#it’s alternately titled how to field strip your soldier | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

5lazarus · 4 years

Text

There Is No Ithaca, Ch. 2

from the wonderful promptlist @brightoncemore created, answering a prompt @because-im-hap-hap sent me. There Is No Ithaca: Solas wrecks his revolution on the altar of Mythal. Ch. 2: there is a traitor within you whose time for punishment will come Summary: Solas returns from war to find Ghilan’nain incubating the Blight within their own home. Content Warnings: Psychological Horror, Body Horror, Abusive Relationships. Remember the codex of Ghilan’nain’s ascension? The hunter blinds her, and Andruil revives her and makes her a god. This is the story behind the myth, or at least one version of it. Read on AO3 here. Find Ch. 1: if one of us has sinned it must be God here.

The shiver of her flesh as he steps into her arms and she pulls him down intoxicates him. They enjoy working together, and they enjoy lounging in her rooms afterward. Ghilan’nain is the First amongst the People, occupying a similar place of honor he had left, and she has enough political support from the Evanuris to step forward and become one of them. He likes the sharpness of her mind and the purity of her aesthete. Their partnership is useful to both of them, and he enjoys the side-benefits.

Mythal has them marry, as a precursor to declaring her new title. Neither of them have any reason to object, and Fen’Harel loves her. He craves her on the field, returning to the barracks to mop the gore up. He can imagine her cool smile regarding him. She does like the smell of blood. Whose? His, perhaps: and the danger quickens his pulse. Solas well knows there are others. He has never claimed anyone’s full loyalty, and would not ask that of her. He does not want it. Ghilan’nain’s devotion is terrible, and he is glad to weaken her hold. He loves her, so he is happy to let her go. “So you tell yourself,” Felassan says. “Yet you haven’t been home twice since you’ve married. While Andruil has stayed there for the entirety of our last campaign.” Solas makes a face. “She leaves when I return, and that is all I ask. That we dispel the rumors that we are in any entwined. Ghilan’nain may do what she likes, as I may do what I like--as long as Andruil does not make my home hers.” “And people find it titillating,” Felassan says. “The idea your wife is fucking your half-sister.” “Now, that’s unconfirmed,” Solas says, amused. “That she is my half-sister. I know they are engaged in a passionate affair, reaching heights equalling my own. The household attendants say they are not particularly discrete. But you know I have never confirmed who my mother may be.” “Because the uncertainty works better,” Felassan says. “Sure. So you say. But what will you do when you have to commit?” “No comment,” Solas says, and Felassan throws back his head and laughs. They have married and perhaps they have grown bored but they have used the marriage-gifts from Mythal to build a laboratory to study the vallaslin and undo its binding. Ghilan’nain is an expert at blood magic, he walks the Fade like none but Wisdom have, and with the two together they can feel the lease lessening. With him at war, she has the freedom to call for volunteers amongst her own people, and it keeps them both safer. They can pretend it is the other’s fault, they can pretend they never knew, if one is caught--and the work will continue, because the work must be done. The Pillars of the Earth have slowed their shaking since he closed the corrupted mine. The corruption seems to have stagnated within the Stone’s own children, and a dwarven general with whom he has occasion to parley tells him that for now, the poison seems to be isolated in that one lyrium vein Mythal had seized. Solas looks hopefully to the near future: peace is almost upon them. Quietly his aides have drawn up terms. Once they break the vallaslin, they will have enough popular support to force the Evanuris to convene, and he is determined they will have a treaty for the dwarves’ grandchildren, at the very least. He returns from war with a swagger in his step, and Felassan leaves him at the gate. “I find her eyes unsettling,” Felassan says, waving off the invitation to stay. “She’s constantly taking my measure and seeing where I’ll fit.” Solas laughs. “I quite like it.” He clasps him on his back. “She makes me--useful. But take care, my friend. If you shall not visit me, I shall visit you.” He turns and walks the monumental marble entrance, smiling at the magnificent halla he had carved to mark this as their place. He can feel Felassan watching his back as he goes, and appreciates his concern, though he himself does not deem it necessary. Nothing would dare strike the Dread Wolf within his own home. The household ranges in front of him--the staff that followed him from Arlathan, Ghilan’nain’s own aides, all paid. His wife stands at the center. She radiates an almost underwater heat, reminding him of the laboratory she created in the caldera of the Sundered Mountain, to the North. There is a tension in the air; he schools his posture to look unaffected. His lead attendant, Marella, looks at him pleadingly. Ghilan’nain steps forward. She wears a new diadem, inlaid with red stones that whisper like the Fade. He can almost hear it, the song sounds familiar, but he tears his eyes from her jewelry and meets her gaze steadily. “Yet another triumphant return,” she says. “The avenging hero comes home.” He takes her hand and kisses it. Her skin is cold. Arm-in-arm, they enter the hall, and their attendants fall in silently behind him. The whispers nudge at his mind. The stones must be Fade-touched, and she cannot hear it because of her blood magic. They do not bother him, but it is almost comprehensible, they want his attention, and it is hard to focus and see if she has made any changes in his absence because they hiss like shaken-up snakes. He can’t help but wonder how they were so stirred. She leads him to their baths, shedding attendants on their way. He had chosen this plot of land from Mythal’s munificence precisely for the natural sulphuric springs and proximity to the sea, and Ghilan’nain’s engineers have made good use of the hydrothermal energy. Finally, they are alone, and she turns to him and regards him coolly, those seaglass eyes measuring him, checking for any flick of the eye or uncertainty. Solas stares steadily back. She is smug about something, she cannot hide the slight smirk to her lips. He caresses her face and she smiles back up at him. Mythal’s vallaslin is as terrible on them as ever, but underneath the mark of their own fate is seething. She has done something, Solas realizes. She wants to celebrate it. He carefully lifts the diadem from her brow, careful to make sure the arms do not snag in her hair, and places it on the marble bench already waiting for them. The pool is before them, steaming gently. “You’ve done it,” he says, “haven’t you?” “In part,” she says. “Why don’t I show you?” She traces a hand up his chest and begins unstrapping him from his armor. When she has his breastplate off, leaving him in a relatively unremarkable silk shirt, he grabs her hands and kisses her. She tastes like smoke and lyrium, right into his veins, and he gasps as she strips him bare and takes him into the water. He has been a long time from the comforts of home. She pins him to the side of the pool, marble cool against his skin, and fucks him. In a less desperate mood, he would call it making love, but with Ghilan’nain it seems too quaint. And when she is satisfied with him, he sinks deeper in the water, tired but glowing, and closes his eyes as she traces the lines of his vallaslin. Her hand at the lines drawn onto his neck, Ghilan’nain speaks. “My exhausted soldier,” she says, amused, “always eager to perform in the line of duty, no matter how exhausted, how recent the battlefield, how tired from the road.” He wraps his arms around her and pulls her in tighter. Truthfully he wishes to rest, even fall asleep in the bath, and then retire to his offices and find out what has his staff so anxious. “I wouldn’t call it a duty,” he says. “Not nearly so rote as that.” Ghilan’nain tosses her hair back. “I should hope not.” She pushes herself up slightly in his lap, hands on his shoulders, and Solas rocks back. Her eyes glitter. “Now, my heart, where no one can see us, where all assume we are celebrating your return home.” “Yes, we do have a reputation to keep,” Solas says. He places his hands on her hips to keep her steady. Ghilan’nain arches her back, and he notices a slight bruise right at the edge of her right breast, and wonders if he left it. He resolves to leave a match on the left one: it is not jealousy, but he has always been competitive. He traces the edge of her breast like she likes, and she shivers. She genuinely shares this passion with him, he knows it. The alternative is too humiliating to bear. “The vallaslin,” she says. “Though it cost me thirty percent of my sample size, I’ve reverse-engineered the geass Mythal laid upon us. It’s not blood magic, not like we thought it was. She’s been using lyrium, my love. Lyrium and Fade-touched stormheart in the ink.” Solas leans back into the wall, and Ghilan’nain slips slightly in the water and wraps her legs around his waist. She searches his face. “How large was the sample?” Solas says repressively. She pulls back. “Large enough to get the results,” she says sharply. “You may read my report yourself.” “My heart,” he says, by way of an apology. Their limbs are entangled now, and Solas worries she will trip. Carefully he extricates himself and rises, dripping, from the pool. He towels himself off and turns back to Ghilan’nain, who watches him. Her face is unreadable. It mirrors his. Solas reaches for the clothes an embarrassed servant must have placed, while they were otherwise occupied, on the bench where Ghilan’nain had left her robes. A red tunic with gold embroidery about the collar, soft doeskin trousers, and a new wolfskin: Solas turns back to her, smiling. “These are lovely,” he says, fingering the embroidery. He can taste the sigils sewn into the shirt: to keep it from tearing, to wick away sweat, to keep it clean. He catches a particularly strong shielding spell, powerful enough to glance away a blade going for the neck. Ghilan’nain rises from the pool. “You never buy new clothes,” she says. “And what we are about to do will not make us popular at court. Try them. They’ll adjust to fit. I’ve been working the weave to adjust to your body heat.” She takes up the diadem and hands it to him expectantly. It sears his hands, and Solas drops it in surprise. It clatters to the floor. Ghilan’nain bends to pick it up, his eyes travel the length of her back, and she straightens, placing it back into her hand. He takes her hands. They are untouched. “Too sensitive,” she says, “Fadewalker.” She takes his face and kisses him. Her tongue is cold, her skin is cool, and he cannot summon back the fire he found in the pool. She has not answered how large the sample size was. She knows he disapproves. He breaks the kiss and picks up her robe. Disappointed, she steps forward, but he drapes it around her. “Perhaps later,” he says, trying to smile. “The dispatches…” “Of course,” she says. “And do read my report.”

They do not sleep apart, though each has their own rooms where they entertain other guests. Solas hurries to his private quarters, uneasy in his marble halls. The house is too quiet. Where are his young scholars, his petitioners, his angry priests? He was expecting, at the very least, a dinner party, perhaps with Imshael and Geldauron in attendance. In his office his in-tray is already filled. He groans. Mythal’s business never ends. He slides into his chair and begins sorting his mail. His staff would have already prioritized what must be answered today, but he prefers to pick the order in which he writes. He sets aside a letter from Falon’Din, complaining about a group of partying swineherds, to be answered last. His swineherds may party on, and encroach on whomever’s borders as they like, as long as they keep their brawling to a minimum. He makes a mental note to send Felassan that way, to make sure this does not escalate. At the very bottom of the pile is a curious little letter, written on fishskin. Solas wrinkles his nose at the smell. Carefully he tugs the almost translucent paper from its scaled envelope. The words are inscribed with Veilfire. The message is short, written in bold block letters: HAIL THE EXALTED ONE THE WILL THEY CALL PRIDE MYTHAL’S OWN, THE DREAD WOLF WE CRY YOU MERCY MERCY MERCY MERCY WE REPENT MERCY Solas places the letter on his desk and sighs. He closes his eyes, palm flat over the words, and enters the Fade. The room melts into the Waking World, Veilfire bringing him into the message, and in the Dreaming he floats in an underwater chamber, gorgeously ornamented in gold and green glass. They show Ghilan’nain taking tribute, which is her right. Solas glances around him and sees that he is flanked suddenly by whispers, elves with their faces splitting raw with scales, throats bleeding as gills emerge, and their vallaslin ripping suddenly from their bodies in as they erupt, screaming muted in the underwater temple, and horrified Solas opens his eyes to his simple office with the words in his ears: “Mercy. Mercy. Mercy.” “Those were her people,” Solas says aloud. “I knew she was taking volunteers, but I didn’t know--the vallaslin was ripped from the body in their transformation, how can anyone survive that without aid? How many died? How many died after the experiment was deemed a success?” He waits until she is sleeping to investigate. The report lies heavily on his mind. One thousand elves, given willing sacrifice: only seven hundred have survived, and they have changed. They are creatures of mottled flesh and ripping pain, minds shattered by blood-bond Ghilan’nain pulled apart. She treats skeins of flesh like yarn that she can knit--but her subjects feel. His staff has kept track of how many have survived since the vallaslin was removed: only fifty-five percent. Of one thousand loyal attendants, seeking their freedom, only three hundred and eighty-five have survived. The kill rate is equal to Falon’Din in one of his worshipful moods. Solas is seething. She promised him they would do better. He would not have bound his heart to hers, if he knew she would end like this. He changes his clothes to a more simple homespun, and leaves off the wolfskin. He has been a servant and is still a slave to Mythal, whatever his manumission papers say. He can still pass as one today. He walks through his staffers’ paths through the wing he calls his own towards Ghilan’nain’s private laboratory. He is realizing why Mythal encouraged the match, and how both he and Andruil can find something compelling. Ghilan’nain has always been chilling. He mistook the shivering for passion, not frozen sadism. They both would do anything for their freedom, he has always known that--but this beggars belief, this crosses beyond what he thought possible. He presses a hand to her office door, and it swings open. She trusts him, and has left it unlocked. He has never done that for his wing of the house. Slightly ashamed, he wonders how she could have so misunderstood him. Then he remembers: six hundred and fifteen dead. Solas groans aloud, then slaps a hand over his own mouth. Mercy, mercy, he thinks: I repent. Her space is as clean and shining as possible. She has a sketch of her first halla that he made her framed on her desk. Solas resists the urge to take it. Above her desk, she has a set of antlers mounted on the wall. Andruil must have hunted it for her. It must be her fault, she was so reckless, Andruil must have egged her on: no. Solas waves the thought away. Whatever Ghilan’nain has does, it is her choice and hers alone. Andruil has never been capable of this calculating cruelty. Ghilan’nain chose to press ahead with the trials, even as her people began to mutate. Solas thinks again: thirty-eight point five percent. He says it aloud, to make it real. The glowstones activate at the sound of his voice. Lyrium is so responsive, especially to those who walk the Fade like he does. He walks away from her desk and begins examining the tanks that line the walls. Most of the creatures are asleep. Some of their faces are burnt blank. Solas’ heart sinks. These were people, once. These were Ghilan’nain’s people, so his people too. The vallaslin must be removed, but not at a cost such as this. He investigates, growing more and more disgusted. One creature is still recognizably elvhen, but bowed by massive horns erupting at odd angles from its face. Another has half its body melting into a dragon’s tail, but speckled with sores angry with inflammation. Solas stares at it, removed from itself. He wonders how it removes waste. He notices its hands are bound. Scales litter the bottom of the tank. He moves on. Hidden in a recess at the back of the room, furthest from the door, is a small pool, stinking of brine. The room grows hotter as he approaches it, and he hears strange whispers, the same from that odd diadem Ghilan’nain wears. Again, they feel familiar, but even if they are imbued with Veilfire, it is not the same kind that the petitioners wrote into the letter that brought him here. He casts his mind back, trying to place the odd sense of familiarity. The whispers have a sense of sluggish rhythm, and he finds himself moving in time towards the pool. It glows red rather than green, so it cannot be Fade magic, though he knows color signifiers are arbitrary, and Ghilan’nain’s senses are different from hers, ground by her blood magic. She would not be able to hear the whispers. They come at him through the Fade. Solas crouches by the pool. His hand reaches out to touch the water and he stops himself. Shaken slightly, he takes a step back. Grounding himself firmly, he closes his eyes and listens. “We are here, we have waited,” the red waters whisper. “We have slept, we are sundered. We are crippled, we are polluted. We endure. We wait. We have found the dreams again. We will awaken--” Solas rips himself away, foot hovering above the pool. He scrambles, stumbling over himself, clattering to the ground, but mercifully on dry ground. He knows those evil whispers, he knows that red glow. It is the corruption in the Titan’s blood that festered when he and Mythal dealt it a mortal wound. It is a pollution he thought he had culled. It is a poison he broke from Mythal to cure. The Children of the Stone with whom he has drawn peace terms call it a blight. Ghilan’nain has cultivated it in their own home. Rage grips him and he surrenders to it. Dead whispers poison the air he breathes, the pollution is in his lungs now, synthesizing in his bloodstream, and red he storms calling fury electric down the halls of his silent home. The door to their bedroom swings open before he even shapes the ask in the Fade. Ghilan’nain is sitting before a mirror, combing her long hair. She turns, and for a moment they simply stare at each other. Finally, Ghilan’nain breaks the silence. “I take it you read the report,” she says. Solas throws the papers at her feet. “Ah,” she says. “I should have anticipated you would react that way. Did you make it to the conclusion, at least?” “The lyrium,” he says. “The pollution I found in the Deep Roads. That was not used. It was supposed to remain forgotten!” Ghilan’nain twists her mouth. “Is this what this is about? Really? You are angry because I explored and expanded our options--the corrupted lyrium broke the geass of the vallaslin, Solas.” “And how many died for you to find that?” Solas snarls. “I saw the corpses, Ghilan’nain. They were our people! They came to us for aid! They volunteered only because they trusted that we would make it worth it, and now--” His voice breaks. “We are no better than Sylaise in her vanity. Or Falon’Din.” “Perish the thought,” she says mildly. “Surely I’m no worse than Mythal--she has asked the same of her people, and more.” He is disgusted, and he is disgusted with himself, because he has thrown his lot with her. He was to petition Mythal formally to raise Ghilan’nain to Evanuris--and she deserves it. She is just like the lot of them, happy to drown in blood. “No,” he says. “No. No. You are worse. Mythal has asked too much of me, that is true. But she has never let her people die in vain. She has spared us what agony she could. And even when she has been cruel, she--” He stops. “This is no justice, Ghilan’nain. You are nothing like Mythal.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Solas,” she says exasperated. “You want your freedom--I found it. And I did not even use up the whole stock. I was merciful. And for the dead?” She shrugs. “Well, they died for a good cause--your cause. Their sacrifice must be nobly borne. No more of these histrionics, my love. You have been too long away in war. You are home now, and we are so close to unravelling the bindings. I can break the geass, but you can hear what the lyrium says. Together we can--” “Shut up,” Solas growls. “Shut up.” Ghilan’nain’s face sharpens, and he sees her reaching for her staff. He throws his arm out, reaching into the Fade to shove her away. The force of the blast shatters the mirror of her vanity, and quickly he throws up a barrier. Ghilan’nain screams, her face dripping with blood. The glass has cut into her eyes. “I can’t see,” she sobs. “Mythal’enaste, I can’t see. You bastard, you fucking son-of-a-wolf, I can’t see!” Her voice rises to a wail. “Solas! Help me! My love, help me!” Solas hurriedly picks up the papers he had scattered so carelessly on the ground. Stepping around the shattered mirror, Solas leaves. Ghilan’nain weeps blood and mucus behind him. He hears her calling behind him: “Andruil, avenge me.”

#solas/ghilan'nain #solas #ghilan'nain #arlathan #body horror #psychological horror #cw: blinding #fanfic #dragon age fanfic #dai #solas pov

17 notes · View notes

chimaerakitten · 4 years

Audio

(via https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2eF2BW8QhNO2UesloUNkuk?si=SfOWQO6CTQy28MPE0ndjMA)

so, now that I am officially free of both finals and my work on the TQT title sequence animation, I thought it would be a good time to turn to my other bit project for this fandom, Chi’s crazy-long chronological playlist. I started this. One week after ROTT came out. ONE WEEK. I thought I’d get it done and written up in two or three days. It is now. December the 15th. Two months. TWO MONTHS, THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY DRAFTS

Bellow the cut: A writeup explaining the position of each song + a little bit more commentary on it from me (spoilers. everything is spoilers all the way through ROTT below the cut):

This is a mix of some pretty typical fanplaylist fare (there is. A lot of Bastille on here) some Queen’s Thief must-haves (can you really have a Queen of Attolia playlist without Achilles Come Down?) and my own really weird music taste (Filk like Tin Soldier and Courage Knows No Bounds)

Some of the ones I’m most proud of are Monster by Starset for the Mede camp scenes in ROTT (I mean, it starts with “Under the knife I surrendered” It’s kinda perfect) Laughter Lines for Relius and Teleus (I have it on good authority that that caused a lot of heart pain for other fans) and Soft to be Strong for Irene and Relius.

without further ado, the song list:

“Eddis”—Warriors

“Thief!”—Second Child, Restless Child

The Thief

Whatever it takes—“I can steal anything”

Tin Soldier—“Nobody would mistake you for anything but a tool, Gen.”

Centuries—“His name would be carved in stone on a stele outside the basilica, and mine would be written in the dust.”

Everybody Wants To Rule the World—“He doesn’t want the queen…He just wants the pass through the mountains so that he can invade Attolia.”

Patron Saint o’ Thieves—Eugenides and the Sky God’s Thunderbolts (I will be honest. This one was chosen based on title and Vibes, tm, not lyrics)

The Only Exception—“But if there hadn’t been one that I loved, I wouldn’t have landed myself in the king’s prison.”

Thief—Before braving the temple of the Aracthus.

Come Wayward Souls—Inside the temple.

History Has Its Eyes On You—The answered prayer for silence.

The Queen and the Soldier—“You are more beautiful, Your majesty... But she is more kind.”

I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)—Walking to Eddis.

Stand By Me—“Oh, It’s you, Eugenides.”

Family—Helen, Eugenides, and the Minister of War.

“Destruction”—Dread Sovereign

The Queen of Attolia

Run Boy Run—The chase through the palace.

Icarus—Eugenides, caught.

When the Chips are Down—“I still think tradition might hold the best solution to my problems with you.”

Achilles Come Down—Eugenides, after returning to Eddis.

Heroes—The Secret War and the expectation that Eugenides will die soon.

Burn It Down—Burning Sounis’s navy.

Sit Still Look Pretty—“It was her fiancé who gave her the name shadow princess.”

Heroes and Thieves— “She pulled the bedclothes up as far as they would go and suppressed a perverse wish to have her old nurse come to chase away the darkness, perverse because she didn’t know if she wanted the shadows to be empty or not.”

Thousand Eyes—The plan to take Ephrata.

We Remain—“There’s an easier way for a man to become king,”

Black Water—“She reached up to push the wet hair out of her face, wondering when she had sunk so low that she had begun torturing boys.”

Simple Song—"I watched you walking between the rows of cabbages and then dancing under the orange trees. I was above you, in one of the trees.”

She’s Always a Woman—"Eugenides had accepted gladly and read carefully, trying to see whether Attolia could be the monster in human guise she was accused of being, or only a woman who ruled without the support of her barons.”

Queen of Peace—“Just asleep,” Eddis reassured her.”

I’m Not Calling You A Liar—“I sometimes believe his lies are the truth, but I have never mistaken his truth for a lie.”

Losing My Religion—“You made a mistake,” Attolia agreed. “You trusted your gods. That was your mistake.”

Pompeii—The vision of the volcano.

All I’ve Ever Known—“Love I am not familiar with.”

Love Love Love—"Who am I, that you should love me?

A Healing In This Night—“And she believed him.”

The King of Attolia

Bow to the Crown— “He dropped to his knees before his queen and lowered his head almost to the floor.”

Shut up and Dance—"Her queen danced like a flame in the wind”

Carry Your Throne— It was not a kiss between strangers, not even a kiss between a bride and a groom. It was a kiss between a man and his wife.”

It’s Alright—"If it was embarrassing to wake like a child screaming from a nightmare, how much more embarrassing to be the reason your husband woke screaming.”

Believer—“like a god revealed” and the fall of the house of Erondites.

I CHOOSE YOU— “He was very likable—Eddis would have married him.”

Hunger— “I did not say that I am afraid. He is, though, I think. Afraid of his own desire for power.”

Soft to Be Strong—"I have learned that there is a flaw in your philosophy. If we truly trust no one, we cannot survive.”

Gold—Eugenides on the crenellations.

True & Destined Prince—“He is an Annux, a king of kings.”

“Knife Dance”—Human

A Conspiracy of Kings

Things We Lost In The Fire—The raid on the villa.

Constellations—Sophos and Moira in the dream library.

Welcome Home, Son—“I didn’t want a choice; I wanted to stay right where I was and build walls and share poetry with an avid audience and enjoy a swim with friends, but I didn’t want it to be my choice.”

Words as Weapons— “Eugenides looked me in the eye as if I were a complete stranger and said, “The simplest way to end a war is to admit you have lost it.”

Share Your Address— “You made a proposal in your previous letter. Perhaps it was only hypothetical?” “It was not.”

I Love You—“When I was working in the fields, I knew how unfounded my hopes were,” he said. “I was a poor excuse for an heir of Sounis when I made the proposal and then became even less than that.”

Iron—“I will go to Melenze. And hope to delay the Medes long enough to find some other solution to their imperial expansion. Of course, that assumes the king and queen of Attolia intend to honor the laws of hospitality and allow me to travel safely to the border.”

Young Volcanoes—“Just what makes you think you can get away with that?” he asked the young man standing over him with a butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression incongruous on his scarred face.”

The Fates—Sophos’s naïve speech before the first vote.

Handmade Heaven—Shooting Hanaktos and Akretenesh, lifting a hand to the sky for a lightning bolt that will not come.

I Bet My Life—"There is no reason I can see that I would not be honored to join Eddis to you.”

Flaws—“Eddis stared at him for a long time, knowing that forgiving someone because you have to is not forgiving him at all.”

For The Dancing And The Dreaming—“Are you certain that you want to be my wife?” “Absolutely,” said Eddis, quietly. “Eternally certain.”

Blood Brothers—"He had been saved by the men Eugenides sent, though he did not yet know the ferocity with which the king of Attolia had stripped those men from other posts, the capital he had expended, the secrets that had been revealed in order to send help to Sounis.”

Thick as Thieves

I’ll Believe In Anything—"If there had been any alternative, I would have taken it, but I could see none, and there was no time for hesitation.”

You’ve Got A Friend In Me—“Head wounds bleed, but we can stitch it up, I’ve done it before, don’t be afraid. Kamet, I wouldn’t tell you this if it weren’t true. I swear to you, I am not going to leave your dead body beside the road to Perf. I didn’t come all the way to this godsforsaken cesspit so that I could go home and tell my king I failed him.”

Desert Song—Costis and Kamet crossing the empire, eating caggi.

Empire—"It would be possible, I supposed, for an outsider to see disruption and think the empire might collapse, but it was too all encompassing, too well sewn together to come apart. As each smaller nation was absorbed, it was integrated into the whole, enjoying all the benefits of being in the empire.”

Fell In Love With A Girl—Kamet’s story of Marin the dancing girl.

Foreigner’s God—Kamet’s encounter with Ennikar while Costis is in the well.

The Hell If I Go Home—Kamet trying to leave in Sukir.

Stray Italian Greyhound—“If you had told me in Sukir, I would have let you go.” / “Costis,” I said, using his name for the first time since he had told it to me, on board the riverboat at the start of our journey. “Costis, I’m sorry.”

Poet—"I began this narrative in the palace of Attolia but have only recently neared its completion. I will eventually send it to Relius, when I am sure it can be delivered without interception, and I hope he will be satisfied with my account, as I would be honored to have it added to his library.”

All This And Heaven Too—“Immakuk and Ennikar,” he said. “Where?” I snapped my head around to scan the dock, and he nudged me with his elbow. “Idiot. Us,” he said.”

Return of the Thief

How Far We’ve Come—Exordium.

The Great Escape—Pheris finding a place for himself.

The Heart Is a Muscle—“Someone loves me very much, even with all my faults”

I Will Wait—“His heart is unlikely to be in his work.”

Laughter Lines—Relius and Teleus saying goodbye.

Stole You Away—“Attolia says she leaves with you”

Poison & Wine—“I think they have to show their worst selves sometimes”

United at War—“Sounis will not run…nor Eddis.”

This is War—Arrival at Leonyla.

No Light, No Light—“All wars make men monsters, all wars and all men.”

Survivor’s Song—The Etisian winds came early.

Daniel in the Den—The ambush and the Mede Camp.

Monster—“Nahuseresh tells me I am not king. We’ll see if he really prefers the Thief.”

Natural—“Once, when I said he had saved me, you said I had saved him. From what?”

Tomorrow I Leave For Battle—Before the Naupent.

March of Cambreadth—The Naupent.

Courage Knows No Bounds—A pyre that burned for three days.

Bad Blood—The pardon of Sejanus.

Call the Names—The naming of Hector and Eugenia.

Here’s To Us—Dancing on the Roof.

I lived—Pheris, and the gods were pleased.

“Alyta’s Missing Earring”—Falling and Empire

final note: I did my best to have songs have at least one meaning in the pace they were put, plus more meaning when considering the series as a whole—for example, “Tin Soldier” appears early on in the context of the king of Sounis and the Magus using Gen as a tool, but if you loop back around to it after Return of the Thief, Gen being “weapon more than child” gains a whole new meaning. "She’s always a woman” is an Irene song in the context of QOA, but the more we learn about Helen, the more it applies to her, etc. etc. Not every song is like that, but I wanted to give the playlist at least a bit of re-listen value, in the spirit of the books’ reread value.

#TQT #QT #ROTT #return of the thief #the queen's thief #the thief #the queen of attolia #the king of attolia #a conspiracy of kings #thick as thieves #Spotify playlist

22 notes · View notes

rookisaknight · 6 years

Text

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes-Jacob Seed, Fem!Dep

Alternative title, I needed closure and none of you stopped me.

I’m still trying to figure out how to write Molly, so take this attempt at a fever dream. Its under a cut because A: its long and B: I still have some shame

“You had no....fucking clue” Jacob said, choking out a low laugh between coughs. His ribs were heaving for air, making him wince in pain each time he inhaled. The end was coming, he knew it. His body, that had been battered by so much that failed to kill him, was reaching the end of its warranty. He leaned against the rock behind him, closing his eyes and letting go of the arms of the woman in front of him. A moment later he felt a pair of hands grip the cord around his neck and give a firm tug, snapping the leather. He let a faint, tired smile spread across his face....

“So,” Molly said, voice flat with exhaustion as she slid down to sit alongside him. “You done with the monologue, or were you gonna keep listing off wars to drive the point across”

“.....”

“Jacob, please. A couple shattered ribs and a bullet to the shoulder isn’t gonna kill you that fast.”

“That all it is?” He said, with a rueful chuckle that made him wince. “Think I lost track of it.”

“Yeah, me too.” She tore off the shredded sleeve of her jacket and began winding it around a gash in her thigh, where he clipped her. The motion was very, very practiced. Based on the scars he’d seen on covering her legs and arms on various occasions, it had become second nature at this point.

“Well....” He shifted a bit, biting back a sharp groan. “Call it a tie, then” The left side of his jacket was dark and sticky with blood, and he grimaced at the feeling of clinging to his skin

“.....it will kill you. Eventually”

“That’s what they told me about the cigarettes.”

“If you don’t get help, you have maybe an hour.”

“So, Deputy, what are you gonna do about it.” He turned to look at her. “Gonna bandage me up and deliver me unto the long arm of the law? Stick me in a jail cell for the duration of this war?”

The obvious sneer in his voice made her roll her eyes as she tucked filthy strands of her hair behind her ears. “......you’d have to ask.”

“Hm. Officer is just gonna let me die unless I beg? Doesn’t seem very honorable.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m other people, Jacob.” Her voice was quiet.

“....” He looked back out over the hills.

“You and I both know, from the second I shot Eli, you were waiting for me to kill you.”

He was quiet for another minute. “....if I had wanted it, do you think I would’ve made it that hard for you to do?”

She snorted. “You want me to do a lot of things. None of them easy. Compared to 10 days of starving in a cage this was a walk in the park.”

“...are we speaking logistically, or emo-”

She clipped the back of his head. “Shut up.”

“Hey, hey” With his uninjured arm he batted her hand away. “Alright.”

“And for the record, you didn’t deny it.”

“Didn’t think it was necessary.”

She sighed, leaning her head back. “Sometimes I talk to you and then everything about Joseph makes so much more sense.”

He wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult. Knowing Kříž it was both and neither.

“Well. Looking at it that way....guess I won. In the end.”

“If it’ll satisfy your fragile, elderly ego, yes, you won.”

He chuckled.

“All you have left to do...is wait.”

“......right. Wait.”

After the chaos of a few hours ago, the silence felt almost....surreal.There were a few smoking wrecks of trucks and men out in the fields, but the smoke diffused easily into the open mountain air. Molly shoved her gun to the side and splayed out her legs a bit.

“.....I need roughly four showers. So thanks for that.”

He smirked. “See, Kříž, now I can’t die. You haven’t toughened up nearly enough if the mud still bothers you.”

“This doesn’t smell like just mud.”

“Could just be you.”

“Or you.”

“We both know from personal experience you have no problems with how I smell.” Watching her face go scarlet was a treat, despite the circumstances.

“You pick now to bring that up?” She was taking decided interest in studying the trees around them. Avoiding eye contact.

“I plan to die with no unspoken thoughts” Not to mention the loss of blood was starting to make him feel a little...floaty. Punchdrunk maybe. “Once was a surprise. But sneaking out of the bunker three times to see me? Eli musta already lost his edge.”

“....Tammy caught me once. Told her Cheeseburger needed walking” There was a faint edge of a grin in her voice, though he couldn’t see her face.

“She bought that?”

“She didn’t, but I don’t think having pissed off hook-ups with you would be the first thing anyone would assume.”

“Funny. They were on my mind a lot”

The flush returned. “Don’t make me kick a dying man’s ass, Seed.”

“I’d like to see you try, Kříž ”

She laughed. Hoarse and high and just as tired as he was. So tired....he slumped against the rock.

She looked at him quietly. Words hanging on her tongue, but refusing to come forward.

It doesn’t have to be like this.

I can....help you.

But she couldn’t. Even if she patched him up, one step outside this clearing and Jacob Seed was a dead man. If Tammy or Wheaty didn’t get him, one of the others would. She could hole up in the bunker with him until this whole mess was over, and all it would get him was an indefinite stay in prison.

What she wanted didn’t matter....if that even was what she wanted. Which was still a big question mark. Like just about everything to do with Jacob was.

“So why me” He said, so faintly she almost missed it.

“...what do you mean?”

“Why not John. Or Faith for that matter.”

“....Jacob Seed. are you asking me why I didn’t fuck your sibling because-”

“Nobody in the world is stupid enough to miss that my brother was hot under the collar for you.” There was a hard edge to his voice when he talked about his youngest brother that brought Molly to silence. “Hell, who knows. With the right....application, you might have been able to flip him. So why didn’t you.”

“I don’t sleep with people to flip them.”

“So why do you then?”

She groaned, running a hand down her face. “You know what, if you’re in pain I can probably just shoot you in the head-”

“Molly”

......

Her first name sounded odd in his mouth. Not...unpleasant exactly. But odd.

“.....here’s my issue with you Seeds.” She finally said. “Every single one of you is trying to make me your....I don’t know, successor. Clone. John wanted me to confess, and spread that fervor of confession.” Her fingertips brushed the scars on her chest, thin and pink and still visible, despite the months since their creation. “He told me my sin was Wrath, because Wrath is....was his sin.” she looked up at the sky. “Faith wanted to make me into a bliss-soaked convert, another beacon of light. You want...” wanted “to make me into a perfect soldier. And Joseph....well, I think he’s hoping I’m another of God’s chosen.”

Jacob was breathing slower. She did her best not to notice that.

“.....I’m not a soldier. But....” She pushed some hair out of her face, blinking hard. “I need to be. That’s what these people need. A soldier.”

A long silence. Molly felt something rising up in her throat that she was fighting a losing battle with, and it was ridiculous, and she just hated the hell out of this man. Not three hours ago he’d made her kill a trusted friend and taunted her with it. He’d broken Pratt, his minions had destroyed Jess’ life, and none of that could ever be washed away.

But stripped of all of that....here on the rocks she couldn’t watch him die.

He’d done his job too well for that

“You....fuck, you had what I needed. I’m such an awful thing in your hands Jacob but...I wanted to disappear into that. Again and again. Just become whatever you made me into, because it was effective, I was strong, and that’s what’s so-” She closed her eyes tight. “-its so fucked up”

You’re dying, and you deserve it, and the world’s better off for it, but I’m so afraid to lose that power. I’m worried that I’ve become you, and if you cant be saved.....

What hope is there for Staci?

Or Tammy?

Or me?

“ Kříž....”

She was startled out of her thoughts, and turned to look at him. For a moment he was so still that she felt her mouth go dry. But his lips moved faintly as he breathed out sounds she could just barely discern as words.

“....don’t trust in them to save you.....by the time you’ve thrown in your lot....its too late....” His breath was coming in shudders now, but those blue eyes opened one last time and looked dead at her. Once again, measuring her.“Its too late....for me. You...can run.”

“......”

The thought hung in the air between them before it was punctured by a gasping chuckle from Jacob.

“....neither of us can help it then.....” His eyes slid closed. “Just as well...”

These were the last moments. Yet, pressing on her thoughts....if she moved fast, she could at least get him mobile....Jerome, he was a miracle with bullet wounds and if she could convince him-

.....

Her hand slipped into his, gripping tightly. Less a lover’s caress and more...a last salute. His hands were like sandpaper, and getting colder.

It could’ve been her imagination, but she could’ve sworn the fingers tightened around her hand in a faint squeeze....before he went still.

#this was a trip to write let me tell you #this is what happens when you let your protagonist identify a little too much with the worst person she knows #jacob seed #oc: molly kříž #far cry deputy #fc5 #far cry 5 #jacob seed/deputy

14 notes · View notes

wrath-and-regret-blog · 7 years

Text

A List of Dragon Age Verses

It is much easier to put all of my muses’ together for verse posts when there are multiple for one world. For example, almost all of my muses have a Dragon Age verse.

Velkyn is a Crow and is well acquainted with the ins and outs of murder. He has no issues with his job and cares very little for those that do. Really, what did they expect? When you drown a child in violence, violence he becomes. During origins, if the warden does not complete the crime wave quest, Vel does it himself, earning himself the title of “Dark Wolf”. Sooner or later, he separates himself from the Crows and chooses instead to take a more freelance approach, offering his skills in fighting, poisoning, and information gathering to the highest bidder, eventually joining the Inquisition as one of Leliana’s people.

((He also has alternate verses as the Warden and the Inquisitor, but I prefer this one))

Lowell is of an Orlesian noble family. Possessing a compassionate, honest and free-spirited personality, he does not fit in well with his family’s spiderweb of political schemes and is often seen as an outcast. He participates very little in the Grand Game and never to advance himself but simply because he loves to meet and understand new people. He doesn’t wear a mask, and never stays in one place for long. Can easily be found wandering anywhere and everywhere, probably getting himself into some kind of trouble.

Kaladin is a Fereldan soldier, formerly a part of Arl Howe’s army, trained well with the spear, who also is quite adept at field medicine. Though not born as a full mage, Kaladin possesses an unusually strong connection to the fade. During origins, Kaladin is appalled when he and the other soldiers are ordered to betray the Couslands. He refuses, challenging Howe’s leadership, and ends up being stripped of title and rank and sold to Tevinter slavers. He proves difficult to control, however, and is sold from master to master until he is sent to Seheron. Upon this happening, he makes contact in the fade with a spirit of Honor named Syl, granting him the only companionship he’s had for the past year. Later, after attempting suicide, Kaladin and Syl form a magical bond, granting him certain mage-like powers, including healing, enhanced strength and speed and, eventually, flight. These powers are based on how well he upholds the ideals of the spirit of Honor. With the help of these powers, he and a group of other slave-soldiers escape captivity and return to Ferelden a year after the Blight ends. He does free work as a medic after that, traveling and helping the people who were hurt by the blight until the Inquisition is formed. He then goes to Skyhold to help with healing the sick and wounded and eventually finds a place in the army as well.

Navani is Nevarran royalty, the widow of one of the higher ranking princes, who is an avid inventor and a highly intelligent mother of two. She allies herself with the Inquisition as she views stopping the end of the world as the logical top priority. Though she has no combat ability, her wit is as sharp as any sword, she proves a strong political ally, and her crafting skills are unparalleled. She sometimes finds herself in the field, in order to test new inventions or simply for inspiration, but she is not reckless and knows that, logically, a fight is no place for her.

Gwaine is basically the same as his main!verse, the son of a Fereldan knight who he never met who has abandoned his claim to nobility and now spends most of his time in taverns. Joins the Inquisition because it’s the right thing to do.

Kyosuke is a powerful apostate, using his skill to rescue and raise mage children who do not wish to be placed in circles or whose families abandoned or abused them. He’s taken up residence in an abandoned villa in the Emerald Graves, using the large space of land and the many-roomed mansion as an excellent place to raise his adopted children in peace. He keeps it hidden with powerful illusion magic and does his best to block any attempts at tracking any of his family. If any Templars do show up, he handles them swiftly and quietly. After years of abuse at the hands of the Templars, he was supposedly killed while trying to stop one of his friends from being executed for blood magic and his body was removed from the circle tower in Ferelden. Barely clinging to life, he was saved by and bonded a spirit of protection. While he is alive, the damage his body has suffered is permanent and will catch up with him sooner, rather than later. He refuses to let himself die, however, until he makes a place where mages are treated like people and no longer have to live in fear simply for the way they were born.

Gieve is a traveling bard and a notorious flirt. He is half elven and seems to hold no particular allegiance to any country or organization. Money and attention are the name of his game. Where there are people to listen to his song, that is where he’ll be. He tends to avoid situations that don’t concern him or that are not beneficial to him, but if there’s a cause he believes in or if there’s something of great importance, he will give it his all. Skilled with a sword, bow and improvisation, he is excellent to have in battle and his musical and seduction skills know no equal making him quite formidable when it comes to distractions and infiltrations. He’s good to have on your side, but he will only stay as long as he agrees with you. If your views no longer mix well, he will not hesitate to move on.

#;Muse ( VELKYN )#;Muse ( LOWELL )#;Muse ( KALADIN )#;Muse ( KYOSUKE )#;Muse ( NAVANI )#;Muse ( GWAINE )#;Muse ( GIEVE )#;Verse ( DRAGON AGE )

1 note · View note

portfolio- · 8 years

Text

Note: I am back! Hi!!!

I apologize for the lack of updates. (I swear, I'll find time. I just need some breather from class presentations and another set of exams this month). I just got through my examination week (It was grueling, don't ask). Anyway, this is something I started before I dove headfirst to my textbooks, and I only got to finish it now. Decided to push for it after watching that alternate universe fan made video of KGE from Memories of the Sword with the GY's scenes in the historical part of Goblin. I NEED THEM TO DO A SAGUEK DRAMA GODS PLEASE.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this lengthy (for me) alternate universe piece.

Title: To Plant Seeds on Hallowed Ground

Synopsis: Because life is short and cruel, and love usually suffers.

Also, an alternate take on their first life.

Also available in Archive of Our Own and Asian Fanfics! :)

*Hyeon means light. Hyeon is also Ji Eun Tak.

Before, Kim Shin only dreamed of victory.

Mornings would breath fire in the sky, its heat unforgiving to acres of field in his vision. Their family land spanned to the horizon, stalks flailing even beyond his tall frame. Sweat trickled down the lines of his back, carved by consistent hard work and hours under the sun. The crick in his neck never faded, but he didn’t mind the soreness of his body. The fruits of his labor fed his family and their men.

He would finish helping in the land as morning gave way to afternoon, exchanging his tools with his sword. His father had expected much from him. Kim Shin was trained to wield the sword from the moment he could lift it from the ground, and they hand been one ever since.

He was twelve when he was taken by his father from the comforts of their estate. He returned after half a decade, to meet his sister. (He cradled her and felt that she was destined from greatness, but greatness in this lifetime was often marred with tragedy. He feared for her, vowing to train to protect her.

He didn’t foresee that he was destined for greatness as well.)

He woke to the sound of humming that enveloped the quietness of a small shack.

His first impulse was to grab the knife he kept at a hidden pocket by his thigh, but the cloth was rough against his skin. He was naked beneath the thin covers.

“Don’t move, ahjusshi.”

His eyes darted to the direction of the voice, and was met by a small body swimming in brown. The voice bore a hint of playfulness, and it momentarily reminded him of Sun. The tenseness of his muscles almost loosened, but the soldier in him wouldn’t relax.

“Will you slit my throat if I do?” He dared to ask, and he was answered by a huff in disbelief.

“Your wounds would sooner kill you than me.”

He willed his head to turn, even if pain shot from his spine to the base of his head. His joined cracked with his movement, and he squinted as his narrowed eyes met the speaker’s.

The first thing he noticed was her fingers, thin, long, reddened and scarred – a laborer’s hands, which was quite a surprise from the boldness in the tone of her voice. The hands were connected to the slight curve of her wrist, to slender arms, the gentle slope of cotton-covered shoulders, rounded cheeks, and sharp eyes. She watched him as he observed her, as if calculating the risk of either of them attacking the other.

She looked down at the poultice and makeshift bandages. His eyes followed her movements.

She crushed leaves into paste expertly, granules ground into fine cream. One of the strips of the cloth was dipped, and she moved to his side. It was then that he noticed the gashes on his abdomen, sown and approximated just barely, and its depth made him wonder how come he was alive.

“My men?”

“Alive.”

“The enemy?”

“Dead, burning.”

“Why did you not leave me to my men?”

“Because they know nothing about stopping you from bleeding to death. Halmeoni won’t take chances.”

The ease by which she pushed his larger frame was a testament of her strength, and he continued to watch as she expertly bound his abdomen and torso. Her hands barely brushed his exposed skin.

She finished in a span of few minutes. She grabbed her paraphernalia, making her way to the door.

“What’s your name?”

She paused, gazing at him with wary eyes. Turning back, a sinking feeling gripped Kim Shin.

“Hyeon.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, but Kim Shin was quite desperate for anything that he heard.

He rested his head on the tree trunk, letting its roots cradle him as he fed it blood in turn. His sides were burning with every move, vessels straining to spasm and muscles broken and gaping. He wondered if this was death, and if this was payment for his cruelty.

He was a young general, and he was tipping over the edge of hell.

From a distance, the battle continued. Smoke disguised the glint of metal from well-polished swords. Carcasses of men and livestock swam on mud and life. Shame bubbled from his chest, and blood-tinged vomit sprung from his pale lips. It hurt to move. It hurt to breath. He felt like his body was dipped halfway through the lake of death.

He heard footsteps scurrying against the wet carpet of leaves, and wondered if it was the grim reaper coming for him.

A hand hauled him from his lying position. He could feel breaths brushing his blood-soaked hair, his painful neck. Another hand – familiar, large, warm – supported his back as the other hand moved away, and he whimpered.

The haze was heavy in his mind, but he could feel his lips moving as he begged for the other hand to return. He felt them on his side, against his wound, and he struggled to open his eyes.

A looming figure of pale skin and thin limbs were holding him together before the last vestiges of consciousness left him.

He shot up from the mattress, and his sudden movement was followed by a sharp pain. In his surprise, he was unable to stop the groan that escaped his lips.

The door to his room opened in a flash.

The girl – Hyeon -- stepped inside, eyes wide and blinking. Her hair was in a disarray and her clothes were rumpled. Kim Shin realized that she was just by his door, too light into her sleep.

She walked towards him and dropped to her knees, her hands on his injury. There was no blood streaking his wrappings, and he heard her sigh of relief.

For a moment, she appeared more human versus the stiff, methodical apprentice she was when he first woke.

“I told you, no sudden movements.” She glared at him, her voice lace with irritation.

“I apologize if my nightmares are inconvenient for you,” he bit back, the wound beginning to throb inwardly.

She must have seen a hint of pain in his face – the ticking of his jaw, perspiration on his forehead, his constricting pupils – that caused her glare to soften into a searching look.

She disappeared from view, only to return with a fresh pot of tea. She served him a cup, mumbling an apology.

“Your nightmares are not an inconvenience. I…we just fixed you.”

Her confession reminded her of a mistaken child – the way his sister would throw a tantrum and deflate at the sight of their father – and a hint of smile threatened to overcome his lips.

“Who brought me to you?”

“Your man – Woo-Sik. He knew halmeoni. He brings food in exchange of medicine.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Who doesn’t know you, General?”

“And you dare to speak to me like this?”

“I am stronger and faster than you think.”

He remembered his dream – the savior, the angel. It was no dream.

Gratitude spilled from his lips, and he was rewarded with a bright smile.

Kim Shin couldn’t look away.

Woo-Sik was his man’s father, but his loyalty had been with Kim Shin from the moment he was bestowed to him as his second in command.

“The old woman knows what she’s doing and knows not to tell.”

“Father would put the gods into shame with his wrath if word reaches him.”

It was a fortnight after the day he woke. His body was still sore, but the wound had closed well enough. The girl – Hyeon – told her not to strain himself, and would dare to tighten the bindings should he dare to roll from his mattress by even an inch.

She would even punch his arm to make a point.

Two bottles of fermented drink appeared between them. The men both looked at the newcomer.

“Hyeon, drink with us.”

The woman shook her head. “I have to tend to our new herbs. You drink your weight because you’re off to battle soon.”

A sinking feeling made Kim Shin’s stomach drop. He took one of the new bottle and drank unceremoniously.

“You will shrivel your insides with that, General,” Hyeon warned.

Kim Shin shrugged, “I will be off to battle, just like Hyeon said. This may be the last I drink.”

“Surely it won’t be,” Woo-sik asserted, but his hands reached for his own bottle. “You’ll go to battle, win a war, win a noblewoman.”

His eyes couldn’t help but turn to Hyeon, who was casually leaning behind them. Her face was devoid of any trace of emotion, and anger began simmering in his chest. She was casually leaning at some block of wood, not even daring to catch his eye.

He couldn’t determine if he was angry at him for feeling for a child or if he was angry at her for not even caring.

He was off to war again after seven days.

He stood in the middle of the room in his undergarments, taking everything into memory. The mattress. The peeling paint. The thin walls. The worn wood. The sound of crickets. The quiet blowing of morning air. It had been the longest of his rests in his lifetime to date, and he wished he could extend his stay even for one more day.

The door slid open, and Hyeon peered at him from beyond the threshold.

“Woo-sik is arriving soon,” she reminded him, crossing the distance between them. She took his armor from the ground, coaxing his hands to take them.

An unspoken understanding was exchanged between them as she helped him wear his armor. Kim Shin would place the parts where they were meant to be, and Hyeon would tie and put the pieces together. Her hands, once strong and certain, were gentle and slightly trembling as she finished.

“How young are you, Hyeon?” Kim Shin asked.

“Seventeen.”

In his head, he counted. A decade’s worth of age gap seemed so small compared to the distance about to lie between them.

“Hyeon,” he called her again.

Her eyes spoke of volumes of emotions she would not dare to speak, her lips pursed to a thin line. Of course, she would think of decorum right now. She is Hyeon – strong but fragile, crass but polite, harsh but kind – a well of contradictions he would dive into without hesitation.

“I will not marry a noblewoman,” Kim Shin declared. “I would be a slave of war and of the crown.”

“Of course,” a slight curl appeared on the corner of her lips.

“I would beg the king – the gods – not to be bound to any woman or family.”

His hands cupped her face – touching her skin for the first time. Its softness would fuel his dreams in the spare minutes he could sleep when he finally went to battle.

“Do you understand?” It is you. It will be you. It will always be you.

Hyeon brushed the bottom of his eye with her thumb, and nodded.

Five winters passed before Kim Shin finally returned.

He rode his horse to the field that circled the old shack that he considered home (not even guilt from not seeing his sister could compare), and exhilaration pulsated in his veins as he neared it. His first war had just ended, and he escaped the celebrations. He rode through the day, unmindful of his disgusting appearance as he let the breeze of spring blow on his dirt-streaked face.

He arrived just as the sun was about to set.

He left his horse at the back of the shack, tying it to the largest pole.

“She is by the buckwheat’s.”

The familiar voice of Hyeon’s master – halmeoni, as they all called her – answered his question. The old woman was looking at him with searching eyes, somehow unnerving him. To his surprise, the old woman’s eyes watered.

“You have more battles to fight, General, but for now you must rest. Welcome home.”

She passed him a head of cabbage before disappearing to the well-worn path to her home.

Placing the vegetable in front of the shack’s door, he walked down his own path.

The first he saw of her was her hair, which was braided to her waist as her hand played with her wooden sword. She was bending down, catching the last of the sunlight in her skin. She was swimming in her light colored, well-worn clothes, but she still made the most beautiful sight.

“Hyeon.”

He saw her shoulders stiffened, and knew that she could recognize him. Her wooden sword was dropped to the ground, and she slowly turned her head to the direction of his voice.

Everything about her was so familiar and so different.

He readily caught her as she came to him, arms wrapping on his neck so tight. He was out of breath, but he didn’t care. She smelled clean and fresh, and he pulled back because he didn’t even wash but she held on to him. She held on to him.

They didn’t separate until the moon was high in the sky.

He washed his battle worn body as she prepared food, her humming and the smells of the boiling soup making his stomach growl.

He approached her, chest glistening with water from his bath as he embraced her from behind. He felt the fluttering of her heart against his nakedness, which had him smirking.

“I see you’ve learned more recipes when I was away.”

“I have more time in my hands instead of saving soldiers from the brink of death.”

He dropped a kiss on her neck, and she shuddered.

“Stop, or I’ll burn dinner.”

“I’ll have you for dinner.”

His bluntness surprised her, evident by the sudden turning of her head. If he were any normal man, she would have hit his head.

“Hands off, general. I want real food.” She bit back teasingly.

Chuckling, he moved away, opting to set the table with her mere setting. He sat at the head of the table, patiently waiting as she finished the last of the cooking.

When she sat on his right and reached for hand, he wondered if there is a lifetime when they could freely dine together with small bodies that were half-him, half-her.

She wasn’t a child anymore.

That night, she came to him with a confidence that could be only gained with a degree of self-assurance. With ease, she peeled off the cotton top covering her slim frame, loosening the ties that hold her skirt against her body. She stood in front of him, bare and bruised but still the most glorious thing his eyes set upon on. Her footsteps hit the mattress with certainty, her legs unshaken by the implications of her actions. When she was close enough, without hesitation, he pulled her against his chest.

(His kiss was searing, coming to her with a thundering force. He took control with the first contact, hunger undulated after waiting for her. He had won wars for the crown, but this – this moment – this is the definition of victory. This is the crashing of souls, the melding of fates, the spark that turned to flame.)

She kissed him with a fervor he did not expect, limbs clutching him with possessiveness. She fought his tongue with her own, unafraid to crash her teeth with his. She bit his lower lip when he tried to overcome her. She pressed on him, uncaring about the bandages that circled his torso. He could feel a gash threatening to reopen, but her touches served as balm to his war-torn body.

(She was trying to get her message across. She wasn’t his to devour; it was her hunger that had to be satiated, and she is the greatest price he would gain.)

Her lips familiarized every inch of his skin she could reach, and he could not control the moan she elicited from him. Her chest rumbled in silent laughter upon hearing his reaction, her hardened nipples brushing against his chest. Her abdominal muscles tightened as he felt her, and the pooling warmth on his navel couldn’t be denied anymore.

He rolled them over, his arms caging her smaller ones beneath him. His mouth took her left breast, his tongue playing with the marbled nipple. Her hands caught his hair, pulling on them as he sucked feverishly. His finger reached for her lower lips, relishing the feel of her wet folds as they explored the new territory. In and out, his finger acquainted with the walls of her womanhood. He pressed on her clit, and her answering moan was music to his ears.

His eyes gazed on her face, watching her on the verge of coming undone.

Raising his body, his manhood entered her waiting lips.

Her walls molded into him in an embrace. Her trembling hands gripped on his thigh, and he enclosed them on his own.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice gruff in lust.

The wide-eyed innocence that he once associated in her was gone, replaced by the veil of desire.

He moved, thrusting on her unhesitatingly. His eyes remained on hers, drawn to her every shuddering breath and every sound of pleasure coming from her slightly swollen lips. Sweat glistened against their skin, and a drop from his forehead fell in the middle of her chest, rolling down the slope of her neck. With the moonlight streaming from the thinnest of slits of the wall, she shone. She was vibrant.

He lunged at her again, his movements faster and harder. Her cry resonated against the walls of the makeshift haven as his fingers bruised her hips. He grunted as his buttocks hit her thighs, lowering his body against hers as he gained speed. He remembered the first time he rode to battle, and the exhilaration bursting from within the cages of his ribs at that time would never compare.

In a thrust, they came almost simultaneously.

His head fell on her chest as his seed mingled with her own. Her frantic heartbeats resonated against her ear, and the thumping from their chests connected seamlessly in his head. He attempted to move by her side, but her hands stopped him, one of her legs looping over his lower back. He was still inside her, but the warmth washing within him was lulling him not to move.

So they didn’t.

The lack of warmth by his side woke him.

The sun was yet to meet the sky, but he could easily see the faint shadow of her figure from the partly opened door. He sat quietly, pushing the blanket off his body as he crawled to her sitting form. He rested his chin on her shoulder, kissing the back of her ear. She shuddered against him, and she let herself melt on his waiting arms.

“Rumor has it that the king lost the favor of the gods.”

It was a conversation he didn’t want to have, but it was inevitable. (Another war – now with him and the king on different sides – would be inevitable).

“He hasn’t. Park Jeong Hoon is hindering the favor.”

“And you? Have you been hindering that favor as well?”

“I fight wars for the crown to preserve the king’s favor, and to fulfill promises to the old one.”

She took his right hand to both of hers, tracing invisible scars incurred in the past few years. “Sometimes, I wish you wouldn’t.”

“You and her majesty share the same sentiments.”

Hyeon laughed in amusement, resting her head back against his shoulder. “How scandalous of you to compare me to a queen.”

“She is still my sister, but you are my queen.”

Mischievous eyes twinkled as she caught his own, “You are committing a grievous crime, general.”

“For you, I will,” he answered, capturing her lips once more as he pulled their bodies down.

By sunset the next day, they exchanged vows across bowls of clean water. He wore the simplest of his garments, while she her best one. They vowed, the moon and stars as witnesses.

(And the goddess of fertility, watching from the edge of the field, smiling despite her tears).

“War is brewing.”

It was their third day together. The two remained inside the room, opting to move outside only for sustenance and a bit of air. They ran down the fields on early mornings, rolling over proudly standing plants as they ravished each other. Food would appear in front of the shack upon their return, and both had suspicions on who is making their reunion a bit easier. They spent afternoons lying naked on the mattress, familiarizing themselves with the maps of scars on their own skin, or the landmarks of the moles on their back, or the slopes that their hands were inclined to hold. They savored the intimacy that they always longed for.

But at the end of it all, reality would always come knocking at the door.

“I wish I could keep you here, but I have no name to hold you in place.”

They were at their sides, Kim Shin with his hand on her waist and Hyeon with hers on the junction of his neck and face.

“I apologize for giving you mine without any bearing.”

“It’s not our fault for living at this time.”

Monents passed, and Hyeon continued with her ministrations, her other fingers joining. Her fingerpads brushed against the angles of her lover’s – husband’s – face. “Why are you tracing my face?”

“I have a feeling that you will be missing from me for a long time.” Hyeon sighed, as if in defeat. “Even then, I’d still love you.”

Kim Shin reached for her neck, his lips dropping a kiss on her forehead. Somehow, her sentiments echoed his, and he had to breath to stop the prickling beneath his eyelids.

“And I, you.”

(The last time Hyeon saw her halmeoni was when she first learned of the new life growing inside her.

The older woman gave her one look, reaching for a concoction from the depths of her skirt. “For the lightheadedness and vomiting. It is safe for the child.”

She almost dropped the bottle had the older woman failed to hold her hand.

She felt it first a fortnight ago, when tiredness would assault her in the middle of the day and she would lose her appetite. She forced herself to eat, because she couldn’t afford to be sick. News about the king and his general continued to be spread across provinces, and she had to be strong for him.

Now, she had to be strong for them.

The older woman was smiling at her fondly, “Make a beautiful family someday.”)

She knew it was the end when Park Jeong Hoon knocked on her door.

She struggled, fighting some soldiers he brought fiercely. She was still graceful and quick on her feet, but when the man dared to pierce her abdomen with a sword, she froze.

The sickening sound of Park Jeong Hoon’s laugh was the last she heard before losing consciousness.

The arrow pierced her chest, the same manner her sister’s heart shattered.

Even with the sword embedded in his chest, his shaking limbs carried his weakening body to her. He failed to reach her as her knees buckled and hit the ground.

Even with his blurring vision, he didn’t miss another growing patch of red coming from her skirt.

She isn’t, is she?

His questioning gaze was answered by her mouthed apology.

Splintered bones continued to crush his chest as he finally stumbled in front of her. Both of their hands were cold, and he attempted to give her (them) a bit of warmth, the only thing he could provide his family.

“I’m so sorry.”

(No one spoke of the fallen general nor the woman, but the goddess of fertility lit them candles, knowing that their story will unfold once more.

And so, she will wait for some of her favorite children to return.)

#writing #fanfiction #goblin fanfiction #tvn goblin #goblin kdrama #spilled ink #kim go eun #ji eun tak #kim shin #gong yoo #kim shin x ji eun tak #shintak

17 notes · View notes