the touch. “I know.”

“At the revel a few nights ago,” Jude recalled, “A courtier asked me to dance, and I got flustered. You stepped in, which I was very grateful for, and you told him that I do not heed the requests of others.”

I’m afraid heeding requests, even my own, is the singular skill which evades my wife’s grand arsenal.

When Cardan did not reply, she barreled on, for Jude would rather do that than look him in the eye.

“It reminded me of one such request you made long ago—a request I was unable to heed.” Jude paused, steeling herself. “For a while now, I have been contemplating how best to explain my defiance. So when I saw the glimpsing fog, I thought it would be better to show you in a way that removes all doubt. ”

Understanding was dawning across Cardan’s face when she peeked at him. He shook his head, incredulous, then shifted so that he was lying down on his side. He laid his head on the pillow next to hers.

“I cannot fathom why I would doubt you if you told me,” Cardan said, softly. His pine sweet breath fanned over her face.

“Because I am mortal.” Jude frowned. “I can lie.”

“Yes,” he said. “You can also be quite nonsensical for so sensical a woman. Don’t you know by now that I trust your word over most everyone’s?”

“I can’t see why you would,” she muttered. “I am the most capable out of anyone of deception.”

His eyes bore into hers. “And yet, I trust you, Jude.” Even if he were able to lie, she could not deny him this.

Through their past, Jude could see every time Cardan had put his trust in her hands so very clearly, like fulgent pinpricks in her night sky—a bright needlework of stars. And threaded through with darkness was every time she’d betrayed that trust.

How dark his sky must be, how starless.

“I do wonder, however,” Cardan said, “What I’d need do to earn yours. Tell me what it is and I will do it, if you’ll let me. For I should very much like to try.”

Jude thought about trust and all its requisites. How trusting someone other than herself felt very much like throwing herself off a cliff. Or pitching herself into a raging sea. Or falling in love with someone you’d vowed to hate.

She looked at Cardan, the planes of his face, sharp edges casting shadows in the lambency. Their fingers lay on the bedspread, laced together.

He made no move to draw away.

Maybe trust and love were the same thing. They were, at the very least, similitudes of each other. Mirrored objects. Both felt like losing control, though Jude had never been very good at that.

She thought about Cardan and how he’d oft lose himself in faerie wine and revelry. How even though he had known bare scraps of affection as a child, he’d been undaunted in the face of love.

Jude envied him, just a little, his ability to throw himself to the fray. To glory in that great tailspin.

It was certainly much braver than swinging a sword at your enemies every time they crossed you. That was brave too, but there was more certainty in it—a tangible aim, like throwing a bridle over the yawning head of fear and pulling it tight so that you might feel in control.

Jude felt a gentle nudge at her leg. Though there was still space between them, Cardan’s tail had come to curl around her calf.

There was a greater kind of bravery, Jude thought, in feeling every flayed nerve of fear, and not letting it control you. Maybe that was cutting off the head of the serpent.

“I love you,” Jude blurted.

Cardan blinked at her once, before his ink-slick eyes went globelike. “While that relieves me enormously to hear, my love,” he breathed, “I’m afraid it does little to help me understand.”

“That’s why I went to catch a glimpse,” she said, “And why I killed him.” Then, it all came rushing out of her on the crest of a breath, as if it had been living in her lungs this whole time. “I love you and I killed Balekin when you asked me not to and I don’t feel sorry for it. I don’t even feel a little bit guilty, because he deserved to die, but I hate the pain it caused you and I hate myself for being the one who caused it and I love you.”

When she finished, Jude clamped her mouth shut, not feeling the least bit comforted by her admission.

Her heartbeat a melee against her ribcage. She was both tense and heavy, at once. Saying it outright was more exhausting than almost dying. Which maybe should have concerned her more than it did.

Cardan had gone still as a stone next to her. “You went to catch a glimpse,” he murmured, “Because you wanted to show me why you killed Balekin.”

She nodded. “I knew that if I could catch one, it could show you the irrefutable truth of what I saw him do to you, what he did to me in the Undersea, how horrible he was. How all of those things made me betray you and how it was not at all out of spite.”

Jude drew a ragged breath. She felt raw, exposed. She sagged under the weight of it.

Rain tapped unsure fingers on the window. The fire in the hearth was down to the embers, consuming itself from the inside out.

“But I have not managed even that, and now…You must hate me,” she said to the coverlets, because it was easier to speculate with inanimate objects than to bear witness to Cardan’s expression.

“No.” A long, cool finger crooked under her chin, tilting it so she met his gaze again. “You’ve mistaken me, my love. I do not hate you. Quite the opposite, in fact.” Cardan stroked a thumb down the line of her jaw.

Her heart faltered. “Well,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “That is a relief.”

“Oh Jude,” Cardan said, and then he was closing that distance between them on the bed, cradling her against his chest. Jude slid her arms around him, holding him with as much fervency.

She breathed in his mossy scent and really, really hoped this was not another fever dream. Or if it was, that she would never get well again.

“I thought you knew,” Cardan whispered into her hair. “I forgave you long ago, my love. I thought you knew it was not your fault.”

Jude leaned back to give him a bemused look, but Cardan’s face was wholly sober.

“You’re serious?” She gaped at him. “Cardan. I killed him.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I drove a knife through his throat.”

“I’m aware.” Cardan narrowed his eyes. “Though, if you could be so kind as to spare me the rest of the details, I’d rather not hear them.”

She ignored that last jab, well and truly at a loss. “How is that not my fault?”

“It is certainly your doing, Jude,” he said, “But I don’t believe any of us could have shielded Balekin from his own demise.”

“You mean, because he was a traitorous bastard?”

Cardan snorted. “I daresay that’s part of it, yes,” he said. “Though, I think fate and magic had a good hand in it, as well.”

“How do you mean?”

“Do you remember the crown’s curse?”

“The one that made you turn into a snake?” She gave him an incredulous look. “Yes, of course. I don’t really like to reminisce about it.”

“Not that one,” Cardan said, a wraithlike smile tugging at his lips. “The other one. The curse that would befall the person who murdered the crown’s wearer.”

Dulcamara’s words from a time long past echoed through her pool of memory. The crown is cursed so that a murder of its wearer causes the death of the person responsible.

Jude squinted at him. “But Eldred wasn’t wearing the crown when he was murdered.”

“He wasn’t.” Cardan tilted his head to the side, considering. “But he was its wearer in every other sense of the word. Until he placed the crown on another’s head, it would have been tied to him.”

“If that’s true,” she said, “Why didn’t he do something? Why didn’t he stop Balekin?”

“My father had been ingesting poison unwittingly for months before the coronation,” he reminded her.

Jude grimaced. That particular revelation in the Court of Shadows had brought shock to them all.

“He was weak,” Cardan said. “As a result, so was his magic.”

She recalled the flowers on the throne, withering to brown and falling onto the dais during Balekin’s coup. She’d thought that it had signified Eldred’s loss of magic, but perhaps Cardan was right. Perhaps it was the very opposite.

“So you’re saying,” Jude said slowly, trying to puzzle out the meaning of what he was telling her, “That my killing Balekin was because of Grimsen’s curse?”

She was not sure whether to feel offended or relieved. The idea of being a pawn, much less when it was without her knowledge, was a dislikeful one. Worse still, if it served Grimsen’s foul design. Jude could not deny, however, that such a curse would exonerate her in a more concrete way than a glimpse ever could.

Maybe she should be grateful that her husband was so astute.

“I was only suggesting.” Cardan gave a lazy, one-shouldered shrug, his curls spilling onto the pillow. “Whether or not there is truth to the theory, I cannot be sure. But I do not fault you for his death, either way.”

“I appreciate that,” she said, quiet, into their small sphere of reality.

It was unfair, really; the way he was looking at her in all his vicious beauty.

“You scared me again,” Cardan said, taking one of her hands in his. “It was like watching you fall from the rafters all over. And then, I was afraid you hated me again.” She marveled at his touch, his confession.

“I do not hate you, Cardan,” Jude said. “And when I do hate you, it’s because I love you very much, and you have done something incredibly stupid.”

A laugh burst from his lips. “I do not have to wonder how that feels,” he said, and Jude’s heart gave a great squeeze.

Maybe sharing their fears was a little like taking off armor. They may only do it in this room, in this bed, but it was a comfort all the same. If there was anyone who deserved her unguarded, Jude knew it was him.

“I was afraid you resented me,” she told him in a small voice.

“I do not resent you.” Cardan shook his head. “Not even a little.”

“So, what you said at the revel, about heeding requests…”

“That,” he said, black eyes glittering, “Was about you being obstinate in the face of everyone’s wishes but your own. A quality which you needn’t have proved, on account of most people knowing it to be true, but which you insisted on proving, nonetheless, by frolicking straight into a Glimpsing Fog.”

“I was never actually in the fog,” Jude grumbled. “And I most certainly did not frolic.”

“I cannot express to you how much I don’t care for semantics right now.”

Jude couldn’t help the impish grin twisting at her mouth.

“Why are you smiling?” Cardan asked, beleaguered.

“I’d forgotten how fussy you get when you’re worried.”

He gave her a bewildered look. “You almost died, Jude.”

“It’s just nice,” she said, shrugging, “To be fussed over.” After a moment, she added, “We never had much of that with Madoc.”

He sighed at that and pulled her close again. “Worried and fussy are the least of what I am.”

Jude pillowed her head on his chest. She could hear the erratic beat of his heart.

“What are you then?”

“Beside myself.” Cardan said. “Driven mad. Terrified.”

“Semantics.”

“Regardless, I much prefer you terrify me in your usual ways.”

She angled her head towards him. “With knives and swords?”

“Don’t forget claws and sharp teeth.”

Her grin turned mischievous. “I don’t think I’ll have any problem heeding that request.”

“Later,” Cardan said, kissing her forehead.

“How much later?”

He arched a brow at her, fixing her with a pointed look. “You need to rest, Jude.”

“Okay,” Jude sighed, eyes lingering on his mouth.

It was most certainly not okay, but there was the small matter of her leg and her almost death to contend with. Jude reckoned she’d have to fight tooth and nail to lift a finger anywhere in the palace for the foreseeable future. Much less do anything strenuous.

So they lay like that for a long while, limbs tangled together as roots. Taking each other in like air into lungs. A tender thing floated, diaphanous and shimmering in the air between them.

Above their heads, blue bellflowers and deep plum hollyhocks blossomed, beautiful spangles of petals bursting from the loam. Cardan glanced at the wall, his mouth a crescent moon. When he regarded her again, it was slowly; bewondered.

Jude slid her gaze to his. There, she found two mirrors.

There, she was reflected.

☽☽☽☽☽

If you want to know more about Cardan’s theory, read this Jude is Balekin’s curse theory

Last Part

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Title Inspo: From the Woods by James Vincent McMorrow

AN: Wow, this has been such an epic journey/test of my writerly will. This final part took me more than a month to write, but I have to say, I’m thrilled with the result. To everyone who found this fic when it was still in its first stages, and sent me so much love and encouragement to see it through, I can never thank you enough for taking the time to reach out and tell me your thoughts, or just generally express your excitement. It meant the world. And to the nonnie who requested, I thank you for giving me the opportunity to write this!

If you enjoyed this please let me know in the form of comments, reblogs, keyboard smashes, messages, and/or asks. I truly do read and appreciate every single one. If you’d like to be tagged in any future Jurdan content, let me know and I’ll add you to the tag list!

Back to the forest now. -Em 🖤💫

Tag List: @velarhysismine @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte @knifewifejude @clockworkgraystairs @jurdanhell @judexcardanxgreenbriar @hizqueen4life @nite0wl29 @mysweetvilllain @thesirenwashere @babycardan @aelin-queen-of-terrasen @queenofgreenbriar @pilesofriles

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lins-fandom-hub · 4 years

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HPHM Profile: Em Wen-Hui Lin

Template by @hogwartsmystory

Profile subject to change.

IDENTITY

Name: Emily “Em” Wen-Hui Lin

Gender: Female

Age: 12 as of May 31, 1990

Birth Date: February 19, 1978

Species: Human

Blood Status: Half-blood (both parents are Muggle-born attending wizarding institutions)

Sexuality: Undetermined

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Ethnicity: Chinese

Nationality: Um...British, I think?

Residence: Oxford, England

Myer Briggs Personality Type: ISFP

THE MAGE

Wand: Rowan and Phoenix feather, 11 inches, quite flexible

Animagus: N/A. Of the three siblings, only Clara has become an Animagus.

Misc Magical Abilities: Like her siblings, Em is a Legilimens--although she did not recognize the power until late in her 6th year.

Boggart Form: Her inner demons are her downfall. Her Riddikulus form makes the entire room dark, leaving her in the spotlight, standing in front of the glowing column of a Cursed Vault, while shadows of her past begin to echo her worst thoughts. Most of them pertained Jacob’s permanent disappearance, or her older sister abandoning her for good. She just cannot stand the thought of standing there, helpless while her family suffered.

Riddikulus Form: Her Riddikulus form is of the demons popping like soap bubbles all around her, the voices warbled with every bubble that rose. The prevailing darkness will fade as well. The Cursed Vault will become a giant teddy bear.

Amortentia: (What do they smell like?) Freshly ground mint, cinnamon, freshly baked fudge, and tomato juice.

Amortentia: (What do they smell?) She smells fresh linens, nutmeg, smoke from a fire, and...wait, is that honey lemon tea?

Patronus: If she can produce a Patronus, it would be of a black swan. A little strange when compared to Jacob’s falcon and Clara’s unicorn, but her grace and poise is not to be underestimated.

Patronus Memory: the day the tension from the Cursed Vaults finally subsided and she saw the light return to her siblings’ eyes.

Mirror of Erised: She sees herself with her older siblings, both of them genuinely smiling in happiness. Her family has completely reconciled, and she feels at peace.

Specialized/Favourite Spells: Before Em goes to Hogwarts, she knew already of the Herbivicus Charm, which her father taught her to speed up the growth of flowers. This was very useful for her whenever people requested her to make flower crowns at the arts and crafts club she heads along with her friend Dawn. Em can cast a really good Expelliarmus as well--a powerful one that could send the wand flying far away from the owner. In later years, one should watch out for her Tarantallegra and Obscuro. Unbeknownst to several of her classmates, she could also perform a good shield charm thanks to training with her siblings in her first year.

APPEARANCE

Faceclaim: TBD

Voiceclaim: TBD

Game Appearance: (may subject to change every once in a while)

Height: 4’10 at 11, but grows a bit before reaching adulthood

Weight: She is on the slightly light side, lighter than average.

Physique: Relatively frail, but her glare can make up for her strength and power behind her spells.

Eye Colour: Dark brown

Hair Colour: Black

Skin Tone: Pale

Body Modifications: N/A

Scarring: N/A

Inventory: Em carries two silk bookmarks, a beaded bracelet, her wand, a few flower clips, several quills and bottles of ink, and some parchment.

Fashion: Most of the time in school, Em wears her school robes. Yes, even when she’s not in class, she wears her school robes. She would always have a flower in her hair.

ALLEGIANCES

Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff

Ilvermorny House: Pukwudgie/Wampus?

Affiliations/Organizations: Hufflepuff House (Hogwarts); Circle of Khanna (Hogwarts); Order of the Phoenix (1996-); St. Mungo’s Hospital

Professions: Healer at St. Mungo’s

HOGWARTS INFORMATION

Class Proficiencies:

Astronomy: A

Charms: E

DADA: O

Flying: A

Herbology: O

History of Magic: A

Potions: E

Transfiguration: E

Electives: Care of Magical Creatures (E), Ancient Runes (A), Muggle Studies (E)

Quidditch: Em does not join the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, but she is a great supporter of the team in the spectator stands.

Extra Curricular: Arts and Crafts Club (leader), Duelling Club

Favourite Professors: Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall

Least Favourite Professors: Professor Binns

RELATIONSHIPS

Brother: Jacob Pan-Hui Lin

Although she and Jacob never really were that close, she still admires him for what he does and never held a grudge against him for his mistakes. She longs for them to reunite when she learned he went missing, and always wanted to know him and get along with him.

Older sister: Clara Xing-Hui Lin

Em didn’t really get a chance to connect with Clara until the summer before her first year at Hogwarts. Still, she was firm on helping Clara through her trying times and helped her in any way she could to break the final curse and stop R once and for all.

Father: Sueh-Yen Lin

Mother: Renee Lin (nee Tao)

Love Interest: currently N/A

Best Friends: Dawn Everett, Hillary Redstone,

Rival: Travis Poulter, Eunice Ahn

Enemy: R, Voldemort and Death Eaters

Dormmates: Dawn Everett, three other Hufflepuff girls

Pets: Cheddar (rat), some others TBD

Closest Canon Friends: Penny Haywood, Chiara Lobosca, Nymphadora Tonks, Diego Caplan, Andre Egwu, Charlie Weasley, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Cedric Diggory, Badeea Ali, Barnaby Lee, Liz Tuttle, Tulip Karasu

Closest MC/OC Friends:

Sarahi Silvers (@dat-silvers-girl )

Nora Magnus (@dat-silvers-girl )

BACKGROUND/HISTORY

Pre Hogwarts:

Em was around 5 or 6 when Jacob disappeared. Since then, all she had known was broken bonds and tears.

Her sister drifted away from her as well in her first 5 years at Hogwarts. She had to learn in this time to stand alone in the worst of the storm.

1st Year:

Em was Sorted into Hufflepuff on the first day at school

The statue curse prevailed during little Em’s first year at Hogwarts

Following the Halloween Feast, Em created the Arts and Crafts club at her friend Dawn’s suggestion--where members create many wonderful things out of everyday items

She and Clara take up Bill’s offer to go to the Burrow for Christmas.

After Rowan Khanna’s death, Em was roped into the Circle of Khanna by Diego Caplan who insisted the group needed her duelling skills

While Clara was preparing the Polyjuice Potion to infiltrate R, Em got to see all the Vaults firsthand that have been broken

Prior to Clara’s trip to the Black Lake with Ben, Merula, and Jacob, Em comes around and gives Clara a flower crown to present to the merqueen

After the curse was lifted, just as Clara threw a party at the Three Broomsticks, Em threw a party in the courtyard with the people who were unable to go to Hogsmeade

2nd Year:

Em returns to Hogwarts for her second year prepared to help her siblings take down the rest of R

3rd Year:

Em returns to Hogwarts without her siblings for the first time. However, it was then when she met the Boy Who Lived--Harry Potter.

The year passed pretty normally for her

4th Year:

When the Chamber of Secrets was opened, little Em was one of the first to ensure that all the younger Hufflepuff students remained calm in this time

She already knew firsthand that Gilderoy Lockhart was suspicious, and so she wrote her mother when he was outed (and his memory was permanently wiped)

5th Year:

Em becomes a Hufflepuff Prefect for her fifth year along with Cedric Diggory

The year that Sirius Black escaped has been a tough one for her. Imagine Percy constantly on high alert, especially since he’s Head Boy--she’s adapted his high alertness once more, fearing for the entire student body once more

Despite all this, little Em came out successful in her OWLs, obtaining an impressive eight OWLs while only failing History of Magic (she dropped Muggle Studies after her 4th year)

6th Year:

Enter: The Goblet of Fire, and the Triwizard Tournament!

Em was too young to participate, so she ended up sitting by the sidelines cheering both her friend Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter on

She did not develop a crush on any of the boys in her year (mostly because she can’t be bothered right now with romance, maybe), but she did go to the ball with another Ravenclaw boy in her year

The loss of Cedric Diggory at the end of her 6th year had put her in another mute grief. First, she sat through Rowan Khanna’s memorial--she didn’t expect to sit through another one five years later, and one for one of her closest friends too.

7th Year:

Prior to starting her 7th year, her older sister Clara left for China

Em becomes one of the Head Girls in her 7th year, but the arrival of Dolores Umbridge and the way she instilled all these regulations made her secretly pissed off

She wholeheartedly supported Fred and George in testing their joke products so that they could make a profit out of their talents

When they left Hogwarts on their broomsticks after a while, she too was one of the few who wished she could leave the school but could not

Order of the Phoenix / 2nd Wizarding War:

Em was roped into the Order of the Phoenix along with her brother, Jacob, by none other than Professor Dumbledore immediately following graduation

While her sister was in China holding back the Japanese forces, the times they had to talk were far and few in between--however, they were able to talk when they could, and Em relayed everything that happened to her through encrypted letters sent to her grandmother

Em was the one who alerted Clara of the upcoming Battle of Hogwarts--while the siege went underway, she stuck close to Diego

Em survives the battle--she mourned for Fred and the many lives that were lost

Post-War:

Em ends up becoming a Healer at St Mungo’s, helping those who have undergone traumatic experiences during Voldemort’s rise

Future relationship TBD.

PERSONALITY

Though she comes off as a shy soul, little Em is not completely fragile. Behind her kind eyes laid years of suffering from her family’s arguments and broken bonds--yet she pushes forward, and her persistence does not go unnoticed

Em is always willing to offer a helping hand, even though she’s the one who needs it most.

She cares deeply for those who she ends up befriending and trusting. This also includes most of Clara’s friends at Hogwarts.

Though soft-spoken and easy to knock over, her spells could pack a serious punch.

MISC

Em’s love of Herbology came from her father, whom she loved helping in the family gardens long before Jacob’s disappearance.

She doesn’t play many instruments like her sister, but she has a decent singing voice good enough to join the Frog Choir. However, the thought of that made Em shake her head--she really only sings for fun, after all.

Em’s love for crafts came from the time Jacob gifted her a Hippogriff ornament at her first Christmas that he made himself.

#hogwarts mystery #hphm #etched engraved everlasting #hphm em lin #so here's the profile for clara's younger sister #for anyone who is interested more or less in learning about her #but she's always open to friends so #hit me up if you want to be friends with the little sister

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strykingback · 3 years

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Re:Call..

Location: Solitas Region, Mantle Time: 12:00 PM OST: Heavy is The Head That Wears The Crown Volume Four.

______________________________

The top of the hour had arrived in Mantle, the streets were overpopulated with people from different varieties human or faunus. Everyone who was born here remained here as part of their status to serve the higher class, that higher class being Atlas of course.

Yet, the city itself was a shell of what it once was. What was once a city that started The Great War against the other kingdoms became a city without a military no less a Huntsman Academy of course. Speaking of Alsius Academy the once prestigious academy also fell to ruin when the Rise of Atlas had come.

It was much for someone to take in, clothed in drapes to hide his identity. Kazura Rojas Verde was here in Mantle.. after all a Knights duty was never over even despite his wounds. However, he was here for more than that.... he was here to see an old friend. This old friend of his helped him and his teammates escape from Atlas during their assault on Icarus PMC.

Kazura could only sigh at the state of disarray Mantle was in. The racism against the faunus was beginning to spiral out of control ever since the White Fang attacked Beacon Academy alongside the unknown assailant whose message sowed the seeds of distrust in every kingdom. “ Damn Faunus! All of you ruined everything including an entire festival! “ Someone shouted catching the draped prince’s attention. Witnessing a human and his group of cronies kicking a male faunus, who was already battered and bruised from the consistent beating.

“ Stop... Stop...” Kazura whispered to with his hand trembling with pure rage and just wanting to help. Yet though he felt like if he were to reveal himself the Atlesian military would be wary of his presence and would send their forces to apprehend him...

Yet though what is the difference between being someone who witnesses something and trying to help, against someone who does nothing and moves on? Is that justice? Is that being a chivalrous person? Or is it cowardice? Kazura could feel his teeth clenching with pure rage coming with his teeth being gritted, finally his boiling point was reached when seeing one of the human cronies approach with a hammer.... intending to kill the battered faunus . “ STOP!!!! ” He shouted unsheathing both his sword Caliburn and his shield Honorbrought. Which he proceeded to throw his shield at the man who was holding the hammer knocking down to the ground with his shield returning to the knight stopping the violence causing everyone to stop what they were doing looked at Kazura.

“ Is this Just?! Tell me! IS THIS JUST?! To blame the faunus for something that they never did?! “ The knight of honor shouted with all of his might.

“ Yeah its goddamn just! Also, who the hell do you think you are!? “ The man who beat the faunus questioned Kazura only for the knight to menacingly approach him taking off the hood of his drape sheathing his weapons.

“ I am Kazura Rojas Verde, The Eighth Prince of Brumel, The one who saved your city from being owned by a tyrannical PMC CEO, and I ask of you to drop your weapons.... and leave the faunus man be....or face my wrath. “ He demanded glaring at the leader of the beating who simply looked in his eyes and felt fearful....backing up and starting to turn tail and run with the others following suit, with Kazura putting on his hoodie to his drape once more.

Walking over to battered faunus he placed two fingers on his neck listening to his labored breathing and getting a pulse. “ He’s alive... He needs medical attention now!!! “ He said with a serious tone with one of the civilians of Mantle rushing over, “ I used to be a combat medic for the Atlesian military I can take care of him...” She spoke with Kazura rising and going about his way....

For the next few minutes he wandered around the city until his scroll started to ring taking it out and checking who was calling him here, his eyes being drawn to the virtual screen.

“UNKNOWN NUMBER”

The scroll flashed taking a few minutes to believe that it was his “friend” taking one finger and swiping on the left to answer it bringing the phone-like device to his ear.

“ Hello? “ Kazura said “ Hello Kazura, I was not expecting you to return here ever since the Founding Day Crisis... instead you are quite lucky I disabled the camera in the sector that you were in... “ A distorted voice spoke through the speaker of the others Scroll.

“ Heh Guess I am really....Mr.X, but for now I may need to speak with you.. in private.... “ The Knight replied.

“ Well then if you’d like to speak with me head down to the second alleway and turn into it ... I’ll get the door for you...” Mr. X said befoe ending the call with Kazura putting his scroll away and following Mr. X’s instructions going down to the second alleyway and entering it where one of the brick walla changed to a metal doo sliding upwards to open with the Knight walking in and looking around.

“ Mr. X? I’m here! Mr. X? “ Kazura said walking in deeper with the door shutting and the cool blue light of a computer in the darkness illuminating the room with he lights being turned on.

“ Shit... ” Kazura said putting his hand on his on the hilt of his sword thinking that he was lead into a trap.

“ Stay your weapons, Ser Kazura... “ A voice rang out with that of a young man in his twenties coming down from the stairs looking at the prince.

“ Who are you? Wheres... Mr. X?! “ Kazura demanded still unsure of who this man is.

“ Well you are looking at him. I’m Mr. X. But in reality.. my name is Guangxian Nuemann of the Atelier Agents... and the man who gave you and your team the information on Icarus and helped you all escape that day. “ The hacker spoke looking at the Knight who moved his hand off the hilt of his sword. .

In disbelief Kazura shook his head. “ Wait you are an Atelier Agent?! Then that means... there has to be others out there that are sti-”

OST: Agents Forgotten

“ Was.... until that damned incident put us all out of commission..... and yes there are agents out there... but we can’t even if we did we would be arrested by the Atlesian government. So far one of our met that fate. “ Guangxian explained going back to his computer and opening up the security cam footage on Mantle and Atlas checking each sector with the other screens lighting up.

What did those other screen show they shown naught but horror, Mistralian villages were under siege by the White Fang, In Vale multiple faunus murders has been taking place, while in Atlas more Anti-Faunus sentiments has been happening making the Knight growl in fury.

“ Infuriating isnt it... thats how helpless we agents feel like....” Guangxian said somberly looking at a photo of the agents just two days before their last mission. Said picture consisting of many familiar faces close to Guangxian ...

“ Then we need to bring back the Agents then! The world needs them now more than ever! “ Kazura replied with Guangxian sighing heavily.

“ Try and think this through, if the agents were brought back into action what do you think will happen? Will we either be accepted for what we do or Will there be another Retrison incident lurking underneath our very noses? “ Guangxian asked.

For a moment Kazura stayed quiet thinking to himself for that moment...

Be accepted in the world that has forgotten about the Atelier Agents. Or Rejection in the eyes of billions for a tough decision....

Heavy is the head that wears the crown indeed. However Kazura wanted to defy such a thing...and face it with open eyes and an open mind without any fear at all.

“ I think the agents are needed for one thing. They brought hope when it all seemed lost, cases that had went cold were closed with the perpetrator being brought to justice, brave acts of counterterrorism stopped before any attack could happen. The agents were meant to stop wars before they even happened! So far a war is coming and Beacon was just the start!! “ Kazura spoke with pride in his voice with Guangxian turning around in his chair... a soft smile emerging on his face.

“ Well then.. it took me six months to get the recall program up... but now the choice is yours.” The hacker said putting up a screen for the Recall.

With the virtual touch screen saying: RECALL ALL ATELIER AGENTS? Y/N

OST: In Agents We Trust

Kazura walked up to it looking at it carefully sighing softly taking a moment to hear his fathers words in his head before he left to go to Beacon Academy.

“ Whatever you decide to do.... I shall accept your decision... and stand with you all the way “ Rodrigues’ voice rang throughout Kazuras head with the young prince reached out to press the Y button on the screen and finally a proud voice simply stated. “ RECALLING ALL ATELIER AGENTS ! “

Which a map of Remnant shown up showing the active agents and their Callsigns coming up sifting through each and every agent and their callsign name calling each one up until one answered with a female voice on the other side.

“ So I take it that the Agents are now needed again. “ She said in an eloquent voice causing Kazura to chuckle.

“ Yes, Yes we need the Atelier Agents now more than ever...” The Knight spoke.

BLCK: VOLUME 4

RECALL...

#[The Knight of Honor- Kazura]#[The Technologist Hacker- Guangxian]#[Sometimes A Story Has Its Heroes- Drabble]#tw: beating #//placed underneath a read more for length reasons #[Lore of BLCK- TEAM BLCK Lore]

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loopy777 · 4 years

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I love your two Ursas analysis! If we ignore The Search and take the hints from canon, like her laughing at the siege of Ba Sing Se, do you have a HC for the night Azulon died/where she was all those years? I almost think it’s most plausible that she died or was otherwise incapacitated. And do you think she ever had a “the FN is evil” epiphany or it was limited to “you can’t kill Zuko”? Do you think Ozai abused her, or was just unloving? Maybe he saw no purpose to abusing her, unlike the kids

Ah, Ursa headcanons. Everyone’s got a set. For me, though, it was less about headcanon than it was about trying to solve the mystery I thought the AtLA cartoon had been setting up. Since ‘The Search’ revealed that there were no real answers to be had, I’ve speculated a bit on what I’d like to see, but I haven’t done much with those ideas since they by their nature contradict canon.

So, my Ursa...

A noble by birth, with her relation to Roku known but not discussed. Sozin and Azulon could have very easily made a pariah out of the family by simply ignoring them and allowing the rest of Fire Nation society antagonize them in a display of performative loyalty. However, Sozin instead reached out to Roku’s family, explaining that Roku was a traitor but surely his family is loyal to the crown and looking to prove it to avoid any unpleasantness. They agreed, and so Roku’s family became almost entirely dependent on the Fire Lord’s goodwill and protection. The one alliance they maintained for themselves was with the Fire Sages, as the family had been honored by them for producing the Avatar, even after Roku and Sozin had their falling out. Sozin had been politically pressuring the Sages throughout his life, trying to make them a tool of the crown, and the Sages in turn maintained good relations with Roku’s family to try to keep some independence. Quite a few of Roku’s family had even become Sages, over the decades.

(This didn’t really work, but it left enough ‘good’ Sages in the organization that when Zuko becomes Fire Lord, he doesn’t have to disband the whole organization, just purge the leadership who had been tools of his father. It very much helps that he’s a distant relation to a lot of these better sages, and that is one of the few smooth elements of his first few years in power.)

When Azulon suggested that the youngest daughter, however, would make a good match for Ozai instead of wasting her life in some dusty temple, they readily agreed and handed her over. Ursa herself was fine with this, as she appreciated the Royal Family’s protection as much as the rest of her clan, and preferred noble society anyway. Plus, back then Ozai made an effort to be charming. Ursa herself was happy as a Fire Nation heiress, and was known to argue passionately about the need to liberate the poor oppressed women of the Water Tribes, who were owned as property by their husbands! My Ursa was a Firebender, and had trained at the Royal Fire Academy for Girls, but the strength of her flames was never matched by her skill or technique. She just never had the stomach for duels or fighting, hence leaning more towards a scholarly education and perhaps a future as a Sage. But getting to be a princess is even better, especially since the war would probably be over soon. She could help raise the Prince(ss) Governors who would rule over the colonies, influencing the world for the better. And she also found Ozai very attractive. Rawr!

Ozai himself I consider to have always been narcissistic jerk. When he was a kid and young teen, this was readily apparent. As he moved into adulthood, he learned how to hide it behind a facade, but more discerning folks could tell that he was just using friendliness and flattery to win allies. Ursa, sadly, was not that perceptive, so she rather liked Ozai, even into the first few years of the marriage.

Then Zuko came along.

Ozai was consistently disappointed in Zuko, and he blamed Ursa for that. He wasn’t a full-on monster to her, and never laid a hand on her, but he no longer went to the effort of charming her. Ursa managed to fool herself about this, making excuses for Ozai’s behavior even as their marriage cooled. She managed to stick it out long enough to produce Azula, which initially placated Ozai. Azula was everything Zuko was not. However, this did not save the marriage, because Ozai now had what he wanted, and saw no further need for Ursa. Again, he didn’t bully her, but he made no effort to hide his lack of real interest in her. The marriage was soon in name only, with little interaction between them. Ursa began to see Ozai for what he was, especially with his treatment of Zuko, and began to fear the influence he was having on Azula. This distance did help shield her as Ozai grew crueler and more of a bully as his efforts gain power were thwarted by his clumsiness. The palace and Caldera City are big enough that Ursa was able to avoid him most of the time, and they never shared a suite unless actively trying to have children, even early in the marriage.

However, there was little else Ursa could do. Ozai was not favored by Azulon, but challenging the authority of anyone in the Royal Family would have brought swift and terrible reprisal. Ursa tried to shield Zuko as best she could, and continued to play the part of Wife and Princess in official appearances like social gatherings or audiences with the Fire Lord. She sometimes went over the line in trying to protect her children, which Ozai would punish with cruelties, to the point of mental and emotional abuse, and sometimes physical intimidation, but he was too careful (so far) to risk his reputation by attacking his wife. For that, Iroh was indirectly the one to thank, as he had been a loving family man before the death of his wife, which Azulon approved of, and Ozai was trying to look better than his brother in the eyes of their father.

It all eventually came to a head in events portrayed in the flashbacks of ‘Zuko Alone.’ I headcanon that Ursa outright stabbed Azulon to death, to the point where she ruined a good set of her clothes with bloodstains. And then she confessed her crime to the Crimson Guard and Fire Sages. She should have been put to death for treason and murder, and she was prepared for that, but she and Ozai had concocted a better scheme. Ursa called in every favor her family had earned from the Sages to talk to the leadership in the middle of the night. She and Ozai pointed out that Iroh had taken a dim view of the corruption of the Sages and had battled them politically, and told them bluntly that Ozai was their best bet for surviving as an organization. They suggested the Sages should lie about Azulon’s last wishes and pronounce Ozai as the next Fire Lord. In exchange, Ozai would merely banish Ursa as failure of a wife and cover up her crime, so that her family would not have to suffer shame or even outright execution for producing a regicidal traitor. No one would speak of what had happened, no one would get in trouble, and Ozai would be Fire Lord and keep the current system running smoothly. Everyone agreed.

I always figured that Ursa had to have been banished, because in the scene where she says goodbye to Zuko, she’s wearing a dark hooded cloak. That’s universal visual language for “This character is fleeing into the night.”

I also assumed that everyone (important) knew Azulon had been murdered because of the fishy way Ozai was made Fire Lord by the Sages. Even if they believed Azulon had died of natural causes, where did it come from that he had named Ozai as the new crown prince shortly before his death? I doubt a forged note that no one had ever seen before the night of the guy’s death would be considered very reliable. So I thought there had to be a conspiracy that included the Sages; they were at least in on faking Ozai’s claim, and so why wouldn’t they also be in on the murder? And once all the people in power are perpetrating a conspiracy, the evidence doesn’t matter; the truth becomes whatever they want it to be.

Where Ursa goes after that, though, is a lot more nebulous. The way the cartoon finale had Zuko confront Ozai with, “Where- is- my- mother?” implies that Ozai might actually know, or at least have an idea where to start looking. I also think it would cheapen the power of that scene to have Ozai wiggle out of giving any information. So Ozai has to give Zuko something to go on there, but he also said, “Perhaps,” when Zuko asked during the Day of Black Sun if Ursa lives. So I figure Ursa had to have been banished from the Fire Nation, and Ozai knows either where she left from or her initial destination, but nothing else.

I never formed a solid headcanon about whether Ursa is still alive, though. This is the point where my interest ends, since the comics gave us a completely different Ursa character and mystery, and I expect many Avatar fans are interested in fic that outright contradicts canon. If she lives, I think it would be more interesting if she is indeed a typical Fire Nation imperialist, but I don’t think she would actively oppose Zuko’s agenda. It would simply inform their dynamic and create conflict between them. It would be a new challenge for Zuko to overcome in terms of his family. And it might even be a vector for Azula and Ursa to hash out their problems, with Ursa considering that she might almost prefer Azula to have become Fire Lord. But ultimately, Ursa could realize that Azula’s ways are only destructive, and see that the kindness she always liked in Zuko has to extend to all people of the world, not just the Fire Nation.

But there’s also a compelling story in Ursa being dead by the time Zuko tracks her down. Perhaps she died in the war, somehow. Whether Ursa is a racist or not doesn’t matter as much in this scenario. But It could fuel Zuko’s desire to somehow reconcile with Azula, since there’s nothing else from his past that he can save.

So that’s the stuff I came up with.

#haylestorming

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dangermousie · 5 years

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The Usual Shows I am Watching List

For the next week or so at least (obviously, I am unlikely to watch every single one on the list, but they are all in the running; it’s like a preview for posts I am likely to make).

The Abyss (Korea) - I am a few eps behind and, frankly, the drama about two dead people brought back into different bodies, hunting a serial killer and finding love, should be more engaging and smarter than it is, but it’s a pleasant easy watch and I am very fond of the two leads.

Angel’s Last Mission (Korea) - I am only two eps in, but the gorgeous intensity reminds me of old-school kdrama melos that I love so much. A bitter blind ballerina and an angel who is supposed to help her find love but falls for her instead is probably doomed for disaster in terms of happy ending, but I will be eating up all the pain!

Arthdal Chronicles (Korea) - grim (but not too grim) cool and otherwordly fantasy. I still don’t care for any characters, but the drama itself is great to watch.

Cage of Love (China) - surprisingly, not a BDSM tale. Hawick Lau wears amazing outfits and seeks revenge while trying to clear himself from being framed on a regular basis and dealing with heroine who sometimes loves him and sometimes thinks he is the resident serial killer. I started it years ago and now feel like continuing.

The Crowned Clown (Korea) - I need a sageuk in my life and watching Yeo Jin Gu in the pretty inferior Absolute Boyfriend made me remember how impressed I was by him playing both a psycho king and a sweet acrobat doppleganger who replaces him, so I restarted it.

Good Omens (UK) - loved the book when I read it a gazillion years ago and the first ep was good!

Heart of Stone/Hua Jai Sila (Thailand) - basically a 1980s romance crack about a pimp who comes back for revenge on his stepmom and falls for his childhood friend, this is insane! But addictive! Also make-outs!

Here to Heart (China) - it’s on my list and I may or may not get to it. I like the angsty premise and credits (they used to be lovers until she broke his heart in what I am sure is either a misunderstanding or noble idiocy), now he is mega rich and she is hired as his assistant, but Zhang Han has never clicked with me for some reason. He’s good-looking, he’s an OK actor, but for whatever reason he just doesn’t have that “it” for me. Maybe this drama will change that.

Just Between Lovers (Korea) - when it was airing and people were falling madly in love with it, I was in a kdrama slump that no kdrama could cure. But now - oh, this is so achingly, perfectly, emotionally gorgeous. Only one ep in, but I already know this will be a keeper.

Kimse Bilmez (Turkey) - the one Turkish entry on this list! Starts on Tuesday, promises angst, women in danger, macho traditional men who defend them blah blah blah. As a modern feminist, I should probably be appalled, but I like what I like and gimme gimme gimme!

Le Coup de Foudre (China) - I just want to see the aristocrat daughter and the hot constable from An Oriental Odyssey be an OTP, all right?

Legend of Fuyao (China) - am on ep 22 I think. It’s pretty and shippy and I won’t stay awake freaking out about characters or plot twists, but watching Ethan Ruan worship the ground Yang Mi walks on never gets old.

Legend of the Phoenix (China) - on ep 4! Get subbed quicker for my sanity, pls. Love story, scheming courtiers, angst, period costumes. What more does a girl need? Jeremy Tsui looking scrumptious, apparently.

The Legends (China) - finally hit ep 20! I like it and it’s a relaxing, fun, cute watch. Though if Zhao Yao figures out Demon Boy likes her before at least a dozen eps pass, despite him doing everything but carving “I love Zhao Yao” into his chest, I would faint from shock.

Letting You Float Like a Dream (China) - I am excited Young Lord from Minglan gets to be the hero of his own story and get the girl he wants (even if he has to reincarnate a couple of times first), plus look cool in 1930s duds. This is very much my thing.

Likit Ruk/The Crown Princess (Thailand) - sometimes a lady just wants to watch a good, old-fashioned princess x bodyguard romance, especially when said princess and bodyguard are hot enough to set the Chao Praya river on fire.

Listening Snow Tower (China) - on ep 38 now. Gorgeous visuals, awesome fights, and the Victorian duality of the chaste and almost unspoken but frighteningly intense romance is so my jam. But if they kill the hero, I will riot. Let him and Lady Badass wuxia into sunset together, pls.

My Absolute Boyfriend (Korea) - I am all up to date with this one. Which is weird because I am not up to date on other dramas I like more. This is a giant meh emotionally, and wastes some really good actors, but it is so good-naturedly unoffensive, I can’t even complain. Still, perhaps the story of a lady buying a lovebot should have stayed solely in manga form because I’ve never seen an amazing adaptation of it.

Pretty Man (China) - I liked the first ep, and you have no idea how rare it is for me to say that about a contemporary cdrama. Childhood loves who find second chances yes pls.

Princess Silver (China) - Yuu Watase, is that you? Did you write this? Cracky, not too serious, but seriously addictive, this is a chocolate bon bon in drama form. PS Pls cure the prince of his touch phobia through LOTS of skinship, princess!

Siege in Fog (China) - romantic dysfunction reigns supreme, even more so than gorgeous 1930s outfits and people. Elvis Han and Sun Yi boil my blood in amazingly pleasant ways as two people in a marriage of inconvenience, where he pines for her but won’t show it and she loves another, until she wakes up and realizes that HELLO IT’S SEX ON LEGS ELVIS, I NEED TO GET SOME OF THAT! And the civil war says, “not so fast!”

Too Late To Say I Love You (China) - I started it years ago when it was not fully subbed and loved it because in my secret heart-of-hearts, I too want a mega hot warlord who looks like Wallace Chung and has stylish 1930s cars and a private army to sweep me off my feet and obsess over me in an unhealthy but hormonally incredible fashion as if I am the only woman in the world. SiF reminded me of this so here we are.

Tried and dropped:

The Plough Department of Song Dynasty (China) - watched one episode, felt my brain leaking out of my ears and bailed. Granted, I watch plenty of dumb stuff so far be it from me to act high and mighty about a bit of brainless fun, but I don’t like mysteries, there was no angst, and I couldn’t care less if all the characters fell into a giant pit, so here we go...

Well Intended Love (China) - people didn’t like it because the male lead was a sociopath. I didn’t like it because it was cutesy and boring and nobody in it bothered to act (or couldn’t.) I bailed long before the dysfunction, that’s how bored I was.

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auburnflight · 4 years

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Edelgard’s War Phase Design and Peripheral Vision in Crimson Flower

I looked closely at Edelgard’s post-timeskip character design as I was working on a drawing of her the other day, and had a thought that initially felt like it came out of nowhere: “Those horns seem like they’d block her peripheral vision. Wouldn’t it be hard to see?”

At first I thought it was kind of an off-handed, random and unfounded reaction. (I’m in the furry fandom and I wear a lot of fursuits with restricted fields of vision, so I end up thinking about that sort of thing tangentially in cosplay and such--maybe it came from there?) But as I thought about it more, I realized that this idea of a narrowed field of vision resonates with Edelgard as a character, specifically her intense focus on her ambition and on moving forward no matter the cost.

Visually, the horns on her crown give her a forward energy. And temporally, her focus is always on what’s ahead. But it’s not just that. The shape they create around her face, and the fact that if this design was physically put into reality (Post-ts Edelgard cosplayers, maybe you can confirm for me here?), it would intrude at the edges of the wearer’s vision, both suggest Edelgard’s almost exclusive focus on what she considers to be the fastest, most efficient course of action in order to achieve her goals.

(Of course, spoilers for the Crimson Flower route, and brief/slight ones for Azure Moon, below the cut)

Throughout Crimson Flower, she’s set on pushing forward with her plans, but visibly fails to consider many peripheral ideas--environmental factors, possible other courses of action, aspects that might shift the flow of the current situation to her advantage or disadvantage even if it’s not the most “efficient” route. Hubert brings up Lord Arundel as a potential point of concern after their victory at Derdriu, but Edelgard chooses to let Arundel do as he pleases until the very end, even though she will have to rise to meet TWSITD sooner or later. At another point, Edelgard states that if they will have to fight a given enemy eventually, then reducing their numbers is advantageous either way, although strategically, this is not always true. And throughout their battles,Edelgard sees that her allies are exhausted, low on morale, and maybe even losing hope. But she avoids addressing this directly, instead preferring to press on in order to end the war as fast as possible.

It’s not that she’s following the path of blood that has been laid out before her and committing violence without any consideration at all. She does her best to bolster her allies’ spirits where possible and celebrates major victories. She still sees her opponents (e.g. Claude) as human. And she doesn’t aim to kill where she doesn’t feel she needs to (see the citizens of the port in the Derdriu chapter, and Cornelia in “The Siege of Arianrhod”). In her paralogue, we even see her desire to ally with the Almyran troops who attacked Fodlan’s Locket:

Instead of Edelgard being simply predisposed to violence as the fastest way to her goal, my impression was more that this constant forward motion on a narrow path was out of desperation. I think it’s more about fear that if she loses this momentum, the weight of everything that she’s done (and still has to do) would catch up to her. Her initiative proves her greatest advantage at the beginning of the war, and she references in her B support with Ferdinand that in some cases, it could be her only advantage. To lose this could be to lose everything that she’s worked for up to this point.

To me, the tragic thing about this is, in rising to meet your future head-on, you fail to see who and what is around (and behind) you.

She makes decisions (such as the one to let Lord Arundel do as he pleases) that are noticeably rushed and uninformed. She repeatedly leaves her closest allies in the dark about her true plans, fearing that she can trust no one--and then misrepresents the situation to the rest of the Black Eagle Strike Force in order to be able to push forward on a faster path. Because she relies so heavily on her forward momentum, she neglects many other things that are nevertheless critical. While she emphasizes in her A support with Ferdinant that she needs those around her who will force her to consider perspectives contrary to her own, Edelgard’s lack of peripheral vision in the later chapters of Crimson Flower becomes a massive blind spot.

Therefore, I get the sense that she starts to lose touch with the reality of the situation and retreat back into the mindset that she has to do everything alone. She even seems to retreat from Byleth’s healing presence, where being able to open up to them was clearly important early on in her route. Before the last battles, Edelgard goes from merely confiding in Byleth about the troops’ morale, to pleading them to restore it for her if they’re feeling so confident. She shuts herself in her room to draw a portrait of Byleth, but feels that she failed to capture their likeness--I think this could be due a lack of artistic experience, but also possibly symbolic of having clouded or incomplete perceptions in a wider sense. Out of fear that she’ll lose her momentum, she is unable to consider anything outside of her immediate course of action, and it starts to wear on her mental state and distort her perceptions of reality.

I think it’s interesting comparing this to Azure Moon, where Dimitri comments on how being able to move forward no matter what isn’t necessarily true strength--being able to take the time to grieve and address your own feelings is strength as well. Further, he declares in his final battle with Edelgard in that route, simply but effectively, “All we have is the present.” In his own route, Dimitri gets dragged down by his past--in contrast to Edelgard, who gets swept up in her ideas of the future. The two are complements and opposites in many ways, and I could go on for a long time just about what we can learn as viewers from their interactions.

Edelgard gets her own (sort of) happy ending in Crimson Flower, and in a sense, I’m relieved that she does. But there’s also a part of me that’s surprised that the issue of Edelgard addressing her fears (or not) never really came to a head, because I spent a lot of my time playing Crimson Flower fearing that it would happen. After all, her inability to confront those fears, and the way in which Byleth becomes a central presence to Edelgard when she realizes she’s able to confide in them--something she doesn’t have in the other routes--are central to Edelgard as a complex, multi-layered character. Her route doesn’t have a true tragic ending, and ultimately she is able to acknowledge that she needs to share her burdens with others (including Byleth) and incorporate alternate perspectives into her own. But I feel like the cautionary message characteristic of tragedy is still readily there: The future comes whether you are ready for it or not--but also, in rushing to meet it, it’s also easy to forget to stay grounded in the present.

#fire emblem #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #edelgard von hresvelg #this started as a comment on her design #and became a deep character analysis #so here we are

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