#imagine not having a thread of the thousand winds and god laying their head on you. losers !!

[sleeplessspell]

The Tyrant of Harmony

On the outer curve of the continent, where the sea sang with the land, lay the Isle of Harmony. A small peninsula kingdom, its people were few, its cities scattered, and its land modest compared to the sprawling empires that loomed to the east and west. But in this land of salt, wind, and art, a quiet fire had long been burning—one that would one day consume the throne. That fire was named Simeon.

Prince Simeon was born not of a royal marriage, but from lust and cruelty. His father, King Albrecht, a man of hollow grandeur and swollen pride, had forced House Elane—once a proud noble family—into ruin. Their sin was beauty. More precisely, the beauty of their eldest daughter, Serenya. To save her family, Serenya bowed her head and became the king’s concubine.

Simeon grew up in the shadow of his mother's broken grace. He saw the way people looked at her—half in pity, half in scorn—and he heard the whispers in the marble halls of the palace. "Concubine's son," they called him. He never said anything back, but Simeon listened. He watched. And he remembered.

Most believed Simeon's rise was sudden—a flash of ambition in a quiet son. But those close to him knew better. From his childhood, Simeon’s path was etched into his heart. He spent years crafting a web of loyalty and fear, slowly turning his father’s enemies into allies and his brothers’ allies into memories. He sowed doubt, whispered betrayal, and never hesitated to use the blade if silence was needed. By the time his eldest brother died in a mysterious "hunting accident," there were no voices left loud enough to object to Simeon being crowned king at the mere age of sixteen.

The coronation was cold, despite the summer sun. No cheers, only polite applause. That suited Simeon just fine. He had not taken the throne for glory. He had taken it for revenge.

Soon after his coronation, Simeon inherited the archives of the crown. Hidden in the back of a locked vault, beneath a tapestry of seagulls and pearls, he found it: the truth. 

During the lowest tides of each moon cycle, the sea retreated from the cliffs along the southern coast, revealing caves where the finest pearls in the world were born.

For generations, the royal family had harvested these pearls in secret, selling them through shadow merchants to the empires, amassing quiet fortunes. While the people starved and artists begged for patronage, the kings lived like gods. It should have made Simeon angry. But it made him smile. He would use this secret treasure to destroy everything the crown had built.

Simeon publicly declared the truth of the pearls. The Kingdom of Harmony, long believed poor, was in fact rich beyond imagination. And then he did something no one expected—he hoarded it.

Lavish gold-plated halls rose in the palace. Simeon wore robes threaded with diamonds. He imported foreign delicacies so rare that even the cooks had to ask for instructions. He hired a thousand personal entertainers, some of whom didn’t even perform; they just looked pretty and clapped on cue. Ministers whispered of madness. Nobles grumbled. Simeon grinned.

But he didn’t stop there. As a twisted joke, he declared a "charity tithe"—a mere 10% of the pearl profits—would go to the people, to "appease their ignorance." It was, to him, rubbing salt into their wounds.

Hospitals appeared in villages that had never known a healer. 

Simeon scoffed as he signed the orders. "Let the peasants have their bandages." 

But those bandages turned into operating rooms. Midwives trained in the new clinics, and infant mortality plummeted. Elders lived long enough to annoy their children again. One man wrote Simeon a poem about how his gout no longer kept him bedridden. Simeon burned it.

Bread became affordable. Bakers stopped mixing sawdust into the flour. Clean water flowed into towns where disease once reigned. Roadways were repaved, connecting towns that hadn’t seen one another in years. Trade surged. 

"If they want to trade chickens and clay pots, let them," he muttered.

But soon Harmony's pottery was praised across the continent. Their chickens became a culinary delicacy. The roads carried not just goods, but ideas, and the kingdom blossomed.

Homes were reinforced to withstand the ocean's cruel winds. Salt rot was no longer a yearly catastrophe. The arts, long dormant, flourished. Artists, poets, and sculptors no longer painted to survive—they painted to inspire. 

Theater troupes toured freely, and local dialects were preserved in song. One boy from a backwater village sculpted a statue of Simeon entirely from driftwood and sea glass. It made the cover of three foreign art journals.

To the people of Harmony, the tyrant was a godsend. Their stomachs were full. Their children lived past infancy. They sang in the streets songs not of rebellion, but of reverence. "Simeon the Silver Flame," they called him. "The Hand of Renewal." "The Pearl King."

Simeon had intended to be the villain. He wanted riots. Street art of his face with devil horns. Effigies burned in public squares. Instead, they held festivals in his name. One traveling bard composed a hymn that included the line: He took our gold, he took our pride, he gave us joy and fish beside. Simeon nearly choked on his imported saffron lamb stew when he heard it.

Religious leaders, once divided by dogma, all began to agree on one thing: Simeon was the chosen one of prophecy.

A fishmonger wept openly when Simeon passed through the harbor one day. 

"He cured my daughter with roads," the man sobbed. 

"That’s not how medicine works," Simeon grumbled. 

"He brings warmth to the winds!" 

"It’s summer!" 

But it didn’t matter.

At night, Simeon sat alone in his palace, surrounded by gold he no longer found amusing. A unicorn-shaped candlestick mocked him from the mantel. He read letters from mothers thanking him for saving their children. He saw buildings named after him: Simeon General Hospital. Simeon Public Library. The Simeon Soup Cooperative. ("Soup Cooperative? What does that even mean?") He once tried to raise taxes arbitrarily to spark revolt. The people thanked him for using the funds to build a coastal warning system.

His mother, Serenya, once a broken woman, now stood tall beside him, pride shining in her eyes. 

"You’ve undone what your father destroyed," she whispered one evening. "You’ve healed this land." 

He wanted to scream.

His siblings, who had once mocked him, now praised him. 

"Thank the gods you took the throne," said one. "Or we’d all be lost." 

Even the nobles, notorious for their venom, now begged for royal commissions and showered him with loyalty. Duke Vassil named his son Simeon and offered to host an opera about the king's life. (Simeon canceled it. Twice. It became a surprise hit on the underground circuit.)

He had wanted to burn it all. To expose the royal family for what it was—cruel, selfish, corrupt. He wanted the people to spit at his name, to curse the crown, to tear down the palace brick by brick. Instead, they sang his praises. Loudly.

As the years passed, Harmony only grew stronger. The roads gave way to canals. Trade routes expanded into the mountains. Art from the peninsula hung in the great halls of foreign courts. Students from distant empires came to study under Harmony’s scholars. Wars passed the kingdom by, for no one wished to harm a place that gave the world beauty. 

And yet, with every passing year, Simeon's despair deepened. He devised ever more ridiculous schemes to sully his reputation, and every time, they were misconstrued as acts of genius or kindness. 

When he shut down the old central market for "renovation"—a ploy meant to inconvenience and impoverish the local merchants—they simply moved operations to the new park he had ordered built months earlier as a joke. It had clean fountains, ample benches, and, regrettably, excellent foot traffic. Profits increased.

"Why do they thrive in my chaos?" Simeon groaned, head buried in his hands during one council meeting.

"Because your chaos is oddly functional," his advisor Maelen replied, sipping tea from a mug that read World's Worst Tyrant.

In another attempt, he outlawed the weekly fair held on Wednesdays, citing a royal superstition. The people responded by inventing a new event from Tuesdays to Thursdays. They called it the Harmony Squeeze, a three-day cultural festival of community and joy. The phrase "Squeezing the King" caught on, and no amount of proclamations could kill it.

He tried to impose a national hat tax. Unbeknownst to him, the money funded scholarships for orphans. He tripled import tariffs on cheese, hoping to enrage the dairy-loving port cities. The move led to a boom in local cheese-making, and within a year, Harmony became one of the premier destinations for goat cheese.

"Cheese has now become our fourth biggest export," Maelen noted one day, sliding a slice of "Royal Regret" across his desk.

"I hate how good this is," Simeon hissed.

One morning, a local playwright named approached him with a request: a royal portrait for her play The Flame of the Sea. It depicted Simeon as a reluctant hero destined to save the realm with a sword of song.

"Absolutely not," Simeon said. “You are not allowed to perform that play.”

"Too late," She replied. "We performed last week. Sold out. It got a standing ovation that lasted over thirty minutes."

By the twentieth year of his reign, even the empires that once ignored Harmony sought his wisdom. They sent him gifts—paintings, exotic animals, and one time, a golden harp that played itself and narrated Simeon's life story in verse.

"You are a symbol of enlightened monarchy," declared the Empress of Tharna during her state visit. "You must advise us."

"No," Simeon said. "I'm busy ruining my country."

"You don’t seem very good at that," she muttered, a confused look on her face.

In private, Simeon often raged. He threw his crown into the sea three times. Each time, it was returned by grateful fishermen who swore it brought them luck. He shut down the national ballet in a fit of pique. The dancers held street performances that drew even larger crowds.

When he replaced the palace wine with vinegar, claiming it a "cleansing tradition," nobles declared it an acquired taste and started buying barrels. Fruits that would have been discarded previously were now being used to make vinegar.

On his fiftieth birthday, the people erected a statue of Simeon atop the largest fountain in the capital. It depicted him lifting the nation with one hand while shielding children from the sea with the other.

He stared at it for an hour from his balcony. Then he whispered, "I give up."

The next morning, he called Maelen.

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"I've decided to become a real tyrant. No more games. No more charity. I want fire and despair. Bread lines. Curfews."

Maelen raised an eyebrow. "Your Highness, yesterday you gave free spectacles to every scholar over sixty."

"An accident, I thought they would find it insulting."

"They’re planning to name the new wing of the university after you."

Simeon let out a strangled groan.

You have just taken over a kingdom and intend to be a tyrant, so you hoard resources for yourself and give the people the scraps. What you don’t know is that those ‘scraps’ you are giving the people are actually life-saving and they now believe you to be the hero king of prophecy.

[lanternlightss]

bard and his bird :)

BARD AND HIS BIRD 💕💕 !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

oh the expressions are so incredibly delightful, the half-lidded eyes + little >:3 + BLUSHIES bard has is so darling. like ehehe …. being leaned on…. i have become the perch 😌…. AND HIS HANDS ON HIPS he’s so silly. absolute silliest

THE WAY VENTI SQUISHES IS ALSO 🥺💕💕 him so HAPPYYY head. on !!! my bard <3. warm and comfy and lovely. this is the life !! the big :3 of venti oh he is in heaven. above the clouds. perfect place to rest has been found no need to look for more i fear !!

RHEYRE SO CUTESY …

[whump-a-la-mode]

🙃 - Someone to share their suffering with for your villain! :)

I wasn’t sure what villain you wanted for this, so I went with the villain from call me, as I’ve been on a kick for them lately! I’m also not certain this is on prompt but I hope you like it ^^

I really really need to get around to making a masterlist for them. This is a continuation from here. Part three is here, part two is here, and part one is here.

For this ask game.

@sola-whumping

CW//Past trauma, mentions of: medical exams and bathing, isolation, slight unreality, mindmelding

The day had been... an ordeal.

The same could be said for both Villain and those who had become their caretakers.

Finishing the medical exam had been exhausting, to say the least. While there had been no fight in finishing the eye exam, any attempt to look at their mouth and ears was quickly met with whimpering and holding closer to Hero.

The stethoscope had been just as difficult-- when the metal bell touched Villain’s chest, their shriek had been ear piercing. They wouldn’t allow it, even when it was Hero holding the stethoscope. Thus, that was out of the question.

In the end, a very frustrated Doctor had settled for a quick physical examination. From what they were able to see, Villain was, physically, unharmed, aside from a pair of matching chafe wounds on their wrists, where shackles had hung for far too long. Those wounds had been wrapped in gauze, and when Villain would not stop scratching at the material, covered with a pair of rubber cuff bracelets.

Bathing them had been just as difficult, though doing so was undeniably necessary. Doctor had used all sorts of medical terms, but Hero only knew that the former villain was absolutely filthy.

As before, anyone except Hero laying their hands on them was out of the question. So, with Doctor’s instruction, they slowly turned their filthy former nemesis into something resembling more of a person. They weren’t sure if they wanted to know just how much dirt had been washed down the tub drain. Certainly a lot.

Now, with Doctor satisfied with the state of their patient, and their patient thoroughly exhausted, Hero pushed their way into the apartment’s spare bedroom. Villain hung onto them, arms around their neck, as though falling would mean certain death. Their clean clothes were still warm from the dryer-- a pair of pajamas, with a sort of vest over top, which Doctor explained was intended to aid with anxiety. “Almost like a Thundershirt.” They’d said.

Hero could hardly care. They just wanted Villain to get some sleep. Then, maybe, they could get some themself.

Moving one arm off of Villain’s back, they pulled back the bedsheets, before leaning forth, trying to get the person clinging to them off of their chest.

Villain held on tighter. Hero sighed.

“You need your rest, bud. Come on, let go.” They tried not to let frustration seep into their tone.

When Villain didn’t budge, Hero exhaled once more, before gripping them below their arms and prying them off their chest like a piece of Velcro. Even so, Villain reached out for them as they were laid on the bed and tucked in.

“Okay. You’ve gotta go to bed now, alright?”

They whimpered, sitting up and pushing the covers off of themself. For a few moments, they seemed to be straining to open their lips, though no sound came out. Finally, they let out a loud whine.

“Alright, alright.” Hero conceded. They kneeled down next to the bed, at Villain’s eye level. “What is it?”

Villain reached their shaking arms out, hands gripping Hero’s shoulders. They raised their gaze to met that of their caretaker.

There was a terrible intensity to their eyes. That was the last thought Hero had, before they were falling.

At the very least, they felt to be falling, wind rushing by them even as they could not see it. When they at last struck the ground, there was no impact force to it, though all the air in their lungs felt to have been forced out.

Where were...

Hero pried their eyes open, shaking their head. Or, trying to. No. They couldn’t move. Only look.

They looked down. Those were not their hands.

That was when they realized, they were screaming.

“Hero! Help me! Hero, please! Help me!”

That was not their voice. Not their...

Villain’s cell. This was Villain’s cell and Villain’s hands and their voice and... their memories.

Hero’s heart fluttered, but it was not their heart.

On the other side of the room, a steel door closed. Shackles dragged behind them as they turned, looking out the one-way window, staring out over the city below.

Hero watched as the city moved.

The sun raised and lowered and was replaced by the moon, once, then twice, then again. It was getting faster. A steady movement of celestial bodies turned to a kaleidoscope of purple and orange as the dawn turned to day turned to dusk turned to twilight turned to night turned to dawn.

Cars hummed by in their thousands, ants buzzing in their patterns. Cranes moved, lifting pillars and bricks until the skyline was lit with a thousand new windows.

It was alone, in their cell, that Villain watched the fireworks on the Fourth of July. As leaves fell and snow began to pile, they could imagine that, somewhere below, carols were being sung. Carols that they could not hear.

Somewhere, the world was moving on. Moving on without Villain. Uncaring, unnoticing... unwilling to help.

The sky-- the black steel sky-- opened, an object falling to the cell’s floor. A brick of grey, and another, and another, another, until they were piled and the sky was purple again and orange and another day had passed.

Another day had passed and another day had passed and another day and another-

Hero felt a mind that was not their own counting seconds, reaching to the thousands, the tens of thousands... Watched as a stranger’s hands plucked at their own clothes, thread by thread, unraveling themself, piece by piece.

Their head was so foggy. So empty. It did not take long for them to stop screaming. Not long for them to simply... stop.

Once more, Hero was falling, but this time, they returned to solid ground. To a bedroom and a villain’s stare.

“You...” Hero realized only once they tried to speak that they had been crying. “Oh, god.”

They did the only thing they could think to. They hugged Villain.

The two stayed like that, for a long time. It was only when Hero felt about to fall asleep that they broke away from the embrace.

“You’re safe, now. You’re okay. You’ll feel better tomorrow. I promise. And I’ll be back tomorrow.”

They stood, turning to move towards the door, but turned back around upon hearing Villain’s whimper. They had the covers clutched in their hands, eyes looking close to weeping.

“You don’t want me to go?”

Villain shook their head.

“Okay. Um... Do you want me to come sleep in the bed with you?”

Frantic nodding.

“Alright, then. Let’s get some rest, the two of us.”

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (22/28) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: Vassa is changed forever. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️ If you'd like to get an early preview on the next chapter, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane.

There are legends before legends, which whisper of beings who preceded the Mother, who knew her and walked with her when the world was young. Though the human realms ostensibly rid themselves of the ancient tales, in Scythia such stories were part of a queen’s education, and watching the Archeron sisters prepare for their spell, their gowns whispering on the marble floors of the Spring Court, Vassa feels as if she is watching the old goddesses step out of the realm of myth and into Prythian, into the great hall of the Spring Court.

Feyre would be the Mother, watching over her sisters as they review the sequence and the calls to their magic. The natural leader, drawing people together and believing the best in them, seeing that spark that nobody else can discern. All through their preparations, she has taken Vassa’s hands within her own and squeezed them, telling her that they will be with her, that they will not abandon her. Whatever frustrations Vassa has had within the High Lady of the Night Court, they vanish in the face of this earnest care.

Nesta is the Crone, though even Vassa would be afraid to speak the words aloud to her. The one who has seen all things and borne them, made beauty out of pain and knows that even the deepest hurt is possible to survive. The one who looks death in the eye and does not blink. Even so, she’s tied her sword and the Dread Trove tight to her body, in case her magic is not enough, though she’s seen Elain eye the crown with fear and then shake herself, as if trying to drive the thought from her presence completely. But Nesta admits no fear on her face, only a fierce certainty, and Vassa finds herself a little less afraid in her presence.

Which leaves Elain as the Maiden. Months ago, Vassa would have given the title with derision, but now she realizes why the Maiden was worshipped so long ago: she saw a new world, dreamed it into life. And this is what her friend has become. No more the hapless tool of men who did not recognize her worth, Elain believed that this world could be a better one, that Tamlin could be a hero, that Lucien could find his place, that Vassa could be free of her curse.

Still, when she looks at Vassa, Elain’s brown eyes are worried, just this side of terrified, and Vassa feels all the warmth leave her body. In the space of moments, Elain is going to take her hand and rip her apart.

Her friend takes a step towards her, but Lucien enters the room and Elain changes course, studying the dimensions of the room, the wards that Feyre has painted on the floor in silver and gold. They are supposed to guard against Koschei’s magic, according to Lucien, although nobody can say with total certainty that he will be kept at bay. A small battalion of volunteer guards, led by Tamlin, surround the estate.

“You don’t have to do this,” Lucien says. “If you are afraid -- I will find another way. Without pain or transformation. So you can return to your people, have the life you always wanted.” She knows how deeply he means the words, which come out of him in little bursts, his fingers clutched around each other in a tangle. He has promised to watch over her, to make sure that she is safe. If she is being honest, she is not sure what he can do. Still, she cannot imagine arriving at this moment, this pain and death and whatever might lay beyond, without him.

“A queen should be courageous,” she tells him, lifting her chin.

“You are not only a queen, Vassa.”

There are a thousand words under those words, the kind of phrases that the poets of Scythia would declaim at banquets in praise of love and beauty. And yet all Vassa needs is that quick phrase from Lucien to remind her of herself. Who she is. Who she could be, if she does not perish.

“I will come back to you, Lucien. Even if the spell goes wrong. Even if the magic tears me to pieces. I will find my way back to you.”

She reaches out, heedless of the pain, to hold his face in her hands. The feel of his skin under her palms, his hair at her fingertips. The quick mind that works inside, where nobody can see. All of it provokes in her a deep, nearly overwhelming tenderness.

She loves him.

She cannot tell him now, not when the words will haunt him.

“I will take you back to Scythia.” His gaze is fierce on hers. “No matter what. You deserve to be in your country. With the people who love you best.”

Her eyes hot and blurred with tears, she presses her lips to his, pushing the pain away to savor the spice on his lips, the sip of whisky they’d shared as they’d readied themselves for this moment. His mouth opens against hers with a little groan.

She pulls away just before the pain overwhelms her, before she can let herself realize what it would mean, to lose him.

“Tell me you will be here with me,” Vassa says, once she’s caught her breath.

“You won’t be able to get rid of me,” Lucien says, and winks his russet eye.

When Vassa looks around, she realizes that the Archeron sisters have been watching her discreetly, even as they’ve conferred amongst themselves.

“Are you ready?” Elain asks, and Vassa is grateful for her warm wide-eyed gaze, the certainty that if she said no, Elain would wait a century to put her hands on Vassa.

Instead, she meets those deep brown eyes. She says “yes” loud enough that the words echo in the hall. The decree of a queen. Perhaps the last word she will ever speak as Queen of Scythia.

The Acheron sisters walk toward her, forming a triangle, surrounded by the wards and runes which gild the floor. Steps away, Lucien watches, his body taut, poised to strike.

With an indrawn breath, Elain reaches for her, and Vassa surrenders.

&

&

&

The pain rips and tears at Vassa, holding her in its grip with fire and stinging bolts of power, elements that are beyond this earth, beyond anything that she has ever experienced. The sensation is so overwhelming that she cannot tell whether she is screaming or whether her eyes are open, whether she fights it or is frozen to the spot. All she can do is will herself to breathe, to continue on through this vortex that rips her apart, steadily and then all at once. She can only hope that she still clings to Elain’s hands, the gentle press of her fingers that invited this apocalypse.

Suddenly, everything around her is thick darkness, a starless sky. She tries to move her hands, her legs, but there is nothing to move.

The pain is gone, and so is every other part of herself.

She thought that she would be lonely or frightened, but the absence of pain is such a welcome gift that Vassa finds herself enjoying the darkness, reveling in the sensation of nothing. She had not realized how much the curse had taken from her, day after day, until, now, left with nothing, she feels abundant.

There is a softening of the darkness. A hint of white light, a flickering of a silver flame. The barest whiff of jasmine. Then, brightening the darkness is a thread of gold, dazzling to Vassa’s vision. She feels the warmth of it gather her awareness into a central point, a caress against her skin that smells of citrus and sandalwood and the ozone scent after a lightning strike, a scent she knows better than her own.

The sound of a chord being plucked on a harp, a shimmering golden light, and the three Archeron sisters stand before her. On one side of the triangle, Nesta wears the mask of the Dread Trove, holds the harp in her hands. On the other side, Feyre holds out her palms to reveal a concentrated beam of white light, from which a rainbow emerges, thick with raw magic. And around Elain, in the center, there is a pillar of light that encircles her sisters. A small bone cupped in her palm, around which the light spills.

Behind her, formed from that first cord of golden light, Lucien appears.

Vassa does not know if this magic will work, or if this is a hallucination in the realm of the dead, but she will never stop being grateful for this one last look at him, illuminated in the golden light which smooths the worry from his face, only shows the working of his mind as he beholds her.

Although Vassa can feel the boundaries of herself, demarcated by the golden cord, she cannot move, cannot feel the air of this place against her skin, or suck air into her lungs.

Still, there is such hope in Lucien’s face.

I will come back to you, she thinks.

The words echo in this realm, a peal of bells.

Elain turns her head toward Lucien, a smile on her face, and her magic flares brighter.

Feyre extends her hands, and the white light becomes a rainbow that enters Vassa with a surge of power. She is pure possibility, a thousand eyes and hands, every magic that has ever existed.

Then she feels the pull of the golden cords, and the roar of possibility becomes a song inside her, a melody that is beautiful and haunting, a firebird queen ripped from her country, trapped by a lake until she was rescued by creatures she’d never known before, who became her best and dearest friends. Who showed her that she could become something else entirely. That she did not have to be the Queen of Scythia or the cursed firebird, but only Vassa, this small form in a dark expanse.

A peace that is nurtured by beauty, she thinks, the words cascading through the darkness, and now Elain grins directly at her, her warm eyes illuminated by the light of her power.

Nesta raises her hands, twists her wrists as she forms two fists.

As if she is daring the darkness to claim Vassa.

Then she opens her fists with a sudden gesture, and light explodes in the darkness.

Two bolts of silver flame fly towards her, landing in the center of her being.

She can feel her heart begin to beat, warmth spread through her body.

Her gasp of breath does not echo but sounds in the expanse.

This body, the collection of her self, feels so like and unlike the way she felt in those days when she was first made Queen of Scythia. So sure and capable, bursting with energy and promise. And yet she has never felt this vital, this at peace. The heart that beats in her chest could mark this same rhythm for a thousand years. She does not need to see her reflection, the arched ears or some new faerie grace, to know that the transformation has taken place. She feels the change in her veins, rushing through her, making her into a Vassa wholly like and unlike the human queen who existed only moments before.

She extends her arm, and a wind rises in a great gust, and the world is an intermingling of light and darkness, nowhere and everywhere at once.

&

&

&

When Vassa opens her eyes, she sees the ceiling of the great hall of the Spring Court, and then Lucien’s eyes, one filled with tears, and the other, his golden eye, constantly moving, as if it cannot believe that she is here before him.

“Did it work?” she asks, and instantly knows the answer. Her voice sounds different to her ears, more musical, as if in speech she can find only the most pleasing tones.

“You sent us back with your own power,” he tells her, his fingers tracing her face, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I should have known you would only come out of this stronger.”

“You’ll have to train me,” she says, trying her imperious voice, gladdened when it sounds more forceful than ever, though its effect on Lucien is unchanged. He rolls his eyes, can’t manage to hide his smile.

“Anything you require, Your Majesty.”

She doubts it will be so simple, but she allows him to inspect her without complaint, cup her shoulders and study her toes, run his hands up her silken skirts to the knee, cup her ankles with his long fingers. Now she can hear the slight hitch in his breath, smell a musk from his skin that might signal desire.

There is no pain at his touch, only pleasure and comfort. A wanting that coils below her belly. Whatever magic has been kindled inside her today, nothing about her feelings for Lucien has changed. Still, the space in the circle of his arms feels more like home than any place she’s ever known.

Even Scythia.

She does not know what to do with this knowledge, which seems more overwhelming than this new version of myself. Instead, she casts her eyes around the room.

Around her, the world is more vibrant than she’s ever seen it with human eyes, as if she were given the vision of the firebird while being allowed to remain inside her own mind. She studies Lucien’s hair, the endless variations of gold and red, until he pulls it from her fingers, apologizing with a kiss.

When she turns her head to look at this new landscape, Elain’s gown catches her attention. The floral embroidery is a jewel box of color and texture.

“Of course Lucien does a tiny amount of work and gets all the credit,” Nesta grumbles to Feyre, low enough that Vassa’s human ears wouldn’t have heard the remark.

“I can give you a thank you kiss if you’d like, Nesta,” she retorts from the floor, her arms still around Lucien’s neck. “I won’t forget who started my heart.”

As if summoned, the three sisters gather around her, Feyre with soft inquiries about how she feels and promises to help with her training, Nesta’s stern features quickly giving way to a brilliant smile, glad and triumphant, and Elain’s eyes passing over her wonderingly. When she reaches to squeeze Vassa’s shoulder, she hesitates for a moment, and so Vassa takes her hand in her own fingers, holding so tight to Elain that she can feel the bones below the skin and muscle, the pulse of each of their hearts.

“You remembered,” Elain says, her eyes bright with tears. She’s remembering the phrase Vassa summoned in the darkness, intoned by a thousand bells.

“It’s the legacy of the person who saved me.” Vassa does not tell her, might never be able to express, the way that phrase had strengthened her during her second captivity, when even the thought of Lucien was too painful. “Do you know how strong you are?”

Elain leans forward and wraps her arms around Vassa, so tight that Vassa can feel her friend’s tears as they fall against her neck.

“You are going to be the most excellent queen, but before you go back to Scythia, I’m going to take you to every world,” Elain whispers. “Lucien is going to be so jealous.”

“Lucien can use his tethering spell,” the male in question says, his voice full of longsuffering.

“Only if he behaves himself,” Vassa says, and then, even though she said nothing particularly funny, she and Elain can’t stop laughing, and then her sisters join in, and finally even Lucien begins to laugh, and though by now the night has swallowed Prythian, around Vassa there is nothing but light.

[hadjalterdoneanythingwrong]

Found this in the drafts; think Jeanne wrote it.

The lone girl stood at the mouth of a cave, gazing headlong into the infinite black within.

The winds howled and thunder roared. The rain was relentlessly beating down on everything, and lightning lit up the sky at such a rate that one could mistake it for a rave.

The girl had faced many trials to make it here. Braved many storms and defeated a great many champions. But here she stood, at the entrance to the dragon's lair.

Without another moment of hesitation, her grip tightened around her staff, and she headed inside.

Hours passed. Hours full of magma traps, explosive spell runes, and the occasional drake patrol. The girl put no care into being subtle. If this was the worst the dragon had to offer, she would take it all in stride.

Finally, she reached the dragon's chamber. A massive pit, extending over the horizon, flooded with untold treasures the likes of which had likely never been witnessed by mankind before.

And there, standing upon a mountain of platinum and gems...

"ZU'U ZENT HI, MEYZVOLaaNiiK."

The dragon spoke with the voice of ten thousand knives, sharpening against one another. Its eyes, a burning ruby shade, pierced the darkness to glare at the girl from underneath two massive, forward-facing horns. Its hide was black as a moonless night, and every individual scale seemed to be sharp enough to kill a thousand men from the slightest touch.

It swished its tail, broad and thorned as it was, and the mountain began to crumble. It slid down gracefully, coming ever closer to the girl.

"I have been expecting you, trespasser. But tell me... WO LOS Nii TOL KRILON aaD Dii SULeyKSEJUN? Who is it that dares to invade my dominion?"

The girl did not falter. She did not even bat an eye. She simply stared back at the dragon, and smiled.

"DREM YOL LOK. I'm but a simple adventurer. I've no accomplishments that you would care to hear about. All you need concern yourself with is that I've been sent to kill you."

"TUL HI VODREMT Dii LaaG." The dragon began pacing. Slowly. Meticulously. Yet with each step, the cavern shook. Between its scales, a dark, reddish-purple light began to faintly glow. "And yet you disturb my slumber. And yet you best my champions." Its voice continually raised, the light growing brighter and brighter, a reddish arcane sort of energy beginning to crackle around its body. "And yet you kill off my servants, waste all of my traps, and SINGLEHANDEDLY lay waste to EVERYTHING that I have spent an amount of time IMPERCEIVABLE to your PITIFUL MORTAL EXISTENCE setting in motion, so ZU'U FUSROT Wah MINDOK WO FaaL AUSUL HI LOROT HI LOS—" It suddenly slammed its claws at the ledge the girl stood upon, shouting mere inches from her face. "—I DEMAND TO KNOW JUST WHO THE HELL YOU THINK YOU ARE."

"...Very well. Then listen closely, O Black Dragon of Blazing Calamity." The girl planted her staff in the ground, as if it were a banner. "I am from another land, far from here. A land of heroes, of monsters, of gods and fiends you could never imagine."

The dragon huffed, as if its wrath had been kindled but a little, partially replaced by amused curiosity.

"A land of guardians, sworn by an oath under a dead god to protect all that desires to exist. ...A land that fell to darkness a great many years ago."

"OFaaL NAU VOTH Hii." The dragon grumbled. "I do not care where you are from. Who. Are. You?"

"Your realm, this... land of 'Chaldea', as you call it... I am not of it. But it is one that I call home now." The dragon's eyes narrowed, but the girl heeded it not. "My accomplishments mean nothing in this world, but if you insist, then I shall oblige. Where I am from, I was called a great many things. Gardener. Winnower. Hope-Eater's End. Kellsbane. Kingslayer. The Young Wolf." Her grip tightened, and a light, pale blue and wholly luminescent, began to shine from her eyes. "Hero of the Red War. Timeweaver. Wyrmsplitter. Scourge of the Tangled Shore and Wish-Ender of the Dreaming—"

"ZU'U OFaaL Nii." The dragon growled. "None of these titles help me discern anything about you, other than you seem to enjoy hearing your own damn voice. ZU'U OFAN VOK. I. Give. Up."

"But I haven't even told you my name!"

"I CARE NOT TO HEAR YOUR NAME. At this point all I wish to do is obliterate you, return to my slumber, and trouble myself with replacing all the resources YOU demolished later. ...So tell me, 'Young Wolf', VIR DReh HI HIND Wah DIR?"

The dragon's light grew brighter, the arcane energy swirling around like a twister of physically manifested destruction.

"How do you wish to DIE?"

The girl smirked. Her staff came out of the ground and twirled around her hand, as if by itself. She held it behind her, holding her free hand toward the dragon, and in an instant, the staff burst with a pale blue light, strings and threads of it twisting and winding and connecting with the girl's hand and arm like it was made of the center of a plasma globe. The light traveled across her skin, extending out to encapsulate her other hand, which let out a burst of arcane thunder and lightning. Her eyes were like the sun. Her hair shimmered as if kissed by starlight. A pair of ebony, raven-like wings unfolded from underneath her cloak. She stared up at the dragon, unblinking.

"Love how you think death will be the end of me."

[phykios]

the marble king, part 4 [read on ao3]

Athens, 1453

Catching a current to Thera had been a simple task. Well, there had been parts to the journey somewhat more complex than he had let on to his traveling companion, but the steps taken had, all told, been rather simple for a son of the sea god. Following the currents was a matter of instinct, and in the water, he could forget mortal afflictions such as hunger or exhaustion.

Annabeth did not have the same freedoms, of course, and while Percy could extend his gifts to her for some time, he simply was not strong enough to sustain it for the entirety of the journey to Athens. Travelling by boat was somewhat riskier, as there were the Ottomans and the Venetians to avoid, not to mention all the other Latins and Franks and gods-only-knew-who-else who sought to steal some of Hellas ’ glory for themselves, but Percy was confident that he could steer a ship out of danger with far less effort than he could carry Annabeth under the sea.

“It will draw less attention to ourselves,” he had reminded her, “if we are merely one of a thousand mortals making pilgrimage to Athens.” Convinced, unhappily, she agreed.

It had been a long, quiet, terse five days, and not only because she would often refuse to speak to him.

The two of them had traveled these waters together once before, searching for a certain magical sheepskin, but Percy could never recall them being so empty. In his memory, sea monsters lurked beneath every wave, while other horrors plucked straight from the mouths of the poets and muses made their homes on every spit of land, no matter how small. But the monsters and the madness that had haunted heroes such as Jason, Odysseus, Aeneas, and all the others, appeared to have simply vanished into the mist. Even the waves themselves were unusually pacified, allowing them to pass without too much trouble.

It all made for quite the unsettling picture. It was, at once, both empty and not empty; he felt as though they were standing upon the shore as the water was pulled out to the sea, in preparation for the monstrous tsunami which would follow. If a man were able to live in that moment, the calm before the storm, the precipice before the cliff, the sharply receding tide before the flood, then he would know how the sea felt to Percy in this moment.

“Look, Annabeth,” he said, in an attempt to cajole her into conversation. “There, to the West--we are coming up on Delos.”

She did not respond.

“Do you not remember? Apollo’s lions burst forth from the stone and nearly ate us for trespassing.”

All quiet. When he looked to her, she had her head tipped back against the wood of the ship, eyes closed, hands fiddling with the frayed edge of her shawl, a thin, faded grey strip of fabric. She must have woven it herself; he thought he recognized her patterns as they shifted in the bright sunlight, but they had grown distorted by time, the threads stained with brown, dry blood.

With a sigh, he turned back to the sail, adjusting it, the scrape of rope soothing to his ears. The sea was never meant to be so silent, yet as the presence of the gods had fled the last standing city of their once great empire, as his father’s palace now sat cold and empty at the bottom of the sea, so too had the sea seemed to have lost all its magic.

No, not all of it, he thought. Was he himself not living proof that magic still lived in this land? He could yet still breathe underwater, could still command his boat and navigate the seas with more skill than the most experienced captain. There had been the terrible moment, a painful and fleeting thing, in the heartbeats between leaping into the sea with his arms around Annabeth and hitting the water, where he wondered if, rather than securing their escape, he had led them to their deaths instead, that he had lost the powers Annabeth had accused him of relying on too strongly.

But of course, they had not. Percy was of the sea, the ancient salt and spray his blood and his breath, and the power of Poseidon would remain within him always, even if the god himself did not.

In silence, they made their way then to Piraeus. As Percy had predicted, they blended in quite well with their fellow pilgrims, and if any person thought it odd that their vessel was only crewed by two, they did not mention it. At the very least, they were spared from walking in the hot sun, as Percy managed to scrounge up a few coins from the meager money Annabeth had found to rent them passage on a horse cart which traveled into the city. Still tired from the long journey, she lay her head on his shoulder, their backs pressed against the wooden cart.

Percy had never seen Athens before. He had seen the painting, which hung in Annabeth’s and her siblings’ villa, and he had heard her speak of it, many many times. Based on how often she spoke of it, he felt as though he had been there a thousand times before, had seen its winding streets and mighty marble monuments. By the gods, they had been tasked with crafting little miniatures of the Parthenon as a way of testing their fine motor movements. The way she talked, the things she built, surely she must have seen it for herself. “Bet you’re glad to be back,” he said, not really expecting an answer. “I’ve never been to Athens before.”

“Neither have I,” she mumbled.

He turned to look at her, shocked. “You haven’t?”

“Never had the chance.”

“But--I thought--the way you speak of it--”

“I’ve always wanted to see it, of course,” she said. Annabeth kept her eyes on her hands, playing with the increasingly fraying ends of her shawl. “All children of Athena do. But I have studied the temple more keenly than anyone I know. I know everything there is to know about the Acropolis. Every temple, every column, every brick was placed with the finest care and the foremost precision.” She smiled then, a small, creeping thing, and it seemed to lighten her whole face. “I cannot wait to see it.”

Like this, so soft in the face, almost dreamy, she was honestly quite pretty, he thought to himself. “Tell me about it,” he asked, as soft as a puff of wind, as though he had never heard her speak of it before.

Her shawl dropped to her lap. “We begin at the propylea,” she said, tracing the outline with her fingers, “the great winding road up the Western side of the mountain. Immediately to your right, there is the temple of Athena Nike, then once you enter beneath the great archway…” She sighed, almost ardent. “There, you would see it: the statue of Athena, and behind her, the Parthenon. The columns are of the Doric order, and thus unadorned at their top by any sort of frivolous curls or curves. Above them sit the metopes, which ring the whole building, and each marble frieze tells of a great epic; the Titanomachy, the Amazonomachy, the Trojan war. And the colors,” her face broke out into a true smile, and her eyes crinkled at the corners, shining and silver. “Such beautiful colors, red and gold and green. Oh, and the pediments! We must not forget the pediments.”

“The pediments?” He frowned. “I do not know that word.”

“It refers to the triangular space between the portico and the roof. Do you not remember the door of the Big House?”

Yes, he recalled now, though he didn’t see what all the fuss was over the empty space was. “Are the pediments truly so important?”

“These ones are,” she said, “for the western pediment depicts the story of our parents.”

“Ah.”

Now this was a story which she loved to hold over him, retelling every chance she could, to make sure that he never forgot which of their divine parents were revered by the city of Athens.

“It is beautiful, Perseus, you shall see,” she said, with a teasing grin. “It is said that the bodies and the horses are rendered so perfectly, I cannot imagine that you will not be able to see the look on your father’s face as he realizes he has lost the contest for Athens.”

“Yes, well,” he harrumphed. “It had better be worth it, then.”

“It will be,” she assured him. “Once we round the Areopagus , you will be able to see the propylea above the mountain, and the perfect point of the Parthenon above that.”

When they approached the Areopagus proper, some hour or so later, she actually leaned forward, going up on her knees to better see the view from their cart.

“Here it is,” she said. Her whole body quivered, as tense as a bow on a string. “Here it is.”

He smiled at her excitement, as though she were a child.

Almost immediately, he noticed something was wrong. Her shoulders were tight, raised up to her ears as she went deathly still. “Annabeth?” She did not answer him. “Annabeth?”

Joining her at the lip of the cart, he looked up at the Acropolis.

He frowned. “What are those walls?”

The many, many times she had described the Acropolis to him, she had never once mentioned the stone walls. Brown and grey, they rose up out of the sheer cliffside, notched indentations in the top like teeth, as though they were devouring the cliff-face whole. On the northern and southern ends, two large towers lorded over the rest.

Too enthralled in the stone walls, he did not notice as their cart traveled onward in the shadow of the cliff. “Where are we going?” he asked, looking towards the horse at the front of the cart. “Was that not the propylea ?”

It was only then that he saw Annabeth. Pale as a ghost, she was, her knuckles white from gripping the edge of the wood, and her face was set in a terrible grimace. Her eyes bulged out as though she saw a monster, her chin trembling as she opened her mouth and gasped out, “Those are not supposed to be there.”

“What isn’t?”

“The walls.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. He always knew her to be solid, immovable, strong as a statue, but now she looked as though she could be brought low by a mere puff of wind.

“Perhaps they are new,” he offered.

But she fell silent again, glaring at the cliffside as they passed. Her hands, now resting in her lap, clenched and unclenched over and over again, twitching in the manner that suggested she was about to draw her knife, though what target had drawn her ire he could only guess--presumably, she dreamt of stabbing the fool who had chosen to add walls to the Acropolis. Her jaw was hard, set so firmly he thought he could hear her grinding her teeth behind her lips. Antagonistic as they were, he had been on the receiving end of that glare more times than he cared to remember, and he was again glad that they had chosen to set aside their rivalry for now. Eventually, the driver let them off on the eastern side of the mountain. For a moment, he made to help her down from the cart, as he had been taught, but looking at her face, he decided not to risk the insult, allowing her to scramble down to the ground by herself, and side-by-side, they made the long trek to the Acropolis, just another two pilgrims on the final leg of their journey.

Unfortunately, their troubles were merely beginning.

Cresting the hill, the midafternoon sun beating down on them, Annabeth stiffened against him, so severely he thought she might faint. “What,” she hissed, “is that monstrosity ?”

He blinked, squinting through the bright light, though he did not see anything so obviously offensive to the senses--but then, he did not know the field of architecture nearly as well as she did. “What is it?”

“That!”

On top of the building immediately before them rose a bell tower, a cross sitting proudly above it. Surely she could not be referring to that, as the streets of Constantinople had been practically littered with bell towers and crosses. One would be hard pressed to find a corner which did not have a church with its own bell and steeple. “The tower?”

“No, the columns,” she scoffed. “Of course the malakes tower! What is it doing on top of the Parthenon?”

“Annabeth,” he said slowly. “It is a bell tower. Surely, you know what a bell tower is.”

She flushed. “Yes, I know what a bell tower is, phykios , but what I do not know is which imbecile thought to put one up on top of the Parthenon!” She pointed, glaring at it. “It is not even symmetrical!”

He tilted his head, looking. She was right; it did seem oddly placed, given what he had heard of the temple, far back and to the left.

“This is all wrong,” she fretted, worrying her lip between her teeth. “This is--this is wrong. We are supposed to enter through the propylea from the West, into the Precinct of Artemis Brauronia, then pass the Athena Promachos on the northern edge , and--and the pediment--”

Oh dear. She was shaking, now, a leaf on the wind. It was a risky move, to be sure, but he rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezing. She trembled so violently, he thought he could feel it in his bones. “Here,” he said, “let us go inside. We can sit down, catch our breath.”

The fact that she did not refuse him was more concerning than if she had turned around and stabbed him.

Walking into the--the church, he supposed it was, he too felt a little uneasy. The western pediment, the one she had spoken so highly of, the one which was supposed to portray the origins of their ancient feud, a good third of it was missing, plucked straight from the middle of the frieze, the faded pale statues headless, like corpses in the grip of death.

Percy had seen many churches before. Few could compare to St. Sophia, but in essence, all churches looked somewhat the same. He did not have the fancy words for it, not like Annabeth, but he could recognize their shared features should he see them. This was…

He did not know what to think of it, truly.

He supposed that St. Sophia had spoiled him, all that light streaming in through the dome of the roof. The churches of Constantinople were not places which he frequented, but he found himself in St. Sophia for pagan-related duties more frequently than he cared to be, and had become used to that kind of space, so open and airy. By contrast, here the ceiling was flat, dark, nearly oppressive. Rich frescoes and golden mosaics surrounded them, their strange, frightening faces staring down at them, in cold, apathetic judgement. Pilgrims streamed in through the narrow entrance, pressed so close together that Annabeth was forced to grab onto his arm for fear of being separated. Still she shook, shivering as though she were feverish, and before he could think better of it, he placed an arm around her shoulder, drawing her off to the side, away from the large crush of people. Gently steering her, he brought them to the back left corner of the main gallery, and dropped to his knees in order to better blend in with the crowds, pleased when she took his lead without any further prompting.

“This is all wrong,” she whispered. “This is so wrong.”

He squeezed her shoulder, placing his head against hers. “I’m so sorry.”

“Those walls,” her breath hitched, “those hideous, ugly walls--”

“I know,” he said, “I know.”

“I--I didn’t think that--I never thought that, that it might have changed. That it might be different.” She turned to him, eyes wild. “I never--the Parthenon, it’s… you do not understand, the Parthenon is perfect. It is the most perfect piece of architecture ever conceived, ever planned, ever built. The architects, their understanding of mathematics is unparalleled, even to this day. It is perfect .”

He did understand, but now was not the time to point that out. Now was simply the time to listen.

“All children of Athena, we can only dream of creating something even half as beautiful. The Parthenon isn’t supposed to change, it is supposed to endure. Survive.” She swallowed, eyes blinking back furious tears. “Look at what they have done to her altar. Her temple.” Turning from him, her hand swiped at her face, and he looked away. “And these horrible, horrible bodies,” she hissed, after a moment. “The statues of the Parthenon are meant to embody the perfection of the human form. What man do you know looks like that?”

Towards the end of the room was the greatest offence yet. As with all churches, this one too had a portrait of the moment of death of their trinity god, his arms fastened to a wooden cross, his head hung in shame and despair. At his feet, a woman wrapped in blue looked on him in painful grief, her hands outstretched as though she could catch the frozen stream of glittering red which poured from a black mark in his side, their features flattened and reconstituted with different colored stones, thick lines criss crossing their bodies.

She shook her head, disbelieving. “My mother would never have let this insult go unpunished. She must still be here. She has to be.”

Now her tears had dried, and her mouth was set in a thin, grim line, stubborn and serious. No longer did she shake apart on the cold, stone floor, but was still, poised, gathering energy about her as she waited for the proper moment to strike. Oh, he did not have the heart to attempt to convince her out of her plan.

“Stay here. I will see if I can find a way to speak to her.” And so she left him there in the gallery of the church, off to seek some quiet corner.

Unfortunately, she had not specified for how long she would be gone. And truthfully, she should have known better--they were all saddled with the half-blood’s curse, the plight of wandering attention and nervous energy. To order Percy to stay put was simply a folly. He vowed that he would not leave the Acropolis, for it simply was not that big, and they were sure to find each other easily, but he could not be blamed for indulging this small bout of an itinerant spirit.

Walking out of the church, before he could exit entirely, something gold caught his eye, and he looked up. Almost directly above the entrance was a raised part of the roof, reminiscent of the dome with which he was most familiar, but instead of sunlight, the dome was lined with gold and pearl and lapis lazuli in what even he had to admit was a stunning mosaic. The same woman was depicted here, in the same stunning blue robe, though she looked down on them not in grief, but in deep, pensive thought. No, not pensive, he amended--calculating. With her straight nose and keen eyes, she seemed to stare deep into his very heart and soul, considering all the contents she found there, and he was unsure whether or not she found him wanting.

Perhaps it was merely because he had been thinking of her so often these last few days, but for some strange reason, the woman in the mosaic reminded him of Annabeth. He had seen that piercing gaze on her face many times, one that she shared with all of her siblings. It was a trait inherited directly from their shared mother, the one they wore when they were crafting the very finest of their battle strategies.

Unnerved, he continued on, stepping out of the church into its looming shadow.

In front of him rose another one of Annabeth’s hated towers, round in the way he had come to expect from fortified walls, with soldiers eyeing the pilgrims warily from their positions at the top, though he doubted these men had seen much in the way of fighting. Although, who was he to tell. He had thought, once upon a time, that churches were meant to be sacred spaces to men of god, places where no blood could be shed, nor hateful action be taken. Of course, he knew better now.

Wandering round the Acropolis did little to ease his strange mood. It could not have been a more different experience than exploring his father’s palace beneath the sea; rising high above the city, rather than submerged beneath the depths, where one was empty, ruined and rotting, the other was full, crowded with masses of travelers and worshippers, its fortifications kept seemingly well. And yet, as he walked, still he sensed that strange emptiness that he had felt down below. The people who surrounded him may as well have been ghosts for all that he could know them.

Unbidden, his footsteps brought him past a collection of red roofed houses, squat and low, then round to a strangely shaped building on the northern side of the Acropolis. He frowned, walking down the slim stone steps, taking in the columns whose spaces had been filled with grey stone.

He had not lied to Annabeth when he said he had never been to Athens before, and he surely did not have her thorough knowledge of the ancient buildings which decorated it, but he knew, deep in his bones, that what he was looking at here was wrong. Beyond the ugly stone, it came too far forward, as though it were a living, breathing creature, swallowing the ancient marble over the course of a thousand years. Tilting his head, he tried to put it from his mind as he considered the four pillars which stood before him.

There was something behind those walls, he knew, though he did not know how, something which called to him, deep in his soul. If he closed his eyes, he thought that he could smell seawater, imagined that he could hear the gurgling of a spring, deep beneath the foundations of the earth, pouring forth as though it were a beating heart.

“Percy.”

He blinked.

Annabeth stood before him, scowling. “Did I not say to stay where you were?”

The sun laid low on the horizon, casting long shadows over him, though he could not have been standing here for more than a few minutes. “I… I apologize,” he said. His thoughts were fuzzy, as though he were emerging from an unintended nap. “I did not realize how long it had been. Did you find what you were seeking?”

Her scowl deepened further, before dropping, as though it were a mask, leaving nothing but weariness behind. “No,” she said, her gaze dropping to the ground. “My mother would not come.”

“Perhaps we can find a market,” he suggested, though he knew it would be a fruitless gesture, “and procure a sacrifice. Maybe that would entice her to appear.”

But she shook her head, her lips pulled into a frown. “That would not be wise. I fear that if she allowed the desecration of her temple in this way without repercussion, there is very little that would call her down from Olympus.” She turned to join him, then, standing shoulder to shoulder as she, too, beheld the strange facade.

“Tell me about this place,” he requested. Speaking at length on architecture was, after all, one of her favorite pastimes, and he did so hate to see that sorrowful look on her face. “I feel as if I… know it, somehow.”

“I am not surprised,” she said. “This is--was--is the Erechtheion, the temple dedicated to both of our divine parents.”

“I see,” he teased, hoping to make her smile. “And you said that the Athenians did not like my father.”

Gods be praised, it worked. Trembling, as though she were fighting it, a smile did raise the corners of her mouth. “I said nothing of the sort, merely that the early Athenians vastly preferred my mother.”

“And yet, here lies a temple to his glory.”

She lightly smacked him. “There were shrines to the other gods as well, phykios .”

“You cannot take this from me, skjaldmær. I shall go round proclaiming its glory to all who would listen to the tale of Poseidon and his Athenian temple.”

“Oh, hush.” But she was grinning now, and his heart rose at the sight.

They stood there for some time, as the sun continued to set over the complex, the shadows of the towers lengthening with every minute. The longer they stood, the more the question nagged at him, filling him with a desire and a longing that he had not known for some time, a yearning which reached beyond his skin and bones deep into the core of him. “Why do I know this place?” he asked her.

Equally spellbound, she answered, “Legend held that this is where our parents’ great rivalry began. They say that beneath the Erechtheion lies the three marks of the sea god’s trident, under the branches of the very first olive tree.”

“Here, you say?” How extraordinary. Here was the spot which would come to define their antagonism, a mighty tree the seeds of which were planted thousands of years ago, far beyond the memory of any living man, recorded in stone and letter. Here they were, two souls adrift in the uncaring winds of time, and yet, together, they had come full circle, to the place where it all began. Who of the ancient Athenians could have guessed, all those generations ago, that their choice of patron would shape the course of history, as a river through a valley? Who among them would have known how their decision would take root throughout the years, until it blossomed within Percy and Annabeth, children who, despite following the same gods, would have been as total strangers to them? The thought filled him with an emotion he could not quite name, only that he knew he was glad for her presence.

“Thank you,” she murmured, as quiet as a breath, “for looking after me. I am sorry to have dragged you here on nothing but a whim and a wish.”

Acting on some instinct he did not know he possessed, he reached down, and took her hand. It was warm in his, her heart beating strongly through the tips of her fingers. “Think nothing of it. We two must stay together, should we not?”

“We should indeed.”

She looked on him without any distaste or annoyance for what must have been the first time in a very long time, and it sent a warm thrill through him, as though the shadows around them had receded, bathing the two of them in sunlight. “I have been thinking,” he said, inspired by this place and this time and the thought of their legacy. “If indeed, the gods that we know and worship have truly… have truly gone,” and his voice grew thick at the thought. He cleared his throat, and was grateful she did not comment on it. “Then we should continue to travel together. This truce that we have struck, it has proven beneficial in more ways than I could have predicted, and if we are to survive whatever comes next, I have a feeling that we should stay together. If you agree, Annabeth, let us, here and now, tie off these threads of our history, as one would to a tapestry. Let us end this rivalry of ours.”

She looked at him, a cascade of feelings crossing her face, too quick for him to name, until she settled on something which he would define as apprehension, perhaps. Gazing into his eyes, she searched for some hint that he would betray her, he supposed, though he could not blame her for it. His proposal was a novel one, and bold as well. Should her mother get word of this agreement, Annabeth could find herself in deep trouble, as Athena’s hatred of Percy himself was no secret.

This close, the setting sun seemed to reflect in her eyes, transforming them from steel to silver, a kaleidoscope of glittering stars. This close, he realized he could trace the flush on her cheeks as it traveled towards the crooked bridge of her nose, and he saw that there were freckles there, beneath the tanned skin.

“A plan worthy of Athena,” she said after some consideration. “I agree to your terms.”

And thus, it was ended.

“To think,” he murmured, “that such a legendary rivalry could have been resolved so easily.”

“It is strange,” she admitted, “that along with my mother and our ancestral home, I have lost this as well.” And she looked out over the city, despondent.

He frowned, as he did not think of their antagonism as something to lose; rather, he felt as though the ancient fields had been overturned, the old soil furrowed, giving way to new and fertile ground, full of endless possibility.

“Well,” he said, hoping to put a smile back on her face, "my first act, in the shedding of our rivalry, is to pledge myself to our future empress, Ana Zabeta Palaiologina." Then, in a fit of insanity, he raised her hand to his lips, and laid a kiss there.

She did not smile at him; rather, she rolled her eyes, pulling her hand from his grasp, and wiping it on the front of her dress.

“Where to then, your majesty? The Morea?”

“Enough,” she said. “I had given up that plan some time ago.”

“Oh?”

“As you and I have both noted, the despotes will not give us the army that we seek, nor the Legion, nor any of the rulers of this Christendom. I fear,” she sighed, biting her lip, “I fear that Constantinople is lost to us forever.” She looked to him again, clear eyes shining. “We have lost, Perseus. The gods have gone, the empire has fallen, and we have lost.”

And that, he supposed, was that. The reign of the Olympians was ended. They were well and truly alone.

But, he thought, at least they were together.

“What now?” Endless possibility, he thought. How frightening. “Do we look for the agoge ?”

“I do not see how we can,” she admitted. “Chiron could be anywhere, and I have not the faintest idea of where to begin.”

Neither, unfortunately, did he. They could have been anywhere in the world, but the world was a vast, vast place. “Let us find some place to rest. Tomorrow, we can decide what to do, but tonight, we have earned our respite.”

Their business thus concluded, they wound their way down the cliff, to the city below, in search of some place to rest their heads.

It was not terribly difficult for them to find an inn. Claiming tiredness, Annabeth bade him to go and get them something to eat. “Anything in particular?” he asked.

“Something cheap,” was her perfunctory response. Collapsing onto their shared bed, which was, unfortunately, the only one which had been available in that particular establishment, she turned away from him, curling into herself, and sensing the dismissal for what it was, he left her to it, setting out for food.

Immediately, he wished he had been able to entice her to come with him.

Athens in the evening was quite beautiful. The air had cooled considerably, the low light casting the homes and streets in shades of red and pink and gold. It was smaller than he had expected the great city to be, however. He had been expecting something grander even than Rome, or the city of Constantine, yet what he saw put him more in mind of a small, backwater town. Even to his untrained eye, the buildings were mismatched and patchwork, different styles of marble sewn together haphazardly, unsymmetrically and non-uniformly--a cardinal sin, he gathered, to the keen mind of an architect. From the way Annabeth had spoken of it, Athens by rights should have been the virtual center of the known world, the shining jewel of Hellas and beyond, as it had been in centuries long past. Whatever it may have lacked in people or in great thinkers nowadays, however, there was at least plenty of food to be found. The air here was thick with the heady smells of garlic, salt, and onion, transporting him back to his childhood home, to his mother and her kitchen.

Gods, his mother. In all this time, he had not even spared a thought to her or her husband or their daughter. He had sent them from Constantinople prior to the siege, but he did not know where they had landed. Were they safe? Healthy? Had little Esther been able to sleep through the night without being plagued by any more nightmares? Was his mother able to make her pastries still, with cinnamon and mahleb?

Would he ever see them again?

Without much conscious thought, his wanderings brought him to a stall on the edge of the populated area, every inch covered in reams of fabric, richly hued, in shades of copper and cream and grey. He had passed by hundreds others just like it, so he was not certain why this one had caught his eye. Perhaps coming across this particular stall had simply coincided with an idea he had been concocting, a coincidence of good timing and sudden fortune. Perhaps it had been the length of blue cloth he had seen behind the elderly woman who sat in the center of her tent, eyeing him warily. “See something that piques your fancy?” she asked, though she made no further move to greet him.

“Oh,” he said, “no, thank you. I was merely looking.”

“Finest cloths in the city,” she said, a bold claim, he thought, since he was quite certain he had seen these exact fabrics on display in every little tent he had come across so far. “I make them all myself.”

“I do not have much in the way of money,” he said, hoping she would leave him be.

Oddly enough, that only seemed to excite her. She turned over her shoulder, pulling the bolt of blue down from behind her, and holding it out to him. In the evening light, he thought it might resemble the color of a starless sky, a deep, inky blue. “You have good taste--this color is very fashionable these days.”

“Truly, I have no money,” he said, even as an absurd thought began to form in his mind. The color, he thought, that blue, it would look quite beautiful set against a certain blonde braid.

She sighed. “What do you have?”

“Huh?”

“The malakes noblewoman who ordered this from me has declined to send someone to retrieve it for her for several days now,” she said, “and so it sits in the back of my stall, unsold and taking up valuable space, when it could be in your hands instead, or draped around the shoulders of your beautiful wife.”

Percy blushed. “She’s not--I mean--”

“But because I am a generous businesswoman,” she interrupted, smirking, “show me what you have, and we may be able to come to some arrangement.”

The way she looked at him, all-knowing and altogether too familiar, compelled him to obey. Counting his coins, he laid out his paltry offering before her, the smattering of silver stavrata, Venetian lira, and smaller, duller bronze coins making for a pitiful display, when his fingers fumbled, and a golden drachma tumbled out of his hands, coming to rest before her.

He froze, praying that she would not see it, or if she did, that she might mistake it for an Italian florin, and leave it be.

Naturally, of course, that is what she picked up, her eyes settling upon it almost instantly.

“Well, well, well,” she said, looking at the coin with curiosity. “It has been some time since I have seen one of these.”

“Ah,” Percy started, flushing. That coin was not meant for mortals, and they had precious few of them to spare. “That--I--that is to say--”

“If you are looking for the gods,” she went on, peering at him with new eyes, “I could have saved you the trouble. They are not here. In truth, they have not blessed this land with their presence for some time.”

He blinked, astonished.

With a kindly smile, she tucked the drachma back into his coin purse, swiping some of the lira for herself. “I think this makes for an adequate trade, no?”

Still, he was rendered dumb and speechless.

“Keep an eye on your money, traveler,” she said. “You never know if you will find more.”

The noise of the city was dwindling, down from a lively hum to a low murmur, and the light turned even cooler as the cold moon rose over the cliff. Annabeth would most likely be worried at his long delay, or at least starving. But he could not force himself to move yet. “You’re--” he stammered, “you--”

“Yes, child,” she said. “Now, you should be headed off. The guards do not take kindly to stragglers wandering the streets so late at night.”

There were a million things he wished to ask this woman, important things, questions of ancestry and whether or not there were more of their kind nearby, but all that he was able to say was the terrible, sad news that he carried within his heart. “Constantinople has gone,” he said. “The agoge has vanished.”

Bittersweet, she smiled, folding the shawl for him into a tight bundle. “I know.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “I had a dream.” And thus, she bade him good night.

In a daze, Percy wandered back to the inn where they were staying. On his way back, he had stopped to purchase some food like he promised her he would, settling a loaf of hard, cheap bread and some kefalotiri , as that was all he could afford, but at least it would tide them over for the night, until they decided on the next course of action.

When he returned, Annabeth was no longer lying prone on their bed, but sat upright, her back against the wall, eyes closed. She opened one as he entered, her hand automatically sneaking towards the folds of her dress where he knew she kept her knife, until, upon recognizing him, she relaxed, letting her hand fall back down to her lap.

“Here,” he said, placing the parcels on the bed between them, though he kept the shawl tucked away against his chest, for now. “Dinner.”

“Thank you,” she said, quietly, taking the bread, picking at it with her fingers, slipping the teeniest of bites into her mouth. After some time, she noticed that he was not following suit. “You’re not eating.”

It was not a question. “Ah, I ate mine as I returned to the inn,” he said, easily.

She stared at him, not at all convinced.

“In any case,” he went on, eager to change the topic, “I have been thinking about what we should do next.” He had done nothing of the sort, but hopefully it would take her mind off of the obvious.

“So have I.” She put the bread aside, drawing her knees up to her chest, and hugging them. “I would like to go home.”

Percy frowned. Surely she did not mean Sigeion . She had already indicated her feelings towards the search for Chiron and the rest of camp, namely, that it would be a useless, fruitless, frustrating search, and surely she did not mean Constantinople, lost to the ages. What other home was there?

“You know that my mortal family does not hail from here.”

“I do.” It was not a piece of information well hidden; one only had to look at her pale skin, her blonde hair, and her looming figure to know that she was, in all likelihood, not one of the Hellenes by blood.

She would not look at him, her fingers tapping random patterns over the fabric of her dress. “If he still lives, I should like to see my father.”

“Oh.” That was… unexpected. To anyone who knew her, there were a few core tenants of Annabeth as a person; her love of architecture was one of them, and her distaste for her father was another.

“When I--left him, he lived in a city called Uppsala, far to the North of here.”

“How far?”

She gave him a rueful smile. “Svealand.”

Well. That was indeed quite far. “You mean to travel to Svealand? On your own? That would take near on half a year.”

“To the East of Constantinople, there is an old trading route once used by the Norsemen to travel between their lands and ours,” she said. “A river by the name of Danapris .”

“A river?” he asked, skeptically.

“One that spans nearly the entire continent. In the time of   Basileios II Porphryogennitus, this was the route which delivered his legendary Varangian guard. I know for a fact it has fallen out of use, and the tribes of the Kievan Rus’ no longer roam that area.”

He had never heard of those people before--not that it mattered. “Annabeth, it does not matter how fearsome and ferocious you believe you are, you cannot travel all the way to Svealand by yourself.”

She scowled at him, lips pulling back into a snarl. “I have done so once before.”

“The whole road? By yourself?”

“Well,” she hesitated, “no. Not the whole thing. But I traveled some of it, before Thalia found me.”

“Be that as it may,” for he knew she would attempt to traverse the whole way by herself, merely to spite him, “as Thalia once did for you, let me do as well. I shall accompany you to Svealand.”

Her eyes widened. “Percy, no. You should be looking for Chiron.”

“As you yourself have said, he could be anywhere,” said Percy, “and I may have all the time in the world to find him. In the meantime, I should very much like to see you safely returned to your father.”

“I told you, the road is long since abandoned.”

“And you’ll forgive me if I am skeptical of that fact. Not of you,” he said at the look on her face, “nor your vast pools of knowledge, but even you cannot predict whether or not you shall meet trouble along the road, and it would comfort me greatly if I were able to come along.” Sourly, she opened her mouth as if to argue, but he interrupted her. “Annabeth. You cannot convince me otherwise. I am coming with you.”

Eyes narrowed, she glared at him, before acquiescing. “Fine.”

“Good.”

“Then we should rest. We shall leave at first light on the morrow.” On that abrupt note, she flopped down onto the bed, turning over once again, her back to him. “Good night, Perseus.”

The air was charged between them, with what he could not say, though he could nearly feel it shaking, as taught as bowstring. “Good night,” he said in response. Then, blowing out their room’s solitary candle, he laid himself down to sleep as well, his back to her, and thought not of the bundle of cloth he had purchased on a whim, not of how her golden braid might look against the dark blue fabric, and not of the sweet smile she had given him in the shadow of the Erechtheion. No, he thought of none of these things. Not at all.

[selfindulgentpoorlywritten]

Only You (Sidney Crosby Imagine)

The text got deleted for some godforsaken reason, so I’m hoping this fixes it.

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Sidney Crosby/Fem!Reader

Words: 3462

Warnings: NSFW

Requested: yes / no

Summary/Request:  hi! are you still taking requests? bc i wanted to know if i could get some sidney smut but like with a girl that's like way shorter than him

(AKA established relationship Sid smut with a super short reader)

No one would say you’re particularly good at dancing, but damn if you didn’t love it. You were always dancing by the end of every party, to whatever was playing over the speakers, whether it was intended to be a soundtrack or not. Today is no exception. At clubs you tended to get lost in the crowd, but since it was only yourself and a few of the other WAGs, you’re still visible from the outside. Visible to Sidney from his seat on the patio, where he’s stopped bothering to pretend to be invested in the conversation taking place around him.

He loves to dance as well-- especially when he’s got a few drinks in him-- but he’s always loved your dancing. He can’t help but watch every time you take the floor, mesmerized by the way you move. By the way you sway just a tad awkwardly, the way you don’t even care. The freedom of it. But more than that, he’s captivated by how stunning you are. His favorite thing to do is remind you of how gorgeous he thinks you are, with quick comments and long nights, depending on how much he gets to see you.

Before you ever met him, you’d already felt short enough. Dating a professional hockey player and spending time with his friends only made you more acutely aware of your height. Considering the entire team is at least as tall as Sidney, who has more height on you than you’d like to acknowledge, you felt like you were Jack after climbing the beanstalk, surrounded by giants. That’s bad enough, though you’d expected the guys to make you feel small and were prepared for it; what you weren’t prepared for was the WAGs. They were all tall and long-legged and blonde and graceful and dazzling. You were the shortest by far, not even reaching Sidney’s chin, and most of them had half a foot or more on you. It rarely bothered you, but when you’re surrounded by literal models all the time, it’s difficult not to feel self-conscious on occasion.

The party is winding down alongside the sunset, and the small group of you retire from dancing to help Tanger and Catherine start cleaning up. You gather some used plates and cups that had been abandoned on tables around the yard, depositing them in the trash bag Kelsey is walking around with. The serving dishes for the food need to be brought inside, but you notice that-- aside from Tanger-- the guys are still sitting around shooting the shit while the girls do the work. On your way inside with a casserole dish, you smack Sidney on the arm and scold the lot of them. They hang their heads and stand to join in with the tidying-up effort, adequately chastised.

Sid keeps shooting you looks, the kind of looks that make your face heat and your heart skip beats. Anticipation coils in your gut. You’d been having a great time dancing and talking with everyone, but you’re suddenly eager for this to be over.

The downside of Sid being Captain is that he can’t beg off team events early unless it’s a legitimate emergency, so you’re stuck cleaning and talking for what feels like an eternity. The party was a “team bonding” event to welcome the newcomers to Pittsburgh, and Tanev, Galchenyuk, and Kahun seemed to appreciate it, at least. You would appreciate if everyone would leave, so you can go home and fully enjoy the promise of the heated once-overs Sidney has been so generously giving you all evening.

You try to appreciate the time with everyone and be present in the conversations going on, but Sid has taken every free moment to shoot you glance after glance, like he can’t keep his eyes off of you. It’s not as if you haven’t been zoning out of various discussions to look at him too, though, so glass houses and all that. The guys slowly trickle out with their better halves over time, until Geno and Anna are the only ones left. It takes you a moment to notice, since you’ve been a bit transfixed by Sidney’s hands for a few minutes, because he’s definitely showing them off, knowing your weakness for them.

Momentarily, you meet eyes with Geno, who looks knowing and smug, before he turns his gaze to Sid. That’s probably going to be embarrassing later, but right now you don’t really care if anyone knows your plans. Despite being an asshole, Geno is actually a good guy, so he excuses himself and Anna not long after. They say their goodbyes, giving out hugs and cheek-kisses and back-slaps before leaving, both giving you a wink on the way out. They really are perfect for each other, huh?

More importantly, you’re now free to go. You make some polite conversation with Catherine quickly, just thanking her for hosting and wishing her luck with the children, offering to babysit if she ever needs a break. Sid switches with you, giving Catherine a hug and thanking her succinctly. It takes a handful of minutes for you to say goodbye to Kris, and you swear you can feel Sid’s frustration at having to wait. Typically, he wouldn’t care about waiting for you, but he’s been clearly turned on for at least an hour and probably desperate to get you alone. You’re definitely on the same page. Unfortunately: societal niceties.

The instant you’ve finished with Kris, Sidney has a hand on your lower back, guiding you toward the door and out with a final farewell thrown over your shoulder. Kris and Catherine stand in the doorway to see you out, making sure you get into the car and start up safely. Luckily, you can justify Sid’s potentially-inappropriate handle on you as coincidence, considering the fact that his hand naturally rests at the same level as your lower back, more or less. It’s just incidental, or a happy accident, or whatever. When he has to remove his hand so you can both load into his car, you immediately miss the contact.

You return the Letangs’ friendly wave as Sid backs out of the driveway. Even if he didn’t have the C, you’d never be able to leave events early because he always parks in the driveway and gets blocked in. Or maybe he lets himself get blocked in because the C means he’s trapped anyway? Not important. What is important is the big hand he lays heavily on your thigh, too high up for polite company and so, so warm. He keeps his eyes solely on the road as he drives, despite clearly holding onto the last of his composure by threads.

“The worst part is that you don’t even mean to do it,” he says, voice far deeper than when he spoke to Tanger. It sends a shiver down your spine, your entire body tensing in a barely-visible wave at the familiar sound. You have no idea what he means, and your confusion definitely shows on your face. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to want a response, because he just takes a beat and continues.

“You just dance, like there’s no one watching, like you wouldn’t even care if there were,” he says, voice conveying a thousand things; arousal, possession, awe, “And everybody watches you, but you only look at me.” His hands squeeze the steering wheel and your thigh in equal measure. You’re not proud of the sharp inhale you take in response, but you’re also not really thinking of your pride right now, or anything other than the heat and pressure just close enough to tease. Your brain is stuck on a loop of only you only you only you, but you don’t say it, not willing to give him the satisfaction of your devotion yet. Also, if you did give in and say it now, the two of you would probably end up with a ticket for public indecency. You can talk your way out of it once, but twice would probably be pushing it.

You don’t say a word the entire ride home, and his grip on you and the wheel eventually loosens. Though he does periodically tighten his fingers back around you, just sporadically enough to keep you on edge, keep you wanting. And god, did you want. Sid was the most beautiful man in the world on a normal day, so when he’s all focused and deliberate, almost ready to succumb to lust? Truly Athena herself couldn’t keep chaste in his presence.

Pulling up the driveway with his hand tight on the skin bared by your now bunched up skirt-- easily pushed out of the way by Sid’s searching fingers-- has your heart rate skyrocketing. He doesn’t spare you a peep before he cuts the ignition and exits the car, not needing to say a word for you to scramble to follow him, grabbing your bag and climbing out of the car so quickly you almost end up tumbling face-first onto the concrete. By time you get to the mud room, he’s already removed one shoe and is working on the other. He hadn’t worn a jacket, since it’s one of those rare September days where the world forgets it’s supposed to be transitioning into fall, so it’s 91° and 8-fuck-thousand percent humidity, so he doesn’t have to bother taking it off. Good. Less time wasted. As for you, you kick off your shoes and place them in their usual place a little less carefully than usual. Sid definitely has some level of OCD, but that won’t bother him. Probably. Maybe.

Clearly it doesn’t bother him right now, because he walks through the second door into the living room, still without a word. You follow behind, but staunchly refuse to compare yourself to an eager puppy despite the similarity. He leads the way to the bedroom, which seems way too far right now, in your opinion, but that’s not your brain talking. At least you get a nice view of Sid’s ass in his black swim trunks, close-fitting enough to accentuate his figure rather than hide it.

What you expect to happen once you reach the bedroom, is for him to immediately push you up against the door and kiss you senseless. What you do not expect, is for him to slowly crowd into your space, cupping your jaw with one hand and stroking your cheek gently with his thumb. The other hand comes to rest on the side of your ribcage, squeezing gently once as he looks down into your eyes. There’s so much adoration in his gaze that you feel like the swelling affection inside you is going to make you burst.

“I love you,” he says. His expression turns a bit bittersweet, like he knows he doesn’t say it enough, but appreciates you understanding it anyway. You cradle his face in both hands and kiss him once, almost chaste. A far cry from what you anticipated.

“I love you too,” you reply. You know you maybe say it too much, often enough that he gets flustered sometimes, or thinks it’s said out of habit and not sincerity. But you mean it every time, with all your heart. Again his expression changes, this time from bittersweet certainty to overt devotion. He looks at you as if you’re the most extraordinary person in the world, like he can’t believe he gets to have you, like you’re the exceptional one in this relationship. All you can do is kiss him again, longer this time, harder.

This is where the passion you’d expected comes in, where he starts kissing you like he can’t bear to part from you even for the necessity of breath. Where his hands run down your sides to sneak under your shirt, so they can skim back up your stomach to cup your breasts. Your bathing suit suddenly feels like far too much material between his hands and your skin, and you itch to take it off. To take all of it off, to bare yourself to him in a way that never felt so right with anyone before.

With your diminutive stature, he has to bend at the waist to kiss you while standing, and you know it sometimes gives him a crick in his neck. Which is totally the reason you’re eager to get to the bed, obviously. Not because his hands are warm even through your top and his lips are soft and damp against yours and the small needy sounds he makes into your mouth drive you wild. You’re just being considerate. Yup.

Whatever ulterior motives you may or may not have, you nudge him backward, guiding him toward the bed even as he continues to dip down to kiss you between looking back to make sure he doesn’t trip. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he doesn’t fall, just stops. He strips off his shirt with an unrestricted urgency he never shows anyone but you, throwing it toward the hamper. You follow suit, shucking off both tops, and pushing down your coverup skirt for good measure. He pauses, brushing his big hands over your shoulders and down your chest, admiring your figure so brazenly you feel yourself blush.

“You just gonna look?” you ask rhetorically, still a tad breathless, but feeling a bit bold yourself. In return, you’re graced with that beautiful crooked smile and a look far too dark to match-- under normal circumstances, at least. He squats down to grab you around the waist, tossing you onto the bed in a feat of strength that’s more than a little sexy. The noise you make is decidedly less sexy, but he just smiles wider, shoving off his trunks like an afterthought before joining you on the bed. You wriggle out of your suit bottoms, not getting a chance to throw them off the bed before he’s on top of you.

Sid is so intense this way, laser focus directed solely on you, fixated on the best way to take you apart. For the most part, you go with the flow. You’re more than willing to follow his lead, knowing from experience that he’ll make this more than exceptional.

With your body bared to him, he looms over you, eyes roaming your upper body. His thick thighs are solid and warm against your own legs, closer to your knees than you might expect of a more proportional couple; though all you can think of is how the scratch of his wiry body hair drives you a bit crazy. He kisses you again, only momentarily, before moving to your jaw, your neck, your shoulders. There will definitely be some dark spots that Malin and Kelsey will tease you about next time they see you, but the pressure and tinge of pain feel so good that you don’t much care.

Before Sid, you had assumed that your breasts simply weren’t that sensitive. Since the first time you’d slept together, however, you’d learned that maybe you just hadn’t had competent partners before. He sucks more hickeys into the thin skin of your breasts, mouthing and teasing at your nipples until you’re arching into his lips as you make sounds a bit too desperate for your liking. It’s just so good.

Occasionally, he’ll ask you to sit on his face. He knows it’s not easy for you, because your height means you have to rest a bit higher on your knees, which stresses your thighs. But he loves it so dearly that you do it from time to time. This evening, however, he seems far too frantic to eat you out as per usual. Instead, he abandons your chest to recapture your mouth. After so long, he knows exactly how to move, to lick, to press, to drive you crazy. Crazy enough that his fingers dipping into your folds make you gasp into his mouth in surprise.

Your focus shuttles between his fingers stretching you meticulously and the way he’s kissing the soul out of you. Your brain simply refuses to focus on one thing, jumping from his lips to his fingers to his thighs on your knees to his dick occasionally brushing your thigh. It’s all so much, his body the perfect complement to yours, no matter how counterintuitive that may seem.. He’s so big and warm, enveloping you in smooth skin and pounding pulse, completely encompassing you.

Once he deems you adequately stretched, he kisses you once again, slow and wet and deep. He asks you for the umpeenth time if you’re ready, if you’re okay with this, and you’re too much of a goner for him to do much more than kiss him and shimmy your hips closer to his own.

You’ll never get used to the first push inward. Sid’s not particularly long, but he’s thick, stretching you wide and hitting all the right spots you never even knew existed before him. His back is curled in a deep arch so he can bury his face in your chest for the initial stretch, like if he looks at you, he’ll lose it. Not that you would know, really, with how you throw your head back into the bottom edge of the pillow. All you can do is make a small “ah” sound, rocking your hips back and forth in an attempt to adjust to his size. Once bottomed out, Sid stays still as long as you need, no matter how the involuntary rolling of your pelvis makes him dig blunt nails into your hips.

“Come on,” you say, finally, hips reduced to tiny twitches, “Fuck me, Sid.” The phrasing draws a broken moan from his throat. He doesn’t bother wasting time with slow, dragging thrusts; just goes straight to fucking you into the mattress with as much speed and force as he can manage. Your ankles barely meet behind his back with how broad his torso is, so you dig fingertips into his shoulders to avoid being driven up the mattress.

No matter how single-minded he may seem as he shoves in and drags out, he still kisses you so sweetly. Whispering endearments and reassurances against your lips (though he still has to crane his head to do so, so maybe avoiding neck pain wasn’t your only motive for getting him into bed), he steadily fucks you into oblivion. By time he sucks a mark just under your jaw that’s sure to last, you’re gone, floating somewhere above yourself. When he comes, he bites into your collar bone, groaning out his pleasure as he fills you. You reply with a groan of your own, acutely aware of the warmth filling you, his cock still spreading you wide.

“Maybe I should dance more often,” you quip, once your breathing settles to something manageable. Sid huffs a laugh into the pillow, rolling to the side to avoid crushing you any more than he already has.

“As long as you’re not looking at any other guys,” he replies, letting his head flop to the side to smile at you.

“You know it’s only ever you, Sid,” you can feel your smile grow into something halfway between giddy and sentimental, “Only you.” He groans dramatically and throws an arm over his face, in a gesture you know means that he wishes he was 18 again so he could go twice in a row. All you can do is laugh and turn toward him, peeling his arm away and giving him a soft, lingering kiss.

“Just make sure you stay on the edge of the crowd so I can actually see you,” he says against your lips, grinning even as you gasp and smack his shoulder.

Over time, you’ve learned that aftercare is important to Sid. He likes to pamper you, to guide you into the shower so he can soap you up and wash you down. He loves to carefully towel you off, pressing gentle kisses to the places he bruised with his mouth and fingers. To cover you with his clothing, a t-shirt that reaches past the mid-point of your thighs and shorts that may as well be capris. To settle you into the bed once the duvet has been tossed toward the hamper, wrapping you in the sheets and comforter, tight against himself. Taking care of you has always been his favorite thing, the way you look up at him with drooping eyes and sleepy voice to thank him for everything. For the reassurance, for helping clean you, for your vaguely sore lower body and the way it makes you feel such deep satisfaction, for loving you, for making you feel loved, for making you believe you are loved. Believe you are loved, are cared for, are worth his love and care. Only you.

[maviemesregles]

Once I was an Eagle

The third chapter is here, folks! :) The story unfolds itself slowly but surely. (NSFW)

A shoutout to my lovely beta @eclecticstarlightconnoisseur <3 Thank you for sharing this journey with me and for your kind words of encouragement.

So from now on, you guys don't have to bear with my mistakes any longer :)

❤

As always it’s available on AO3.

Chapter I: The beginnings

Chapter II: Sassenach

CHAPTER III: Catharsis

Mess was something I was afraid of. I remember my mother always saying that sometimes I'm too emotional and irrational. So I've learned how to be organized and keep everything in order, including my emotions. I had to. I was a surgeon and could not allow my feelings or temper overtake me. Claire Beauchamp who knows what to do. Years of learning made me a perfect example of a control freak. I could be a coach giving lessons on how to hold your shit together. But, it was a facade, a mask put on for work and strangers, for the patients who needed to have a Dr. Beauchamp who has everything under control. My true nature did not always correspond with the show I tried to sell.

Since I bumped into that tall Scot, the last little thread I held over my inner world was slipping out of my fingers. Then there was a law of inertia. I was balancing on the edge before falling down to the abyss of the unknown.

I returned home with an unsatisfied ache in my belly, between my thighs, behind my closed eyelids, and on my swollen kissed lips. I jumped into the hot shower furiously scrubbing down myself to wash off the smell of the pub, the street, (and his cologne that traveled with me home) off my skin. I've spent a good twenty minutes standing under the shower trying to reclaim the power over the situation that was running away from me as quickly as the water into the drain below my feet. I inhaled and exhaled (the way they taught us at yoga classes which Geillis made me go).

My fingers traced the bottom lip where I could still taste him. Get a grip, Beauchamp.

When I just crossed the threshold, Geillis's number was shining on my screen before I even could take shoes off of my aching feet. "I hoped ye willna pick up." She mumbled mouth fulll, chewing on something crispy.

"Ye did so I reckon yer not with him?"

"Nah".

"Was he that bad?"

I shook my head as if she could see me. 

"No, not at all. At the beginning of the evening, I couldn't guess if he's just a confident prick who's trying to get into my knickers or not but now I don't know." 

After a detailed description of the date to Geillis, I strolled down to the bathroom. “Maybe he didn't like me?" I asked thoughtfully, trying to get rid of mascara that has imprinted into the delicate skin, which now was turning red.

"He'd better get into yer knickers"  Geillis snorted. "But I think the lad likes ye well enough, only he has decided to teach ye a lesson after Lallybroch or he's being a gentleman. If he wanted to get ye laid he'd done it this evening."

“Is it a good or bad thing?" I asked pulling my jeans down.

"I dinna ken. I'd say ye invite this Jamie over to dinner and see for yourself".

Grabbing Adso under my armpit on the way to the bedroom, my phone came alive with a loud ringing (Jesus, I have to change that ringtone). Already planning what I might say to Geillis (remembering all swear words I knew) I almost pressed Accept but stopped right in time, seeing "James" on the screen. I stared at my cell phone long enough to read now "Missed call".

I had texted him while in the cab "Home. Safe and sound." He replied what appeared in a second "Good. It was a bonnie evening."

I crossed my legs sitting at the end of the bed, watching Adso bury himself under the duvet. Why has he called?

I spent about ten minutes before my fingers finally hit the Call button.

"Jamie?"

"Claire"

He said my name in a way that made my toes curl and my heart race a marathon. The soft vibrating "R" and a hint of an accent turned just Claire into something more special than I could imagine.

 I heard a quiet rustling of the sheets and his quiet breathing before I spoke. That made me wonder how he looked in bed. Did he sleep on the right or left side of the bed? Was he a light sleeper or not? What did he dream?

"Is something amiss?" I bent my neck holding the phone between my ear and shoulder.

"No. Just wanted to hear ye voice again."

"Oh." I gasped. I bit down on my lip but nonetheless could see a stupid smile on my face reflecting in the window.

"I dinna wake ye, Sassenach?" I heard him shift, getting comfortable and tried to imagine what he looked like. Was he tangled into the mass of bed sheets and blanket, sitting upright in the dim bedside light. Or maybe laying down, one hand up, elbow supporting his head, chest rising and falling with his quiet breathing.

"No. I was just getting ready for bed."

Adso's grey head popped out of the duvet. My companion looked at me tentatively and climbed up onto my knees with a loud "Meow."

"Ye have a cat?” I was sure I could hear him smile.

"Uh uh". I mumbled stroking Adso's furry back.

There was a pause for what seemed an eternity before Jamie asked quietly.

"Can I meet the wee cheetie?"

* * *

That night, Jamie and I had agreed on what he simply called "a real date" I could not sleep. I was vaguely aware of the lonely cars passing down the streets, drunk gangs of students singing and screaming in the park across the way, I could hear my neighbour's TV speaking. I fell asleep by 5 am feeling absolutely drained. I took extra shifts for the next couple of days (to clear my head from him) and felt thoroughly exhausted. So now when my phone buzzed, I startled almost kicking a cup of Earl Grey off the table.

"What's yer drink of choice, Sassenach?"

"Make it wine. Red"  I quickly typed back rushing to my fridge. (what goes with red wine? Geillis and I never had this problem mixing up takeaway of all kind with a bottle of red)

"Sorted. 7pm, right?"

"See you."

"xoxo"

My cheeks blossomed into a rosy pink while I giggled at his last text. Adso glared at me from his windowsill perch, shook his head, licked his paw twice and jumped off heading to his bowl. That brought me back to my earlier task of the day to think of the menu for tonight. I had to fight an urge just to order from my favorite Italian restaurant and pretend I prepared it all. "Christ." I hissed examining the shelves of the refrigerator. Old curry takeaway, Brie cheese which was probably out of date, some leftovers from my attempt at the pumpkin soup and a pack of milk.

Next two hours I've spent tidying up my entire flat, doing several loads of laundry, changing the bedsheets to fresh crisp ones, and hiding away my Ikea plushy teddy bear that Joe got me last birthday as a joke. The kitchen was scrubbed down until the counters shone and all fridge food remains were thrown into the rubbish bin. Lighting scented candles that lived on the coffee table in the living room, I caught myself thinking I'm trying too hard.

Jamie would step into the house of Dr. Beauchamp - organized, clean and ordered. He wouldn't see two weeks piles of laundry needed to be done, he would not open the fridge and close it deciding to call a takeaway because he'd realize I'm a terrible cook. Jamie wouldn't laugh at me for sleeping with a toy in bed, nor he wouldn't know about the existence of "snack basket" full of crisps and Gummies next to my couch. He wouldn't know who Claire really is. Or would he? Did I want him to know?

After paying for the Waitrose delivery, I occupied kitchen with an unusual enthusiasm that didn't last long. I was a nervous wreck. My attempt at pasta Carbonara came out as someone's morning sickness and was sent straight into the trash. Cursing and praying to all existing Gods at once I've reminded myself that I wanted to keep this easy and fun. So pizza was the choice. Something that was hard for me to fail I still went through the recipe for the dough with surgeon precision. Popping the tomato sauce, spinach and white chunks of mozzarella on top, I glanced at the clock. Feeling the sweat sticky fabric of my shirt clinging to my back I sent pizza tray to the oven hoping Jamie likes Margherita. With Adso purring at my legs, I rushed to the shower mentally thanking myself for washing my hair the day before. Ten minutes later, wrapped up in a towel I was welcomed with a delicious smell of pizza lingering in my kitchen and satisfied with the outcome left to the bedroom.

The sudden doorbell buzz caught me just in the middle of dressing up. Hair looked as if an explosion happened on my head, with the only moisturizer on my skin while I huffed and puffed pulling on old jeans (the ones that lost all their blue from many washings). Grabbing the first jumper that fell out of the wardrobe and dragging it over my head on the way to open a door I prayed that Jamie wouldn't be all dressed up for the occasion. (why did he come twenty-five minutes earlier?)

My heart hammered in my chest and I had to take a few deep breaths trying to appear composed. He was casual. A simple white t-shirt with a leather jacket, the same tartan scarf, and jeans that looked as old as mine.

“I’m here.” His voice sounded low and hoarse.

“You are.” I swallowed a lump in my throat that seemed to suffocate me.

We stood in an awkward silence that stretched between us as the thousands of days, hours, minutes not spent together (yet?)

“Will ye let me in, Sassenach? I’ll freeze my bollocks off out here.” He smiled, the little wrinkles covered the sides of his eyes as the sun rays. I think I heard something in my heart shift.

The cold wind reached my bare feet and I moved aside just a little, letting him through. The familiar smell of his perfume (sea salt, amber wood and Italian cost) wrapped up around me when Jamie leaned to plant a kiss on my cheeks. One on the left, one on the right. I caught myself rising on my tiptoes for him as if I were a cat arching its back into his touch. Somehow it felt much more intimate than our full-mouth-greedy-tongues pub encounter. I watched him taking his jacket off, removing his boots and exclaiming happily “There ye are, wee cheetie” when Adso popped his grey head from the corner and strolled down to Jamie sniffing his hands. I leaned my back against the door thinking that it felt right. James Fraser in my apartment, crouched down on my floor, petting my cat who’s now was purring away. For a second there I wondered how it would feel to be touched by those hands. (is it normal to be jealous of your own cat?)

"I've made pizza. I did not know what you like." I announced, popping a cheesy slice on his plate, licking the grease glistening on my fingers. If it wasn't me kissing him just a couple days ago and flirting away then now I would have been very much offended by the look he gave me. As if he was ready to eat me alive right there, right now.

His gaze softened. (has anyone else on Earth had eyes this blue?)

"It's perfect. I couldna imagine a better option for a dinner than pizza".

It felt easy with him. There were minutes we ate in companionable silence, and minutes when we spoke, "clink-clink" of wine glasses interrupting our voices.

"So, I know horses are your hobby.But you still did not tell what it is you do for a living?" I looked at him over the rim of my glass. I watched him lick his lips, setting his pizza aside.

"I have a wee business with my uncles." Jamie took a sip, his Adam's apple bobbing under the skin as he swallowed. "It's a small beer brewery. Nothing verra special but sufficient enough."

"Beer is it?" I smirked. "I would think a Scot like you should be involved in the whisky business."

He grinned, glass in his hand, cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink.

"Well, I'm verra good at drinking it, no making."

When our dinner was demolished and plates covered only in crumbles and crusts (on my plate), I stood up bringing them over to the sink. My hands were almost elbow deep into the soapy water when Jamie had asked something that made my knees shake just for a moment.

"How come such lass as ye not married, let alone single?"

A heavy silence fell down, erasing our previous banter. Sensing my discomfort he added immediately "Claire, I dinna mean to be noisy". But I had told him anyway.

* * *

"But the main thing was that he had said I wasn't a woman if I could not give him a child. I was just an empty shell of female appearance, there was no much use to me." I inhaled deeply, feeling his eyes on my back when I finally finished. "Truthfully, I don't even know if I am really barren. I don't know who's at fault. Frank never went for a test and I...Well, I could not make myself do it afterwards."

I braced my hands on the opposite sides of the sink trying to compose myself. The swell of tears started to gather in my eyelashes threatening to escape.

"Sassenach."

I heard his quiet steps behind me and I shuddered a sigh thinking how did this evening (a promise of a good sex) turned into something that vaguely reminded me of a soap opera on TV that my neighbor Mrs.Baird watched.

I felt his fingers gently squeezing my shoulder.

"It doesna matter anymore."

"No." I sniffed. "It doesn't."

I turned to him then to be trapped once again by the studying gaze of his blue eyes which now were the reminiscent of storms at sea that promise clear skies. His long fingers brushed away loose curls off my face.

"Do ye need to be alone? Ye want me to go?" He asked softly, hands wrapping around my waist.

"No" I shook my head in protest, suddenly terrified he'd leave. " I don't want you to go."

He nodded.

"I willna. I promise."

On its own accord my forehead dropped against his chest and a sigh of contentment (I did not know was there) escaped my throat. We stood there in each other's embrace long enough for Adso to jump up on the counter to peek at Jamie and I with clear "What are you up to, hoomans?" written on its fluffy face.

"Netflix and chill?" I sniffed, the sound muffled by Jamie's t-shirt. He gave me a lopsided smile when I lifted my head.

"Ye ken what that means, right?"

"I do." I laughed rubbing my eyes, smudged mascara staining my hand.

We indeed watched Netflix. Sitting on a modest distance of each other, under the same plushy throw, still close for our fingers to touch. I was too aware of his presence and closeness that my back started to ache approximately 15 minutes after I sat straight up, afraid to move. But then the wine we drank started to kick in, my body (and mind) relaxing and by thirty minutes into the movie (The Notting Hill I'd made him watch), I found myself in the kingdom of Jamie's warmth, our thighs and hips pressed to one another, his hand wrapped up around my shoulder and my head rested just above his breastbone where I could hear his steady heartbeat. His chin rested on the crown of my head and I could feel his lips slightly brushing above but not kissing just yet. I did not know when and how I fell asleep. Lulled by Jamie's soothing presence I must have dozed off sometime after the credits rolled, last night shifts catching up with me.

I roused to a touch that faintly reminded me the butterflies' wings scattered across my skin. My eyes fluttered open when I could feel Jamie’s warm breath making my skin tingle.

The room was dark, dipped into the heavy night shadows with only thin moonlight sketching a path along the carpet. I had no idea how long I slept only to find myself still on the couch, Jamie’s smile lingering above me. I smiled back feeling his fingers softly caressing the sliver of skin between my jeans and sweater. My back arched instinctively to his touch. He leaned down to press his lips upon mine. It was a lazy kiss, unhurried in the way our mouths melted together, the way he tasted the fullness of my lower lip, the way our tongues sought permission and their slow dance continuing until we both were breathless.

Jamie was looking at me as if he'd seen me for the first time. I could see his eyes move, something faintly reminding me of a tenderness floating at the bottom.

"What?" My lips moved slowly, still numbed by his taste. I touched his cheekbone to see if it feels right for me, for him to do so. How many times would I repeat this simple move? Jamie's fingers had found my hand, turning it palm up.

"I think ye are beautiful, Claire. Verra." His thumb softly outlined my lifeline before he brought my hand up planting a kiss just in the center of it. That simple gesture made me surrender, undid me in fact. I could feel the hot bubbling sensation starting somewhere in my toes rising all the way up to my thighs, my belly, crawling inside my breasts and wrapping around my heart, taking a peek under my skin as if checking is it a suitable place to be here forever?

I dragged my lips over his clavicle that slightly stood out above the collar of his t-shirt, leaving a moist trail of my breath. He smelled earthy, slightly salty with a mix of his cologne. Jamie's breath was shallow and I shifted feeling my arousal build between my thighs. My own abilities to inhale and exhale properly failed me when his fingers dragged the woolen fabric of my sweater up up up until there was nothing to hide. I jerked involuntarily as his auburn curls tickling my skin when his mouth closed over the peak of the left breast. It seemed like a century passed by instead of minutes as his lips moved from one breast to another.

His hand splayed flat on my stomach drawing patterns up and down making me almost beg him to continue just a bit down where I wanted him to be. But before I gathered enough courage to do that his fingers slid under the waistband of my jeans, testing, teasing.

“Jamie” I pleaded with the voice that didn’t sound like my own.

“Do ye want me to stop ?” He asked softly kissing the corner of my mouth.

I did not know if “No” actually left my mouth, but only managed to cling to him in desperate anticipation of my own release. Sensing this, he seemed to slow down on purpose. His mouth hovered above mine, our breaths mixing up as he slipped his hand out (me whimpering in protest and him chuckling, the cocky bastard) to unzip the unnecessary piece of clothing. I raised my hips just enough for Jamie to pull them down to my knees. I was becoming lost in him, forgetting how to breathe. Needing to feel him, I reached for the hem of his t-shirt seeking access to his skin. He ignited a hunger in me, I needed to see him, feel the realness and closeness of him, to be in this moment for my life to have a meaning. Even if it meant just mere minutes.

Pulling the cotton fabric over his head my fingers traced the line of veins that ran along his arm until found where I had mended his flesh with the stitches I had placed. I leaned my head to kiss the spot where the scar would make its presence known. Jamie’s breath hitched and within seconds my lips were trapped by his once again. When we parted with a wet pop his fingers traveled south one more time pushing the grey cotton triangle between my thighs aside. My blood was rushing hot, heart hammering hard against my breastbone. So loud that I thought Jamie could hear. The promising warmth of his fingers drew a map on my inner thighs. Slowly tortuously from one to the other, traveling up to brush over my navel making me pant, and slippery with need.

“I want you inside me” I had whispered then, dragging my tongue over the stubble on his jaw.

“No, a nighean.” He sounded hoarse but dreamily sweet. “I want to watch ye first”.

If it was possible to become undone just from his words, it would have been then. His fingers drew another path, coming home, where I felt hot and greedy for him. I mewled, my hips rising into his touch, nails digging into his shoulders. I kept my eyes shut, fingers leaving marks on his skin, as he drove me down the road of pure sensation. Where my walls had crumbled and fallen down, where he had made me cry out God's name in vain. Where my trembling hands had managed to unbuckle his belt and in a swift motion pull his jeans down, Jamie's feet trapped in them, laughing hard. His moan that sounded more like a hiss when I ran my palm at the length of him, tagging his white boxers off. When all the sharp fences alongside my soul started to crouch down and fade away as our bodies joined. I gasped feeling the saltiness of tears rising up from my belly all the way to my throat because this felt like coming home, suddenly he felt like home. When the lonely tear had rolled down my cheek, into the hollow of my neck, to the fields of my curls (I did not know where it came from) I heard him whisper "mo ghraidh". It had no meaning for me but the way Jamie's lips imprinted those words into the column of my neck destroyed the last barricades I had built over my soft and sensitive, scarred heart.

After a time we were both gasping for air as fish landed on the shore his solid body pinning me down on the cushions. I whispered, "Jamie, you're crushing me".

He hummed a quiet apology. With eyes still veiled by an overtaking orgasm, he rolled off me and gathered me closer to him. His hands wrapped up around my waist, back pressed to his chest. I thought I heard him murmur something into my hair (that faintly sounded as ancient Gàidhlig) before after-sex slumber had taken us both to its realm.

* * *

The nagging ache in my lower back that I usually had from falling asleep on the couch (after a particularly hard shift at the hospital) was something that woke me up. I thought I was suffocating from the realness of the dream I had but it was just Adso who curled like a cinnamon bun on top of my chest.

I was alone. (not that I was really surprised)

But somewhere deep inside I felt a painful sting of bitterness to find myself in the reality of lonely-morning-post-one-night-stand. I reached for my phone with a stupid hope that maybe Jamie had texted me. Nothing.

"Looks like we are back to normal, baby" I sighed scratching Adso behind the ears.

The Edinburgh's skies were gloomy, heavy with a promise of rain. I stared into the window but did not really see anything behind it. The soft knock took me out of my stupor.

"I used the last of yer shampoo.I figured ye wouldna mind." Jamie stood in the doorway, his hair damp from the shower, now two shades darker, like autumn leaves.

My mouth dropped open as I just watched him casually stroll and make himself comfortable in the chair.

"And, Christ, Sassenach, but yer cat does fart like a freakin' raccoon."

"Does it?" I whispered.

[witchfall]

thread

summary: They say she invented the harpsichord. The melody of birds.

(He won't remember this when he is born again.)

(And he is born again.)

---

Also on AO3

SPOILERS FOR SHADOWBRINGERS WITHIN.

{inspired by Tales from the Shadows, the new Keane album, and my general instinct to go absolutely ape shit over past lives/memories. beyond that i have no fuckin idea where this came from lmao. except some wild conjecture @vaniccio and I have about What It Could All Mean re: the future of the FFXIV MSQ.

WoL x Exarch and the strange friendship of Emet-Selch and an unnamed member of the Convocation...}

---

You are eight years old when you first realize the world is not the way it is supposed to be.

You don't understand the shattering incongruence of your thoughts as you watch the water run down the shower wall, but you suddenly know the world is different now. You see its crushing dullness. What is the point? Why do the people in this world even try to live? It is beautiful, but it is wrong. Like when a baby chocobo spooks and your friend falls and skids their elbows horribly bloody. You can't stop looking.

You stumble out of the shower and grab your towel, for you are big enough to do this on your own, and you run to the living room. Your wet feet slap the metal floors of the airship; in the distance you can hear Ma singing. Your hands feel hot. You squeeze them in and out of fists. Maybe this is what Ma means, when she sings about heartbreak. You feel shattered.

Ma is speaking animatedly about something. "But don't you think the chord progression is off?" she says. Da, sitting in a nearby chair with a tome in his lap, lifts his hands in assent, or perhaps the act of giving in.

"I've only ever been a scholar to your ear, my darling," he says, in the tone you know means he loves her even when she can be frustrating. You know that because he's used that tone on you many times.

"Oh, you're no -- " Ma starts, but then she sees you. She stops talking at once. She is by your side in three steps and tightens your towel cape at your collarbone. She kneels by you. She smells like Gramma's cookie spices. "You forgot your clothes, silly boy," she says softly, smiling warmly upon you, and it makes your eyes well up.

When you tell Ma about the thoughts and the weirdness -- Does it all matter? Is the world actually bad? -- she pulls you into her arms. She is warm and her skin squishes under your fingers and you sink your tears into her shoulder.

"Some things feel very big in our hearts," Ma says. Her voice reminds you of birds, sometimes, which makes you laugh and want to cry more. You don't know why. "Some things are hard for our souls to let go."

"My soul," you say, working through the bigness of that.

She smiles. She pushes your hair from your eyes and teases you about a haircut and tickles your ears and smothers your face in embarrassing kisses until you laugh and the thing around your heart relaxes just enough.

Ma rises to her feet. "I’m gonna go get your clothes, okay?" You nod.

Da has been standing there the whole time, watching. But then Da levels with you. Da's eyes are red like the pretty earrings Ma wears sometimes. Very red. Like you could fall into them forever.

"Souls are very strange," he says. He lays his hands on your shoulders. "I believe some of them even have memories."

You find this interesting. Your ears flick. "Was I thinking about a soul memory?"

Da makes the face you and Ma call the Old Man Sad Face. His eyes go out of focus and his mouth tilts into a smile with no mirth. He leans in, whispering a secret: "Maybe. What do you think?"

You aren't sure what Da wants you to say. You just shrug.

---

You love nothing in the world more than listening to Ma sing. You like it best when you are playing in the airship’s many halls and you hear it echoing from a lower floor, bubbling through the metal like steam. When no one is around to look, you’ll lay your head against the floor and feel transported very far away. You imagine the strangest things: lights that climb the sky. Buildings that shadow everything. A million, thousand stars. People cheering in auditoriums you have never seen...

“When did you first know you’d get married?” you like to ask Da. This time you ask while looking out over Aunt Lyna’s garden. The wind tosses your hair about and the air smells of roses.

“The first time she sang,” Da says.

Ma laughs every time at this. I was just 19. We were children. But Da always smiles. It’s alright. It’s always taken you a little bit to catch up to me. And then she whacks him with a spoon or something.

But you like to ask because it feels right, when he says that. Ma always tells the story of how Da reached through time and space to save her, and it is the best story of all time because it not only has travel through time and space but also Ma being awesome and killing monsters and bringing the night sky back. Then, then! She somehow reaches back through time and space to free Da from a tower, like a prince in a story. And then they get married and you’re born. It’s amazing.

“Your Da saved me so many times,” she says, when she tells you this story. You are sitting together, watching Da tell a frustrated Aunt Lyna how to plant a cabbage. “He’ll never admit it. But I think he is the more interesting character in that story.”

She says that, of course, and you nod. But you can’t help but think: If Ma’d been silent -- if Ma had never sang to Da, just the once -- there would be no world. You never would have been born.

---

You don't know much, but you know that Ma and Da are complicated.

One time when you were supposed to be sleeping you heard Ma talking about Da like he was once made of crystal. Sometimes I wonder if I'll wake and I'll still lose you to it, she said. Like it knows somehow that its supposed to take you back. The tower. I'll wake up and you'll be all crystalline and silent.

Oh no, Da said. We’re over. I left it at the first chance to find you again, love. I don't think it wants me like that anymore.

...you make it sound jealous.

Maybe it is.

They muttered together quietly until they started kissing, you're pretty sure, so you ran away immediately.

But this was very strange. Da is squishy and warm and has two blood red eyes and a tattoo on his arm and his neck and is not at all a man of crystal. You ask about this tattoo. He says it was from his time at school. You squint at this. You hope school does not make you get a tattoo, too. Everyone says you look like Da, except Da, who says you look like Ma, but they both have reddish hair and pale skin so it doesn't make a lot of difference to you. You even have one each of their eyes: one red and one seaglass green.

Ma has more wrinkles around her eyes and deep scratches on her face. She has a ragged, old gash on her shoulder. A few old burn marks here and there. Strange gold lines on her wrists where her veins should be. It makes you feel weird. Whenever you see them, you feel outside your own body with fascination and fury at whoever did this to Ma.

Not long after you overhear that, you get a terrible scratch by meddling with something in the engine room. So you decide to ask after her scars. Usually, she just laughs and tells you a big story about fighting a monster.

This time, Ma frowns. She touches your cheek and meets your gaze. Maybe it’s because she was talking about Da being a crystal man. Maybe she is just feeling sad. You don’t know.

"I fought in a lot of wars," she says. "I had to protect a lot of people. Because I was strong. And that's what strong people do."

You nod seriously. That's right. That's what all the heroes in all the tales do.

"I had to kill many people, too," she says.

You frown. "They were bad, though." Who would fight Ma, except people who were bad? Anyone that tried to hurt Ma deserved to die. You feel only a little guilt, thinking that.

Ma places her hand between your ears. Her eyes are dark and serious. "Not all of them, baby. Most of them were just...on the wrong side. Most of them thought that they were good."

Your heart speeds up. Your throat feels dry. "But they had to be bad," you say. "You're not bad, Ma."

She smiles down at you, but there's something broken about it. She rubs your ear. She says nothing for a long time, and guilt weighs on you in a thousand ways you do not understand. You think to run or squeeze her in a hug until she can't breathe but you are pinned by her gaze and so you do nothing. She says: "All we can do is try, my sweet pie."

And then she leans in very close, smiling as if she hadn't said anything at all. "Want to find the cookies I think your Da is hiding from us?"

You smile back, heart flying, and then she squeezes you in a hug instead. You feel forgiven and forgiveness in turn. Maybe you'll never know why.

---

They say she invented the harpsichord.

(He won't remember this when he is born again.)

The melody of birds.

(Maybe he doesn't deserve to be born again. Maybe that is his punishment.)

He still listens for it.

(But perhaps the weight of freedom would be most damning. The proof he had been wrong all along.)

---

You wake up and run to Da. As usual, he is already awake as if waiting for you to come to him, sitting on the observation deck of the airship and staring at the stars through great, rounded glass. The ship does not fly at night.

He turns toward the sound of your footsteps and beckons you to join him. You scramble onto his lap, suddenly feeling too cold to sit by him with dignity.

Da reminds you of the tales about mages in ancient cities that were swallowed up by water. Mages that knew everything there was to know. The gods smote them for knowing too many things. You hope very much that they do not turn their eyes upon Da.

"Trouble sleeping, my dear one?"

You nod into his chest. He wraps his warm arms around you and hums softly for a few moments, stroking your hair.

"Da," you say. "Where do people go when they die?"

Da takes a big breath and you move as his chest rises. His humming stops but he continues to stroke your hair. "Thinking deep thoughts tonight?" he asks, voice warm.

You 'hmph' against his chest.

"They go to the Lifestream. Though there is still much we do not know and may never know..."

"Do people know each other there?"

Da's hand falls still on your back. If this were Ma, she would begin asking why you want to know this so bad, but Da never does that. He answers your questions plainly. "We don't know. You live in a...much changed world, from when I was small."

You are unsure what to make of that.

"But that means there’s so many more worlds for you to know,” he says. “For you to explore. You know how we sometimes have to be very careful and sit still in our chairs? How the world around our airship goes Purple Wavy?"

You nod. "When we go between the worlds."

"Yes. We couldn't always do that, you know. Before you were born...it was all very complicated but the worlds were all closed. Now we can do Purple Wavy and get there. And maybe one day that will include the Lifestream."

"And then I will find you and Ma and Gramma and then it'll be fine," you say, explaining this anxiety before you can even name it.

Da holds you tightly to him. "I have no doubts," he says, deep and warm. You don't look to see, but Da is looking up at the ceiling, trying not to cry. You are feeling sleepy again so you don't notice.

"When are we getting to Uncle Alphinaud? And Alisaie?" you ask.

"After you sleep tonight, love. One more sleep left."

"One more sleep until more books," you say, and that's all you remember before you drift off. When you wake up, you're tucked back in your bed. You think of the birds singing just outside your little window.

---

They say she invented the heart of music.

She wrote the tragedy about painters and light; it ends with a father giving in to the river of time. She wrote the comedy where three people marry in an explosion of color so beautiful that people in the audience sobbed. ("It is still, technically, a comedy," she would say when pressed.) She wrote music like velvet against the skin, heavy and sumptuous. She would pick your gaze apart in silence, distill you into notes that sung so high you'd see violet. The Convocation respected beauty, once -- respected creation that reached inside you and tore your heart from your ribs so you could examine it better.

This girl is not her.

This girl sings dirges and arias and poorly-paced limericks, yes, but her soul doesn't pull apart with each new composition. The world shifts around her, certainly, but the air no longer shimmers when she works. This girl doesn't sob over coffee because a boor called her latest draft "uninspired." This girl isn't her.

(Perhaps that is one subtle gift of the sundering. The world ends each day in little ways but they still believe in the promise of tomorrow.)

"Fond of her, are you?"

The Exarch had deigned him with silence, then, but Hades knows the truth. Even in this life, the souls around her are pulled toward her suffering brightness. In these last moments of his life, aether seeping from the gash in his body, he realizes they would have perished before her original glory.

He wishes for that. To be scalded, even a little bit, by her grace.

He fades into the light, and can only hope.

---

Your world is many places crossing the great sky. Your world is here in the airship with Ma and Da and maybe a sister soon, or so Ma keeps saying. You press your hands against the glass and hope you'll remember this always -- the way the world looks, perfect and green, as you fly over it like birds.

"What are you thinkin’ about so hard, cutie?"

Ma tousles your hair. Your love for her feels like it will eat the whole world.

"Nothin," you say. You look up at her and grin. "Just stories."

[lepus-arcticus]

KM4596

@xfpornbattle, prompt no.36. 

Home was lost, and everywhere, and it was here, too, in the rust-specked tangerine hull of the Datsun. It was all there in the backseat, everything; guns swaddled in Salvation army flannel, extra shoes, a rest stop paperback bookmarked with a magpie’s iridescent feather. A stash of fake IDs and new plates in a lock box. Where a car seat might have been, there was a sawed-off cardboard box of under-ripe peaches they’d haggled out of a roadside vendor. 

After so much time apart, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight, and he drove with one hand on her knee and the other wrist draped over the crest of the steering wheel. They avoided motels when they could, and slept in zipped-together sleeping bags on a roll of camper’s foam in the bed of the truck, sometimes rutting quietly under the spilled-sugar stars. 

- 

Her close-cropped hair was the colour of lemonade, a 6-dollar box-dye job tackled in a gas station bathroom somewhere in Nebraska. Her cheeks were scattered with fresh, rose-coloured freckles. She’d stopped bothering to cover her mole. She should have looked different, he thought, but she was as familiar as ever, and he wondered if under his gray-flecked beard she saw in him the same man she’d followed. 

He couldn’t remember the last time they’d called each other by their names. 

For years, they’d been yanked forth from trial to tribulation, and it was good to decide their own trajectory for once. They wore the tragedy of their lives like a cloak they’d woven themselves, and it kept them huddled together, kept them warm and alive. 

-

In nowhere, Oklahoma, the Datsun blew a tire. 

The cracked road was lined with raspberry bushes, and Scully reached back and emptied out the remaining peaches into a nest of dirty clothes, balanced the box on her hip, and vaulted out of the passenger seat, ignoring the plum-dark billow of clouds overhead. 

-

The skies opened. Mulder stopped struggling with the hubcap to wipe the sweat from his brow and tilt his face to the sky, humbly receiving the blessing of it. The asphalt beneath his knees was still warm from the morning sun. 

He cast his gaze around, anxious to anchor himself to the sight of her, and discovered her barefoot in the middle of the road. Her face was lifted, eyes closed in quiet joy. The rain bled through her white tank, clinging to the dip of her back, and the dark stain of her tattoo was faintly visible through the wet cotton. The cardboard box lay crumpled and ruined beside her, raspberries spilling into the road. 

Mulder unfolded from his crouch and went to her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, soaking the front of his shirt as he held her close. She didn’t startle, but rested her forearms on his, leaned back, rolled her head along his collarbone. Her face was serene and thoughtful, flushed from the wind. 

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “You look crazy,” he added, kissing a favourite spot behind her ear, “but goddamn, are you ever beautiful. Get back in the truck, honey, you’re gonna catch a cold. I’m almost done.” 

“The cardboard got wet,” she said. “I gave up on the raspberries.” 

“S’okay. We’ve still got the peaches,” he promised, rocking her a little. Her skin under his lips was cool and damp, but there was an aching warmth pooling in his chest. 

A bright thread of lightning flashed near the horizon, followed by a deep roll of thunder. “Let’s stay out here,” she breathed. 

“I needed a shower anyway,” he agreed, and she smiled sadly, closing her eyes. 

The rain picked up, and he imagined that she was the one calling down the water. 

-

Against the nose of the truck, his hand slid under the hem of her tank, catching on the soaked, rippled fabric, encountering a landscape of goosebumps. Her hot, raspberry scented breath, her belly rising and falling against his. Her eyes storm-bright and rich with lust. She was still so soft, shibori-striped with the evidence that they’d created life. 

“Take me,” she begged, panting into his mouth. 

-

Her breasts hung soft and low, the skin chilled, her nipples tight and stippled with raindrops. He pushed her back and bent to pull one dark areola into his mouth. She tasted of salt and silver, and she gasped tearfully as he took her between his teeth and rolled his tongue, plucking at the button of her cutoffs with one hand. 

“Mul--,” she began, but before she could say his name, he drew his other hand up to her mouth, seeking entrance, slipping three fingers against her pillowy tongue, pressing it down. She suckled obediently, drinking the dirt from him, sending darts of heat into his cock. He released her nipple and shook his head quickly, gathering her close, pressing his erection into the blade of her hipbone. 

“Don’t say it,” he rasped against her cheek, desperate. “Please.” He slid his fingers from her mouth to her neck, replacing them with his tongue, kissing her with feral intent. She moaned her apology against him, peeling his waterlogged t-shirt over his head. It joined her tank and bra in a flash of white on the road. Rain beat into his naked back in a maddening, chaotic polyrhythm. 

He gripped her by the slippery planes of her ribs and lifted her easily to sit on the hood. Together, they worked her cutoffs over her hips, and she slung her thighs around him impatiently, tugging him forward with her heels, reaching for his fly. 

God, he would die for her, he would kill for her. He would do it all again. When he pushed into her, she was hotter than blood. 

-

Forehead to forehead, moving together. 

“Come inside me,” she sobbed as he shoved his hips hard into hers, and she was almost inaudible in the crash of water on the road. “I need it. God, I need it, you have to, please--” she clenched around him. He would give her anything. 

Rain sluicing between them, thunder roaring over them, earth spinning beneath them. The soak of life all around them, the scent of green. All of it, everything--she was the only thing that had ever been real. 

-

“Let’s try to get a room tonight,” she said, drying her hair with a spare shirt from the backseat. She was drowning in one of his newer Wal-Mart sweatshirts, was shirtless underneath. 

He listened to the hollow drum of rain on the roof of the Datsun, the light squeal of the windshield wipers as they flung themselves against the downpour. 

He put his hand on her knee, and drove. 

-

When we are driving in the dark, on the long road to Provincetown, when we are weary, when the buildings and the scrub pines lose their familiar look, I imagine us rising from the speeding car. I imagine us seeing everything from another place-- the top of one of the pale dunes, or the deep and nameless fields of the sea. And what we see is a world that cannot cherish us, but which we cherish. And what we see is our life moving like that along the dark edges of everything, headlights sweeping the blackness, believing in a thousand fragile and unprovable things. Looking out for sorrow, slowing down for happiness, making all the right turns right down to the thumping barriers to the sea, the swirling waves, the narrow streets, the houses, the past, the future, the doorway that belongs to you and me.

- Coming Home, Mary Oliver

[ekaterin-panova-blog]

unfinished-stories незаконченные истории

Fantasy. Ekaterina Panova, October 19, 2017

You are my God!

"Childhood is a great time to grow up."

When I was little, I naively believed that artists did not die. Their death is not real. From the people hide all the subtleties of modern science, it is not available to ordinary people for their low, undeveloped concept. Science has long invented a method of rejuvenating the body. So the artist does not die, he gets into the mysterious secret laboratory, where he turns into a young man. But ... after this "death" he settled in another city. Outside this city, he has no right to leave, he can no longer return home, where everyone considers him dead. Even call relatives, to participate in their lives. He can only watch them from the side. The secret service issues him new documents, another name. Because he becomes a "ghost." This city is a mysterious ghost town "N" or "X" or "Z". Only ghosts live in it. There are the same houses there, the same people, but these people have received a new life according to this strange science and continue to live for many, many years, contrary to common sense. This mystery has become somehow gloomy and ominous, and these people seem to be evil vampires ... I imagined this city small, not even a city, but a village where there is a dense forest, fields sown with wheat, wooden houses, people walk in old Russian village clothes. Now many years have passed, I have long been not small, and I understand that this is not so. No matter how insulting people leave us forever. It is difficult to accept that the moment will come when you will not be in the Light. But this mysterious city began to dream me in a dream. He is not like the one I imagined. The most important thing in a dream is that I am far from home and I know for sure that I am in the city of the dead. It is located to the south of our city, as a small district, the outskirts of our city. But there everything is not like our city. There are other streets, other trees. As if from the past, the road is paved with rails for a tram. Although the trams in our city was never. There are trolleybuses that travel only in one direction so that I can return home. On the outskirts of this city there is a tall white strange building from the future. It is very difficult to approach it, it is surrounded by a ring of highways that do not cross. But there are no cars in this city. There only tram and trolley buses. And most importantly, I always dream of the same place - this city. I will soon explore all the neighborhoods and buildings. In one dream I was at the bus stop. In another dream in this white building. In the third dream I went behind this building and went to the river. But there was no path. The ground was covered with an entire rubber mat like artificial turf. There were rare white houses. No windows, no doors. Rare trees beat between them, trimmed like cone-shaped Christmas trees. I could not go down to the river even once. I got into this white building, from the roof there you could jump into a large lake. The lake went out to the sea, where there are palm trees. But this lake was without a bottom. And it was necessary to swim to the shore to go back to the house. In the dream, I was always in a hurry to go home. And waiting for the trolley. I went into it. And my relatives rode beside me. But those who have long died. They sat and discussed the road. What do these places know, that from the city of the dead not far from my city to go. My grandmother was there too. And grandfather, all the same in a coat and hat, with a briefcase, in which lay a broom for a bath. But with him was a girl of about 5, strange, she reminded me of someone, but ... it was me. I saw myself from the side. And once I came to this city when it was autumn there. I walked around the station. It was a different station, similar to a station in a small village, a small building. A window in the checkout. When I went outside, colorful leaves flew from the trees and fell on my head. They rustled under their feet, filling the air with the smell of trees and dust. Here on the bench I saw Him. I realized that this is my destiny. I believed that I would love one day: to meet the man of my life! But life has already come to an end, but I have never met anyone. I no longer thought that life would give me this meeting. This came first love, even at the end of life, but it came. Some are waiting for her all her life, and so do not meet. I also did not think to meet love ... It was He. It was a magical autumn, magical leaves. My life has changed, I perceive it in a completely different way, in my eyes only love, love for him. And I no longer see anything but him. I became happy. I do not notice what is happening around, cataclysms, work, children, people. Everything is spinning around like these autumn leaves. I felt so insignificant as this autumn leaf, which can be crushed, it turns into dust in front of my eyes, the wind blows it like dust along the road. With horror, I imagined that life was short and we would not even have time to love each other in it. How little time to be together. Why life is so short, so ruthless towards us. Do not have time to be born, life flies by as one moment, and it's time to say goodbye to her! And most importantly with Him! How it hurts! Do not have time to tell a friend important words that sound very different, very majestic and solemnly like Divine words! Any words look very cool like a rocky mountain that you can never conquer, and caress the ear like a thousand kisses! For example: Dear, Favorite, Groom, Husband! These words seemed simple before even unpleasant. And now they are Divine as the air itself, which is necessary for life! Without them, you can not breathe, live. The whole world has become beautiful, filled with His tenderness and affection. Every leaf, every pebble has become Saints, which is a great pity. What a pity the moment that flies by his side! Now I have other dreams: He has them. In one dream I am floating beside him in this bottomless lake. In another dream, I sleep in my bed, but in His arms! As if we sewed each other to us with invisible threads of iron in one strong ball of threads, which are impossible to tear, cause terrible tears. Immediately he looks like all of my favorite heroes from ancient times, as if they were next to me. He is the most compelling man of my dreams, of my life, whom I could never have imagined, even in the wildest dream! Next to him, I feel an irresistible goddess, although I have been for many years now, and it seemed that the remnants of beauty could not strike anyone in the heart! In order not to forget these moments, I gathered the leaves in the park in a small bouquet, brought it home and made an herbarium. He will remind me of an unusual date experienced during this Magic Autumn. So in my dreams, the Dead City turned into a Magic Forest, where we traveled together in the Magic Forest, met many unusual things on the way, fell into interesting adventures every night! And most importantly, fate mercilessly threw us far from here in ancient times. What was going on there? This is the next story. To be continued. (already written a long time and continued).

[l8rose]

Dead Gods Still Dream

Chapter 36

Sleep came easily and I was pleased to find myself in a familiar grove.

This was always Solas' first choice when I first entered the fade, even if it had been the place he brought me when he removed my vallaslin all those years ago. I knew now that he had intended to tell me the truth as this was one of his favourite places in modern Thedas.

He was waiting for me by the water's edge as usual. Hands clasped behind his back as he stared out over the water. I could tell by his posture that he wore his usual thoughtful look. He had stood like that so many times in Skyhold.

I walked over to him and threaded my arms beneath his before resting my head against his back. His hands slid over my own as we stood there for several long seconds.

“You are tired.” There was no accusation in his words.

“Just a little.” I admitted.

I knew he was concerned about me. Here, he could protect my dreaming from nightmares and allow me to rest but he had no reach to the waking world. I wondered if it bothered him but I did not want to ask.

He turned, wrapping his arms around me before bending to place his forehead against mine. There was a small sigh as he closed his eyes. It almost sounded like a sigh of relief, like my presence was soothing.

“I have missed you, vhenan.” His voice was soft. “The fade always seems a little duller when you are not around.”

“Flatterer.” I laughed and leaned up to kiss him. “Although, I would stay longer if you did not keep shooing me awake.”

“You are needed in the waking world.” There was mild annoyance in his voice. Apparently, he did not like the idea of me being awake, not after what I had done in Radinan's hall but I was bound by my duty to my friends. “Otherwise, you would still be in uthenera with me.”

I shook my head at him. We both knew why I was awake. Dorian had gone in search of one of us and I was the one who had to answer.

“Abelas and I are in Kirkwall now.”

“Then you are a step closer to returning to Skyhold.” He pulled away and the grove behind us changed. It slid easily to the rotunda. His desk, his paintings; just like it always did when we discussed Skyhold. I always wondered if it was him or me that did that and just like always, I never asked.

“Yes although, there may be some problems getting there.” I admitted before moving to sit in his chair.

“Problems?” He questioned, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

“Seems things are not quite so simple in Arlathan Forest.” I then proceeded to tell him everything that Varric had told me. Starting with the information about those coming south and the ones who had been searching for something in the forest. “Is there anything in the Forest I should be concerned about?”

He paused as he thought it over. Thousands of years worth of knowledge seemed to be turned over in his mind as he sought an answer.

“No.”

“Solas?” I questioned, not liking that simple response.

“Truthfully, there should be nothing there.” He stepped closer and leaned against the desk. One hand resting against his chin as he thought. “Arlathan has long since disappeared from that forest. Although the tethering point may remain but I do not believe anyone would be capable of accessing that.”

“Not even me?”

“Well, you could. And perhaps Mythal.” He gave me a terse look. “I doubt either of you would want to. The other end of the tether no longer exists in the waking world.”

“But it does exist in the fade?” I was curious. I had not been in the waking world when Arlathan disappeared and I had no idea what had happened to the city. Not that I had ever truly been there. It was still just a place of legend to me, a forgotten city and nothing more.

“Yes.” He nodded. “It would take your power to be able to traverse through the tether and even I do not know what would happen if you tried.”

Something told me that I did not want to try. The fade, most likely.

“What exactly is this tether?”

“Arlathan was a floating city, held aloft by magic and the belief of the people. As long as the people existed, so did the city.” Solas explained. “The tether is exactly that, a tether. It was attached to the city on one end and the waking world on the other. It kept the city leashed to that point in Thedas and prevented the wishes of the people from changing it further.”

I stared at him. That explanation made little sense to me but then all I knew about ancient elvhen architecture were stories handed down by the Dalish Keepers. Mythal had never once bothered covering that particular aspect of elvhen magic.

“Remember, magic was different in Elvhenan.” He continued to explain, clearly understanding the look. “Places took on the aspects that people believed, or wished for. Arlathan was perhaps the place that the most people wished and believed in. Spirits and elvhen alike.”

“Are you telling me that Arlathan was worshipped like an Evanuris?” I continued to stare.

“In a way, yes.” He nodded as a far off look came across his face. “It was the center of Elvhenan. The pride of our people. No city was it's equal. Not then and not since. It was full of spires of crystal and stone that thrummed with life and magic. I truly wish I had taken you there at least once for you to see it as it was.”

I thought it over. The very nature of the city was almost too much to imagine even if I had lived as long as I had. Never had I heard of such a thing but it must have clearly existed or else Solas would not bother with the explanation.

Of course, he spoke of it with such longing that I wondered if his idea of the place was not tinted by happy memories.

“Surely you remember feeling that certain places have a presence?” Solas queried, looking intently at me while he waited for an answer.

I thought hard about that and most of the places I could think of had all been the more eerie places. The village of Crestwood suddenly came to mind even if I had not visited in thousands of years.

It had been during the Fifth Blight that the mayor had sacrificed the sick populace of the city to save the rest by unleashing water held back by the dam. Such an act had left a mark on the town, and the very ground upon which the houses sat. Spirits had crossed over, and it had felt like ghosts had lingered among the broken homes.

“Like Crestwood.” I could not help but shiver as I thought about it.

“You understand then.” He nodded.

“A little bit.” I frowned and tried to think of something beyond the creepy village. “I take it that the wishes of the people caused Arlathan to disappear?”

“I assume so.” His frown mirrored my own. “Truthfully, I do not know how Arlathan disappeared. It occurred some time while I was in uthenera.”

“That would have taken a lot of magical power to be able to move the city once the veil was up.”

“It would.” He nodded in agreement. “I believe that is what happened to the mages who remained after the veil was erected.”

I said nothing about it as I considered the possibility of that.

The veil had changed the world. Many who had magic had lost their abilities with the veil was erected. I could not even imagine how they would have reacted to realizing their world had changed so much in a single night.

Pooling their collective power to transport Arlathan away from the world did not seem like such a far fetched idea.

“One thing I know for certain is that they did not survive the trip.” There was no sadness in his voice, only regret and pity.

He had entered uthenera out of need as his powers had been drained erecting the veil, he must have believed they would remain to help those that held no magic power in the new world he had created. It must have been strange to consider that those beings would simply not wish to be in the waking world any longer.

“You are certain of that?” I quirked an eyebrow at him.

“I am.” There was a small shrug of his shoulders. “I have visited the city during my wandering. It lays empty.”

“Oh.” I paused, looking up at him in surprise. “Where is it?”

I felt a chill go up my spine even as I asked the question like something had blown a cold wind up my back. Like that very knowledge was something my body rebelled at knowing.

“ When you are stronger, I'll show you.” He smiled thinly at me. “Magic such as that leaves a mark, it is not a place to wander.”

I shrugged, trying to get rid of that creepy feeling. There was something about the idea of going to Arlathan that almost seemed repulsive. My skin crawled at the very possibility of walking the city.

“Let us change the subject.” He seemed to understand and gently took my hand in his. His thumb trailing over my knuckles in a circular manner. I was not sure if it was done for my comfort or his. “Now that you are in Kirkwall, how do you plan on returning to Skyhold?”

He knew full well the answer to that. I had to cross the Waking Sea in order to return to Ferelden or travel far west to reach Orlais. Ferelden was the quicker of the two even if the thought of a ship across the sea was enough to make me feel queasy.

“We had intended to take a ship to Denerim but Varric has a friend who may have an eluvian. I'm not sure if it'll work but if it does, then we may be able to cut months off this trip.”

My thoughts drifted away from Arlathan and a sense of calm slowly returned. It was subtle and made me wonder if Solas had a hand in that.

“An eluvian?” Solas' eyes lit up with curiosity. “I do believe I recall an eluvian near Kirkwall, I was unaware of who had laid claim to it.”

I did not ask how he knew about the eluvian.

“Her name is Merrill.”

“Ah, the Dalish elvhen from his story about the Champion.” Solas paused thoughtfully before his face lit up with almost childlike glee. “It would indeed be fortuitous for you to meet with her.”

“Why is that?”

“She possesses an arulin'holm.” Solas answered. “It is a tool of June's design, used by those who crafted eluvians.”

“And you think that she will just willingly give it to me?”

“Certainly.” He smiled. “You can reactivate her eluvian and allow her access to the rest.”

“Reactivate?” I stared at him. “You deactivated it on her?”

He chuckled before shaking his head in response.

“She lacks the ability to activate eluvians. I do not know if she managed to fully repair it but if you have the arulin'holm, you will be able to fully restore it to what it once was. It would be a fair trade, travel across Thedas in exchange for a tool that is useless in her hands.”

“You really want me to get that arulin'holm.” I said with a laugh.

“I really want you to finish this and return to uthenera.” He countered. His voice was a mixture of teasing and annoyance. One for me and the other for the situation at hand.

“Yes, well, when Varric finds Abelas, I'm going to go meet her.”

“Abelas is not with you?” His smile faded and his tone became serious once more.

“No. He went to look for Varric but Varric's guard captain found me instead. I'm at the viscount's keep.”

“Did Abelas not tell you to remain waiting for him?” He scowled at me.

I could see that look starting. The one that he had worn every time he disapproved of a decision I had made.

It was irritating.

“Solas, I'm not a child.” I managed not to glare at him but my tone was flat.

“No, you are not but you are quite weak in the waking world.” The scowl remained but he sighed. “You need Abelas' presence to help you recover.”

“What do you mean?” I asked even if I had already guessed what the answer would be.

“He is your Sentinel, you draw strength from him.” He answered tersely. “Like a follower but far more direct.”

I gained power from him and he was bound to me.

It was never going to sit well with me. I did not like having that kind of responsibility. It was different when it was the Inquisition, there were so many others that could put their input towards my decisions.

This was unsettling to have a person tied so completely to me and relying on my choices to dictate their life.

“People have gone to find him, I'm sure he'll show up in no time.” I mumbled.

“You could find him far more quickly.” Solas sighed again, the scowl finally fading. The words made it clear he was becoming irritated as he only ever spoke in short sentences like that when he became annoyed with me.

“What do you mean?” I parroted the question again.

“You can sense his presence.” He said it as if that was explanation enough.

“Yes, I know that.” I responded in an annoyed tone.

“You can follow that sense to where ever he may be.” Solas finished.

“Ah, so like a bloodhound.”

“A strange analogy but yes, like a hound.” Solas shook his head at me before lacing his fingers in mine. “You should wake and seek him out. The sooner you are done with this, the better.”

“Yes well, I don't think that's a good idea.” I grimaced.

“Ethara?”

“Varric believes there are cultists in the city.” I tapped the fingers of my free hand on the table as I spoke. “He eliminates them every so often but they always return after a few months.”

Solas had gone very still while I talked. His gaze darkening but he said nothing.

“He believes they are there because he is there and they think he would lead them to me or you.”

The dream of the rotunda had suddenly become very silent. It was strange that I had never considered the sound of it before now but I could tell that it had changed. The normal background sounds had simply just ceased.

“Does he know what they truly intend?” Solas finally spoke.

“No, I didn't tell him.” I said as I looked up at him.

It was strange as I could see more then just him standing there. The shadow he cast had changed, growing larger and more fearsome. I was almost certain that it had taken on the appearance of a giant wolf.

It was unsettling.

“Then it is best if you do not.” He said. “The less people who know the true intentions, the better.”

“Did you not explain it to Dorian?”

“I merely stated they wanted you, not what they planned to do once they had you.”

“Ah.” I had never really asked before now but then that made sense. I did not want my friends to know that I was supposed to be the physical form of the abstract form of madness. “Should I be worried?”

“No... not once you are with Abelas.” Solas scowled again. “When you find him again, you are not to leave his side. Not until you are far stronger.”

I would have retorted but the look on his face made it clear he was not going to accept any arguments about it. There was anger lurking just beneath that scowl.

Of course, just because I agreed now did not mean I would have to follow through on it.

“I know what you're thinking, vhenan.” The scowl faded as he sighed.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” I responded almost sullenly.

“You are thinking that you will agree,” He leaned closer, letting go of my hand to trail his fingers against my cheek. “And then do as you wish in the waking world where I cannot scold you.”

I scowled at him but said nothing.

“Please.” He pleaded. “You must be careful and you must listen. You need Abelas near you, he can protect you where I cannot.”

His hand trailed down the side of my face before he lightly gripped my chin and tilted my head up towards him.

“I would be lost without you.” He leaned his forehead against mine and closed his eyes.

There was something about his voice that tugged at my heart. I thought back to my earlier thoughts about where he was stuck here, unable to be near me in the waking world, and I felt a little childish for my earlier attitude.

It did not excuse his behaviour but I did feel a little terrible about it.

“Fine.” I grumbled and caved to his request. “I will stay near Abelas from here on.”

“Good.” His voice had become soft but that shadow behind him had deepened. “I will seek out spirits who will help us deal with the cultists.”

“Alright, that sounds like a good idea.”

He leaned closer to press his lips firmly against mine in a kiss before he and the rotunda disappeared into nothingness.

[readbookywooks]

It was thicker than any normal staff, mainly because of the carvings that covered it from top to bottom. They were actually quite indistinct, but gave the impression that if you could see them better you would regret it. Albert brushed himself down again and examined himself critically in the washstand mirror. Then he said, 'Hat. No hat. Got to have a hat for the wizarding. Damn.' He stamped out of the room and returned after a busy fifteen minutes which included a circular hole cut out of the carpet in Mort's bedroom, the silver paper taken out from behind the mirror in Ysabell's room, a needle and thread from the box under the sink in the kitchen and a few loose sequins scraped up from the bottom of the robe chest. The end result was not as good as he would have liked and tended to slip rakishly over one eye, but it was black and had stars and moons on it and proclaimed its owner to be, without any doubt, a wizard, although possibly a desperate one. He felt properly dressed for the first time in two thousand years. It was a disconcerting feeling and caused him a second's reflection before he kicked aside the rag rug beside the bed and used the staff to draw a circle on the floor. When the tip of the staff passed it left a line of glowing octarine, the eighth colour of the spectrum, the colour of magic, the pigment of the imagination. He marked eight points on its circumference and joined them up to form an octogram. A low throbbing began to fill the room. Alberto Malich stepped into the centre and held the staff above his head. He felt it wake to his grip, felt the tingle of the sleeping power unfold itself slowly and deliberately, like a waking tiger. It triggered old memories of power and magic that buzzed through the cobwebbed attics of his mind. He felt alive for the first time in centuries. He licked his lips. The throbbing had died away, leaving a strange, waiting kind of silence. Malich raised his head and shouted one single syllable. Blue-green fire flashed from both ends of the staff. Streams of octarine flame spouted from the eight pouits of the octogram and enveloped the wizard. All this wasn't actually necessary to accomplish the spell, but wizards consider appearances are very important. . . . So are disappearances. He vanished. Stratohemispheric winds whipped at Mort's cloak. 'Where are we going first?' yelled Ysabell in his ear. 'Bes Pelargic!' shouted Mort, the gale whirling his words away. 'Where's that?' 'Agatean Empire! Counterweight Continent!' He pointed downward. He wasn't forcing Binky at the moment, knowing the miles that lay ahead, and the big white horse was currently running at an easy gallop out over the ocean. Ysabell looked down at roaring green waves topped with white foam, and clung tighter to Mort. Mort peered ahead at the cloudbank that marked the distant continent and resisted the urge to hurry Binky along with the flat of his sword. He'd never struck the horse and wasn't at all confident about what would happen if he did. All he could do was wait. A hand appeared under his arm, holding a sandwich. 'There's ham or cheese and chutney,' she said. 'You might as well eat, there's nothing else to do.' Mort looked down at the soggy triangle and tried to remember when he last had a meal. Some time beyond the reach of a clock, anyway – he'd need a calendar to calculate it. He took the sandwich. 'Thanks,' he said, as graciously as he could manage. The tiny sun rolled down towards the horizon, towing its lazy daylight behind it. The clouds ahead grew, and became outlined in pink and orange. After a while he could make out the darker blur of land below them, with here and there the lights of a city. Half an hour later he was sure he could see individual buildings. Agatean architecture inclined towards squat pyramids. Binky lost height until his hooves were barely a few feet above the sea. Mort examined the hourglass again, and gently tugged on the reins to direct the horse towards a seaport a little Rimwards of their present course. There were a few ships at anchor, mostly single-sailed coastal traders. The Empire didn't encourage its subjects to go far away, in case they saw things that might disturb them. For the same reason it had built a wall around the entire country, patrolled by the Heavenly Guard whose main function was to tread heavily on the fingers of any inhabitants who felt they might like to step outside for five minutes for a breath of fresh air. This didn't happen often, because most of the subjects of the Sun Emperor were quite happy to live inside the Wall. It's a fact of life that everyone is on one side or other of a wall, so the only thing to do is forget about it or evolve stronger fingers. 'Who runs this place?' said Ysabell, as they passed over the harbour. 'There's some kind of boy emperor,' said Mort. 'But the top man is really the Grand Vizier, I think.' 'Never trust a Grand Vizier,' said Ysabell wisely. In fact the Sun Emperor didn't. The Vizier, whose name was Nine Turning Mirrors, had some very clear views about who should run the country, e.g., that it should be him, and now the boy was getting big enough to ask questions like 'Don't you think the wall would look better with a few gates in it?' and 'Yes, but what is it like on the other side?' he had decided that in the Emperor's own best interests he should be painfully poisoned and buried in quicklime. Binky landed on the raked gravel outside the low, many-roomed palace, severely rearranging the harmony of the universe.[8] Mort slid off his back and helped Ysabell down. 'Just don't get in the way, will you?' he said urgently. 'And don't ask questions either.' He ran up some lacquered steps and hurried through the silent rooms, pausing occasionally to take his bearings from the hourglass. At last he sidled down a corridor and peered through an ornate lattice into a long low room where the Court was at its evening meal. The young Sun Emperor was sitting crosslegged at the head of the mat with his cloak of vermine and feathers spread out behind him. He looked as though he was outgrowing it. The rest of the Court was sitting around the mat in strict and complicated order of precedence, but there was no mistaking the Vizier, who was tucking into his bowl of squishi and boiled seaweed in a highly suspicious fashion. No-one seemed to be about to die. Mort padded along the passage, turned the corner and nearly walked into several large members of the Heavenly Guard, who were clustered around a spyhole in the paper wall and passing a cigarette from hand to hand in that palm-cupped way of soldiers on duty. He tiptoed back to the lattice and overheard the conversation thus: 'I am the most unfortunate of mortals, O Immanent Presence, to find such as this in my otherwise satisfactory squishi,' said the Vizier, extending his chopsticks. The Court craned to see. So did Mort. Mort couldn't help agreeing with the statement, though – the thing was a sort of blue-green lump with rubbery tubes dangling from it. The preparer of food will be disciplined, Noble Personage of Scholarship,' said the Emperor. 'Who got the spare ribs?' 'No, O Perceptive Father of Your People, I was rather referring to the fact that this is, I believe, the bladder and spleen of the deepwater puff eel, allegedly the most tasty of morsels to the extent that it may be eaten only by those beloved of the gods themselves or so it is written, among such company of course I do not include my miserable self.' With a deft flick he transported it to the bowl of the Emperor, where it wobbled to a standstill. The boy looked at it for some time, and then skewered it on a chopstick. 'Ah,' he said, 'but is it not also written by none other than the great philosopher Ly Tin Wheedle that a scholar may be ranked above princes? I seem to remember you giving me the passage to read once, O Faithful and Assiduous Seeker of Knowledge.' The thing followed another brief arc through the air and flopped apologetically into the Vizier's bowl. He scooped it up in a quick movement and poised it for a second service. His eyes narrowed. 'Such may be generally the case, O Jade River of Wisdom, but specifically I cannot be ranked above the Emperor whom I love as my own son and have done ever since his late father's unfortunate death, and thus I lay this small offering at your feet.' The eyes of the court followed the wretched organ on its third flight across the mat, but the Emperor snatched up his fan and brought off a magnificent volley that ended back in the Vizier's bowl with such force that it sent up a spray of seaweed. 'Somebody eat it, for heaven's sake,' shouted Mort, totally unheard. 'I'm in a hurry!' Thou art indeed the most thoughtful of servants, 0 Devoted and Indeed Only Companion of My Late Father and Grandfather When They Passed Over, and therefore I decree that your reward shall be this most rare and exquisite of morsels.' The Vizier prodded the thing uncertainly, and looked into the Emperor's smile. It was bright and terrible. He fumbled for an excuse. 'Alas, it would seem that I have already eaten far too much —' he began, but the Emperor waved him into silence. 'Doubtless it requires a suitable seasoning,' he said, and clapped his hands. The wall behind him ripped from top to bottom and four Heavenly Guards stepped through, three of them brandishing cando swords and the fourth trying hurriedly to swallow a lighted dog-end. The Vizier's bowl dropped from his hands. 'My most faithful of servants believes he has no space left for this final mouthful,' said the Emperor. 'Doubtless you can investigate his stomach to see if this is true. Why has that man got smoke coming out of his ears?' 'Anxious for action, O Sky Eminence,' said the sergeant quickly. 'No stopping him, I'm afraid.' Then let him take his knife and – oh, the Vizier seems to be hungry after all. Well done.' There was absolute silence while the Vizier's cheeks bulged rhythmically. Then he gulped. 'Delicious,' he said. 'Superb. Truly the food of the gods, and now, if you will excuse me —' He unfolded his legs and made as if to stand up. Little beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. 'You wish to depart?' said the Emperor, raising his eyebrows. 'Pressing matters of state, O Perspicacious Personage of —' 'Be seated. Rising so soon after meals can be bad for the digestion,' said the Emperor, and the guards nodded agreement. 'Besides, there are no urgent matters of state unless you refer to those in the small red bottle marked “Antidote” in the black lacquered cabinet on the bamboo rug in your quarters, O Lamp of Midnight Oil.' There was a ringing in the Vizier's ears. His face began to go blue. 'You see?' said the Emperor. 'Untimely activity on a heavy stomach is conducive to ill humours. May this message go swiftly to all corners of my country, that all men may know of your unfortunate condition and derive instruction thereby.' 'I . . . must . . . congratulate your . . . Personage on such . . . consideration,' said the Vizier, and fell forward into a dish of boiled soft-shelled crabs. 'I had an excellent teacher,' said the Emperor. ABOUT TIME, TOO, said Mort, and swung the sword. A moment later the soul of the Vizier got up from the mat and looked Mort up and down. 'Who are you, barbarian?' he snapped. DEATH. 'Not my Death,'said the Vizier firmly. 'Where's the Black Celestial Dragon of Fire?' HE COULDN'T COME, said Mort. There were shadows forming in the air behind the Vizier's soul. Several of them wore emperor's robes, but there were plenty of others jostling them, and they all looked most anxious to welcome the newcomer to the lands of the dead.