#it's like. closes my eyes all gentle and serene-like and enters my mind palace

[witchblade]

trying to remember a video game with only visual memory to assist me

[seaheaded]

• 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈: the unfortunate mermaid

cregan stark x original female character (eventually)

this is part of the series a heart for the sea

summary: prologue + aērwyn's world, where things are not entirely as they seem.

5.8K words

warnings: character driven story, mentions of blood and sex, anxiety, angst. check series masterlist for more.

series: ongoing

notes: i'm nervous for this fic ahhhh. i'll try to my best to write it well, and i hope you guys enjoy it!!

series masterlist ┊ next

PROLOGUE

Once the sound of her mother's voice entered Jaehaera’s ears, her attention on the rest of the world faded.

Each day, the little girl became more entranced by her, and it should not come as a surprise to Alicent, but it did.

Helaena had a peculiar mind, but the entire castle had grown used to the way her thoughts spilled out of it; in whispers and incomprehensible presages.

Yet, the more time Alicent spent with them, the more she noticed that the child listened. And, again, she should not be surprised, for Helaena’s voice was gentle. Her hands were gentle. Jaehaera was too young to know of the hearts of others, but her mother’s heart was gentle. Too gentle for that city, for that family.

The rumble of thunder and whispering of the wind outside the closed windows collided with another voice, one louder and childish.

“Jaehaera,” Jaehaerys called his sister, galloping the wooden horse he played with in her direction, but all she offered him was a finger to the lips, in a motion to ask for silence.

He scowled, making Alicent sigh out a weak laughter through her nose.

“Come here, dearest,” Alicent called Jaehaera once their attention turned to opposite directions, with open arms and a short smile.

After one last glance at her mother’s direction, Jaehaera obeyed.

Taking care of children had never been one of Alicent’s favourite duties, but in the years spent watching her only daughter grow surrounded by a world that did not deserve her beauty, she discovered she disliked when people interrupted her moments of crafted peace even more.

It brought her an unfamiliar sensation of warmth to know that Jaehaera agreed. Even if it was in a different way.

“Do you like to watch your mother work, Jaehaera?” She asked, picking up the girl to sit her on her lap.

Jahaera’s meek and sweet voice hummed in affirmation as she nodded.

“I want to see,” She said.

There was something in her voice that reflected the way Helaena spoke as a child. She did not whine, was simply honest and serene all the same when she had a request. It made Alicent sad, the realisation that she did not belong in that place the same way Helaena did not. But from time to time, she let herself smile and that sensibility. That afternoon was an example of the privilege.

Alicent moved a lock of white hair behind her shoulder to see her face better. “People need privacy at times. To work better, with a… Clearer mind.”

“But I like to listen to mommy.”

Jaehaera’s gaze was still set on Helaena, and Alicent followed it with her own.

Her daughter did not seem to be in the present with them, but far away in the dreams she muttered about as her hands worked. From what Alicent could recognize, she was crafting a green snake.

Jaehaera’s next words were accompanied by a glint in her eyes, that sort of excitement only small children possess, and it drew Alicent’s attention to the rare sight.

“Mommy was talking about mermaids yesterday,” The girl whispered, and let out a lighthearted giggle.

Alicent huffed a laugh, lifting one side of her mouth to humour her, but she did not know what to say to that.

Mermaids? How absurd.

I: THE UNFORTUNATE MERMAID

Embar, the sea god, was present at the birth of all his children, for they needed his blessing to be conceived.

One night, every fifty years, a human heart was brought into his underwater palace, crushed by his divine hands, and from the red foam it bled into, another merperson was born.

It was rumored that the continuous cycle was caused by the cessation of originating any more children who stood closer to divinity than not, between the sea god and his wife, the goddess of the wind, when their daughter Elenei fell in love with a man, and became mortal after laying with him, infuriating the deities. Hence the appeal of half-mortals: they were less in everything. None of them would become fully mortal no matter how many beds they laid on because part of them consisted of the same thing humans did.

The night Aērwyn came into the world, the heart that would soon turn into her was watched by several eyes, and as the god’s hands sacrificed the organ for her creation, no one dared to speak.

“Mermaid!” He declared.

Mermaid was the term used to describe a woman who possessed a tail with fish scales as her lower body and a human torso. But with that word, came the condemnation of what Aērwyn lacked in comparison to her siblings.

You see, the thing most people do not know about mermaids is that their whole body will adapt to their surroundings, not only the lower half. The darker the place, the brighter the golden gleam that is hidden behind the natural colour of eyes shine. They have patches of scales on their forearms and shoulders, gills on their necks, and fangs. All of that is not necessary once they are above the water, however. If a human does see it, well… It means they are not living long enough to talk about it.

And all that made Aērwyn peculiar for all she did not possess.

Some of her siblings even told her they might give her a proper name for it, and jest or not, that was the biggest insult of all.

None of the merfolk received proper names the moment they were born. It was not necessary in the sea god’s eyes. Elenei had because she was the daughter of gods. The water dragon, Nagga, was a mighty sea creature during its life, not a simple leviathan or shark. Not letting Aērwyn, in her weakness, choose her own name, would have meant she was too much of a bother — an enemy.

They did not give her one, but the mockery came frequently.

“Aērwyn?”

Edmyn’s voice reverberated through the waterless room. A hint of desperation could be heard in it, as if his patience was wearing thin, and it scared Aērwyn.

Slowly, but without hesitation, she pushed open the door of the closet.

Out of all of her siblings — there were a little over a hundred of them — Edmyn was the only one who did not care about her flaws, and she never wanted to make him regret that.

“I-I’m here.”

The space would be completely dark if not for the dim light of the moon coming through the clear ceiling, so when his head snapped towards Aērwyn, his yellow-golden eyes were the first thing she saw. Edmyn’s eyes had that colour naturally. They matched the golden band he always wore on his left arm — a valuable acquisition from one of his first trips to Essos, according to him — except their warmth faded in moments of solemness.

“Aērwyn—”

“I’m sorry,” She cut him. “Don’t be mad at me.”

There was a brief interval of utter silence, broken when he opened the door completely and got on one knee, resting his arm on the other.

“Who said I was mad?”

And there it was again. His never-ending gentleness, so unexpected from a merman like him.

“I heard it in your voice.”

“That was worry, not anger. Worry for you, little sister.”

Aērwyn hugged her legs closer, hiding her tear-stained cheeks behind her knees. She did not want to cry in front of her big brother. Not again.

“You know,” Edmyn tilted his head to point at Aērwyn with his chin. “This fabric was the most beautiful one I brought from Dorne. And you are getting it dirty with snot.”

“I’m not crying anymore,” Aērwyn said, defensive.

“So you were before?” His voice was as kind as the tilt of the corner of his lips.

Aērwyn shook her head, letting go of her legs. She stretched them inside the small space of the closet, where her child frame still fit, and grabbed the fabric of the dress in her fingers.

“You told me I should try to explore by myself.”

She could see his nod from the corner of her eye

“I was doing that today, but they… They were laughing at me.”

“Who? What happened?”

“I— I can still hear them in my head.”

“It’s okay,” Edmyn’s hand found one of hers. “Remember to breathe.”

Aērwyn inhaled and exhaled. The latter came out shakily.

“What happened?” Edmyn repeated himself.

She stared at the purple fabric pooling over her lap as she told him.

It was not usual for Aērwyn to leave the palace without Edmyn, but she was thirteen now, and he believed it was time to let her know about safe places she could explore on her own. He would always mention the wonders of making discoveries by himself.

Unfortunately, it was easier for him to say that, than for her to accomplish it.

Edmyn was only the second youngest child of the sea god after Aērwyn, yet he was the most impressive, from the moment he came into the world.

During the birth ceremony of the merfolk, every child would receive the same gift from the goddess of the wind: a prediction. And every fifty years, the predictions were those of good health, talented crafters, beauty, and so on… But Edmyn was different. He was the first to be predicted to not only be strong and change the progress of the future, but a title. That which he had earned at only twelve, after fighting a leviathan and winning.

The sea god was not known for dotting on his children, but when the title of Prince of the Depths became frequent in the mouths of those describing Edmyn, he finally had a favourite son.

It was as curious as magic, how his greatest achievement had come to shelter his biggest failure.

“I was following them from afar because they were talking about swimming with whales. I wanted to see some, that's all.”

“That's okay. And then?”

“Then…” Aērwyn wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “They started talking about humans. About how they are ugly and boring... How much I resemble them.”

“That is not true. Humans are complex creatures the same way we are. Not merely ugly and—”

“You're lying.”

It was evident that Edmyn was stunned by the bite in her tone and the squint of her eyes.

“Aērwyn—”

“I never lie to you, so why do you do it?”

Hurt crossed the glint of his golden gaze.

“I do not lie to you.”

“Yes, you do,” Her bottom lip trembled. “Why does everyone else look at me like I am a— a useless freak of nature, but you tell me I am perfect as I am?”

“A useless freak of nature?” He was revolted. “Where did you hear those words?”

“Where do you think?!” Aērwyn yelled, pulling her hand from his hold, and folding her legs back into the previous position.

Her eyes were shut, but she could feel Edmyn’s stare set on her for an arduous moment.

Freak.

“Stop it,” She said.

“I did not do anything,” He replied, calmly.

But it was never as silent as she wished in those moments of agony. The laughter and the words echoed in her head.

Useless.

“Aērwyn.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

His tone left no room for arguing now.

“I’m sorry,” She whispered.

She turned her head so he could see her eyes, but did not lift it to show her entire face.

“I am not angry. Not at you. I need you to listen to me.”

Aērwyn nodded.

“Our father is not fond of humans. You are aware of that.”

She nodded again.

That is why he hates me.

Edmyn continued. “You will always hear our siblings speaking about them in the same manner he does. To him, they are merely boxes. Boxes made of flesh. He only cares about their hearts.”

“To create us.”

“Yes.”

“Why do you drink their blood, then?”

Her older siblings were incredibly proud of it; Drowning the men crossing the waters, biting their necks and sucking them as they dragged their bodies to the darkness. The practice was performed above as well, but merfolk were more careful with the bodies there, simply taking without killing. According to them, doing that on human land was not as pleasing, since it was harder to get rid of their bodies.

“That is something you do not need to worry about.”

“I cut my finger yesterday, and it tasted really bad.”

That made Edmyn laugh. “You will never have to drink anything you do not want to.”

She shrugged with a hum.

“All you need to know is that humans are not beloved by our father, but you cannot trust our siblings’ words. They enjoy the company of humans as much as they enjoy pulling them under.”

“But they say they are despicable.”

“That is not true. Well… They—” Edmyn closed his eyes with a frown and sighed.

That was the first time Aērwyn witnessed her brother be at a loss for words.

When his eyes opened again, he brought his hand to detangle her hold around herself again, placing one of her hands on her own chest.

“There is nothing inherently wrong with looking like a human. The heart that beats inside your chest is there because of one of them, remember? It is the same for the rest of us.”

Aērwyn’s eyes darted between his own with a frown.

“Even if our father hates them?” She whispered.

“Even then,” Edmyn whispered back. “All of the merfolk are part deity, part mortal. It would be unwise to ignore one of them.”

Aērwyn nodded in response, trying to grasp the weight behind the words. They sat on her mind as a fact. Simple as a coin tossed in the water.

It would be unwise to ignore her mortal side. Even if it brought her the pain of standing out.

“However,” Edmyn warned. “This is something you cannot discuss with anyone else.”

“Why?”

“They would not comprehend it.”

That was what he said, at least. But the truth came to her realisation later in life:

There was no need to make herself look weaker. To all, she was already worth less than a box.

After her fifteenth anniversary, it became Aērwyn’s duty to welcome Naria, the goddess of the wind, to her father's palace.

Every night, the light of the moon bent in the water as it parted itself to her, and she descended with her companions by beating her wings — when she decided to wear them — , walking down invisible steps of air, or simply jumping until the sand beneath her feet was swept by a gust that eased her graceful fall.

Aērwyn swam in a hurry to her post that evening, carrying the golden sandals she would need once she transitioned into her second form in one hand. The other fixed the straps of the new dress she managed to finish that night. Not as early as desired, but in time to take the position and watch as the path the goddess would descend on disseminated and dried the entire palace.

“You could not look more radiant,” Edmyn’s voice came from behind.

She was sixteen now, but he still wore the carefully crafted necklaces she used to make and beg him to wear when she was younger, and his arms were still adorned in thick, golden bands or bracelets, the one on the left always there. They contrasted well against his tanned skin and blue of his garments.

Even then, the more Aērwyn grew, the more she noticed how he somehow increasingly became a reflection of his title with age.

I think you are already starting to age, brother, she jested one day, pointing to the wrinkles that appeared in his eyes when he smiled. The sea will dry without you.

He laughed at that. It was often that the gods pointed out how he was his father's greatest strength, but he always mocked their belief to Aẽrwyn, for a reason she could not comprehend. So, she did it, too.

Edmyn stood beside her, hands joined behind him, like his dark and curly hair that he recently began to wear loosely tied.

“What about this excruciating wait could ignite radiance, brother?” Aērwyn asked, observing the shiver of sharks swimming by the entrance. “She will not come. Again. The guests will take their seats soon and I will stay here.”

Aērwyn was only thankful that her task of waiting at the door did not require bidding farewells, especially because of the nights when Naria stayed even after testing their father’s temper. She had never witnessed her angry exits and did not wish to. They pulled the air that dried the palace with her arrival, causing all to lose their breath and control of their limbs for a moment, and the distress only dissipated when the door of the palace closed as water filled it again in her absence. No one spoke about it, but the discomfort was clear in everyone's faces each time.

Edmyn hummed, glancing around. “Father looked less stormy at the council meeting this morning.”

“Any news?”

“You know I am not allowed to tell you,” He answered, with pity in his eyes. “But there is nothing to worry about. For now.”

For now. So, they did not have a clue about who the culprit of their father's fury was yet.

Besides the current gossip about the brewing war happening on the surface, word about a traitor — something that worried the sea god even more than the dragons constantly flying above his kingdom — had been spread with the currents. Naria’s work, of course. Someone here is loyal to the weak, husband. Aērwyn could imagine her saying, her winds dancing with whispers of his child that betrayed a god for a box of flesh.

She did not know what to make of this. If Edmyn was the one, she would have known a long time ago, and she could never see any of her other siblings choosing to bind themselves to a human and commit treason.

And how did one do such a thing? The appeal of their kind was that they could not harm their father, was it not?

Yet, Aērwyn knew better than to voice those questions. Those were strange times, with even stranger stories being written around the world.

“He does not think it's me, does he?” She whispered.

Edmyn frowned as if she had asked him to punch her in the face. “Why would he even consider that?”

“Because I am the most human of us all. I…” She clicked your tongue, adjusting the strap of the dress again. It needed fixing. “I do not wish to disappoint him even more. To make him think I have any sort of secret affection towards them.”

A moment passed, where Edmyn’s eyes studied her face with a look that boarded suspicion. She could not tell if he was out of words, or if he did not want to tell her exactly what he thought of that statement.

He sighed through his nose.

“Sister,” His voice was gentle. As always. “You are the only one who has not gone to the surface or drank any blood. Ever. He has no reason to think you married a human. You have never even seen one.”

“But I look like one.”

“Do you? I have never seen a human with gills,” He jested, poking her neck, but she did not laugh. He clicked his tongue then, rolling his eyes. “I do not mean to disrespect you, sister, but you… You lack the experience to dare such a risk in times like these. Father knows that.”

After a beat, where she could not deny her nonexistent contact with the human world, he spoke again.

“But I will ask you to not repeat these words to anyone. Do not let them know of your insecurities.”

She was used to the warning, but still had to ask herself who would I tell about them?

“Of course,” She agreed.

He was right. Even with her inexperienced mind, she should not give anyone a reason to consider her guilty.

When the guests started to leave to take their seats in the dining hall, she turned to Edmyn again.

“Are you sure she is coming tonight?”

“I believe so. Father needs her,” His voice became lower for the second part. “She must have heard something new and dramatic.” He observed.

“Yet her winds always whisper the same thing,” Aērwyn said.

Edmyn frowned. “What do you mean?”

His last word was almost silenced by the bent of the moonlight shining over their eyes.

As always, he was right.

To be entirely dry in a second did not feel like anything in particular, and Aērwyn was used to the trick by now, but an uncomfortable chill constantly ran over her exposed arms and blew the fabric of her garments when the invisible companions of the goddess walked in. Or maybe flew in. She could never be sure. They were made of air.

Not only that but for the lack of visual presence, they made themselves known by being loquacious. It was why the adjective windy existed. Every night, they passed by Aērwyn, and their multiple whispers merged, overlapping each other in a bedevilling chant: Goddess. Goddess. Goddess.

Aērwyn knew Naria was a goddess, but the introduction never ceased, and it was certainly not a smart option to showcase her annoyance at the wind in her ears, so she simply wore the sandals in uncomfortable silence, waiting for the mistress.

In contrast with the invisible and noisy creatures, the goddess was not one for many words, but visibly buoyant and divine. Her skin was as bright as it was strong, which she constantly showcased in sleeveless silks, and her hair reached her knees. On most nights, she wore it in a single braid, but when she did not, it fell like a golden veil behind her.

This time, she appeared by the door as quick as lighting. Her golden feathers stretched behind her, casting a large shadow. Aērwyn stumbled back, surprised by the sudden intake of air and the harsh breeze blowing her hair and dress, simultaneously. Her sandals had slipped from her grasp, and she only did not fall because of Edmyn’s quick reflex to find her back with his hand.

Naria was even taller and brighter that night, eyes gleaming white.

“Goddess,” Aērwyn mumbled the greeting, fixing her posture.

She ignored it.

��Greet me, prince.”

She spat the last word.

Edmyn returned to his previous position and bowed his head. His jaw clenched behind his trimmed beard.

“Goddess.”

He had never voiced his disdain for Naria, but Aērwyn could see it in his face. It was like he was ready to defy her divine power at any moment.

The light from her eyes was so bright, that Aērwyn could scarcely see her expression, but she tilted her head, observing the pair.

She brought a cold hand to Aērwyn’s green dress. “Who gave you this, child?”

“My brother,” She answered. She did not have to specify which one.

“I always see you in such expensive fabrics. He must care about you.”

“I do,” Edmyn’s voice was loud and clear.

The glow in Naria’s eyes slowly dimmed, revealing her sharp gaze and a smirk. Her wings lingered.

Aērwyn could tell she enjoyed hearing the lack of insecurity in his words. She was a goddess, after all. Gods had a taste for being defied, for letting themselves go through a slight struggle before overcoming it with pretended effort.

But Aērwyn did not want to see her toy with her brother.

“Shall I walk you to the council room, mistress?” She asked.

“No,” Naria answered, but her eyes were still set on Edmyn. “Your brother will.”

Used to it, Aērwyn suppressed a scowl, bowing her head and walking away in silence.

The back door of the dining hall opened smoothly with the light touch of Aērwyn’s hands.

Inside, the buzz of multiple conversations and occasional gibberish from the winds filled every corner and seat of the three long tables, and gossip about the surface was the main source of entertainment as it was on most nights.

It seemed that the health of King Viserys had worsened, which did not mean much to most as it was. Edmyn once told Aērwyn that wars only bothered their people when they got in the way of their fun, like when the humans fought for the island chain known as the Steptones a few years back, and the merfolk were bothered by it because their trips to Dorne would have to be more carefully planned.

Even with the constant gossip, Aērwyn did not remember many important human names, but it was easy to discern the Valyrian ones. Especially when they were accompanied by the house name Targaryen.

While the sea god talked about them with disdain because his children were amused to be close to the only people he could not control — for Targaryens had the blood of the dragon, and not even a god could stop a dragon — , the merfolk under his judgement enjoyed the risk of mingling in the city that fire and blood had ruled for 127 years.

Some of them even spoke about sneaking into their beds when the god was not around.

There was also talk about a newborn white-haired prince, but Aērwyn was not listening anymore. Her focus was set on Edmyn, who entered the room through the main door with their father and Naria, quickening his pace to reach his seat beside her.

One of the goddess' relatives was already boozing in wine as he gestured for Aērwyn to pour more. She did it, also offering a false smile, then watched the man extend the goblet in his feathered hand, greeting the couple and falling into conversation with her father rather quickly.

Naria, however, did not rush or speak as she took her seat in front of Aērwyn, and the stretch of her lips was as pointed as her gaze on her before she began to eat.

She did that sometimes. Her eyes would fall upon Aērwyn, defiant, forcing her to look down at her plate, and then find something else to focus on.

At least, she never said anything. Not that it was needed to guess what her thoughts were. Aērwyn only hoped the stare would go away when her place at the table came to belong to another sibling in thirty four years.

The sound of Edmyn practically falling on his seat with a sigh brought her back to a more comfortable reality.

They exchanged looks. How did that go? On Aērwyn’s part, and on his, an expression of pure annoyance that made her chuckle.

“Aērwyn doesn't hunt,” The sea god’s voice caught both of their attention.

Aērwyn shifted her gaze between the four new pairs of eyes studying her, straightening her shoulders.

“What do you do?�� The feathered man asked with curiosity.

She blinked.

What did she do?

The answers were never attractive. Aērwyn made accessories, collected trinkets left behind by humans, sewed dresses with fabrics that never stopped appearing in the palace, swam with her brother, and tried to help injured animals that she found during her time alone. Only Edmyn and one of her sisters thought she was helpful for that, but it was nothing significant compared to most since all of her siblings did some form of craft or helped animals. Aērwyn was a sort of special that did not appeal to others. It was visible on her face, perceptible in her manner. She was not considered valuable.

“She—” Edmyn started before she could formulate an answer, but he too was cut by the sea god.

“She serves me by staying here, of course,” He said. “She is too weak to do what the others do. It would be unwise to let her try. But Edmyn has shown her a few tricks, since she is still not fully human, despite the looks of it. He tries his best.”

Rigel, another one of her merman brothers, who was sitting beside Naria, let out a muffled sound similar to a contained laugh behind the goblet he was bringing to his lips.

“She has never even drank blood,” He told the feathered man, then gulped his wine.

Aērwyn’s fingers tapped the silvery beside her plate, starting a count. One, two…

The last time Rigel opened his mouth to talk about her, she accidentally set down her goblet too hard, spilling wine over the table. Her father did not appreciate it.

Three…

What did he know, anyway? Rigel, the one Edmyn constantly complained about because of his irresponsible attitude. Rigel, that little—

“Do you think she would make good use of human blood, father?” He asked now, patting dry the corner of his mouth. The sea god was not paying attention anymore, but he proceeded, turning to the feathered man again. “We believe she looks too much like one to consume it, you see. It could be an internal problem.”

“At least she is not causing any real problems to us by, I don't know, being addicted to it,” Edmyn replied, calmly. He looked at the feathered man, too, and smiled with feigned humour. “Imagine that.”

Rigel was frozen in place after that sentence, but the stiffness of his motions and ceasing of his mockery did not make Aērwyn feel any better. His face was a reflection of contained ire.

Aērwyn lowered her gaze to the table once she saw that, munching the fruits and fish silently.

One, two…

As much as she did not mean to be the object of Rigel’s bitterness again, her own contained feelings bothered her.

She knew it was true. She was useless. She was as weak now as she was on the day she came into the world, with no augury, no strength. So, why were echoes and trembly hands slowly taking hold of her, tighter with each passing day? Why now?

The feathered man groaned. “I struggle to understand the appeal of human blood to your species.”

Rigel tilted his head with a smirk, curls falling over his eyes. He shared a look with the brother sitting on his other side as if they knew something the man did not. And perhaps it was true since merfolk were the only ones interested in consuming blood.

Aērwyn tried not to roll her eyes at their cockiness.

She felt full, and her cheeks were warm with wine, so she turned to the god, letting the knife she was gripping fall on the table.

“I will retire now, father.”

He did not look at her, simply nodded and waved his hand as he continued his conversation with someone a few seats away.

Rigel snorted as she pushed her chair back to get up, and when she gave him a look, he wiggled his eyebrows with mirth in his eyes.

“What?” She asked.

“Not going to the surface with us tonight?”

“Rigel,” Edmyn warned.

“You know I won't.” Aērwyn answered.

He smirked behind his cup again. “Yes, I do.”

She wanted to scream at his satisfaction. To grip his hair when her other brother laughed at the interaction. But decided to do as she always did: ignore it.

“I will walk you,” Edmyn whispered to her, looking up.

Aērwyn shook her head, ignoring the dryness in her mouth.

“I’m fine.”

Her hands immediately started the motion of pulling her skirts up to her thighs when she reached the door of her bedroom.

She sat on the floor without refinement after accidentally stumbling over the leftovers of another failed attempt to make an ink shell, like an anchor being thrown, and a sigh of relief left her lips at the cool sensation of the floor; eyes closing as she rested her back on the bed frame.

There was a… worry, right there, flourishing in the back of her mind. A worry about all and nothing, about her and everyone else, more saddening than ever since that question was brought upon her: What do you do?

Every time that feeling touched her, it made her dread the next days, months, and years.

Before the consolation of her seclusion could find her, a soft blow kissed her exposed skin.

“You are no mermaid.”

Aērwyn gasped, head snapping to the door.

Under the dim light of the moon, Naria seemed to float with each step she took.

She had never approached Aērwyn intending to talk to her directly before that night, and she would never even guess that she knew how to find her bedroom so quickly.

Did she follow me?

It was terrifying to be at the receiving end of her grey stare when they were alone, in the dark.

“Goddess,” She bowed her head.

“Get up.”

Aērwyn did it without questioning.

“Are you not going to tell me anything?” Naria asked.

Tell her what?

Oh…

Did she think…

“I am not the traitor my father is looking for—”

Naria’s annoyed groan cut her. “I know that. I speak of your flaws. Your missing parts.”

“I am used to hearing about my lack of mermaid traits,” Was the honest answer Aērwyn had to offer.

Naria came closer, taking one of her hands and lifting the arm, inspecting it. “I thought you were born with all of them hidden. That you would learn to display them eventually. You are almost seventeen, child.”

Aērwyn’s throat began to burn like never before. She could hear Rigel’s laugh as if it floated around the room.

Naria continued her questioning.

“Can you sing?”

“I enjoy it.”

“Be direct,” She snapped. “You can't charm anyone, can you?”

“No.”

“No scales…” She tilted her head to the left, then to the right. “No glowing eyes, no voice. What are you?”

Aērwyn hesitated.

“A mermaid.”

The goddess dropped her hand with a scoff.

“An unfortunate one.”

Aērwyn waited another ten seconds after her door closed to let out the sob she was holding.

It left her like a thunder of melancholy blended with the confusion about the reason behind this treatment, and she had to cover her mouth to keep the cry from growing louder.

Yes, she could handle the occasional insults from her siblings, but the disdain of a goddess had to be earned.

How was her existence such a heinous offence?

She kicked the ink shell with enough force to make it hit the wall with a bang.

When the crying ceased, that night had successfully shown her a sensation of emptiness she was not familiar with, and the days of dread and anger became more frequent.

next

notes: wasn't this just a ray of sunshine? let me know if you have thoughts and questions about anything!

like every other writer, i really appreciate interactions from readers. any sort of feedback is welcome to let me know if you're enjoying the story ♡

[mudhornchronicles]

promise | din djarin

pairing: din djarin x reader

warnings: fluff and secrecy

gif credit: @a7estrellas​

a/n: takes place about a year after season 2 because why not right?

masterlist

Your planet was known for its scenery, a view you have become oh-so fond of. Its rouge skies and crocodile trees made for a serene aura that swept one off their feet. There were no wars nor was there injustice. You became emperor of Tabih at the age of 12, and you were still ruler today. Your people came first, and even though you were emperor, their votes and opinions helped dictate decisions.

You were always told you needed to be guarded and visualized at all times, for safety purposes at least, but as the muttering of the existence of underground imperials roaming the galaxy hit your radar, you wanted to make sure your planet remained unscathed of their evil and violent attacks.

A cycle ago, a Mandalorian landed and settled on your planet seeking a job and lodging. Ever since you were young, you were educated in many subjects, and cultures was one of them. The Mandalorian culture caught your attention due to their loyalty and tight bond to their clans. So, when the Mandalorian came to you asking for a quick job, you offered him something permanent.

When you offered him the position of your personal guard and lodging in the palace, he accepted one of the two things. He accepted the position but preferred to be shown the available homes. You smiled and obliged, offering him a townhouse a good way from the palace – a home no one knew you owned. He accepted, but that was a year ago.

Today, you sit in the throne room with your ladies in waiting standing next to your throne and two other soldiers guarding the door. The grand doors opened, revealing your armored guardian strutting inside until he stood in front of you.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Din bows. You slightly bow your head in greeting, a smile stretching across your lips. “The box found at the door of the palace was nothing but fruit. A gift from your people, I suppose.”

“How thoughtful,” you assert. “And are they safe to eat?”

“Yes, your Imperial Majesty. I tested them myself.” He stands tall and bleeds confidence in the way he carries himself inside the palace and around the city. “They’ve been placed in the kitchen to be washed.”

“That is great news, Mandalorian. Although, I am curious as to how you tested this gift.”

“I ate one.”

Your mouth falls open and your eyes widen. “Mandalorian, what if they were poisoned.”

He remains statuesque. “I’d prefer for myself to be poisoned than yourself, Emperor.”

“You silly man. Then who would ensure my safety?”

He remains silent and still, no answer in his mind.

“Very well, Mandalorian.” you state. “If this conversation is finished, will you escort me to my quarters?” Din simply bows his head in agreement. “Ladies, you are excused. You may retire for the day.”

Din says nothing but jumps into action as he helps you off your throne and walks you to your bedroom. The silence is something you have become used to and comfortable with. Tabih knew he was a man of few words and when he did speak, Tabih listened.

As your door came into view, you smiled and looked up at your guard. You scanned your surroundings and became giddy as you saw the coast clear. You reached for his hand and interlocked yours with his. He smiled to himself in his helmet and squeezed your hand. He opened your door, allowing you to enter first. Once the door was closed and locked, his helmet came off with a hiss and your lips latched onto each others faster than a ship in hyperspace.

His arms wrapped around your waist as yours wrapped around his neck, but never pulling away. When you did, your lips separated with a smack and your foreheads connected instead. Your eyes met his and his smile mirrored yours with his dimple on full display.

“Hello, riduur,” he speaks.

“Hello, my husband.” you greet. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you as well, cyar’ika.”

You take in the moment, but as your previous conversation came back, you frown and give his armored chest a gentle shove. “What were you thinking? You ate fruit you didn’t know was edible?”

Din chuckles and shrugs. “Your people love you. The possibility of poisoned fruit was little to none.”

“Yeah, well… there is still the slightest possibility of it. I do not need you getting sick or worse, dying. You’ll leave me husbandless.”

Din pulls you into his chest and places a kiss on the crown of your head. “Your people would never know you were a widow.”

You breath out a sigh and nuzzle your face into his neck. “Remind me why they can’t know? I just want to be able to hold your hand outside of this room.”

“You do.” He begins. “What about everything we do at my house?” He teases. He gentle bites your earlobe, one of your sensitive places. You giggle and kiss the side of his neck.

“My love, you know what I mean….”

He sighs, curling his index finger under your chin and pushing it up. “You know why, meshla. How would they feel with me leaving to figure out what to do with Mandalore? Do you think they would like to find out that their Emperor secretly married the so-called ruler of Mandalore?”

You roll your eyes and frown. “They’ll also learn that I’m happy and in love. You make me happy.”

“And you are my happiness, but if word gets out, imperial rats will focus their attacks here just out of spite. I don’t want to be the reason you lose your planet the way we lost Mandalore.”

You reach up and cup his cheek. You place a sweet kiss on his lips, and he reciprocates. “I understand. Though, the last time I asked you, your answer was much less serious. You said it was because you wanted me all to yourself.”

He smiles and nods. “That too.”

“Din…”

“Yes?”

“Will we be able to start our own family one day?”

“One day, cyare. I promise.”

He promised.

[btswishes]

Love me for who I am now

Bucky x Reader ( Chapter 2 )

Previous / Next

Summary: You apply for the Stark internship and end up getting it, so now you have 5 months to make a good impression to continue working with the Avengers.

A/N: Continuing my little experiment here with chapter2, a bit more filler for the story. Sorry for any mistakes made, hope you enjoy it even a tiny bit.

Word count:  2,903

Warmings: fights, harsh language, not part of the original MCU

Y/N- Your name 

Y/L/N- Your Last Name

                                  ----------------------------

   The suitcase made a slight thumping sound, when you laid it down on the floor next to your desk. Wasting no time books found their new home on the empty shelves, notebooks fell asleep in the dark drawers. Pens, pencils, markers and all your stationary soon followed suit and found their own little space to rest.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.” the silence in the room finally got overthrown by the voice of its new owner, asking for some help in the matters unfolding 

Yes Miss Y/N

“Would you put a timer for 5min from now please?” still focused onto your stuff, finding them a visible but safe from damage storage. Nothing could destroy as well as time and dust did.

Timer set for 5 minutes from now.

“Thank you.” The only thing left to do now was to get the clothes in the closet and move the tech to the lab. Hopefully Dr. Banner wouldn’t mind waiting a bit more, not like he seemed to but who knows, Hulk lived inside him after all. You didn’t want to take a chance and play with his limits. The closet was hidden inside the wall, stealthy I must say. Toothpaste and toothbrush, essentials and cosmetics. All was done, now.

      Ding Ding Ding.  

Timer is going off  Miss. Shall I turn it off or restart it?

“Thank you F.R.I.D.A.Y. You can turn it off. “

  Your laptop and small bag were safely nestled under your arm, making your way outside the room.  For a moment you thought you got lost, but the orange tint of the sun’s rays soon pulled your attention in the right direction. Around the corner your nose caught the smell of caramel. Your head hesitantly protruded behind the pillar, as you called out to the man holding 2 cups in his hands firmly.

“Oh.” He jumped a bit, reaching out offering one of the mugs “ I hope you like it, we don’t have much selection when it comes to tea here. Coffee addicts you know.” he laughed out

“It is ok. Thank you very much.” Your leg levered and you swung onto the bar chair like it was nothing, taking a sip from the hot drink. You felt it warm you up slowly as it went down, melting away a bit of your anxiety. Once again your sight was captivated by the view. No one knows how much time passed since you got lost in the sunset, but it was nice. You could barely hear the bustling city from the 134th floor. It was only you, the sun and the room. Quiet almost like a safe serene space.

“Beautiful isn’t it.” Bruce shook you out of your little mind palace

“Mm? Ah, yes. Very much so. “ you puffed out some air with your smile, eyes forming little crescent moons “I feel like a cat, my attention keeps drifting to the glass unintentionally.”

“I understand you. I keep doing that myself and I have lived in the compound for quite some time now. “ the conversation was lighthearted, easily drifting over the main reason for your arrival “One would think I would be used to it by now.”

“Mr Stark made this place so calm. Big yet homey.” Your head scanned the area, words intriguing the doctor “ In a way it contrasts the inner state of most of the Avengers.” realized what just came out of your lips, your body stiffened. Oh man, way to ruin it - you thought to yourself “I am so sorry.” The mug clanked under the table, sending a vibration to his palm, as you bowed “I spoke out of place.”

“I think you might be on to something.” Your neck pulled your head up, a few strands of hair falling down next to your soft cheek. Bruce was still looking at the setting sun with a soft smile, his jaw exposing the beard to the light, coloring it a deep fiery yellow hue. There was something nostalgic in his dark eyes. “Most of us here have some sort of troubled past- lets sugar coat it a bit. This whole building, on the levels we use., is like a constant Zen state. It calms us down unintentionally. How do I say this...” He turned towards his coffee, laughing out almost silently.

“Maybe it offers you the peace you couldn’t have on the inside, masking the pain from past trauma. A way to indirectly cope with all that had happened, offering a haven to heal the past.” Bruce was listening to you, taking in your way of thinking and how right you were about something that had always been in front of his eyes ,but he had never noticed it before. Such a young girl, so much pain in her manner. He couldn’t bring himself to ask you about the weight inside your voice. It felt too close for him to do so. He had just met you after all, it is not like he could just straight up ask you about all your deepest and darkest secrets, that you might be hiding underneath your mature façade.

“Well, enough about our depressing past.” He pushed off the table “Lets get you situated in your new place.”Dr. Banner began walking in the direction of the lab, turning towards you from time to time. He was make sure you were close by and not lost somewhere in this maze of halls, corridors and who knows what else Tony could have hidden in these walls, for some unsuspecting person to stumble upon.

“I am sadly not familiar with your work like Tony is. He told me about you literally a few hours before you arrived, so you would have to excuse me for that.” You nodded with a smile, accepting the apology he didn’t even need to speak of 

“The lab is pretty big.” He unlocked the door and turned the lights on. It was exactly as he said and nothing like you had expected. The color pattern was the same tints, maybe a bit of blue mixed in as well, a dash of red. The tables and tech inside were state-of-the-art, high-quality and very well kept. Some weren’t even yet released or known to the public. Talking year 3054 up in here.

“This will be your desk, right next to me.”Bruce plopped onto his chair and waved at you “Hi, Hi.”

  He gestured for you to get yourself as comfortable as possible, which you almost couldn’t wait to do. Your fingers gently ran over the material getting familiar with it. Just with one look you already knew where everything was going to go, like it knew it’s own home. You had a tech bay, where you could check how systems worked, if they didn’t and building anything. It was amazing, just an arm’s length distance was possibility and creation itself. Excitement boiled inside you, eyes wide. Reaching inside the bag, you pulled out your work computer, your project tablet and made sure they were all connected to the internet and matched the Stark system interface. As soon as you saw the company logo you were all set up.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.” the silence danced hand in hand with your voice

Yes Miss. Would you like a run down on the desk functions?

“Yes please.” In a matter of minutes you realized that this wasn’t just some random fancy desk ,but a whole machine of its own. Interactive hologram functions, building station and program 3D design. It had it all. Bruce was shocked how easy you worked with F.R.I.D.A.Y. , naturally taking a lead and informing yourself at 100% capacity about what you will be working with. For a second Tony flashed before his eyes.

“What made you apply here?” he cut your investigation “I don’t mean to be rude but I saw some of your pre-university work.”

“No problem. I was mostly out of the country for a very long time, maybe most of my life. When I came back the Avengers were something I loved watching on the news.” The praise went over Bruce’s head unnoticed “ There was something nostalgic when I looked at you guys. Mr. Stark’s tech, the way everyone fought with ease, I don’t know how to explain it. I craved that in my life, almost like a forgotten world I was striving to immerse myself back into. “ a gentle crook of the neck and a smile eased Bruce from the question

“Well you made it here, so congratulations.” loud joyous clapping followed his words” I think I am talking for all of us, we will love having you around. So-” His face became serious, glasses finding the bridge of his nose onto his face, eyes sharp “Would you like to start with your job here miss intern?” he winked playfully waiting to see your reaction. Like a mirror ,you pulled your hair away from your face, rolled up your sleeves and flashed back the same look of determination. “Introduce me to your train of thought and your projects.”

“I work mainly with the structure and characteristics of vibranium. At first, I was focused on making prosthetics that pack a punch the same way the Iron Man suits worked and Sergeant Barnes’s arm- of course on a smaller scale. But then my mind started drifting towards the process before amputation, which was for a certain percent of people the healing factor. Maybe inside strength as well. ”

“As in incorporating it into medical technology?” this sounded too simple of an idea coming for someone Tony chose, yet Bruce kept listening. He was judging the book by its cover way too soon.

“Not exactly. Vibranium has a metal crystal structure that possesses ‘memory’ the same way other metals remember being indented even after getting fixed or straightened eventually. My theory has a few parts before I reach the main plan. Going on an atomic level, even deeper to its base structure, I change the connections between the atoms. They have the same functions as in keeping the shape, but missing that molding memory.”

“You are saying you can mold the bonds, selecting freely what function to remove?” Bruce pushed back off his chair, letting the idea enter his ear and stay there, feeding the interest on his face.

“I am not saying I can.” he was listening more and more with each passing minute “I am saying I did it. I am in the final stages of my project.” Your hands pulled out a flat disk of vibranium  “F.R.I.D.A.Y. would you do a double scan before and after I bend this?”

Affirmatively Miss. Scan done. Shall I offer a hologram?

“Please do.” Right between your two bodies you could now see the basics of the metal “ See how the bonds are thicker? I noticed, metal bonds just have to keep  the shape of the crystal structure. Not only did I make vibranium stronger than it originally was, but now if I bend-it.” Your voice strained in pair with your muscles, as you folded and unfolded the sheet. The second scan showed no memory intake not even deformed the shapes “I call this metal healing.”

“That...that is amazing, not even a crease to be noticed! But where are you going with this?” Bruce rubbed his face, still shook from what you just showed him

“It might sound stupid, but this isn’t even my main idea. You see, if we look at matter as one and the same, things start to add up. Everything on a molecular level has no difference. Bonds, and atom-placement dictate what the object will be, look like and how it works- properties if you wish. I looked at vibranium and human flesh as different parts of one thing, which lead me to believe enhancing people could be done without super soldier serums.”

“That is… truly amazing, but won’t the testing period be a sadistic thing. We are not HYDRA thankfully.” As great as this was Bruce had a point here “Human experiments are not a politic the Avengers will ever lean upon. As fellow humans nonetheless.”

“I am not planning to make another Winter Soldier. I already have control over vibranium on levels outside and inside hyperspace.” You pulled out a bottle of metallic looking dust. The top unscrewed easy and you spilled the contents like heavy silvery snow all over the floor. “If I take quarks from the human body and use them to make 1 proton from the atomic nucleus, I can theoretically program it to answer to the human body using the unbroken rule of our system.”

  Bruce blinked a few times understanding exactly where you were reaching “All work in favor of the body.” He said out loud, glasses sliding off his skin

“Exactly. If they get programmed correctly the metal will work for the body, under the command of the main system- the nerves and brain. Post that success I would be able to inject them with a liquid medium directly into the bloodstream. As they make their way to all parts of the body, they will get acquainted with the cells. I want to change them so they will be susceptible to hormones as well. Basically I want to make a metal compound that reacts like organic matter. It would be able, upon will, to pile around bones, create fibers, strengthening muscles ecc. Some could even carry other substances with them, or isolate toxic ones. Now their size and ability for diapedesis is still questionable. So far I can move them at a certain extend.” You swung your hand and the dust lifted off the floor cleanly in one swoop 

“That is amazing!” Bruce pitched his voice after seeing the floating cloud “Are you using some kind of device ?”

“No, this dust was modeled after me, I am the only guinea pig so no one was harmed in the making. I have to say though, it was quite painful till I got it right.” You laughed out uneasy, scratching your arm  

“ I could only imagine, taking your own tissue for this. What else could it do?”

“Well. I know that Mr. Stark isn’t into weapons anymore, so I pitched him the enhancing technique only. The dust’s only function right now sadly is shaping.” Your fingers danced as the vibranium cloud formed Captain America’s shield, before turning into a sword. “As long as I have enough information of structure, function and the way the object works I can make it.” Your footsteps were confidant and strong.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. the window if you please.”

Certainly Miss

   The clicking sound of the metal around the glass flung the object open. Your hand reached outside and pointed towards the sky. “My uncle had a deep interest in weapons so naturally I learned as well by listening to him.” The dust wrapped around your hand and formed a Heckler Koch pistols. With the pull of the trigger you shot into the air, making Bruce jump from the sound.

“I am sorry about that, I should have warned you.” You giggled stepping in

“That is a completely functional firearm. His breath normalized as his body took him right up to you, running his hands over the gun “ This is, something I can’t even imagine.” Eyes scanning every inch of it looking like a perfect mold “How does it look so solid? Smooth, no trace of it even being made from any smaller particle. ”

“Oh that, intra-atomic pressure. Kind of like gravity times 100 or more. If I pitched this to Mr.Stark I think the selling point would have been…”your fingers gently pulled the weapon out of Dr.Banner’s hand as the vibranium flew from the outside to the magazine “ It doesn’t run out of ammo since I call it back at anytime AND once in the body I can infest it.”

“It could travel through the blood stream and form clumps in certain organs!” he gasped

“I could have gone a bit more sadistic with this one, but I will stop talking now.” You laughed out sending your project back to its jar, securely tightened up. 

“How far is your limit? I mean is there a distance at which you can’t sense the partials, any mental fatigue or physical? You are amazing! This is something out of this world truly, no wonder Tony accepted your application. I wouldn’t be able to come up with anything closely resembling…wow.” He kept praising you each time his mouth opened

“Banner.” Light and confident footsteps accompanied the familiar playboy voice inside the lab

Welcome back Sir

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. medical bay on standby please.”

As you wish Sir

“I would appreciate it if you stepped back from my new intern and helped out a bit. We have injured coming in stat.” Tony waved his hand and Bruce pulled away from you, cleaning the couch on his side “You too miss intern. No slacking off just because it’s your first day. Treat it as orientation.”

“Yes Mr. Stark.” Panic rose up inside you again as you tried to follow what Dr. Banner was doing. Injured? Were the rest of the Avengers on a mission this whole time? It didn’t matter, you were mobilized as well and for a second it felt kind of cool, like you were also an agent fighting crime. The grunts and groans pulled you back to Earth as Captain America’s large frame stepped inside.  

[peonypearls-muddled-musings]

The sunshine was new and bright in his office as Malgam had only begun reviewing much-ignored documents within the past hour. Propping his elbow onto his desk, then resting his chin on his hand, he scribbled his signature on countless lines, either setting them into a tray for Koysov to claim, or sealing them into sturdy envelopes with his signature golden emblem to be taken and sent by the palace chamberlain. He paused to write out another location on an envelope, smiling at the recipient. This envelope was to be sent out to the kingdom one of his daughters led on the other side of the world. 

He was a proud father, and a proud king of a world of Shapeshifters. Malgam and his fellow Originals had seen to the rise of new and stronger generations over the past four centuries; and the Hierarchy continued to ensure the preservation of their species.

As Malgam began writing his signature on another document, The door to his office shuddered and creaked open, and as Malgam set another document into Koysov’s tray, he looked up to find his chief of medicine and fellow Original, Boxrom.

“Good morning,” Malgam greeted happily, finishing the scribble of his signature. “You look well.”

Boxrom chuckled, shaking his head as his wispy auburn hair fell over his gray eyes. Of course he looked well to Malgam; Boxrom was expecting another one of his children. 

“You’re up bright and early,” Boxrom said, pulling a chair up to the handsome desk. Malgam hummed, pulling up another document. 

“I haven’t been this behind on paperwork for some time. Between chasing down war rumors, the humans running amok over in East Unell, Reparations to old infrastructure that Barthley failed to inform me of… It’s been a mess.”

He ignored addressing the dark circles around his eyes; which were even more pronounced these days, but Boxrom hesitated to mention anything about them, hoping to keep his king in fair spirits, even though his intentions were a bit selfish. Boxrom fidgeted, and Malgam noticed the typically unusual act from him, and he straightened out the next document.

“You have something on your mind.” Malgam said, not as a question, but in acknowledgement. He looked up as Boxrom nodded.

“I hope I’m not out of line in what I’m about to ask, my lord,”

Malgam looked on, his brow furrowed in confusion as Boxrom began making his case.

“So… when Floralis and I welcomed our sons last week-”

“They are well?” Malgam interrupted, fearing the worst.

“Yes, sir, they’re perfect,” Boxrom smiled, relieving Malgam of any worry.

“Good; I’m sorry, proceed.”

“When… we had a moment, we got to talking and… I thought through these past few months Floralis had been acting strange. I took it to be hormones. But it turned out she revealed to me she… she said she loves me.”

Malgam smirked. “She has every right to.”

Boxrom’s mouth opened, but he hesitated. “I think it’s different than… us. Than the intertwinings of all of us.” His hands continued to speak with him, his fingers lacing as he tried his best to word what he’d been lost to. “She and I both know we can’t stop our duties to the future of our species. But… when it comes to life for us, she wants us to share it. Not away from the rest of you and the others; but to share our time, and our trials, and our achievements together.”

“Together,” Malgam said softly. 

Boxrom swallowed. “I’ve been feeling the same about her. She and I; we are together often. We talk and laugh and study, and…” Boxrom looked up at his king; the golden eyes that made his heart leap. “I love you, and the rest of us. But I… I want to marry Floralis.”

Malgam’s serene countenance didn’t budge with this announcement.

And that scared Boxrom.

“Over this past week, being with our boys, we mesh so well, we communicate at a rate I haven’t felt or seen with the others. We just… have a bond.”

“Marriage,” Malgam said quietly, bringing his hand to his chin as he contemplated. When was the last time he’d been married? Nearly a millennium ago. That’s right; he’d had a wife. She was good and kind and light-humored. He smiled somberly, remembering golden days with her, and her gentle countenance, and unwavering friendship. 

But; as part of the Hierarchy, marriage hadn’t been much of a need. The eight counted on one another for companionship, love, and family. 

“But,” Boxrom said, his voice already quaking. “I don’t want it to seem like I’m choosing. I can’t… I couldn’t take it to show favoritism. But Floralis is…” Boxrom’s hand touched his chest. “It feels like she just lives here within me,” he said, pressing again on his chest. “I have grown to enjoy and appreciate everything about her; and I seek her out daily now. Please, my lord; if you don’t accept it; then… do you at least understand what I mean?”

Malgam looked at Boxrom, who feared the worst; but Malgam simply set his pen to the side.

“I do understand. I know that each of us are different; we have our views and visions and minds about the world and what we do. Some days I understand it’s hard to be around a small, set group day after day.”

Boxrom nodded. 

“But we do what we must to preserve our future. With that said… To find one that your soul calls out to; who am I to deny such a treasure?”

Boxrom perked up, looking at Malgam. The king’s heavy, but often empty, eyes looked down to his desk.

It had been so long since he’d had someone his own soul felt whole with. He had the Hierarchy, and indeed they loved and adored their king; but that feeling of being whole; of being warm and lifted and bathed in light. He hadn’t felt it for centuries. He looked up at Boxrom, and he realized why the doctor had looked so much lighter these days. He smiled and stood, rounding the desk as Boxrom stood. 

Malgam put his hand on Boxrom’s shoulder. “You both have my blessing.”

Boxrom stood, looking at Malgam both in reverence and excitement.

“You mean it?”

“Of course I do; I’m not going to give you false hope,” Malgam smiled, touching Boxroms cheek. “I knew there was some chance that some of us would be drawn more to a select few in the group; but the marriage won’t-”

“I know, sir,” Boxrom said. “We’ve spoken about that; we will continue our duties to our people and our future; like we promised.”

Malgam smiled, reaching in to kiss Boxrom’s cheek. He peeled away and looked Boxrom over.

“So how soon do you want the ceremony to be? Because fittings for you may be… a bit complicated,” Malgam said, regarding Boxrom’s current state. Boxrom laughed.

“We… would actually like to proceed as soon as we realistically can. We’ve done so much waiting in our lives… if this is something we can do soon, we would be thankful.”

Thinking silently, Malgam chewed on his thumbnail, his eyes looking around as he pondered. Then his golden gaze looked up to Boxrom as his posture remained in thought. “I’ll make it happen,” he said with a smile. Boxrom, emotional, reached forward to embrace his king; who answered by holding Boxrom tight. “I’m happy for you two. Truly.”

For a moment they remained; Malgam fought for his own emotions as Boxrom was an unspoken favorite in his eyes. Boxrom’s witty countenance, his charm, and his curiosity could always bring joy to the king. Their friendship and countenance was known as one of the strongest in the Hierarchy; but for Malgam to see two of his fellow Originals so close that, for the first time in centuries, marriage had been uttered, it was both exciting and worrisome.

And he did admit, a bit of him felt left behind; but he hoped the others would be happy for them.

Boxrom pulled away, his gray eyes glistening. “This doesn’t change anything for you, my lord,” he murmured, putting Malgam’s hand on his chest. “You are still my guiding light.”

Malgam smiled, pleased to hear this.

“And I will continue to light your way. Go on; go rest; I’ll take care of everything from here.”

Watching Boxrom finally tear away from him, Malgam watched, folding his arms behind him, as Boxrom made his exit. The door clicked shut, and Malgam turned back towards his desk; noting the new angle of the rays of the sun through his tall, decorative windows. He sat, both lost in thought and inspired as he texted another in the Hierarchy.

_____________

“How’s the fit?”

Boxrom looked in the mirror, adjusting the cravat at his neck. “Well, it’s going to work either way.”

Boxrom allowed Belisia, the resident artist of the Hierarchy, to circle him, tugging and fastening his garb as he looked in a mirror.

“How many people are out there?” He asked. Belisia pulled a safety pin out of her mouth and tucked another layer in. 

“Well, it’s the first wedding of the Hierarchy, so… a lot,” she said absentmindedly. She rounded him, moving continuously like a hummingbird. Her expert fingers adjusted and tweaked as fast as they could as he stood still for her.

Boxrom wore a handsome dark copper suit that parted just at the top of his bump, allowing a pleated ivory tunic to drape down. His cravat was golden against the neck of the tunic to match the gold scrollwork on his suit. He wore dark slacks that Belisia had to alter quickly, but otherwise, she smiled. “Lookin’ good,” she beamed, smoothing out her own lavender dress, dotted with yellow and pink fabric flowers. “Floralis wanted her dress to match your ensemble.”

“What, no white?”

Belisia smirked up at Boxrom. “Wearing white at a wedding was already outdated in human customs. And if we’re going by human customs; trust me, none of us should be wearing white.”

Boxrom laughed as Belisia added the final touch of jewelry and baubles, complete with an ornate circlet on top of his head. 

Boxrom noticed a sliver of light appear in he mirror, and a figure stood at the doorway. “You look as radiant as Floralis.” 

Turning to see the source of the voice, Boxrom smiled as Malgam entered, his chest puffed with pride as he was dressed impeccably for the occasion. 

“My lord, Flor is always radiant. As are you.”

Belisia straightened up, playfully pouting.

“And you, of course, dearest Bel. I can’t thank you enough.”

Smiling, Bel added a ring with a crest to the hand opposite the one that would wear Floralis’ ring, and she kissed his knuckles. “Thanks for giving me something new to do.”

Belisia bustled out of the room, leaving Boxrom and Malgam.

“Nervous?” Malgam asked. Boxrom laughed. 

“I’ve faced much scarier futures that I’ve survived. This is a journey I’ll enjoy partaking in.”

“And we will see you both through it.” Malgam said, gently stroking his knuckles against Boxrom’s cheekbone; the doctor closed his eyes, touching his king’s hand. “Shall we?”

Putting his arm in Malgam’s as they walked down the grand staircase of the Gathering Hall, they passed the numerous flower arrangements that circled the pillars and staircases. “The people are excited. I think this was, in essence, a very good idea.”

“You think so?” Boxrom asked. Malgam nodded.

“Apparently merchants have been profiting off of this. The city is bustling.”

And certainly, as they neared the main hall, Boxrom could hear the crowd inside; but his attention was soon broken as he saw someone waiting in the atrium. 

Holding a generous bouquet of burgundy lilies and draping ivory wisteria, Floralis turned his way, and Boxrom halted for a second to look at her. Her long, dark hair had been pinned up in an ornate fashion, completed with her own circlet around her forehead. Her eyes gleamed, surrounded with eyeshadow in colors of cream and rust to accentuate her dark eyes and the colors of her gown, which mirrored his. She wore an empire-waist to flatter her figure, which was still recovering from having twins; and it trailed behind her, the cloth expertly embroidered and pleated; she glittered and gleamed no matter what angle she turned in; and he smiled as she turned his way. She caught his gaze and she gasped, lighting up.

“Look at you!” They both said to each other as they approached. Malgam let go of Boxrom’s hand as the two looked upon their soon-to-be spouse. He watched, silent, patient, and proud.

“Stars; I can’t remember the last time I saw you so dressed up!” Floralis said, taking note of the fine attire. Boxrom laughed.

“I haven’t had a need to be,” he said, sighing as he took in the sight of her. “But you; oh; you’re beautiful.”

Malgam silently walked past, and as they turned to him, he nodded. Boxrom and Floralis stood side-by-side, arm in arm, as Malgam opened the doors.

The crowds didn’t slow them down, even with the room at capacity. Boxrom and Floralis approached the altar, with Malgam leading the way. The people bowed as Malgam walked past, holding their postures as the three Originals walked past. Floralis held tight to Boxrom’s hands as they looked around at the room, decorated at great length with what felt like more flowers than they’d ever seen in their lives.

Stepping up to the altar after Malgam, Boxrom and Floralis faced each other, holding hands as the event commenced. They looked down to the front row, where the rest of their Originals sat, and they smiled as Nadlia held one of their boys, the other sleeping in the pram. Koysov sat next to her, poised to approach the stage soon to officiate the ceremony. Belisia took her seat between Nadlia and Tuvra. Tuvra seemed the least interested in the ceremony, but the infamous hermit was known to dislike crowds, However, next to him, Ev’Elle was just happy to be able to join in the ceremony, as her work kept her away often.

Malgam motioned for the crowd to sit, and he nodded for Koysov to approach. The spindly lawmaker bustled up the steps, and he took to the stand. Before he spoke, he regarded his fellow Originals with a smile. He put his hands on theirs, warmly and protectively. His bright green eyes met Floralis’ deep brown, and Boxrom’s sky-gray before he looked out to the crowd to speak.

“Four hundred and fifty-seven years ago, it was us that remained of the Travelers. Eight of us out of the original nineteen, from whom the populus at large had sprung. And to this day, eight of us still continue to provide to the populus. We gathered together for the first time since the very beginning, to create a new life for this world, and for ourselves. And today, we celebrate a new chapter in that life.”

Boxrom shook, not worrying about the people, but in anticipation of this event. He pressed his forehead to Floralis’, their circlets clinking as they did.

Koysov smiled. “Our beloved Boxrom and Floralis have come together, soul by soul, to create a new union. We are proud and excited to join them in this journey; and to see them through it.”

Koysov nodded to Malgam, who then provided two important pieces; rings for the two that he placed into their hands. He put Boxrom’s sturdy, dark band in Floralis’ hand, and Floralis’ filigree-style ring into Boxrom’s.

“With tokens of a permanent promise, they bind their past, present, and future. Here, they combine their lives, their days and nights; their trials and happiness; their successes and failures.”

Boxrom slipped the ornate ring onto Floralis’ finger as she smiled at him; she then took his hand, sliding his dark band on before he encased her hands in his, kissing her fingers.

“Commencing today, they share what the other has to give; and we are here to help provide. And today is the start of what we give to them; our love and hope for their future.”

Boxrom and Floralis looked to Koysov as he offered a rare, beaming smile, and he raised his hand above them, signaling his officiation. 

“From this moment on, they are hereby bound to each other, heart and soul, as husband and wife. By proclamation of hearts and ink to page, they begin their next steps as one.”

Koysov lowered his hand, looking at the two. He then blinked, realizing he wasn’t sure how to end the ceremony, and he said with a murmur: “I suppose this is where you guys kiss.”

Laughing, Floralis and Boxrom were eager to cap off the ceremony, and they met each others’ lips happily, and they reveled in the cheers and applause from the crowd. Parting, they looked to their fellow Originals, who shared their excitement; even glum Tuvra offered a smile as he clapped.

The reception was like a ball, glamorous, exciting, full of dance and song and laughter. Boxrom and Floralis walked through the crowd, both holding one of their twins, as they greeted guests. Malgam watched from the table of honor, happy to see the newlyweds already in sync as they rounded the room to meet back up, exchange twins and a kiss, and return to the floor. 

“‘Bout time he should be getting off his feet, isn’t it?” Koysov suggested, returning to his seat with a glass of wine and a generous slice of cake. Malgam smirked.

“You know Boxrom can’t sit for longer than a blink,” he said, much to Koysov’s agreement. “That was a nice speech.”

Koysov laughed. “I, uh, wrote it last night. I’m not good with this romance stuff.”

“Could have fooled me,” Malgam chuckled.

Koysov regarded his king, making sure to not talk with a mouthful of fluff and icing. “You look tired.”

“… Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Koysov worked through the thick icing of his next bite as he knew that wasn’t true.

“You should talk to someone about them. Don’t go suffering through these nightmares alone,” he said. 

Malgam turned to his lawmaker; for a rare moment, a veil of fear shone in his face. “How... how did you know?”

Koysov hesitated to take another bite of the cake. He turned to Malgam as camera lights began flashing.

“You fell asleep in your study the other day when I came to get the documents you’ve been reviewing. You were talking and...;”

Koysov paused, finding his words. There was more to it; Malgam hadn’t just been talking in his sleep; he was begging. Pleading; then threatening.

“...and I didn’t know how to wake you without...”

“Without?”

“... You were shifting; your hands became claws; you were angry.”

Malgam realized it. Koysov feared for his safety. 

“You were the one who slammed the door,” Malgam said. Koysov nodded. 

“Yes, sir. I took my leave and thought that would help wake you. I looked back in and you had woken up; so I resumed my duties.”

Malgam looked at him, the bustle of the crowd now seeming so far away. Koysov tried to find more words to soothe his king.

“If you have more nightmares, come find me. Besides; I don’t go to bed til late anyway,” he said quickly, finally stabbing another helping of cake off of the plate.

Blinking, Malgam registered the offer. “Thank you, Koysov,”

Hesitantly, Koysov reached over to touch his king’s hand before he managed to look him in the eyes. Koysov wasn’t romantic; and Malgam was surprised even at the offer of help. 

“I know you and Boxrom have always been close; and this has probably been... quite a day for you. But... you will never be truly alone, my lord. Not if I have anything to do about it.”

Malgam opened his mouth to speak, but the crowd drowned out any hope of words. They Hierarchy looked out to see Boxrom and Floralis meeting at the center of the room, sharing a quick kiss, holding their boys, and smiling for photos.

Malgam felt Koysov’s hand remain on his; and with a gaze towards the lawmaker once more, Malgam could have sworn he felt that brightness in his heart gleam somewhere in the dark.

[kriffani]

Second Chances (chapter three)

One could classify it as typical teenage angst, but Theo becomes increasingly anxious before even arriving to Alderaan. He fights against himself as he begins to question his capability concerning the weight of both his role in the mission, and his role as a Jedi Padawan.

warnings: mentions of injury (non-fatal), self-deprecating speech

word count: 2.5k

chapter one / chapter two

taglist: @hansoulo @cherrykenobi

Coruscant mornings were cold. Too cold. Theo clutched his canteen and scowled, watching as the steam from his caf billowed up and away into the frigid air. He always brewed it too hot. Obi-Wan often teased him by asking if Theo actually intended to drink “that crude, bitter beverage.” Which to Obi-Wan’s dismay, he did. The padawan yawned. Unable to go back to sleep, he had chosen to have breakfast and go to the hangar early. Too early. This blows. Any other time of day, he would have been delighted to be there. The civilian employees were friendly, and Theo rather enjoyed spending time on his own projects and working alongside them. But it was early morning, and it was obnoxiously cold. Mechanics began to mill about, once in a while tossing Theo a friendly nod or wave, which he politely returned. The hum of electricity filled the air as the overhead lights turned on, signaling the start of a standard work day. 0500, finally. He twisted the cap onto his canteen and clipped it to his pack. Theo stood up and rolled his neck, grimacing as he heard the vertebrae pop. Footsteps sounded from behind him, careful and sure. 

“Good morning, Master.” 

“Good morning, Theo.” Plo raised a brow, taking note of the bags underneath his padawan’s eyes. “It seems you’ve been here for quite some time, are you alright?”

“Physically, or emotionally?” Masking his problems with humor, a skill he had picked up from Obi-Wan. Guilt tugged at him again.

“You’re avoiding the question.” His Master’s tone was as sharp as durasteel. Theo cringed. Okay, none of those jokes today. 

“I know, I know,” he sighed. “It’s just...it’s not the right time to talk about it. We’re about to leave on a mission. It can wait.” Apparently, he hadn’t been as convincing as he’d hoped. Plo narrowed his gaze.

“Is it about your surgical scars? If they are giving you discomfort at this stage, we should--what is so humorous to you?” He planted his hands on his hips, astonished by Theo’s mirthful fit.

“My scars are fine Buir, thanks.” Theo’s lighthearted smile shifted, becoming serious. “Honestly, I’ve been having premonitions. I was planning on talking to you about them sooner rather than later, but I’m going to wait until after the mission to avoid distractions.” Theo gave Plo’s shoulder a reassuring pat, attempting to lift the mood.

“I see, I am relieved that your recovery is still stable.”

“Thank you.” Theo clapped his hands together. “Ready to go, Master Plo?”

“Yes. Have you gone over the plans?” The two Jedi boarded the ship, giving each of the pilots a wave before heading to the common area.

“Not very thoroughly, why?” He drew out the ‘y’ sound, skeptical of where the conversation was going.

“I figured that was the case.” Plo shot him a disapproving once-over. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be wearing your tunic.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” Theo laughed nervously.

“You’re not going to be traveling as a Jedi. When we arrive on Alderaan, you will enter the Palace dressed as a pilot. I will leave Alderaan with Senator Organa’s security detail and a decoy, and you will depart with the real Senator. You will travel with him on civilian transport. Alone.”

“Shouldn’t you be the one going on the transport with him? I don’t think I’m suited for that kind of role.” The padawan scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

“No. Kel-Dor rarely travel beyond Dorin, my identity as a Jedi would be rather obvious, and his cover would be lost as well. As for your suitability, we have discussed this. You will be successful unless you allow your humility to become insecurity.” Plo ruffled Theo’s hair, at which the boy ducked away, grumbling in true disgruntled-teenager fashion.

------

This was it. Boredom had completely consumed him, and he was confident that it had been at least three days since they left Coruscant. He felt sluggish. Heavy, and like his soul was oozing out of every pore.

“Master, are we there yet? I’m dying over here.” Theo lay draped over his chair like a despondent child. The effects of his caf had long since worn off, leaving him with his unfiltered brain as his only escape.

“Not yet, we have about two and a half-hours to go.” Plo teased.

“Two and a half hours.” The boy groaned. 

“Your patience is lacking today, Padawan.”

“Well there’s nothing to do! We’ve been in space for over thirteen hours! Thirteen!” Theo threw his hands up. 

“You can meditate.” The Kel Dor chuckled. “It may help cure you of your boredom, or your lack of patience...” he paused “or perhaps you could gain some insight into your premonitions.” Theo blew a raspberry. He wasn’t going to waste his energy trying to fight this battle, Master Plo was probably right anyway--he always was.

“Maybe I can...” He plopped to the floor and sat cross-legged. Theo closed his eyes and breathed in slowly as he attempted to quiet his mind. It didn’t work. Too many thoughts. Head full. 

“Nope. Not today. Brain’s off the walls.” Theo leapt up and dusted his hands off on his thighs. 

“Padawan.”

“I can’t do it, Master.”

“Padawan-”

“It’s too much, I can’t not think.”

“Padawan! You do not have to bear your thoughts alone. Come, sit with me. We shall meditate together.” Theo caved in at his words, and the two Jedi settled to face each other on the floor. 

Theo closed his eyes again, and tried aggressively to will away the visions. 

“Well you’re certainly not going to make any progress in that manner.” Plo hummed. 

“Gee thanks, O Wise One.” Theo huffed and opened an eye to glare at his Master. “I’m fine.”

“Oh I’m sure. That’s why you’re so disagreeable. I was going to offer to help you, but if you don’t want it…” If Kel-Dor were physically able to do so, Plo Koon would have been smirking.

“I do! It’s just...” He sighed. “I’ve been a padawan for four years, I should be able to handle something as basic as meditation.” 

“One can struggle regardless of how much training they have had. I am offering to help you because you need it. Try to have a little more patience with yourself, and with me.”

“Alright, Master.” Attempting to relax for a third time, he felt as though he were laying on hot, itchy sand. 

“Allow the Force to surround you, allow yourself to become one with it.” He felt Plo’s presence at the edge of his consciousness, almost as if he were knocking to come in. Theo opened the door, lulled into a state of serenity by the fading voice of his mentor. Plo had been the only real constant in his life, an entity of stability and comfort. Theo wasn’t sure whether or not he was too attached to Plo. His mind wandered to Jango again. The Mandalorian was a loyal man, a good friend, and a comically incompetent guardian. The bounty hunter would often leaving Theo to await his return alone, stating that his destination was “no place for di’kutla little kids.” He would be gone for days. Or weeks. Or forever. Master Plo wasn’t like that. Since the moment Theo began learning at the Temple, Plo Koon had been by his side. For every stumble, error, hesitation, or lapse in judgement that Theo made, his Master had been there to balance him, steady, patient, reassuring and forgiving. Theo saw him as a father, and he wasn’t very subtle about it. 

------

Two years ago:

    “Kriff it all!” A powerpack and two hydrospanners clattered to the hangar floor as Theo threw the medkit back onto the tool cart.

“You cannot fix everything, little one.” Plo stood with his arms crossed, staring firmly at the petulant padawan before him.

“Well…” He scoffed, “I should be able to!” He angrily tore open the package with his teeth and wrapped the bacta patch around his finger.

“There will always be things that need fixing. Your work would never be finished.” Plo Koon had proved himself to be exceedingly tolerant. This was Theo’s fifth fit of anger this week alone, and most other Masters would have likely deemed him unfit for apprenticeship by now.

“What’s the point if I can’t do it? I’m worthless!” Theo growled.

“You are not. You are learning. Mistakes are opportunities for reflection and improvement. They are to be embraced.”

“But--”

“Theo, it does not serve you to be afraid of mere possibilities.” 

“But what’s the blasted point of even trying if I know there’s a mere possibility I’m gonna mess it up?” The boy wailed.

“That’s not certain, and if it was, it wouldn’t be the end of all things. It’s quite foolish to demand constant perfection of yourself. Your worth is not measured by what you accomplish.” Plo reasoned. Where is all of this suddenly coming from, he wondered. Is it something I said? No...I’ve been careful with him.

“But what if I do it wrong and it malfunctions? I don’t want you to die because of me! I can’t...I won’t...” He had done it again. Suddenly, Theo’s Jedi-issue boots were incredibly interesting. Had they always been brown leather? (Yes, they had.) The Code was the very first thing he learned, and somehow he managed to be painfully bad at following it properly. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no death, there is the Force. He was definitely in for it this time. Theo braced himself for a lecture, but was surprised to feel a gentle pressure on his shoulders when Plo knelt down in front of him.

“Padawan, look at me.” The Kel-Dor spoke softly. No response. He sighed. “Look at me. It is crucial that you know this.” The boy glanced up, just briefly enough to be satisfactory. “You are capable, clever, strong-willed, and kind. You will become a remarkable Jedi.” Theo nodded, posture softening. 

“Thank you.” He mumbled.

“I don’t expect you to properly repair a carbon compressor on your first attempt, especially not alone. And I trust your ability to correctly perform repairs that you are familiar with. Alas, you must learn them first.”

“Makes sense...I think I got caught up in everything I already knew.”

“It happens to all of us.”

“I’m sorry. I used you as an outlet, you didn’t deserve it.” Theo drew his lip between his teeth.

“I understand your frustration and you need not apologize further. Now, let us not linger on the past, we must finish fixing this carbon compressor.” Plo turned the boy around to face the ship. “This time, be sure not to tighten the bolt with too much force. That’s how accidents like this” he jested, pointing to Theo’s bandaged finger, “happen. The quartered socket spanner would also be a more suitable tool for this particular task, as the angle will give you better leverage.”

“Oh, that’s much easier. I see now! Thanks, Buir.”

------

The ship lurched, snapping the two Jedi out of their meditation, and Theo grumbled in protest. He rather liked that memory.

“Apologies for the disturbance, sirs, but we’ve entered the Alderaan system.” Captain Thorn’s voice crackled through the intercom, signaling their imminent return to duty.

“So Master, I know about the mission, but what about Senator Organa himself? What’s he like?” Theo hadn’t met very many politicians. He knew of Senator Padme Amidala from Anakin’s stories, and he had met Chancellor Palpatine on several occasions, but that was about it. 

“Senator Bail Organa is a just man. He is a pacifist with an affinity for ethics, I believe you’ll like him. Especially since he’s one of the people responsible for the Galactic Rights Bill.” Plo picked up his cloak and draped it over his shoulders.

“I’ve been really busy lately with my Shyriiwook comprehension exam coming up, and I kinda haven’t been paying as much attention to politics as I should, care to refresh me?” The padawan flashed a sheepish grin, provoking a weary sigh from the Kel-Dor.

“This Bill would safeguard an individual’s right to self-expression. It would be effective immediately, and has the power to overrule the local laws of star systems and planets. It is crucial for the safety of minority groups who may be targeted for superficial things such as appearance or use of a dialect. Those who would most benefit from this are religious groups and those with an atypical relationship to traditional social roles in their respective societies.”

“That last part sounds so...scripted. Was that a quote?” Theo asked, as the two began to make their way toward the front of the ship.

“From the Bill itself, yes. The section it belongs to was written by Senator Organa.” Plo explained.

“How is the Bill going to be effective? What kind of ‘targeting’ are we talking about? Harassment, refusal of service, homicide?”

“All, and more. However, the most pressing concern and reason for urgency lies in denial of medical care. Over the last several centuries, there have been an increase of differences in socio-cultural interpretations of identity across the galaxy. In some places, this is a catalyst for conflict and consequently, there have been a total of around five hundred cases across thirty-four systems just last year. One thing the Bill is designed to do is prevent governments or medical organizations from prohibiting access to medicine and care on the basis of these differences.”

“I see, and I take it that this is seen as a problem by some because they disagree with any views that differ from their own, or because of money.” Theo glowered. 

“As it is with most ‘debates’ on such things.”

“It’s cowardly.” 

“Indeed.” The door to the bridge slid open, and Theo’s chagrin was almost forgotten. Alderaan was beautiful. The city of Aldera sat nestled neatly in a valley and surrounded by tall, snowy peaks. It was exactly as described in the stories he’d heard from older padawans. 

“Wow, what a place.” He murmured.

“Right?” The co-pilot turned to flash the Jedi a grin. Theo nodded in agreement. She gave him a breathy laugh. “I’ve never been here either, I was just short of giddy when we heard what our next assignment would be!” He now understood what Master Yoda meant when he called all beings “luminous.” She certainly was. I’ll probably never see her again after this, that’s really too bad. 

“We’re approaching the city. Juno, prep the landing gear.”

“Yes, Captain!” She chirped. 

“Well Master, looks like I’d better get ready. See you shortly.” Theo didn’t wait for a response before he slipped back into the other room. When he returned a few moments later, his discomfort was visible. Plo restrained himself from poking fun at his student, but oh, he really wanted to. 

“Man, civilian clothes just don’t feel right.” The boy whined, tugging at the sleeves. Theo scrunched his nose in disgust when they didn’t loosen. “How long do I have to wear this?”

“Not long, we’ve arrived. Take your pack with you and remember, be subtle.”

[magistralucis]

Lib sebinsky 16 I Love u So Much It's Incalculable 💟💟💟💟💟

16: Quiet warm summer mornings in bed // Lib Sebinsky

---------------

At daybreak the Captain discovers Sebastian outside the front doors.

“Monsieur?”

The sun rises early at this time of year. The actual hour is not remotely close to the morning, as common sense would accept it. Early to bed, early to rise, the Captain marvels at the old adage; he doesn’t know about healthy, wealthy, or wise, but then Sebastian only recently developed the habit of disappearing into his quarters straight after dinner.

“Sebastian.”

He’ll find out in a few weeks. If they’re still hanging on by then.

Sebastian startles to see the Captain there. His back straightens and he folds his hands together in front of him, his voice mechanical as he recites an explanation. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought counting my paces would help. I’ll go now.”

He turns and leaves. Not long ago the Captain would have let him go without a word, or worse, taunted him with such things as the game. But things have been different recently: this time, he simply falls into step with Sebastian, escorting him in silence. Sebastian doesn’t stop him. They make it all the way down the corridor before the Captain speaks up again. “How many?”

Sebastian looks down the path they came. “A hundred and eight steps.”

“Monsieur le Chauffeur would like that. And how wide?”

An irrelevant question: no one paces the shortest distance available while trying for sleep. But it does earn him the first tiny smile of the day. “Considerably less.”

The Captain chuckles. He feels at once incredibly awkward and yet at home. It feels like forever since he tried to goad Sebastian into an argument - or been this conciliatory, on the other hand. “I understand. I prefer the upstairs, the carpet here is thicker.” He points down at their feet as they climb the stairs. “No danger of being seen, either, there’s only us and the occasional guest as high up as you can go.”

“I’d frequent it myself. But the corridor is shorter here.”

“True.” The top floor has less space than it looks. A born anomaly of this palace that centuries of time haven’t corrected. “Funny how you mention it now. That was what I spent last night figuring out.”

Sebastian lifts his head. For the first time in this conversation he looks hard at Vincent, his gaze searching. He was under the impression the Captain stumbled across him after patrol - but he doesn’t usually do that within the palace, and no patrol involves counting one’s footfalls for a night. Slowly, understanding dawns upon him. He gives him a faint smile.

“You were scolded as well, then?”

The Captain hates to admit it, but: yes.

They enter Sebastian’s quarters. Sebastian takes off his jacket and loosens the buttons of his shirt; the Captain heads straight over to the balcony and leans out of it, gazing down at the gardens. It is not until Sebastian rests a pale hand on his shoulder that he blurts it all out. “It’s a travesty! The nerve of the bastard. First cornering us in their atelier, making us - sit down - before throwing out all those suggestions. Like they know anything about us! For God’s sake. I thought you’d hired a correspondent for the nation’s good, Sebastian, not some prying little brat.”

Sebastian’s smile turns bittersweet. When they accepted a newcomer into the palace, they were bound to be discovered at some point; Franck has made no secret of what they think of his and the Captain’s relationship. That they need help, so much goddamned help, that Franck can’t understand how the two haven’t ended up murdering each other already. Harsh words, but neither of them could deny it. They’ve been trying to tiptoe around Franck ever since.

“And that’s not all! Would you believe they came knocking on my door last night? So now they not only feel entitled to two rooms in this palace, but my privacy too?” The Captain exhales hard, glaring down at the roses as if he considers them responsible. “Have you lived vicariously today, Captain. and have you bid Sebastian hello? When do I not do that? I've half a mind to show them one of the bodies I have lying around, maybe it’ll inspire them to treasure their life while they still have it.”

The President sighs. “Please do not actually show them a body.”

“I shan’t. But it’s tempting.”

He looks at his lover with sympathy. Sebastian is also familiar with Franck’s attempts to understand their relationship, as well as the strange behaviour that accompanies it; doubtless the Captain sees it as a challenge. “Please be gentle with them, it was my fault. Franck might not understand everything about us, but they have the right to demand we are civil when we’re in their atelier.”

“Yes, the atelier that happens to be in this palace, which belongs to you-”

“And I gave it to them.” Sebastian quietens him gently. “Besides, what do we know about living vicariously? Once upon a time we might have known, but we really don’t have an answer to that, do we?”

At that, the Captain sighs as well. “We don’t.”

He probably dislikes Franck for reminding him of that more than anything else.

In the days to come, the couple will put their feuds aside and discuss what it means to live vicariously. There will be hesitant lunches by the balcony, without Franck in attendance, as this is a problem between themselves. What they don’t know is that their progress lies in the steps they don’t pay attention to; Sebastian abruptly steps back from the balcony, shivering. “I can’t feel my arm.”

“Oh.” Even in summer the mornings are chilly, enough to tense a battle-worn body. “You ought to rest. Come on.”

The Captain is glad enough with his new priority: preparing the bed, plumping the pillows, and tucking Sebastian in are all part of a familiar routine. The sun shines through the window upon the bed, and he makes haste to shut the curtains over it. “Leave the windows open,” his lover commands sleepily, which he complies with. Sebastian’s still shifting about in bed, trying to find the right place in the mattress that supports the sore right half of his body. “You’ve been on duty all night, Vinco. How about you take the day off to rest. I’ll take care of everything.”

Vincent’s hand stills for a moment. Being called that nickname always softens something in him, as well as flood him with bitter-cold urges to forget about it. “What, with full pay, Monsieur?”

“Yes.”

His meanness is a paper-thin front. He never truly means it, but he has been adversarial with Sebastian for so long that it feels necessary to him. “I suppose I shall be fed on your francs as well, despite not working for it. Do I also get my meals delivered to my quarters while I’m resting?”

Sebastian remains entirely serene. “Not just your quarters, if you’re willing.”

All the fight leaves Vincent’s body at that. He stays there for a long time, searching Sebastian’s face for any hint of a jest. He finds none: Sebastian continues to lie in bed, eyes closed and his hands folded nearly atop his chest. After a while, Vincent opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, finding himself defeated. Slowly, he undoes his jacket and leaves it slung over a chair. All his weapons follow suit, as well as his boots, which he takes off and leaves in a corner. Sebastian doesn’t move at all as he cautiously takes the empty spot beside him, flicking up one corner of the duvet and slipping inside.

The bed is soft and cosy. Aside from faint birdsong there is complete silence. The sun warms the sheet through the curtains.

“Seb.”

Vincent half expects no answer, but it comes. “Yes.”

“I kind of want some grapes.” He turns over to face Sebastian, who notably doesn’t do the same. Staunchly facing the ceiling, as always. Something about that hurts Vincent in a way that doesn’t make him want to hurt back, and he leans his cheek into the pillow, murmuring as if in a dream. “Fresh from the market in Saint-Ouen, maybe with a round of brie and some red on the side. Remember how we’d go out to the Belgian place nearby for dinner? I wonder if it’s still open. It must be long gone by now. What wouldn’t I give for one last plate of their frites and sausages, sitting at that counter by the window.”

“And from the sounds of it, what wouldn’t you give for love, the world on a platter, and a pony.“ Sebastian says dryly, lifting his good arm over his eyes. Vincent turns very pink, but there’s no need to take back anything he said, the ridiculous sentimentality aside. “You’ll have your grapes, Vinco, and the whole picnic. But for now, let us close our eyes and be silent.”

Sighing, Vincent does as asked. It’s a blessing he’s actually tired enough to obey. But just as he’s about to slip into unconsciousness, he feels the weight of Sebastian’s head settling gently atop his shoulder, and smiles. “Thank you.”

The roses are in full bloom. Their scent wafts all the way up here. Dust motes dance like little stars in the warm breeze. Beneath them the palace is stirring, but they sleep on, undaunted by day’s golden complexion drifting into the room.

[in-arlathan]

The Rebel’s Ascension

Here is to another Solas story. The idea was on my mind for quite some time and now I finally gotten around to writing the first chapter.

Basically, it is my take on how Solas became Fen’Harel and was recognized by the Evanuris as one of their own. It was so much fun writing him as a younger man, ready to pick a fight with the elven gods. I hope you enjoy this, too!

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Time period: Ancient Arlathan/Elvhenan Characters: Solas/Fen’Harel, Elgar’nan, Mythal, Andruil, Ghilan’nain, Sylaise, June, Falon’Din, Dirthamen, Elvhen OCs, Spirit OCs, ...

Summary: A dark creature is roaming the on the southern border of Elvhenan, killing elvhen. In an attempt to find out more about the threat, the Evanuris send one of Mythal's loyal servants to investigate: Solas. As he prepares for his journey, the elven pantheon tries to entangle him in their infighting. Soon, Solas finds that there is much more going on behind the scenes that he thought. But for now, all he wants to do is protect his people and banish the dreadful creature that robs the elvhen of their spiritual essence. A deed that, one day, will earn him a new name, and a place among the Evanuris.

Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

You can also read this on AO3.

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Chapter One: Before The Gods

The Evanuris were already waiting for him when he arrived at their palace in Arlathan. They had taken their seats in the council chamber, a gigantic room without roofing in the middle of the palace, that held more than nine hundred elvhen. Sitting on their crystal thrones, dressed in their most intricate robes, they watch him, as he approached them.

All around, the chamber was humming with muffled conversations by the hundreds of elvhen sitting on the stone benches that encircled the thrones like an amphitheater. Giving them a quick side glance, Solas recognizes many of the higher servants of Elgar’nan and Andruil and even the High Priest of Dirthamen and a few of his personal attendants. All of them eyed him suspiciously, as he made his way down an aisle and stepped onto the main floor of the council chamber. Their fear filled the air like a poisonous fume, and Solas had fought back the urge to hold his breath.

He had arrived through one of the eluvians in Mythal’s personal estate within the city, as soon as he heard about the Hahren’al. He had expected one of the Evanuris to make their move for some time now, waiting for them to do something about the dreadful things happening to their people on the southern border, and he wanted to be there to see what they were up to.

What he didn’t expect was for them to call on him personally.

Upon his arrival in Arlathan, a spirit in service to Mythal had informed him about a messenger waiting for him in the estate's atrium. Solas had hurried to greet the messenger who turned out to be a servant of Elgar’nan’s, carrying with her a sealed document in which the Evanuris summoned him. She had handed him the document, then took her leave as if she couldn’t bear to be in his presence any longer.

They must be suspecting something, Solas had thought. Why else would they want to speak to me? What could they learn from me that Mythal does not already know?

He straightened his shoulders while he took in the sight of the assembled Evanuris. To his right, Dirthamen, Falon’Din and June had taken their seats. On his other side sat Sylaise, Ghilan’nain and Andruil, each of them watching him intently. In the middle, on top of a dais, stood the thrones of Elgar’nan and Mythal, All-Father, and All-Mother of Elvhenan. Their thrones were embellished with symbols that represented their power, while plants climbed up the sides and back, gracing the crystal with delicate flowers.

Solas’s gaze flicked to Mythal. To an outsider, she would look calm, serene even. But he was not so easily fooled. Knowing the All-Mother the way he did, he saw the slight frown on her face, the way the corners of her mouth seemed restraint and tight. She was concerned, he had no doubt about that, but she would not let it show in front of other members of the pantheon.

Why would she do this? he asked himself.

Whatever happened in his absence, he regretted to not have been there. Had she not sent him off, he could have offered her comfort in these distressful times. But that he knew about Mythal, too: The All-Mother never placed a burden on anyone’s shoulders if she didn’t believe they could carry it, including her own.

“Andaran antish’an,” Elgar’nan said, his voice booming. “Step forward, da’len.”

Disgruntled by the greeting, Solas pressed his lips together. He had taken a body over a thousand years ago and had spent most of them in service to Mythal. In all this time, he had been many things: an advisor, a mentor, even a lover. But it had been a very long time since anyone had reason to call him da’len.

Go ahead, mock me, he thought, trying to keep a straight face. One day, you will see what good it did you.

Yet, he did as commanded and stepped forward. Bowing deeply before Elgar’nan and Mythal, he returned the formal greeting. “Andaran antish’an.”

“Do you know why you were called here?”

“I have no idea, hahren,” Solas said in a sickly sweet tone. “Please enlighten me with your wisdom.”

Elgar’nan’s brows furrowed, and his lips twisted in a disgruntled way. The All-Father sat up straight on his crystal throne, his massive figure bright and burning like the sun rising in the east. For a moment, Solas could see remnants of an old fire gleaming in Elgar’nan’s eyes. The light of the sun, caught in the flesh for all eternity.

Solas knew he was playing a dangerous game, but for all his power, the All-Father was a self-indulged prick first and foremost and needed a reminder that he, Solas, could never be forced into submission.

Besides, he had an idea why the Evanuris had summoned him.

“As you have traveled our realm on behalf of my beloved wife, Mythal, I know you are aware of the threat that has been growing in the south,” Elgar’nan said.

Solas waited for the All-Father to continue, but when the man kept silent, he replied: “I am, hahren. What of it?”

“Our scouts have been roaming the south, collecting all information they could find on this thing", Elgar'nan explained. "Their reports are disturbing, to say the least. They mention a looming darkness that emerges from the depth of the earth and leaves nothing but devastation." With this, Elgar'nan leaned back and interlinked his fingers in front of his chest. “And since you have been traveling the area, we thought it might be interesting to hear what you have learned while you were…. well, whatever it is you were doing.”

For a moment, Solas stared at the All-Father in disbelieve. Did they really need him to shed a light on these events?

When he kept silent, Elgar'nan coughed and regarded him intently.

“So, what can you tell us, da’len?”

Solas inhaled deeply and closed his eyes for a moment. In his mind’s eye, he saw the charred bodies of elvhen, left to die in the sun by this looming darkness, stripped of their spiritual essence. If he didn’t know better, he would assume it was the doing of the Titans and their creatures, the Children of the Stone, but they never had this kind of power. Their strength came from the stone and when they stirred, the earth shook violently. No, this creature was something different.

“I’ve seen our people being defiled and mutilated by a terror to terrible to imagine,” Solas said and opened his eyes to look at Elgar’nan and the other Evanuris. “Many have lost their lives, and their corpses were unlike any I’d seen. The flesh was burned from their bodies by a fire hotter than the sun itself. But that is not the worst part. The few survivors I encountered had been drained of their magical energy and had lost all ability to enter the Beyond. They were nothing but husks, living shells without a spirit, forced to endure until their bodies failed them.”

A murmur went to the crowd. Muffled conversation sprang up all around the council chamber as the elvhen tried to process this information.Solas stifled an angry smile. Let them worry, he thought. Let them be terrified. Maybe then they will remember that they are no different than the people in the south or anywhere else in Elvhenan.

"Order!" Elgar'nan boomed and the muffled conversations died down instantly. Then the All-Father turned his eyes back to Solas. "What else do you know, da'len?"

“After a while, I started to notice a pattern,” Solas said. “It seemed like the attacks happened only under certain circumstances. All of them occurred outside of elvhen settlements, preferably during the night. Some of the survivors described the attacks to me as if the world had gone silent around them, with only the howling of wolves to keep them company. This creature, whatever it might be, scares its victims half to death before it charges and then consumes their spiritual essence. I can only guess to what end, but it is certain that it leaves the bodies empty, and then burns them.” Solas wrung his hands. “After hearing these tragic stories, I couldn’t refuse to offer my help.”

“And what help would that be?” Falon’Din asked, his voice muffled by a golden mask that hid his features. Only his chin was visible, as was the deathly-pale skin that spun tightly across his jaw.

Solas squared his shoulders, turning ever so slightly to look at the god. “I established a supply line, securing herbs and potions that will ease the pain, and helped the local clans to set wards against whatever magical power had invaded their lands. It is not much, but it gave them hope.”

On the other side, Andruil sucked her teeth so loudly, the sound echoed from the stone walls of the council chamber. “How very generous of you,” the huntress said, sizing Solas up as if he was but an slave for auction on market day, lust and greed shimmering in her eyes. "Although I never took you for the gentle sort."

“The All-Mother has brought me to this world to offer help,” Solas exclaimed. “And these people, our people, were in desperate need of just that. It would have been cruel and heartless to let them die alone and forgotten.”

Next to Andruil, Sylaise leaned forward. “That is a very kind notion,” she said. “But these elvhen have chosen to walk the earth and live at the fringes of our realm of their own volition. Had they stayed here, in Arlathan, they would have been safe.”

No, they would simply be within your grasp. More subjects to command. More playthings for you to break, Solas corrected her but didn’t dare to say the words out loud. They were right to turn their back on your so-called protection and make a life for themselves where your power can not reach them.

“That is a matter of debate,” Solas said evasively. “But I reckon this is not why you wanted to hear more about my journey in the South.”

“That’s right,” Dirthamen interjected. “The people down there are one thing. We are more interested in the creature that killed them in the first place.”

You don’t say!

“What of it?”

“We need to find it,” said Elgar’nan, giving his son Dirthamen a dismissive side-glance. “When we consider the reach of this creature – the dark or whatever you like to call it – it was grown incredibly powerful. If we don’t act now, it will only continue to do so and we can not allow that.”

“I understand,” Solas said. “And what exactly does this have to do with me?”

“We want you to go and find it.”

Solas sucked in a sharp breath. So, this was what the Hahren’al was all about. His gaze flicked to Mythal again, who had kept silent since he first walked into the council chamber. Whatever her thoughts were, her face didn’t betray them. We would have to wait for the All-Mother to make her next move, while the Evanuris involved him in their powerplay.

“Why me?” he asked. “Our lady Andruil has the best hunters and trackers in all of Elvhenan at her disposal. Certainly, they are better suited to find the creature than I am. What can I do what they have not already tried?”

“So much is true,” Ghilan’nain said. “But none of them is as clever as you are. From what you just told us, the creature seems to possess wisdom of its own, knowing when to strike and when to vanish. It needs a like-minded spirit to lure such a creature out. And you were a spirit of wisdom, after all, were you not?”

Solas turned slowly and forced himself to smile at Ghilan’nain.

He knew that this wasn’t about his capabilities as a wise man. Not truly. He was expendable to them, nothing more but a slave in service to the all-might Evanuris. If anything, this was about Andruil who didn't want to risk the lives of her hunters.

“And what will you have me do, once I find the creature?”, Solas asked, his lips twisted in an angry smile.

Elgar’nan snorted. “You will kill it, of course.”

“Of course,” he replied, biting back the foul taste in his mouth.  He looked up at Mythal once more, searching for a sign, something, in her face. Why did she let them have their way with him? Was she actually approve of these plans?

And then, finally, he understood.

Mythal wanted to do something about this threat, but she could not move against the Evanuris openly. Even if she acted in her people’s best interest, the Evanuris would most certainly think of it as another attempt to keep them from power. She had interfered with their plans too often during the last decades. Not too long ago, she had stepped in a violent dispute between Elgar’nan and Falon’Din after Solas had urged her to take action, all but preventing a civil war between father and son. And from that he had heard on his journeys, the dust still hadn’t settled on that matter. So, Mythal had to stay silent, if she didn’t want them to rally against her.

That is why she had sent him to the south. She wanted the Evanuris to suspect him, wanted them to pick him to do their bidding, so this would look like she had given in. Thus, the other Evanuris had no reason to suspect Mythal of treachery, while the All-Mother put all her trust in Solas, for she knew he would never betray her. Still, he needed to talk to her in private once the Hahren’al was concluded. Surely, the All-Mother had plans of her own, aside from the obvious task of killing a dangerous creature of unknown origin.

“I will do what you asked,” he said and bowed once more.

He could almost feel the surprise rippling through the ranks of the Evanuris, but it didn’t last long. To his right, he heard Sylaise breathe a sigh of relief, as the other members of the pantheons relaxed in their chairs and congratulated themselves for their victory over Mythal’s most loyal and most unruly servant.

“I will need time to prepare, though,” Solas said. “We don’t have any eluvians that gain us access to the far south. I need to venture there with appropriate armor and enough supplies to sustain myself or I will fail before I have even encountered the creature.”

He heard Andruil click her tongue, but he did not mind her. His eyes were fixed on Elgar’nan. The dark figure of the All-Father loomed over him, his muscles tense as if he was ready to strike.

“You have seven days,” Elgar’nan said at last. "And not a moment longer."

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A/N: It is done! <3 Wow, I am so happy with how this chapter turned out. I started with a vague idea and ended up with something I quite enjoy. I hope, you do, too!

[mearta]

A Chevalier's Promise

A Chevalier x Bluhen Royal AU fic

Summary: To the outside world of Elrios, the Steel Queen and the newly appointed Grand Duke Ishmael have announced their engagement. Many speculate it was love at first sight; in reality, they have merely forged a political alliance to stabilize their respective reigns. Ciel, aside from his typical obligations as Her Majesty’s knight, must ensure things go smoothly with the alliance. Yet upon meeting a peculiar fellow, he soon realizes the troubles surrounding the Grand Duke are more than they appear.

Chapter 1: Encounter Amidst the Flowers

 The party’s glitter and laughter was a dream in the distance. Ciel could never stomach the suffocating atmosphere. He stood outside with the warm embrace of moonlight near his shadow. The facades and faux kindness was no different than Lanox’s crime-tainted alleyways. Lu always noticed he was uncomfortable despite his best attempts to hide it. As a result, she allowed him to escape to the serenity of the palace’s garden whenever she hosted a ball. Ciel insisted he could tolerate parties, especially if it meant ensuring her safety. But the Queen was stubborn and reminded him she could defend herself. Ciel strolled past the fountain and into the hedge maze. He memorized the way out long ago. As Ciel turned the corner, a sea of flowers greeted him. In the center stood the largest flower, taller than even he; its purple petals reaching to touch the night.

 In the Demon Realm, the palace’s garden had another name: the Garden of Haures. A maze teeming with flowers from the Demon Realm and Elrios was also home to the famous Haures flowers. Many visitors praised their beauty, but little did they know Ciel was responsible for clearing the pest problem that occurred when the Haures flowers bloom.

 Ciel sighed, recalling the group of monsters that appeared the other day because of the Haures flowers’ scent. He shouldn’t be upset at that damn Annular for planting them; after all, Miss Iblis kept the poor man busy. In the rare chances he had a break, Annular would be here, tending to the garden.

 Ciel approached a patch of iridescent, azure flowers. Under the moon, they looked straight out of an oil painting. Lu liked these flowers in particular because they matched Ciel’s hair color. He cared for this patch personally, and often she would ask for him to prepare bouquets of them to display around the palace.

 “Oh my, shouldn’t a knight be accompanying his master?”

 “Her Majesty is currently with the Grand Duke. Unless you are implying His Lordship cannot protect her,” Ciel said. He turned around and narrowed his eyes.

 The owner of that sing-song voice wore a smirk. Ciel presumed the man in front of him was a noble. With a fur-lined, extravagant coat, he at the very least held some sort of title. However, Ciel did not recall green and black being fashionable colors in Elrios.

 “I was merely trying to begin a conversation. Shall we start over by introducing ourselves?”

 “I am Ciel, servant of Queen Luciela R. Sourcream.”

 “Yes, I know. Nice to meet you, Sir Ciel.” The man‘s smile somehow became more irritating.

 “And what is your name?”

 “Sir Bluhen works just fine.”

 “Well, Sir Bluhen, I do not believe we’ve met before.”

 “Everyone knows of the demonic wench who picked up a half-demon stray.” Seeing Ciel’s hand move toward one of his shotguns, Bluhen giggled. “My apologies.”

 “Your tongue certainly likes to flap.” Ciel relaxed ever so slightly.

 “As long as Richter doesn’t mind-“

 “Disrespecting Her Majesty’s fiancé is no different than disrespecting her.”

 Bluhen waved his hand. “He and I are... what‘a the word... oh, friends. Please be at ease.”

 “Is that so?” Ciel frowned.

 The spies mentioned nothing of friends. The Grand Duchy of Elrianode’s sovereign was either found alone or with the clergy. In addition, Grand Duke Ishmael disliked humans. How could this one be any different? Regardless, no reports contained a description that matched Bluhen. While Ciel mulled over the possibilities, Bluhen moved closer. He squatted down and pointed at the patch of flowers.

 “What are they called?”

 “Lacrimosa Blossoms. Some of the older Demons refer to them as the Flowers of Requiem.”

 “They’re quite nice. Reminds me of forget-me-nots.”

 “Do you like forget-me-nots?”

 After eyeing one of the flowers, Bluhen stood up. “You can say that. Richter is quite fond of them as well. It’s a shame we can’t grow flowers back home.”

 “...Are you really friends with His Lordship?”

 “All right, the truth is I’m his lover.”

 “Excuse me?”

 “Is there a problem?” Bluhen leaned closer to Ciel and whispered, “He can be quite aggressive, but I’m sure Her Majesty can make him submit to her whim.”

 Ciel felt the warm breath against his neck. Bluhen took a step back. He chuckled at Ciel’s expression. “I’m kidding of course.”

 “You...”

 “It was fun talking to you, Sir Ciel. But I’m afraid I have to go. Send Her Majesty my regards.” Bluhen winked before walking away.

 Lu and the Grand Duke were still together when Ciel entered the ballroom. The event had ended and the servants started to clean up. Leftover food was to be given away, decorations to be stored until next time, and any messes were to be eliminated. Ciel watched the maids and footmen to ensure they didn’t slack off. It would be a few weeks before the marble tiles saw another evening of dancing. Then his attention turned to the couple. To match Grand Duke Ishmael’s white clothes, she wore a white, backless dress. Embroidered patterns of gold lines the sleeves.

 The couple looked good together albeit funny. Lu was the shorter one between her and the Grand Duke. Wearing high-heeled shoes helped to an extent. Ciel couldn’t imagine the Grand Duke acknowledging the obvious height difference. Neither could anyone else, yet the Grand Duke always leaned down to be within reach. Perhaps their alliance was too important to lose.

 Lu touched the Grand Duke’s face.

 “It’s okay to admit you’re tired.” Her voice was soft. She caressed his cheek until he caught her wrist.

 “What about you, Luciela?”

 “I’m used to faking smiles all the time.”

 “You do not have to do so in front of me.”

 Ciel was unaffected by their exchange of sweet words. He glanced at the servants. They continued to do their duties, but once the couple was away, they would start to gossip.

 Ciel cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, please return to your room. Your Grace, I have also prepared a room for you to stay in.”

 “Nonsense, Ciel. We’ll be sharing a room,” Lu said.

 “Understood. Allow me to escort you back  then.”

 The two followed Ciel. He had a feeling the couple were holding hands while their footsteps echoed through the empty halls.  The Palace of Abaddon was a wonder of architecture. Guests would often stop to marvel at the paintings, but Grand Duke Ishmael didn’t bat an eye. Ciel opened the door to Lu’s bedchambers. He was the last one to enter and closed the door behind him.

 “You may stop pretending now,” Ciel stated.

 Lu sighed in relief. She sat on the edge of bed. “Hey Ciel, what do you think?”

 “Of what?”

 She gestured to the Grand Duke who stood on the other side of the room. “I feel he needs to be more expressive.”

 “I believe our performance is adequate enough for the public.” Any semblance of gentleness had been replaced with the cold, monotone, real authority belonging to the Grand Duke.

 Ciel scratched his head. “The narrative we agreed to wasn’t violated as far as I could tell.”

 The Steel Queen and the Grand Duke had a chance encounter, and multiple rendezvous were enough to break through the defenses around their hearts. Some nobles liked the idea of a love which transcended race, so the story spread throughout the Demon Realm. Of course, the people outside the Demon Realm were another story. A follower of Goddess Ishmael falling in love with not just a Demon, but the Steel Queen herself was unbelievable. That was another issue they needed to address. At the very least, there was time to change public opinion.

 Ciel scrutinized the Grand Duke. The Grand Duchy of Elrianode was without a sovereign for centuries; according to various reports, the Lady of El and her El Masters were the government in the past. Then, the region and more was known merely as Elrianode. Yet one of the El Masters betrayed the Lady of El and his fellow Masters, leading to the explosion of the Giant El. The destruction ruined Elrianode and the land. Now the grand name of Elrianode was a shadow of its former splendor. Lu and Ciel speculated many times why the priestesses, the remains of Elrianode’s past, agreed to elect someone to take the mantle of Grand Duke. They thought of many reasons, but none of them held definitive weight.

 “What is it, Mr. Half-Demon?” Grand Duke Ishmael glared at him.

 The Grand Duke’s dislike of anything related to Demons was just as palpable as his distaste for humans. Ciel withheld his exasperation. “Do you know of Sir Bluhen?”

 “Is he your knight?” Lu asked.

 “Sir... Bluhen is often tasked with handling domestic affairs. Because he had spare time, he insisted on following me here.”

 Lu nodded. “Does he know?”

 “He is aware. Regardless, I would like to act upon the conditions we set before.”

 “...I suspected as much.” Lu sighed. “Well then, Grand Duke Ishmael. What can I do to ease your burdens?”

 “Give Sir Ciel to me.”

[desiree-harding-fic]

Cinderella!Au Continuation

Y’all want some SAP?????

This is the original scene of night 3 of the ball from my Taakitz Cinderella!Au. I just felt like putting it up, because im close to 400 followers now, and I think you’re all really sweet to me, and I’m grateful for all of you, and I’m feeling sappy tonight.

So enjoy!

Kravitz guides Taako across the floor confidently, gently, and Taako feels beautiful, he feels like he could fly. He feels like he’s never been loved so strongly, except of course by Lup, but no one has ever paid him attention like this. It’s beautiful, intoxicating, addicting as the smell of Kravitz’s cologne and the line of his cheekbones, as the feeling of his hand resting upon Taako’s waist.

The minutes pass, fifteen, thirty, forty-five, fade into hours, one, two, dancing and then another walk through the beautiful palace gardens, past fountains and trellises, the cool autumn wind just kissing Taako’s bare skin where his dress doesn’t cover, until Kravitz notices him shivering and takes off is fine jacket, despite Taako’s protestations, to drape over Taako’s shoulders.

He’s grateful for the warmth, though, and the softness, and he pulls the garment tighter around him even as he says, “look at you, you’ve ruined the whole look, my man.”

Kravitz just laughs, adjusts the jacket, looks into Taako’s eyes, and Kravitz’s eyes are so beautiful and warm and soft the way he looks at him, and the moment stretches between them, tense in the best possible way, and for a moment, just a moment, Taako thinks –

The moment breaks. And Kravitz says, just barely audible, “worth it.”

They continue their slow promenade through the gardens, Taako on the prince’s arm, and he loves Kravitz’s jokes, they’re strangely morbid and witty, and they make Taako giggle high-pitched and vapid and not at all attractive, but Kravitz still looks at him with those smiling, sparkling eyes as though Taako means –

No. Taako’s not going to think about what he means to Kravitz. In a few hours he’ll leave this place, this moment, and when he goes away with Lup maybe it’ll mean something new for them, and Taako can examine what this is then, when it’s safe. Now? Now isn’t the time. Now, Taako’s a pretty face in a pretty dress at a pretty party, and nothing else exists outside of that.

Kravitz leads them around the beautiful grounds, the sounds of the ball always within earshot, faint but lovely in their own way, muted as the music and chatter floats lightly on the air.

They end on a balcony of sorts, hidden behind trellises and trees, and there, standing between two fine red maples, their leaves alight from the season, and the moon filtering through their half-fallen foliage, and the sea crashing faintly against the rocks beneath them, Kravitz takes Taako’s hand, and begins once more to dance with him.

It’s little more than a soft away from side to say, little more than another reason for Kravitz’s hand on his waist and to be in each other’s space, but it’s - it’s everything. And the air is thick with something Taako doesn’t dare name. Kravitz is beautiful in the moonlight, the way it plays on his dark skin, and his eyes are so deep, and he’s so close to Taako, so close, and Taako can’t look away, can’t –

The press of their lips together is warm, and dry, and almost a surprise, but so welcome, the gentle pressure for just a moment, and Taako’s eyes slide shut as Kravitz kisses him.

It’s over so soon. Kravitz pulls away, and it’s only a few inches, Taako can still feel the breaths shared between them as his eyes flutter open, and then, then –

He isn’t sure who lunges forward, maybe it’s him, and maybe Kravitz, but Taako is suddenly pressed up against the prince, and is pressing his mouth against Kravitz’s and slipping an arm over Kravitz’s shoulder as Kravitz snakes an arm around his back, so solid and strong as Kravitz kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

And it goes on, and on, and on, and Taako doesn’t ever want it to end, as Kravitz’s hands roam over his waist, and the back of Taako’s head, the nape of his neck to avoid the elegant updo of his hair, and oh gods, the way Kravitz’s hands linger on his body is covetous and dangerously passionate and everything he’s ever wanted but never knew he did.

He’s sitting on the carved stone railing of the balcony they’re on somehow, and how he got there he doesn’t know, and Kravitz is kissing him still, and is pressing himself as close to Taako as he can manage, and it’s thrilling, sitting on the edge like that and trusting Kravitz not to let him fall.

Taako doesn’t think he’s ever trusted anyone who isn’t his sister. He isn’t even sure he thought he could.

Kravitz’s kisses leave his lips and Taako draws in a deep, shaky breath, as Kravitz’s hands find a secure place on his waist and his lips begin to travel down Taako’s neck.

“Kravitz,” he manages, and he almost hates the wrecked gasp of it, the way he sounds like a stiff breeze could knock him over completely, could wipe him out altogether.

Kravitz finally relents, and when he looks at Taako his eyes are wide, his pupils blown out, and gods what a sight that is, but there’s something Taako needs to tell him and he can’t remember what it is with the warm line of Kravitz’s body pressed against him and the thrilling empty air at his back, the endless night sky and equally endless ocean falling away and making him feel as though he could stay here forever.

A hand comes up to cup his cheek.

“What is it?” Kravitz says, just a breath away from him, so, so painfully honest, and his eyes looking somewhere deep into Taako’s soul.

Taako feels a stab of sharp pain somewhere in his chest as he suddenly thinks about all the things he wishes he could say.

He settles for a desperate question.

“What time is it?”

Kravitz’s brow furrows, and his beautiful expression crumples as he looks at Taako for a moment, understanding taking hold in his eyes.

“Please,” he whispers, “please stay.” His hands tighten where they rested gently on Taako’s waist, as though he can keep Taako here, as though –

“I can’t,” Taako says, and it isn’t blasé enough, it isn’t at all aloof or mysterious, it’s raw and somehow desperate, though what exactly he’s desperate for he can’t quite define.

“Why?” the prince asks him, disappointment all over his beautiful face, “lots of people don’t go home even until morning and I –” he clams up, suddenly, looking like he’s choking on his words, almost literally, before he says, “I want you to stay.”

Taako knows there’s more he wants to say, lurking behind those words, and he’s glad that Kravitz doesn’t say it.

He kisses the man once more, a lingering thing, softer than those of a few minutes ago, so soft, and Kravitz is soft. Kravitz is –

“I told you I can’t,” he says, breaking away again, and fixing his eyes somewhere skyward.

“Then at least tell me your name,” Kravitz says, pulling him to his feet off the banister, pulling him close, still so close. “Please, tell me who you are so I can find you again.”

Taako opens his mouth to say something and just then –

CLANG

The clock begins to strike.

It’s like every sense in Taako is dialed up to eleven as he pulls away from Kravitz abruptly, and his mind is running through the way they came as he thinks about how far from the gates he is, and oh gods he hasn’t found Lup –

CLANG

Kravitz is looking at him like he’s seeing the end of the world and the moment stretches between them, a moment between two beats where Taako knows Kravitz is wondering if he’ll run, if he’ll go, but the moment is broken by another –

CLANG

Taako leaps into motion, turning sharply around to leave when he feels a had catch his arm and Kravitz is there again and he just says, “please”, like Taako can resist him when he looks so –

CLANG

He snaps back to attention, and in that moment, he makes a choice.

He pulls off the bracelet from his right wrist, one of the ones that the lady gave him, snapping it off and handing it to Kravitz, who looks at him, bewildered, and Taako explains, rushed,

“They’re two of a kind, I’ll have the other one, and if you really want to find me, you’ll –”

CLANG

Understanding overtakes Kravitz’s eyes, and he breathes, “of course,” and then Taako is kissing him, a hot, quick press of lips before the warmth of Kravitz is gone, and Taako is running, running through the garden and cursing his stupid dress, kicking off his shoes so he can go faster, leaving them behind on the stone walkways and cutting across manicured lawns, and stairs, so many stairs, he’s so going to trip.

CLANG

Gods damn it which way did he come?

CLANG

A sight of the glow of the ballroom through the serene trees has him taking off running again, running as fast as he can, past the finely-dressed people he comes across more frequently as he gets closer to the ballroom, and he’s almost sure he knocked someone over back there, but he can’t stop, and the way he’s hiking up his dress is far from decent for the company –

CLANG

He’s back by the ballroom and the crowd of people extends all the way to the edge of the doors out onto the wide colonnade and Taako begins to push through them, muttering apologies all the way, and likely looking, for all the world, like a madman, but he has to get out –

CLANG

He has to get out, his clothes are going to disappear at midnight, and he’s going to be exposed, and Tostaada will see, and Kravitz will see, and the crowd isn’t parting quick enough, and they’ll all see him, he isn’t going to make it –

CLANG

He must make a disturbance enough on the dancefloor once he gets there because all of a sudden, people are parting, and Taako is running again, and he knows they’re talking about him and he knows they see him, and they’re going to recognize him as the one with Kravitz, and the goddamn ballroom steps are too long

CLANG

He’s running, running down the hallways, down past the beautiful marble columns and past the shining throng entering the palace, past the guard stationed periodically, and his eyes are blurred and his lungs are burning as he fucking sprints and he’s almost there – he’s almost there, he’s almost made it out the castle doors, he can see them, wide open to the Neverwinter night in front of him –

CLANG

He crosses the threshold as the final bell tolls and thank the gods for the thick crowd of people still entering and exiting the palace because it’s nothing at all to slip into them as he feels the beautiful, heavy gown around him melt away until he’s left only in his rags, the shining bracelet from the woman the only thing left of his ensemble, even the pins that were holding his hair up falling away as they have every other night. And unencumbered, his heart still beating a mile a minute, he slips away into the shadowy Neverwinter night.

[beautybeyondchristle]

Serenity in the edge

of the cliff

Have you ever experienced your soul in the arms of nature? Like suddenly you just feel the warm embraced of your own soul out of nowhere. All the problems and chaos of the city suddenly vanished without any trace and you feel the fresh breeze that slowly and passionately kissing your bare skin. At first glance, it is just a plain swimming pool area, house rent, cottages and a souvenir shop but at the back of it is the hidden beauty of this place. A muddy narrow upward heel is the only way you can took going to it's real paradise. As the tip of my slipper touches the bamboo made small nipa hut, it is clearly the hint that I'm near the secret paradise. At my third step inside of it, I looked down and saw the breathtaking majestically creation of our beloved father, the entrance of the abstract bliss of nature. A first rate most transcendental paradise for my sorrowful soul made by the tricky problems of mine. Majestically resort indeed to escape and surrender yourself from the over populated chaos of urban life.

While the sun is still sleeping, the plane already rises and meets the shadowy clouds up in the air. After an hour, a couple of eye are looking out of window chasing after the rays of the awaken star. Suddenly, the twinkle in my eyes cannot deny how mesmerized am I to the golden beauty of the palace made by the white fluffy clouds, morning rays of the sun, and the birds that creates their own show and making the palace alive. My adoration to the view outside the window suddenly disrupted by the charming flight attendant that is gentle as a lamb who asked me if I can close the window at my right side because after how many minutes we will arrive at the land of the dream weavers, South Cotabato. The hometown of the pride of Mindanao, the great T'boli tribe weaver makers.

As my shoes stepped down, the warm greetings of the full view mountain and tingling sensation that the breeze of air welcomed me. Also, the lively voice of the attendants greets us full of hospitality with their shining eyes. Entering the departure area, I immediately went to the baggage and scan for my stuffs. When I find my things, it is like I lift a gigantic elephant, my sweat started to find its way going down to my eyes and to my cheeks. We hurriedly and desperately find a cab going to my grandmother's house. A lot of cab driver's offered us a ride but it was way too expensive and greedy of them. At the end, a honest and good samaritan driver offered us a fair fee and without any hesitation we agree. At our way going to my father's side mother, the driver and my father is like catching the time together like they now each other for a long period of time. While my mother and little sister was sleeping, I decided to joined them and sleep.

As fas as I remember, the province ambiance and air slowly sinking to my mind and making my entire system in calm. All of a sudden, two young girls are going to our way and hug us tightly and followed by a short hair elder perhaps my grandmother. With her teary eyes she scans my face and smile widely and hug me. Now I remember her, after almost 10 years she was the woman who’s holding me when I’m still an infant in the picture, my lala. After the repeatedly warm welcome to us, they let us rest and gain energy for the lunch.

After how many days, my cousin invited us to go swimming at Tuburan together with our near relatives. My little sister and I quickly gather our clothes and our OOTD or outfit of the day. When everyone is ready, we excitedly scream and laugh. On our way going to Tuburan, different fruits and vegetables are obviously showing how wealthy the agriculture of this place is. From the huge watermelons, melons, coconuts, bananas and oranges and many different kinds that you can buy at the side of road in affordable price up to the red peppers, sugar cranes, bananas and eggplants that are planted everywhere. Also, you can see how happy those people who are contentedly living here by just looking at their eyes and how energize they are working under the heat of the sun.

Unfinished flourishing of road made us dizzy and also a signal that we are near by the Tuburan resort. You can see outside the tall plantation of bananas and the greetings of M-E-E-E-E-H by the goats. As the staffs of the resort open their gates widely to us, I was astonished in the nature friendly ambiance of the place. A clever young monkey welcomed us with his hands waving at us and my cousin lends his hand to give the monkey some bananas. After finding our rent cottage we decided to enjoy the man-made different kind of pools but unfortunately I’m not into swimming becacause I dont know how to swim. So after several hours, I got bored out of one's brain and my good looking cousin notice the absence of my presence in the group of ours. He approached me and asked why I look like I’m counting ant in the side. I told him I’m extremely bored and he laughed hardly that he caught the attention of my other cousins so they joined us. And when they get a hint of my silence, they clutch my wrist and I let them grab me whenever they want. I got a big question mark behind my mind because I think we are trespassing the back of elegant rental house and the way is getting narrow and muddy upward heel and my sweat is starting to fall out of my face. When we reached the top, my whole body stiffened and automatically blows away by the fascinating view of the bliss at my sight. I forgot that I’m with my cousins just look around amazingly.

Before I went here, the overloaded school activities fill my schedule and time. But as of now, the only thing that matter was how this place slowly giving its own way of healing emotionally the scars and wounds of my heart and mind. From how the wind touches and kisses my bare skin and find its way to slowly calm my senses like I am a new born baby up to the deepest serene of my heart.

If my little sister did not call me I will not come back to my senses. As a step inside an open nipa hut, slowly all the worries and problems fade away. The chaos of silence filled my system as if in just a snap of finger my life restarted and open a new beginning of wider journey. At the end of nipa hut is the new world in the cliff, with the trees dancing in the rhythm of cold breeze air and the birds that slowly capturing the rhythm under the dancing trees creating a magnificent view. All of a sudden, the urge to avoidance to live in the city suddenly the only desperate move I can do. Living here without worrying what will happen next just breathing and mating your soul to the nature is a blast. Breathe as if it is the last moment of my unforgettable escape, the hidden world.

This transcendental paradise that will always have a significant place into my heart. The beauty behind the man made resort; the magnificent world in the edge of the cliff. A place for a person like me, still finding the serene in the arms of nature. Though this paradise is many miles away from my unescapble life in urban I will always treasure this place.

[muses-darling]

Fire & Fury - A Star Wars AU - Ch.7 Monster

Ignis sat upon the imperial throne, his hands threaded in front of him under the mask he wore a bored expression. If the Republic Senate was anything like the council meetings of the Sith then he felt some sympathy for the Senators that worked there. There was so much bickering, infighting, and idiotic ideas thrown over how they were to destroy the Republic or to not destroy the Republic or to only destroy the Jedi. Hades stared at the one currently throwing words that they must have thought when strung together made a coherent thought, how bad would it be to kill them? Plenty of Sith killed each other over such petty things but this one was a discredit to the whole of the Darkside. “Enough.” He said they didn’t hear him. “ENOUGH!” He stood from his throne in a quick motion. “You are all of you squabbling sychophants!” He glared from one to another though they couldn’t see it he knew they could feel it in the force. 

“Then what is your idea oh Emperor?” A voice said from the walkway leading to where they all plotted.

Ignis looked up and snarled, “Darth Ceres, Darth Lykaios. I thought you were both gone.” 

They smiled. “Oh no we heard there was a meeting, So we came to investigate.” 

“And what have you found?”

“Pettiness.”

“Is that your great addition to this council?”

“I did ask you for your’s.” Darth Ceres smirked as she walked towards them. 

Hades swallowed, “It is true I have no idea on what attack to mount in response to our intel on the Republic forces. But we cannot throw our troops needlessly at the republic how else will we rule what remains or keep control?”

“I could offer up a solution, the Republic is headed to our neighboring sector, yes?” Darth Ceres asked. 

“They are yes,” Ignis looked her over. “What is your idea Darth Ceres?”

“There is a planet Malachor V if you will, that has much use to us, we could set up a trap to destroy much of the Republic’s forces without loosing so much of our own. With a proper Scientist I think we could weaponize the gravitational fields to our advantage.”

It was a sounder plan than the ones he had heard, Sith were always trying to take each other out but as long as she wasn’t trying to kill him here there was no reason to start anything. Not when he could take her out during the battle and never have to worry about her ever again. Besides Kit was likely safe wherever he was. “Very well. Then that is the plan we will put forward once we find a engineer then it should all fall into place.” Ignis sat back on the throne.

“I have one in mind, my partner and I can acquire his services.” Darth Ceres walked up to him. “My Emperor.” She bowed. 

Ignis wanted nothing more than to cut her down but for the time being she was of use, he was not one to waste useful things. So long as Kit was out of danger that was all that mattered. HK-47 hadn’t checked in but that could be for a number of reasons. He just hoped that he was right about Kit. 

________________________________________________________________

The Prison Cell Block of the Palace of Garuja the Hutt was not even remotely humane. The place smelled of rotting, the decrepit that lay strewn about in their cells waiting for their fate beyond the terror occasional shifting of chains, dimly lit areas, and the torture the guards placed upon them. Alucard was lashed upon the chair the torture implements above him lowering.  Alucard tried to put on a brave face before the pain set in and then then the screams started. This was not part of the plan. It had not been considered. It should have been as what felt like fire flooded his veins. He reached out in the force sending the torture device back.

“Jedi!” A guard snarled raising a blaster.

The blaster flew from him to Alucard who shot them all dead. The force then metal bands that clamped him down to the chair off of him as he used it. A man entered and Alucard raised the blaster not looking and firing. 

Finding his sisters without raising alarm would take all the focus he had so he gave it into the force letting it guide him as it had so far. 

-

The first guard that led her into her cell stepped close and Layla elbowed him hard grabbing his blaster from him she fired into him.

“Oh thank the stars I was about to do the same,” The other guard said as he came near her voice muffled by the helm he wore.

Layla pointed the gun at the other.

Throwing up his hands and knocking the helm off, “Hey woah, whoa! It’s me! It’s me!”

“Arthur?”

“Yes, who else would be so stupid as to get twisted into this situation.”

Layla looked relieved and hurried to him before stepping back and glaring. “What are you doing here?”

“Godwin got worried then even more when we heard about the failed mess on Cantonica sent me.” Arthur was Godwin’s main informant, occasionally they hit it off. “I’m just glad you are alive.” Arthur continued. 

“I’m glad too, can you undo these?”

Arthur pulled out a key and unlocked her.

“Thanks,” She pulled him in and kissed him. “Now to save my siblings.

“Already saved thank you,” Nikki said blood splattered on her. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Is that blood?” Arthur asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Nikki said.

“I feel like I should what did you do to the guards.”

“Don’t worry about it!” The Sister’s said in unison. 

There was a relieved sigh from the door to the cell as Alucard hurried up to them. “Thank the force.” He took a moment to frown at Nikki before shaking his head. “We need to find Grimm’s wife and Honey then get out of here.”

“Sounds like a plan. Now where do we start in finding Grim’s wife?”

“I think Honey may have that covered,” August said. “They keep the slaves in a different place. Honey is likely there already. I just pray my sister will not be traumatized.” 

________________________________________________________________

Kit sat meditating his Father and Mother sitting with him it was now he was starting to feel the true effects of their dark choices, their dark deeds twisting the force around him. He was trying to find a way out but there was so much, it was pushing him down a dark path. A dark path... He had a flash of Ignis? What was he was calling him Hades, they were together? Why would he be with such a man? They seemed happy? 

Darth Ceres/Demeter flooded them in the dark side of the force bathing them all in it sweeping Kit up in its’ sickly embrace. 

Darth Lykaios was doing the same, as he reached out to Kit’s mind the dark side was powerful and without the memories of training with Crowley Kit was defenseless. Tendrils of darkness snaked their way deep into Kit’s mind and surrounded him trapping the man with it’s ensnaring grasp. 

Warmth, joy, and love fled Kit’s mind as only coldness, sadness, and hatred took it’s place. They twisted his memories against him what memories he did have. Molding him into the perfect soldier of the dark side. His eyes opened no longer the serene green when he had closed them. It had been a few days just meditating as they made their way to the facility where the Engineer needed worked. It had been more than enough time to twist the gentle Kit into the monster his Mother and Father wanted him to be. 

_______________________________________________________________

Crowley sat up breathing terribly as the vision the force had given him faded, “Kit, oh Kit.” He breathed feeling the calming hands of Aziraphale taking hold of him pulling him into his arms. 

“What is it my dear?” Azriaphale calmly asked cupping Crowley’s face in his hands. “What is it?”

“The darkness I felt it swallow him whole and what it spat out was terrible, Azirpahale I fear for him. I felt it as though I were there. All resistances I taught him all that he learned from me is gone. As if he never learned it to begin with.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t help the look on his face, the look of utter horror. It wasn’t in Crowley’s nature to admit worry so deeply. For Kit to fall so deeply to the dark side sent chills through the man. “Well if that is the case then we need to bring him back from the darkness, back to the balance.”

“Agreed Angel,” Crowley rested his head on Aziraphale’s chest for a moment needing the gentle warmth of Aziraphale before pressing a kiss to the man’s lips. “I’m going to get everything ready we leave at first light.” They would need what light they could to get off of the planet through the trees. “We will find him Azirphale.”

“We will Crowley and we will save him.” Aziraphale smiled. “I believe in us. We are after all his family.” 

[imagine-loki]

Lonely Endeavors

TITLE: Lonely Endeavors  CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 2 AUTHOR: written-loki-imagines ORIGINAL IMAGINE:Imagine Loki being a sickly child. You’re the child of a palace maid and ordinarily you keep your distance from the princes, but one day you find Loki in his room, gazing at Thor and the other children playing outside from his bed. You decide to keep him company, reading books with him and even sneaking pastries from the kitchens for him while no one is looking.  RATING:  T NOTES/WARNINGS: Loosely based on imagine and I suggest reading the first chapter for context. Sorry for all grammatical errors, i try my best to catch them but I miss things.

The dusty off-white rocking horse teetered in the slight light of the room coming from the window. The slivers of golden light held particles that danced their way down to what they were shining on. The air changed upon entering the room, smells attached with memories wafted towards you. Smells of finger paints and broken crayons, misused clay and small wooden swords. The smells of your childhood long forgotten until now as if the memories were waiting for you to return to them.

A lone finger swirled across the old oak of the window seat many stories came to life at. Returning back with a thin, almost invisible dust layer on your fingertip.

“I thought i’d find you here,” he spoke in a voice like that of a lover, almost silent and meant only for you to hear. 

“I didn’t see you come in,” You replied still being hit with calming waves of nostalgia.

Thor chuckled to himself slightly, making his way across the room over to you, toys littered the reflective floors giving him obstacles on his way to you. He took long strides confidently, shoulders back, face fixated on yours greeting you with a smile. 

His heavy metal armor clanked with each heavy footed step he took further into the room. Thor grew into his features over the long centuries you had known him. No longer was he a goofy looking kid with round rosy red cheeks and short messy blonde hair. His red cape swished around his ankles and onto the floor sweeping up the dirt and dust left from the years on no use.

“Sorry i missed training your mother was running allthe wedding plans she already choose and it’s to late to change them by me.” You swiped your hand across the window seat and wiped the now dusted hand off on the fabric of your leather pants. You pushed yourself up to sit  horizontally in the window and looked out at the others still training outside

“That explains why you missed training but not why you’re in here.” Thor managed to get to you, kneeling down and resting his head on his arms atop the window seat. He peered up at you while you actively tried to ignore the warmth of his gaze, choosing to blankly stare at the others outside enjoying the day.

“It’s okay to think about it (Name), I do as well,” Thor once again demanded your attention with full force and effort, his cool and weighted hand found yours that was resting in your lap. You could feel him staring holes into you even if you couldn’t bear to face it head on.

“We’re getting married Thor I doubt this is the best time to dwindle on the past,” Your voice may have been cold when you tugged back and freed your hand from his grasp. Even the light pouring into the room stilled upon the silence you had invoked. Thor sighed and stood once more, the shifting of his body could be heard quite clearly from under all the layers.

You and Thor had never talked about how either of you felt towards the fast approaching marriage. Once you both had become of age it was clear why Odin encouraged your friendship between the two princes. Even as a young and tattered orphan he saw you as an object to betroth his eldest to. Which he did the first chance he got, it ensured Asgard a princess and Thor a family for when he ascends to the throne. Even the pairing made sense, no longer were you that broken girl dependent on others for safety. No more were you afraid of monsters and the darkness that came as soon as the sun set, no, now you were a decorated warrior and general of the Asgardin army just like your parents would have wanted you to be. Strong, tactical and wise with a goal to irradiate the jotun as an entire race of monsters.

Still it all felt like anything other than reality, marrying your best friend who you were raised along side like siblings. It couldn’t have felt anymore confusing than it already did. Thor was your friend, your family, your equal and now he was to be your husband. His affection and attitude towards you had never changed after the engagement and even then it all felt much more different paired with the thought that you were to be wed before the night was over.

“Is there not a better time? You came here on your own accord for a reason (Name), tell me what that may be." 

You finally looked at him seeing much more concern than you would have liked to be across his features. You pulled your eyes up to meet his still and serene blue ones, a small smile pulled on the corners of your mouth but never spread across your face. Thor in all his gentle giant glory couldn’t help but worry about the thoughts you had on your mind. Forcing you to voice them regardless if he knew exactly what you were thinking about.

"Do you think he’ll come?” You spoke confidently as always, not bothering to whisper or hinder the words you had been wanting to ask for years.

Thor’s whole body went limp and his once strong and confidant stance faltered at your voice. His eyebrows brought themselves together leaving little lines of disapproval over his face.

“(Name),” Thor started, shoulders down and head tilted. You could already guess what he was going to say or tell you to think and yet even his slightly commanding and disappointed tone brought you satisfaction.

“If he were dead do you not think your mother would have the decency to tell us? Now more than ever?” You swung your legs and watched as Thor hardened bit by bit looking like his father did when he was confronted in a way he did not wish. If you were weaker and more vulnerable that would have frightened you but you hadn’t been that in a long time.

“We were kids.” Thor frowned with hardly any movement of his lips. The smells you once welcomed in the playroom turned sour all at once and left a vile taste in your mouth.

“We had feelings! I had feelings. He was here and then he wasn’t and I- we never got to say goodbye. I never got to see him before…” You felt your throat closing in on you and your elevated voice. Out talking and outshining Thor’s still calm tone with an agitated demeanor.

“Loki was sick, there was nothing that could have changed that. No actions could have prevented him from being transported to Alfheim for  care. If that were the case i would have never said and done what i did all those centuries ago but we were nothing but children (Name). You cannot blame yourself forever, what happened wasn’t your fault. It was’t either of our faults, that night in the library was-”

“That’s enough,” You mumbled reaching to grab the small sunflower pendant you wore around your neck. You couldn’t remember why you bought it from the village markets, you hated sunflowers and yet you were so drawn to it. It comforted you in a way for no explained reason at all. You stared blankly past Thor and found your eyes being drawn to the door on it was various lines and names Frigga had used to measure how much taller you all were growing up. Thor’s red line grew up with your (f/c) one while Loki’s green one stayed the same. He wasn’t there to be measured and left behind all those years ago, still what you would do to have those times back.

You never got to see Loki again after that night, you could never form the perfect words to say how much you missed him and needed him in your life. Not before he got sick and the queen prevented both you and Thor from seeing him in such a fragile state. The illness had gotten progressively worse because before you knew it he had been sent to Alfheim for their healers to help him. You never knew what happened to him after that, death was a thought you couldn’t handle anymore of it so you spun a narrative of him getting bigger and stronger like Thor. Going to school and perfecting his magic even reading all sorts of new stories so he could come back and tell them to you . A comfortable lie felt better than what the truth might be.  

Thor leaned his tall frame down to meet you as you sat. His hands cupped your face gently and he pulled you forward to rest his forehead against yours. There was nowhere to look but into his deep eyes. No place to retreat but into him and his touch. It could have been a more uncomfortable silence if you didn’t know Thor so well, even in his quietness you could tell what he wished to say. 

All at once a gush of rushed footsteps and frantic voices burst into the room snapping both you and Thor out of the peace and conversation you were previously having. Thor jolted up dropping his hands from your face and folding them behind his back as he whirled around to face the door. Sif stood fully dressed in armor and wielding her sword in one hand. Two soldiers stood besides her wearing what attire was required of them but oddly holding weapons as well instead of leaving them by their hips.

Sif looked between you and Thor clearing her throat and entering the room closing the gap between you both. Unlike Thor she had no regard for dodging the objects on the floor or even trying to avoid them instead she stomped crushing everything in her path.

“Thor, general…” She declared regarding you as formally as she possibly could. You knew she and Thor had a dalliance in their youth but you also knew she was strongly against the marriage of you both. The only reason she had anything to do with you was because she couldn’t not respect you as her superior and as a warrior.

“Our team of scouts were ambushed trying to transport goods to vanaheim.” Sif was usually grim but there was no remains of joy left on her face. The way she gripped her sword as if her life was depending on it you instantly knew how grave the situation. You stood quickly pushing Thor out of your way and getting closer to Sif in order to speak directly to her giving orders if needed.

“What of my soldiers?” You were already letting your illusion magic fall allowing the once casual clothing you were wearing to reveal fully fledged armor and weapon.

“They are presumed to be dead, the frost giants have reportedly planned a strike against us. They have been organized as an army lead by a monster we cannot identify.” Sif didn’t bat an eye at your sudden change in attire nor did she unhand the handle of her sword. She was looking for a fight and you were dead set of giving one to her.

“You and you,” you said pointing to the two soldiers standing in the doorway awaiting your orders. “Tell the crown there will be no wedding on this night and you,” your eyes fixated back on Sif who readily was preparing for your orders,“Prepare my soldiers for battle, no frost giant will slaughter my people and get away with it.”

-/-

Despair was around the frozen battlefield. You could smell the spilled blood in the ridged air that flooded your lungs. Grunts, screams, battle cries, it was all that echoed across the frozen waste land. You brought the back of your hand up to your face and smeared the blood leaking from your open wound. 

Adrenalin was high. Your heart pumped in your chest surging you with a vengeance and power you never got except for when you were on a battle field. Death gave you a thrill and here, right now. You were the hero of this story.

You were at a stand still as people fought around you. The hair that was ragged and resting on your shoulders lifted off of them and got swept where the wind pulled it. The burn the cold left on you allowed you to see your hot and scattered breaths. Even your hands were numb and wanting the feeling of flesh underneath them.

That’s when you saw him.

The Jotun king.

Single-handedly taking out five of your men at a time.

Spear in hand.

Wearing the most ornate jewels and loin cloth seen only worn by those of nobility. He was smaller, smaller than any frost giant you had ever seen. He was still tall by nature but far from the size of a giant more like the size of a mere man. There was a mass of long ebony hair flowing down his almost bare body, even then he looked the most primed and prepared for battle. 

His head hung forward over his latest victim, mouth hung open and animalistic growls came from him solely. His hand holding the spear tightly, periodically bursting with some sort of energy radiating from him.

Slowly his horned head lifted with a devilish grin reminding you monsters were real. He lifted his head to stare at you with red eyes more red than the blood you felt rushing through your veins. 

You watched each other.

Chaos swirling around you and with one move his head tilted leaving the most frightful of smiles on his face.

That was all it took.

The game was on.

You charged. 

He stood.

 Knowing you would come to him and challenge him the best you knew how. The motives you rushed to him with were unclear and muddled. You wanted him dead, you wanted to be the last thing he saw before those red eyes glazed over with death. That was enough. You were granted with a number of choices and abilities to attack him with. Judging from what you just saw he was skilled in seiðr arguably more skilled than you. His fighting style was unique, hand to hand combat all the while casting spells and twirling a staff. 

With a sword in your hand and a dagger hidden in your boot you confidently attacked. He was like a snake so wiry and slippery, wriggling his way out of your grasp with each beat. 

Annoyed grunts left your lips and he managed to throw you over his cold and lean shoulder, slamming you flat on your back on the wet snow. When he dropped you an earthquake erupted inside of you spreading quickly, you were dazed even if it was for a second every aching bone in your body begged you to stay still. He lifted the spear over his head intent on driving in through your rapidly beating heart and the will to live over took the will to lie dormant. You rolled out from under his path, still driving the strange object into the snow and beyond that.

Without missing a beat you managed to shove him hard enough that the spear still stuck in the snow slipped from his grasp leaving him one weapon down. You tried to knee him but he caught it yanking your body part closer to him and causing you slip once again landing on the ground. A sense of dread washed over you all at once, a blood thirsty Jotun wouldn’t wait to end your life but this one enjoyed the fire you brought. He enjoyed dragging it out and watching you retaliate.

 You obliged throwing the sword you didn’t want to use to the side leveling the playing field so the one person who deserved to live walked out of this alive.

You kicked him in the gut with enough force to shove him backwards releasing your skin. The fear you should have held was swallowed as you stood again on unreliable feet. You slumped forward pulling your hand up to wipe the blood dribbling from your busted lip taunting him to come closer.

He did allowing you enough time to reach down and grab the hidden dagger from your boot and freely slice upwards cutting him across the abdomen.

He hissed in pain, his hands flying to the open wound. If you were anything but numb the sight of him in such pain would had stopped you but it didn’t. Once a drop of his blood fell on the ground you knew you wanted more.

He looked at you evilly and annoyed, in one strange second you felt a familiarity towards him. The fear you didn’t have came unexplained at full force. This situation filled you with such dread and pain. He made you feel small and only one person before had done that before.

“Loki?” Your throat was on fire and you let your guard down for a mere second. He pulled your limp arm towards him twisting the arm that held the dagger so harshly behind your back you dropped it. You howled out in pain and felt his own breath on your neck, your body pressed against him almost waiting death by his hand.

His breath seemed colder than the air everywhere else but even the hand he was using to hinder you defenseless felt like a memory.

He brought your own dagger to your neck and you hitched your breath feeling the metal press into your skin. Hard enough that blood was becoming uncovered. He abandoned that pain only to snap the pendant you wore with the knife he held. Your chin was lifted and you wanted to look down with every bone in your body. 

To see it lying on the ground. If you were to die on foreign ground you needed the last comfort you had to welcome you home to Valhalla. 

The knife was back on your neck and your eyes fluttered closed hearing every sound near you. 

The howling of the wind.

The rage of his heart beat.

The breath in his chest and the sounds of a war you lead.

The only thing you couldn’t hear was his voice.

You wanted to hear it to know it was him, to know it was him killing you. To know it was his hand solely giving you the satisfaction you needed to welcome death.

Out of nowhere a battle cry belonging to no other than Thor erupted from the sky along with a flicker of lightning. He tackled the man removing him from you and filling air within your lungs. The knife was so sharp that there was a cut where Thor slid him from. Shallow enough that you were not choking on your own blood but deep enough to bleed.

You could hear Thor landing punches hard enough to crack the skulls of a hundred men. Each punch hit like and egg cracking on the ground with such ferocity he didn’t need his hammer.

You were still frozen in place, staring upwards as you placed one trembling hand on the wrist of your other. His touch lingered and you knew it better than any other, it had brought you spots of comfort even as he was threatening your life.

“Loki.”

-/-

[artificialqueens]

In Sickness and In Health Ch5 - shalaska - pureCAMP

A/N - this has been a long time coming, im sorry!! not sure when i’ll update next as i have exams in july (aaaaaaah) but i’ll do my best!! i hope u enjoy <3

Going in the sea had not been a good idea.

Even in her sleep, Sharon shivered, despite being curled up to Alaska with a tenderness that they had both been too afraid to broach before the confession. No amount of blankets or robes could lift the chill that had settled deep into her bones after her skin had dried. Alaska, as always, feared the worst, and told the driver to continue on through the night.

Sharon’s honesty was scaring Alaska in more than one way. The first being her fear of death - it seemed that both her obstinance and her life force were fading at the same voracious rate. The second, naturally, being the earnest, passionate way she leaned in to their shared kiss.

This was a princess - a member of the royal family that governed Alaska’s entire life. There were laws against this, but Sharon didn’t seem to care. Alaska, again, feared it was because she believed she had no reason to. She didn’t want to die, but she was certain that she was going to.

That night, Alaska was sure she wouldn’t sleep a wink. She sat up straight, methodically rubbing Sharon’s arms to try and warm the princess as she slept, weakened and exhausted. The only sign that she was even still alive was the shallow rising and falling of her chest. Alaska closed her eyes and prayed that she would never have to watch the gentle movement slow to a stop, wishing she could keep Sharon’s heart beating through sheer force of will.

At some point she must’ve dropped off, as she found herself jolting awake and finding that the night had slipped out from beneath her. The land around them looked much the same - plain and green and empty, with a distinct lack of shrubbery or trees. Knowing the tricks of the trade, Alaska was glad - any kind of nature meant a hiding place for looters and robbers. She’d been the victim of highwaymen a few times, but she remembered Willam benefitting from befriending one once. The three friends had eaten well that night, but she had never trusted any of them.

Sharon had clearly woken before her, and was sitting on the opposite bench, wrapped in her robe, a book in her lap. She hadn’t noticed Alaska stirring.

“Hey, morning. How are you feeling?”

At Alaska’s words, she smiled and closed her book. “I’m… alive. Weak, but alive.”

“Good.” Alaska said. “Alive is how we want it to stay. What are you reading?”

Sharon shrugged. “It’s nothing important. I picked up this for you, though.” She lifted a book from beside her. “A compilation of fairy tales.” She told her, blushing slightly. “I read them as a child, before bed. I thought you might like them.”

Alaska bit her lip. “I appreciate it, I do, but I can’t…”

Sharon cut her off. “I know. We could… we could read them together. If you want, that is. It’s okay if - if you don’t.”

“We could try.”

The book was leatherbound, the worn brown cover giving off the impression that it had clearly been read many times before. Atop the leather was a shining gold inscription of a castle, surrounding by swirling cursive letters that Alaska didn’t even attempt to decipher. The pages inside were yellowed with age, but Sharon nevertheless handled them with care as she turned them over, smoothing each one flat as she went. She stopped turning the pages somewhere near the middle, where another story begin. There was a large ink drawing in the centre of the page, depicting a fair haired princess, asleep in an intricate bed. Her hands were clasped over her chest, a picture of serenity. Alaska couldn’t help thinking that the fictional princess looked just like Sharon.

“This is my favourite from when I was a kid…” Sharon said. “I’ll follow the words with my finger as I read it, so you can get a feel for what the words look like. I hope you like it.”

Alaska nodded, resting her head on Sharon’s shoulder as she started to read.

“Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a king and a queen, and the happiest kingdom that there ever was. The kingdom was happy for a special reason, as they would soon be home to a new princess, and peace finally reigned across the land. Everything was perfect.

However, trouble was heading their way. Nearby, two sister witches had moved into the area. One of them was good, kind-hearted and honest. The other was foul and cruel, with a black soul.

When the princess arrived, the kingdom was overjoyed. The king and queen threw a ball, and all of the creatures of the land were invited to celebrate. Every man, every woman, every child; every fairy and elf; every pixie and spirit. Everybody was invited - except for the black-hearted witch.

She was enraged by the kingdom’s betrayal when she learned of the king and queen’s ball. In an instant, she appeared at the palace, darkening the hallways and hushing all of the delighted chatter as soon as she entered. The king stood protectively in front of his wife, as the queen clutched the baby princess in her arms.

“Let’s have a look at her, then.” The witch demanded, forcibly pulling back the baby’s blankets. “Just as I suspected. Pink and rosy and wrong.”

The king scowled at the witch. “Begone, you beast!”

The witch shrugged. “I must say, I’m rather offended I was not invited to this little… soiree of yours. In the future, you will learn from this grave mistake.”

Alaska felt as though she was slipping in and out of her own body as Sharon read. When she wasn’t coughing, straining for breaths after every sentence, she had a pleasant, accented voice, and it was comforting to listen to. In her mind, the story of the princess unfurled, her brain formulating images of beautiful fair-haired princesses in long gowns and scraggly, ragged creatures with hooked noses and warts placing curses on them. She could see the palace, hear the music and the revelry, experience the horror and shock of the vile creature turning up at the palace door. It was the kind of story that she knew, somehow, would have a happy ending, but remained utterly gripped as she waited for the resolution.

Her heart ached as she watched Sharon. Years ago, she was sure, the princess would’ve been sat with her two sisters, perhaps with Adore in her lap, reading fairy tales to them. She would’ve stroked her baby sister’s soft hair, pressed kisses to an unwilling Laila’s forehead, reading the story with exaggerated voices and silly facial expressions. Of course, she would’ve been in good health at the time, with bright eyes and round cheeks and a fuller figure.

Nothing like the skeletal, albeit beautiful, girl who sat beside her.

Alaska tuned back in, hoping to hear the end of the story. She had been listening, drinking in the sound of Sharon’s voice, but she’d been in her head a lot too. Wanting to be fully alert and awake for the ending, she perked up, but Sharon wasn’t talking anymore.

Her skin had gone positively translucent; she was so pale that Alaska could see the great blue veins snaking from under her eyes and stretching across her forehead. Her eyes were much darker than usual, and glassy.

“Sharon?”

One pale, shaky hand was resting at the base of her throat. Alaska felt a surge of dread, like icy water running down her neck.

“Sharon?” She tried again.

The princess gagged, her eyes streaming and bulging as she tried and failed to produce something. Alaska watched, horrified and helpless, as she retched harshly again and again, bringing nothing up and causing the veins in her face to become more and more opaque.

Then, all at once, she gagged and lurched forwards. Her blood, almost black, splattered all against the wall, covering the seats, the curtains and Sharon herself. Once she’d started, she couldn’t stop - she was choking and vomiting pure blood uncontrollably. Alaska panicked.

“Shit! SHIT! DRIVE, FUCKING DRIVE! COME ON!” She screamed, petrified that she would be unable to make herself useful in any other way.

The carriage sped up. Alaska could hear the horses neighing as the driver whipped them, but it wasn’t loud enough to take away from the violent regurgitation. The whole carriage was sprayed with painfully dark blood, including Alaska. When she looked into Sharon’s eyes, they were red and terrified.

A minute passed, and she finally stopped, coughing twice before slumping down. There was blood on her face, in her hair, on her clothes. Her eyes rolled backwards.

“FASTER! PLEASE!” Alaska begged, only just noticing the volume of tears that were pouring down her cheeks. “GO FASTER!”

Despite the blood, Alaska clung to Sharon as tightly as she could. This was so much worse than anything she’d seen so far. This - This was Sharon knocking at death’s door. It was all Alaska could do to hold onto her, trying her hardest to keep her anchored to the world of the living. She could feel her slipping away.

“You can’t leave me now,” She sobbed. “You can’t. I won’t let you.”

Almost as soon as the carriage had sped up, it was screeching to a halt. Alaska clutched Sharon as the driver dismounted, appearing in the window. He didn’t seem perturbed, or surprised, by the grisly scene.

“What are you doing?! Get back out there!” Alaska ordered, her voice shrill.

The driver shook his head. “This is as far as I go.”

“We paid you! Continue!”

“No.” He said adamantly. “No carriage goes here. It’s dodgy, they say. Witches and heathens and the like. Spooks the horses.”

Alaska could see very quickly that arguing would be of no use to her. What she needed right now was time, something that she didn’t have an abundance of. In fact, time was rushing away from her far faster than she needed it to. Before long, she knew Sharon would be dead.

“Fine. Go.”

The moment that Alaska had managed to drag Sharon’s lifeless body out of the carriage, it sped away in the opposite direction. The blood-soaked books had been left behind, and Alaska held only their money and the princess herself. Admittedly, she was strong from years of skilled labour, but it was disconcerting how easy Sharon was to hold. Alaska had spent a lifetime starving, and yet Sharon weighed less than half of her body weight.

She was desperate.

“Is there anyone out here?” She cried out. “Anyone? Someone help!”

A gust of wind swept past. Alaska was sure she heard a voice whispering “This way!” but no one appeared. There was nothing in sight, other than a rusty signpost pointing towards the nearest village. Whatever was there would have to do, for now. Although she had known and acknowledged it before, it hadn’t properly sunken in until now - Sharon was dying. And fast.

She trudged along the path, trying her best not to look at Sharon. The princess was warm and wet with blood, her throat raw from the repulsive outburst. Many times, Alaska had looked at her and sworn she looked dead, but it was nothing in comparison to what she could see now. This was a face that she could see being laid to rest, not that of somebody who would make a swift recovery.

“Please.” She begged, unsure of whether she was asking the heavens or the earth or Sharon herself. “Please, keep fighting. Keep holding on.”

“This way…” The wind replied.

-0-

Alaska’s arms were giving out. Despite Sharon being light, there was only so many hours that Alaska could walk and bear her full weight at the same time. Hours later, in the rapidly darkening world of night, they still hadn’t reached the village. It was likely - and horrifying - that Sharon wouldn’t make it through the night.

Collapsing onto the ground, Alaska laid Sharon down and began to cry, her back pressed against a large oak tree. The whole quest, the search for glory and riches in the hopes of surviving another few years had been utterly futile. She would be left with a broken heart and a broken home at the end of it all. Sharon was going to die, and that was it.

She felt selfish for thinking it, but knowing that her journey had been for nothing really stung. There would be no prize at the end, nothing good to come out of it. Only the memories of a forbidden love that almost was, but wasn’t quite.

Alaska sobbed bitterly. It wasn’t fair that she had been used, it wasn’t fair that she had fallen in love, and it wasn’t fair that she was blaming Sharon for the bleak future that awaited her. She was being awful and cruel, all because things had gone wrong. Deep down, somewhere, she had believed that Sharon just might make it. Now she knew better. Now she knew there was no hope.

It was pitch black, the empty night sky merging with the shade provided by the tree to create a comforting disguise of darkness. Alaska knew she was vulnerable - there was a large amount of money strapped to her, and she was armed with just a sword and a dagger to fight off any skilled thieves. One or two, she could maybe take on, but any more than that would have her seized, robbed and likely killed.

Oh, well. At least she could stay with Sharon that way.

Stop it! She berated herself. Sharon was going to live. She had to. Their kingdom needed a queen, and Alaska… Alaska needed her too.

“Oh, my. What a precarious and peculiar situation? Are you quite alright?”

Alaska turned, the voice jolting her from her misery. She didn’t bother to wipe away her tears, knowing that whoever spoke could barely see her.

“No. She’s dying and everything I’ve done has been for nothing. If you’ve come to rob me, just take it.”

There was a pause. “There won’t be any thieving tonight, I can assure you. Your friend here is sick, yes? She’s quite bloody.”

Alaska frowned, instantly distrustful of the figure. There was no way they could see Sharon, or know that she was covered in blood - Alaska couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face. Had they been watching?

“Who are you? What are you doing?” She demanded.

“All in good time.” The voice replied simply. “It seems that you require assistance. I would be happy to offer it, should you accept.”

There was no other option. “Okay. If you think you can.”

“Yes…” The voice said, though it sounded as though she wasn’t talking to Alaska. There was another pause, then she heard a quiet neighing. “No, no. That won’t do at all.”

Crack.

A bird tweeted.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

Crack.

An ungodly keening broke through the night.

“A banshee? Really? No!”

Crack.

“Ah. Much better.”

A greenish glow had suddenly lit up the area. Standing above Alaska was the figure of a woman, outstretching her long bony fingers. She took them and stood up, trying to take in the person before her.

She was tall and waifish, seeming almost too long to be human. Her skin was white, with deep blue eyes and sunken cheeks. Unusually, her hair was short and grey, yet she appeared to be ageless, floating between looking like an adult and an adolescent. She wore black leather from head to foot, in trousers rather than a dress, and was draped in a brown cloak. There was a tattoo on the inside of her wrist, visible from when she helped Alaska to her feet.

“Who are you? W-What are you?” Alaska managed. An odd mixture of fear and reassurance had washed over her. She didn’t feel threatened, but she was certain that this wasn’t any ordinary human.

She merely smiled. “If you can manage, lift your friend. I will have you to safety in no time.”

Alaska did as she was told. Sharon was still unconscious, and Alaska cursed herself for being so selfish and thinking of herself when the princess had still not woken up. All the time she’d wasted thinking about herself was time that Sharon was losing.

The source of the green light turned out to be what Alaska first thought was a pile of sticks. The woman picked it up, revealing it to be a broomstick, but that didn’t seem to be much of a revelation either. What was she planning - enslaving them? She couldn’t help but wonder if the woman had heard her when she said that Sharon was dying. Neither of them would be any use to her.

“Hold on tightly to this and to her. You won’t fall, but I find it often soothes the nerves of first time flyers. Quickly mount.”

First time flyers?

Before she even had a chance to ask, the broom seemed to have lifted itself. Alaska clutched Sharon, riding side-saddle on the broomstick as it rose into the air and shot away into the night. In front, the figure seemed perfectly calm and composed, as though she was used to her broomsticks randomly floating. If anything, she seemed to be controlling the direction it was going in.

Alaska was flying. On a broomstick.

It didn’t get much stranger. If she hadn’t been sick with worry over Sharon, she would’ve been utterly enthralled with such a novelty.

She tried to ask again who the woman was, but her voice wouldn’t carry over the rushing wind. They were travelling fast, the landscape racing behind them as they flew just below the clouds. It was a speech unreachable by carriages, that Alaska knew - and it was exactly what she needed. Wherever they were going, she was sure they’d get there in plenty of time.

A few short minutes passed of Alaska murmuring prayers for Sharon before the broom touched down in front of a small woodland cottage, just away from a series of lights that Alaska identified as the nearby village. The figure dismounted, clicking once to make the broom stow itself away somewhere inside her home.

“Come, now. There is a space on the table for your friend to lie. Hurry and place her there.”

Again, Alaska obeyed immediately, still somewhat afraid to challenge her unspoken authority. Her voice was soft, accented; it was nothing like she’d ever heard, and yet oddly comforting at the same time.

The cottage was rustic yet homely, made almost entirely of wood and wrought iron. Red and purple candles gave the place a warm glow and a heady, aromatic scent, making Alaska feel unequivocally calmer and safer than she ever had before. In the centre of the room, where Sharon was now lying, there was a large table, surrounded by cabinets and cupboards and strange devices that Alaska couldn’t identify. The grey-haired woman hurried to remove her cloak, taking Alaska’s robe from her and hanging them up before rushing to Sharon’s side. Alaska didn’t bother trying to make sense of her odd, yet comforting surroundings.

“Well?” She demanded. “Who are you? Where are we? Can you help, or not?”

The grey-haired woman placed a hand on Sharon’s ribcage.

“You can call me Max, dearest.” She spoke gently. “Tell me, how did you come across this young woman?”

Alaska found that her tongue had suddenly loosened considerably. As quickly and concisely as she could, she told Max everything - how Sharon was the princess, how she had fallen ill and was in desperate need of help before it was too late, and how along the way - along the way, feelings had gotten complicated. She found herself telling Max things that she swore she could never tell anyone, for her own safety.

“Of course, the darling princess…” Max murmured fondly. “Yes, I remember her birth. Your kingdom was delighted. She was a beautiful baby.”

“She- You know her? She knows you?”

Max smiled. “No, dearest, she doesn’t know me. I attended the ball that her parents held, to celebrate her arrival. She will become Queen soon, will she not?”

Alaska sniffed, suddenly remembering the problem at hand. “Not if she doesn’t get help, and fast. She’s - she’s dying, and even the royal physicist didn’t know what to do. Who-Whatever you are, you’re our only hope.”

Removing her hand from Sharon’s ribcage, Max frowned. “Peculiar. Very peculiar.”

“What’s peculiar?” Alaska asked instantly. “Is she okay?”

“It appears to be so.” Max said clearly. “That is unusual. This, perhaps, is no regular sickness.”

Alaska was on alert. “So there’s nothing you can do?!”

“Not necessarily.” Max said distractedly. “Dear, I need you to step over that glowing line, do you see it?”

Across the floor, although it hadn’t been there to begin with, a glowing white line had appeared, cutting off what appeared to be the living area from a kitchen of sorts. Feeling slightly shunted, Alaska perched on the end of the leather sofa, feeling much colder now that she wasn’t engulfed in the strange thick magic that hung in the air.

By now, she knew Max had to be a witch, which only meant one thing - she had to be the person they had been searching for. A witch who could heal Sharon was her exact instruction, and it seemed that she had found one.

Max was busying around the kitchen, pulling tiny vials of coloured liquids out of cupboards and plucking herbs and powders from their jars. Everything seemed to be in disarray, but she knew how to find it all in an instant. Ingredient after ingredient was carefully added to another small, crystal vial, each one producing some sort of reaction - a puff of smoke, a change of colour, a strong odour. Alaska watched in awe as she worked, all the while remaining inside her magically designated area. As she worked, she murmured an unintelligible incantation.

When the concoction was finished, it was pure gold, swirling like she had taken the shine from the stars and captured it in a bottle. Very carefully, she poured the mixture past Sharon’s lips, and the princess shuddered violently. She lurched upright, wheezing, but her eyes were closed. Her head lolled backwards.

“Quickly.” Max intoned. “State your full name and step across the line, now. You must hurry.”

Leaping to her feet, Alaska muttered her name and dashed towards Sharon, taking her hand and stroking her frighteningly cold skin.

“This is no ordinary sickness.” Max said gravely. “We must look deeper. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“Hold on tight, dearest. Hold on tight and don’t let go.”

-0-

They were in palace.

It was a bright, warm evening in the palace - sunlight was streaming through the large windows, onto the dining table. The royal family were gathered in the middle, looking younger than Alaska knew them to be. Max was watching intently.

“Happy Birthday dear Shaaaron, Happy Birthday to you!” They sang, cheering.

Alaska was taken aback. Sharon’s hair was thick and full, her eyes bright, her skin clear and fresh. She was youthful, happy, and not remotely sick. Her trademark red lips were pulled into a smile, and she clutched a tiny, seven year old Adore in her lap.

“Happy twentieth, darling.” The Queen kissed Sharon’s cheek.

“Go on!” Adore grinned, bouncing.

Sharon smoothed down her dress, tickling her sister’s sides as she did. When Adore screamed and wriggled, she leant forwards and blew out the candles.

Alaska smiled warmly. It was true, Sharon had been beautiful; she was every suitor’s dream, in perfect health and the epitome of gorgeous. Her dress, a stunning olive-green number with lace sleeves and a full skirt, fitted her properly, rather than hanging loosely from her figure. She wasn’t emaciated and gaunt like Alaska knew her to be. She was full of life.

As the smoke curled upwards from the candles, Sharon coughed - just once.

The sound put Alaska on edge instantly. The Queen, too, it seemed, had been worried by the innocuous sound.

“Are you alright, darling?” She asked.

Sharon nodded, her cheeks rosy. “Of course, mother! I think it was just the smoke getting to me. Let’s all have some cake, yes? Miss Michaels!”

Alaska blinked, and she was back in Max’s kitchen. Sharon was lying down once again, positively corpse-like. It was a stark and painful difference from the lively princess they’d seen from just a few years ago.

Max’s expression was grim. “It appears to be just as I feared.” She sighed. “She’s cursed.”

“Cursed?!” Alaska screeched. “Wh- How?!”

Things seemed to just be going from bad to worse. Right when Alaska got her hopes up, they were knocked down again by some unforeseen consequence that loomed in the shadows. She wondered briefly if there was any point in continuing to fight - it seemed that the universe was against saving Sharon’s life. No matter the endeavours to try and keep her alive, the world was fighting to let her die.

“Y-You can help her, right?” Alaska’s voice trembled, betraying the hopelessness that had started to build up in the pit of her stomach. “You can still save her, can’t you?”

Max pursed her lips. “Perhaps…”

She placed her hand on Sharon’s forehead, chanting under her breath. The princess choked, a harsh, guttural sound, and a wisp of pure black smoke curled from her lips, instantly darkening the room. Once warm, the kitchen suddenly seemed frigid. A sinister chill had wrapped itself around the place.

“Of course.” Max whispered. “I suspected, but I hoped it wasn’t that…”

Alaska swallowed. “Wha-What do you mean? Is she okay? What’s going on?”

The witch turned her back on Alaska, hanging her head as though in shame or regret. She gently placed the used crystal vial back into its place and sighed heavily.

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

[echoeblo]

Different Pasts, Niles and Lyn study. Lyn comes to ask Nohrian Prince Leo for advice.

The halls of the Nohrian palace are wide and cold, accented at intervals by attentive guards. Lyn walks through them with a learned confidence counter to her nervous mind, following the escort to the meeting room.

Nohr had recently been through turmoil similar to Caelin’s own, and the aftermath of succession had been similarly progressive. Under King Xander’s rule, Nohr’s relationship with neighboring kingdoms had blossomed, healing old scars and distrust at almost alarming rates.

Lyn had heard rumors of the royal line’s ability. Her meeting had not been scheduled with the current king, however - she had chased rumors of a druid prince who works in shadows. From voices in the wind, Lyn had heard of this prince’s endeavors to improve the living situation of his own citizens, and the kingdom already reflected his will. Five years after King Xander’s succession and the level of poverty had already been cut down significantly.

Lyn follows the escort, eyeing him suspiciously. The sudden change in reputation is more than enough to place anyone on edge, and despite how much she wishes to improve her own home’s situation, she can’t help but want to run from this.

She jumps slightly at a hand on her shoulder, and she looks to her side to see Kent smiling reassuringly at her. She smiles back shakily, showing him the first and only crack in her façade. He squeezes her shoulder again in support before letting go, and she feels considerably more at ease knowing Kent is there with her, a constant comfort ever since she claimed her own birthright.

The escort stops and gestures for her to enter a room. She does, listening for Kent’s steps behind her, and she walks into a wide and mostly empty room aside from a round table and two other people.

Lyn freezes at the door, meeting the eyes of the sitting prince. His gaze is both expressive and guarded and from it, she can only read tiredness and thinly veiled irritation. Her blood boils slightly at his dismissive demeanor.

Her gaze only lingers on the prince for a moment before shifting to the man behind him, a retainer seemingly nothing like hers - posture lax as he leans against his lord’s shoulder, single eyebrow quirked and observing her more intensely than his casualness suggested.

Royalty and formalities had never made Lyn feel comfortable, but as much as she preferred freeness to the stiffness of formal talks, something about the man rubs her the completely wrong way.

Bandit, her first thought is, and her blood boils slightly more before Kent nudges her back, a gentle grounding gesture that reminds her to keep an open mind and remember her purpose.

She walks forward, steps quiet even as Kent’s resound behind her. She focuses on that heaviness and smiles, happy to know that her knight has never had the need to learn how to step lightly.

As she sits down, she trades small pleasantries with the prince before extending her practiced speech to him. “Prince Leo of Nohr, I am Lady Lyndis of Caelin. I have come to make a request.”

Leo leans forward, an only somewhat curious spark in his eye. “This is about my work with Nohr’s citizens, correct?”

“Indeed,” Lyn answers. “I have heard rumors of your work. In only three years, you have significantly improved Nohr’s quality of life, reducing poverty greatly.”

“If you expect me to do similar for Caelin,” Leo interrupts, “then you are sorely mistaken. I work for my home, and my home only.”

“That is not my request,” Lyn answers, biting back her distaste at his lack of compassion. “I can only ask for advice.”

Leo quirks his eyebrow, disinterested. “Advice for what, exactly?”

“For reducing poverty in Caelin. It is my home, and the less thieves roaming it, the better.”

Leo pauses for a moment before opening his mouth, but a different voice speaks up before Leo can get a word in.

“So you wish to rid your home of thieves?”

Lyn meets the eye of Leo’s retainer, fire in her veins. “Of course. The less criminals, the safer Caelin will be.”

“So you would rid your home of criminals for the sake of all the other citizens?”

At this, Lyn leans forward. “Of course. They have done nothing worthy of the trouble thieves inflict on them.”

Something flashes across the retainer’s features before he smiles and leans forward, almost tauntingly. “My, I had hoped your tongue would be good for something, Lady Lyndis. It seems it wouldn’t be worth even a rusted coin, though.”

“Niles,” Leo says quietly, a tiny admonishment.

Lyn feels disgust and anger flood her immediately. “How depraved! Are all from Nohr as poor mannered as you?!”

Kent places a hand on her shoulder, but Niles leans forward, an empty grin gracing his face. “How wonderful, so the girl has some bite after all. I love when women play rough, you know. Makes it much more interesting.”

He places his thumb against his lips and licks it, not looking away from Lyn’s gaze. Lyn slams the table and stands up, wiping Kent’s hand off of her shoulder. She turns her gaze back to the prince.

“Have you no control over your subjects?!”

Leo meets her gaze evenly, seemingly more irritated than before. “What do you plan for the thieves plaguing your home?” he asks, and Lyn nearly yells her answer at him before Kent grabs her arm and speaks for her.

“Please, Prince Leo, we only ask for advice.”

Lyn bites back her temper for only a moment. Leo stands up smoothly, eyes closed and almost serene.

“If you can’t see the petty criminals of your home as actual humans with motives, then you have no place asking me for advice,” he says simply. “If you wish for any material help, I’d advise you to have an audience with my brother instead.”

He moves to walk away and Lyn clenches her teeth before relaxing slightly at the sight of vines climbing down the prince’s chair. She regards them curiously, wondering if they were there before, before recalling a curious rumor regarding the prince of Nohr.

“... I’d heard that plants grow near you whenever you are irritated,” she says, more to herself than him. Both of the Nohrians stop and turn to face her, and small buds grew out of the ground near Leo’s feet almost immediately.

Despite everything, Lyn holds back a small laugh at the sight.

Leo sighs, the sound heavy with irritation. “It’s been a problem since I was a kid,” he answers reluctantly.

Lyn smiles lightly. “I wouldn’t say a problem,” she offers. A moment passes and she sighs, feeling more tired than she had in days. “What do you mean by “motives,” exactly?”

Niles looks away. “Exactly that,” Leo says. “Have you never stopped to consider why thieves and bandits exist?”

“Not since my family was murdered by them, no,” she answers dryly. Niles looks back at her and regards her curiously.

“Most of the time, they have no other choice. It’s either thievery or they lay down and die.”

“An honest life isn’t so simple when you aren’t handed luxuries for being born, love,” Niles chimes in, voice dripping with sweet poison. Lyn’s eye twitches.

“I’ve rarely seen bandits kill out of necessity,” she counters.

“Then your eyes are only good for decoration, it seems.”

The two leave the room and Kent rubs Lyn’s arm quietly.

[rosheendubh]

This draft is so pre-draft rough(ruff) it's barking its language...forgive the bad pun;)

–I’m putting this here to paste into my WriteWayPro file later. Its OTT, way over-narrated, and sort of stream of conscience, including my personal thought asides on notations to address later, bc it’s better having more material with which to work when editing later, and refining after that, than less… –This is part 2, actually after the opening (not posted on my tumblr) told from Artorius’s POV, which started on ‘how does a man enter Rome’? –Rome, spring 182 CE Early, early spring, the second year of his honored majesty’s rule, Emperor Lucius Aurelius Commodus, banquet celebrating the deification of the beloved Marcus Aurelius –The theater, some private theater mentioned in my most recent audiobook venture, 'The Architecture of Ancient Rome’, which was utilized for smaller venues hosted by the nobility, including the Imperial family… ~~ The headache was with her all day, a throb in the back of her skull that felt like a siege hammer pushing through her forehead to the back of her brain. It had started in the morning, barely noticeable, but had grown steadily with the falling night, made her eyes ache/strain in the light, and curled her stomach with faint waves of nausea. They had plagued her since adolescence, these 'cephalgia migrainosus", which is what Galen called them, and the had grown steadily worse Since the death of her father, more frequent, hammering through her brain, and sometimes incapacitating her for 2 and 3 days at a time. The days when her maid could attend her at home, and she could lay in her sleeping quarters, the cool breeze wafting up from the (Hamilton…just kidding)__Heights, sun freshened air chasing the stagnancy of the lower streets hanging heavy in the chill mist that clung to Roman mornings in the early spring, with her favorite lute-player strumming a soothing melody, and her daughter rubbing her temples, she rebounded within a day. It was when her brother summoned her to court, the drill she played between his excesses and outrages, his impetuousness and boredom, which, if he indulged it, turned to malicious amusements unless she interceded, the way she had cultivated through the years, teasing and tailoring, softening and easing Commodus’s temperaments in counterpoint to the Ruffled sensibilities of the old patrician Senators, taking care to not overstep that tenuous boundary imposed by his favorite hangers-on. The headaches on those days were interminable, but she has learned to sublimate them, subsume the pain, and construct her mask. A public facade, the flawless serenity she shows the world, –She’s taken a place at a window, facing north (I need to establish if this setting is at the Theater of the Nobility/or the Palace/and decide the direction toward the Tiber…) across a sea of darkness, broken by the faint lamps and torches that line the maze of streets and plazas, down the _____Hill, toward the docks of the Tiber, sipping wine she knows will make her headache/weariness worse, but it warms her stomach, spreading its soft glow to her clenched fingers, grasping the vessel, and slows the rapid burst of her heart against her chest. The Scent on the night wind reminds her for a moment, of that week in Hispania, when her father paid visit to a branch of an equestrian family, native to the (Neopolitan region), the gens Artorii, who had settled along the sea-battered cliffs of Asturias, and supplied cavalry mounts from their breeding farms outside of Isirium/Coruna. A retired veteran, Aelius Artorius Verus had one son, a restless youth on the eve of his 2nd decade, Lucius Artorius, who was grappling like a caged beast w/ambitions to see the wider world, and for a young man of provincial equestrian status, that meant joining the army. She had been newly widowed, an empress, now a mere emperor’s daughter once more, and thinking she was to enjoy a welcome respite from domesticity, enjoy her father’s company as his confidant, in place of her often frail mother, anxious over her infant sisters, and her favored brother. But she was the most gifted of his children, for all she was a daughter and not a son. Her rebuke to her father had been sharp that morning, discovering she was to be bartered off in yet another marriage, to another eastern low-born catamite. Marcus Aurelius’s unruffled, philosophical regard/equanimity only set her off her more, and she stormed in angry tears from his quarters, used as his temporary audience hall, whilst they resided at the home/villa of the Artorii. Her upset took her out into the stables where Artorius, in the process of grooming and saddling one of their private mounts, stopped frozen in his task, tongue tied/stuttering out some greeting. Lucilla, accustomed to the adoration she often observed upon the faces of the varied retainers of her father’s men, learned to accept such worship with nary a pucker or a blush, as serene as her father, and properly haughty when necessary. But this day, she had no patience for such awkward/untried/infatuations, snapping at him to ready another of their horses, and to ride out with her, letting loose another rampant of temper when he tried to insist there was no horse in his father’s stables gentle enough to act as a woman’s pony. *You think the only sorts of horses I rode while crossing the rocky footpaths of Dalmatia with my husband were slow-broke nags and docile ponies? My safety isn’t a concern of yours or anyone’s but my own.* Artorius had flushed, the shade harsh, making his ruddy, sun-touched skin only darker, but his eyes, a steel-gray that made her think of storm-clouds low over a squalling sea, met hers, saying firmly. *I did not mean imply you have no talent for more spirited horses, Lady. But I’ll bear your anger to correct you in saying that your safety, in fact, is of the utmost importance, bc it’s my life forfeit if it’s in my company when you happen to be unseated from your mount and break your neck, or your head is dashed upon rocks bc you’re thrown. It will be upon my conscience that I did not caution nor guard you close enough, and it will be upon my family’s honor that I, who ought to have been responsible for the Augusta’s life, failed in my duty.* Shocked into silence, it took Lucilla some very long, slow breaths to work through the turmoil in her mind, not used to being opposed/countered in her demands. He was obviously not the callow, infatuated, all-worshiping youth she had thought; though she could see him starting to glance away from her stilled gaze uncomfortably, looking like he wanted to be anywhere the other side of hell than in her presence just then. Her sudden peel of laughter took him aback, his eyes leaping back to her, consternation in his frown. *Indeed, Artorius Castus, forgive me. You are right–about my flippancy toward mortality anyway. As for the title, that’s no longer mine to claim.* His face eased into a gradual smile, a cheeky half-grin at first that lifted his earnest melancholy, a flash of white teeth and twinkle in his gaze that made her, in that moment, uncomfortably aware that he was quite handsome, in that roughened way of men who spent their hours outside tasting of wind, sun, and chasing the clouds or the waves in all elements. His laughter was warm and deep. *We aren’t as inclined to track titles, my Lady. You’re the daughter of an emperor. And you were the wife of one. Your husband being dead makes you no less an empress. That alone elevates you above the common stock.* His words hit like a cold ice-crush into her chest. *Today, I don’t wish to be anything other than…me. Lucilla.* She willed him with all her heart, trying not to let the edge of panic/desperation/hysterics take her voice. *Please, take me out with you today. I’ll ride whatever horse you feel suited.* The set of his mouth revealed his inclination to protest. Studying her, she wondered what he must have seen in the intensity she could feel drawing tight the muscles of her jaw/the strain over her brow. *I can’t go back to face my father right now* *As you wish*he nodded, after a moment’s indecision.

–During week Lucilla/MA visit Isirium, escaping plague sweeping through the east, Artorius and Lucilla escape from dreary boredom of older older adults early morning in spring, riding out along the cliffs down to seaside, finding a sheltered copse ringed by early spring flowers, in low cluster, discuss Varro, Artorius despises, commenting how poets make all rural dwellers sound like they suck the tears of their goats, and fuck their sheep, to which only realized the coarseness of the comment after he says it, apologizing, Lucilla insists she not offended, explaining that she spent most of her married life around her husband’s dissipated crowd…Artorius expresses his frustration, wanting to see the world, to which Lucilla states it may not be all so enticing, Artorius states he will at least have experienced it, Lucilla asks if he would like to hear what offends her, going on to explain how men belittle the fact she’s a woman, and for that reason, can’t understand what it takes to rule an Empire, despising how the borders need reinforcements, and are strained, spend gold to the East for foreign luxuries, eyeing the silk and thread threading of her over gown, while the treasury taxes the people to privation in order to buy Egyptian grain… Artorius insists he’s not offended, but enchanted, and she states how the both have their ambitions…

She ignores the background chatter in the room, finding the dim glow from the streets below, stretching north and east across the Forum___, and climbing up the terraced ____scattering of homes set into the ____Hill less harsh to her pulsing/exhausted vision/sight/stressed sight. “Is it very bad, this one?” The words come from behind her, as she swings around at their sound. “Artorius! How did you escape being announced?” she whispers conspiringly, dropping her head low. “By taking to the streets, on my two feet, like a common pleb.” His grin hasn’t changed in all the years between their first meeting and now, revealing the same cheeky humor, the twinkle in his eyes. “Your attendants were made of more delicate stamina.” “Careful with your criticisms. They’re two of Saertoros’s favorite cosmeticians. You insult them too strongly, and he’ll see that my brother orders you to groomed by an African ape for the amusement of the mob.” “Well, they did wonders with my garb, I’ll grant that.” He gestures over the fine linen tunic of light blue, which falls below his knees, edged in the thin border of porphyry silk, the belt of silver plate-links, the buckle of bronze and gilt working showing Neptune driving his chariot of sea horses across the waves, trident in one hand, whipping his beasts on with the other, the only indication of Artorius Castus’s commissioned status in the chief marine unit of the Emperor. The years haven’t so much aged him as refined the essence of that eager, restless young man who had captured her heart in those brief, sweet days they had spent rambling along the wind swept-cliffs, upon the sturdy steeds his father used to fortify bloodlines of cavalry mounts for the legions, bearing them, clamoring up hidden trails, and winding into the deep green valleys, where they sat and shared their dreams, their memories, with one another beside a sun-dappled river, and a strand of blossoming aspens. Thick black brows crown his strong features, a wide forehead, balanced by deep-set eyes, their gray now shaded by a more staid melancholy than she recalls, the first lines at their corners evidence of sun, wind, and sea, than the ravages of time. His gazes moves over her unabashedly, following the line of cheek, the slope of throat, where the glitter of twined Spanish silver drapes like a slither of snow over her collarbones. She feels her skin warm/face flush beneath the draw/heat in his gaze, his focus sliding along the slight rise of her breastbone, the curves of soft flesh just below, outlined by the gentle folds of Indian cotton, shot with silvered silk, the delicate fabric shivering against her skin with each quickened breath. A handful of stolen kisses, caresses in shadowed corners of fort buildings, the dizzying exhilaration of their movements, his limbs twined with hers on the rare nights she had been able to sneak away to him, the last time they had been together in Aquileia/Sirmium, in that week before her father died, and the world changed forever. Despite their solitude by the window, at the edge of the banquet hall, Lucilla is ever aware of the greedy attention of the guests that track her every move, and posture. She sighs long, gathering her poise, giving him a scrutinizing look, inhaling/sniffing the air about him. “Well, you don’t smell like you’ve been at sea these last 12 months.” He quirks an eyebrow,/puzzled look/caught by her off hand comment, before breaking into a short, gruff laugh. “Your attendants- "Saortius’s attendants.” Lucilla wants it clear, she bears no ties, however casual or trivial such associations may be, with any of the intimates of her brother’s circle, particularly his male-lover. Artorius gives her a pointed, playful look, humoring her correction. “Whoever. They had their hour, primping over me in the baths. Amid the mewling, hissing, and tsking- "Fascinating. Were they cats, or men?” His mouth quirks up at one side, the mirth in his eyes basking over her, not off-put in the least by the tart tone. “They were yowling like cats by the time I was done with them.” “Oh dear,” Lucilla frowns, feigning concern. “You weren’t too horrible to them, were you? They are, after all, rather used to the effeminate world of stage actors and court dancers. Not the demanding rigor of our military men.” Artorius’s voice carries all of his mimed disdain/insult/violation. “They plucked a hair from my chest.” A line of neatly trimmed hairs accents his jaw, matching the dark brown, thick cropped tresses covering his scalp. “They left your beard,” she offers in mock sweetness. “They tried sprinkling me with Rose oil from Antioch,” he blurts in his barley contained indignation. To which she laughs suddenly, Artorius’s deeper timbre adding to her joy. A husky merriment that relaxes the tension cramping/squeezing her temples, chasing away the dull hammer of her headache behind her eyes. She feels…lighter, in that moment. Young again, and wishing to be the woman, the person she always had been with him, the person he had always cherished. Not an icon of power, a vehicle to breed heirs, or even, as her brother acknowledged, an advisor, his echoing confessor, to soothe his impulses, and temper his fears, balancing that fine edge between keeping his favor, and repairing the sensibilities of the senators. Conscious of the attention their mirth has drawn from the other guests gathered about the hall, they quiet into breathlessness. A glance exchanged, Lucilla has to squeeze her lips together, seeing Artorius’s smirk flick at the edge of mouth, threaten to dissolve them into another round/gale of laughter. “You should smile more,” he says. The tenderness in his voice cuts into her heart. He sees the question in her eyes. “You look…” “Younger?” She can’t quite keep the archness/tartness from her tone. “Freer.” Her smile this time, is a sad ghost, a memory of the girl she had been, the hope of her youth, buried, sunken beneath the woman she has become in the years since her father’s death, managing Commodus’s excesses and corruptions, fighting to keep her perfect composure, serenity, and keep his suspicions of her dead. Her eyes cross over the myriad bodies clustered in the private groups, conversing in low voices, sipping from their fine molded, silver goblets. She tone is hard. “The same men who used to surround my father squealing like suckling pigs now cage my brother like scavenging sharks. He and his lover paw each other like humping dogs in front of his wife, and she does nothing. He insults our generals, men who won our father’s victories, spurning their counsel on the eve of triumph to instead, treat with the Quadi, and they do nothing. He degrades our senators, ignores our laws, and squanders our treasury upon his perverse entertainments, and they do nothing. My husband does…nothing.”

“Lucilla?” Her name only, but his tone if full of caution, knowing, not wanting to understand what she’s saying.

Far below, the streets of Rome emanate a faint glow, the soft light of torches mounted outside forecourts, oil-lamps set on open casements in upper story rooms. The season is still early, the night fresh with the spring rains which blow in from the coast, washing out the muddied lanes, and clearing the gutters of their festering filth. She turns from the window, from the dark night beyond the palace, meeting Artorius’s’ frown with a slow, reassuring smile. “It will all be different after tonight.”

“What do you mean?” The question is spoken low, his eyes heavy upon her.

Her smile fades as she glances behind him, seeing her husband, Claudius Pompeianus, approach them from across the banquet hall. On his arm, he escorts his guest. A woman, tall, regal. Striking, despite being on the closing end of her fifth decade, as Lucilla figures her age anyway. Envy, jealousy, or hatred. She ought to feel something other than this empty echo of sadness which rises, a dull ache pressing into her chest. She can’t hide the curl of her lip, her sorrow briefly breaking through. “Nothing,” she repeats the word like a mantra of her emptiness, turning her attention fully to Artorius, “I mean nothing. Only that I am happy you are here. That we are finally together after so long apart,” her practiced poise smoothing away any expression of upset.

The troubled shadow in his gaze tells her he’s not convinced. Despite Artorius’s devotion, his desire for her, there’s little he, nor anyone can do to cure this malignancy, the pain of her marriage. The grudge she still carries against her father, who she adored with all the faith in her being, transforming into the epitome of culture and grace, an empress to match her emperor. She had been the restraint, the light touch of wisdom redirecting the excesses of Lucius Verus’s behavior into victories that secured the loyalty of their eastern provinces. When plague had taken her first husband, and stolen away her role as Augusta, Marcus Aurelius hadn’t granted her the reward of autonomy, but bartered her to a man of lower rank, and dull ambition. For all Pompeianus’s military achievements, he carried little regard for the art of politics, and the intricacies of imperium. He had long ago accepted his wife’s baffling contempt as yet one more necessary inconvenience in the fulfillment of duty. She had given him a healthy son, and in so far as state contracts were concerned, Lucilla had kept her part of the bargain, providing an heir for Pompeianus, and assuring his senatorial heritage. Had she known back in the early years of their marriage, the true source of his coolness toward her, his forbidden, secret affection for the woman now at this side, Lucilla might have been spared the gnawing guilt that had haunted her for so many long, tortured nights.

An urge nearly overwhelms her, to suddenly unburden herself, admit everything of her plans, the reason for her enigmatic words, to Artorius. But Pompeianus and his companion draw near, almost into ear-shot. Instead, her desperation raw in her voice, she whispers, “Come to me tonight?”

She hears the ragged breath of his surprise, his desire, the way his gaze, suddenly bright with need, lances through her, then leaps to her husband and the woman at his side. The conflict of his conscience constricting his face. "Lucilla–“her name harsh, dragged past his lips into silence.

"Please.” She knows Artorius’s opinion of her husband is somewhat more elevated than her own, more favorable. They had served along the Danube together, Artorius Castus a mere centurion at the time. He was honored by Pompieanus, by her father, for his treatment of the Sarmatians, the conscription of over five-thousand horselords to re-garrison the depleted forces along Britannia’s hinterlands. Those shores of cold mist and savage moors, where legionaries described the women as giantesses, war-mad and frothing at the mouth, charging their chariots into battle. The woman striding elegantly beside her husband is tall, taller than the average Roman man. By all appearances, though, she embodies the ease of a Republican matron, rather than a warrior-queen, bent on tearing her enemies to pieces.

“Who is she?” Artorius asks, following the line of her gaze to her husband and his guest.

“The one he ought to have married.” She clutches his hand quickly, feeling the warmth, the power in his answering grasp. "Come to me tonight?”

He traces the delicate band of bronze circling her ring finger. “You still wear it?”

“Always.” She nods, swallowing, her breath catching in her throat, the years of loneliness she’s kept at bay with the precious memories of their loving her only succor in the endless seasons of their separation. “Please. Tonight.”

A moment of silence, marking the time with the thundering of her heart drumming through her hearing. Then…

“Always,” spoken harshly, a sigh, everything of his love, and his reluctance in that one word.

One last squeeze, and their hands drop apart. Claudius and his companion slow, stopping to offer their welcome. Lucilla inhales deeply, greeting them with a bright smile. "Husband! You recall Lucius Ar-

"Artorius Castus!” She’s always hated how he over-speaks her, but Lucilla manages her annoyance, a small bow, and she steps back to Lucius'a side as the men exchange their greetings.

Claudius grabs Lucius’s hand, drawing him into a vigorous hug, their hearty ribbing full of laughter and jest. Her husband is still a well-built man, for all of being in in his mid-sixties.

“Last I saw you, lad, you were pummeling Sarmatians back to their Maker. Then, stroking the scabbards of Marcus Aurelius’s advisors the wrong way–may his soul rest easy–insisting the turds be conscripted.”

Artorius grins quickly/ruefully as the part. “For which I had the dubious task/honor seeing to their transfer across 10 rivers and no less than five provinces, excluding the crossing to Britannia.”

“And soundly rewarded with an assignment direct to the emperor’s fleet out of Misenium,” Claudius says in his clipped/brisk voice/chuckle. Lucilla marvels how he can strip himself of the trappings of a genteel senator, and take on the trappings of his old military demeanor when in the presence of fellow veterans and active legionaries, as though he doesn’t wish to be thought of as soft or indolent these years he’s resided in Rome. “Are you bored yet, with spitting sea salt and basting German whores along the fringe of the Rhine?”

Artorius’s laugh is short, his smirk touching his eyes, a comradely smile passing between the men. “You’ve obviously been keeping a close track on my career.”

“We heard about how your men routed the Quadi/OTHER TRIBES/LAST ENGAGEMENT AFTER COMMODUS’s PEACE at ______Fort on the Danube, where it crosses at____, all the way here in Rome.” Claudius’s admiration is plain across his grizzled features, white brows and silvered hair, his dark eyes shine like a alert hound’s, hungering for the hunt, reliving the glory days of his own command under her father. “Ingenious, using the damming from the winter melt.”

Artorius, more reserved, says only, “We were fortunate the spring thaw was so rapid that year. It slowed their boats/rafts, halted their offensive, or we would have been fighting their parties from two fronts. It allowed time to oil the logs, and have the archers take a position from the trees, and set them ablaze. Gods be thanked, it’s been some years since we’ve seen an active engagement like that. Now, it’s mostly transport, food-stuffs, supplies, occasional livestock, transferring a unit or two, and the like.”

“Ah, the reality of peace.” Her husband can’t quite his disdain/disproval/contempt, her brother’s odious treaties with the tribes among the Danube one of the few points he seems to concur on, feel as strongly as she does, in regards to the ill-reasoned direction of her brother’s decisions in ruling the empire. “Are you Nostalgic for the days of direct action?”

Artorius hears the peculiar vibe of dissatisfaction from Claudius, eyeing him curiously/carefully/cautiously. “Only in so far as it kept the men occupied. Bored soldiers are no good for the integrity of our frontiers.”

A strange look, full of some unspoken meaning that unsettles Lucilla, passes between Claudius and the woman who stands just off to his side. Claudius nods. “Which is why it’s necessary to have men of experience staffing the posts in our hinterlands.”

He sounds like he’s about to reminisce on the glory days of his own command, but Artorius sniffs loudly, an unvoiced frustration/consternation surfacing. “And leaves me in my current quandary. I was advised by my commanding officer not 6 months back I’d receive my next assignment direct from the barracks here in the capital. 6 months later, and there’s been no commission forthcoming.”

“This, perhaps, is where my brother’s wife may of some help.” She waits patiently to be introduced, stepping forward to take Claudius’s hand. wrapped the woman who has accompanied her husband to this banquet tonight, held by her brother. “Maeve, the wife of Antius Crescens Calpurianus, legate of the VI Legion Victorius out of Eboracum, daughter of Lucius, king of the Briganti nation, and heir to the provincial domains of northern Britannia.” She weaves an Alluring portrait/image, a tall, elegantly figured woman in a gown the shade of crushed violets, her black hair, streaked with white, is pulled into an elegant coif, held by a circlet of netted silver and diamonds, her cheekbones high in a long face and probing eyes , her high forehead accented by thick slanting brows, heavy lidded eyes the color of ice, appear serene, ironic, as though they’ve looked on the multi-layered worlds, the souls and actions wrought by men, and little, if any circumstance exists which can still disturb her ease/poise/composure. She must have been stunning in her youth, and now, into her middle years, her presence still invokes a hushed respect in Lucilla, rarely effected by others of rank, a stab of envy jabbing her conscience as Artorius’s gaze travels over the woman’s form appreciatively/admiringly/consideringly. He’s never been shy in his appraisal of the women around him, a trait which would have infuriated her had he not also prized their talents and minds in turn.

“A queen?” Artorius says admiringly, on cue, bending down to kiss her elegant fingers, twined with Claudius’s. “You’re far from home.”

“It’s an impotent title, carrying little more these days, than the symbolism of a fabricated past.” Her smile, fleeting, warms her eyes with a quick, darting humor upon Artorius, and thawing the image of immaculate reserve. “Far from home, and long away as well.” Her voice has a low, smoky lilt, her Latin accented in that cadence of her northern home.

“I imagine you’re much missed by your husband, Lady. What would spur you to leave so far from both hearth and country?”

Her eyes rest upon Artorius, an enigmatic smile ghosts over her lips. “That would be long story for one night. Suffice for now, there’s value in seeing how the world fares beyond the sunrise and sunset of our own lands, whether we’re women and men. Do you not believe so, Artorius Castus?”

“I do,” he says with a single, firm nod, meeting her intent expression.

“Good. Then, you’ll understand to my chagrin, I’ve been so long absent, that I’ve only now had the benefit of Claudius apprising me of the most recent reports from Britannia. They’re distressing, to say the least.”

“My sympathies, Lady. If the reports I received as well from the Hadrian limes hold any merit, they also credited your husband, and your sons I believe, with the discipline and courage that has kept our frontiers solid against barbarian incursion these last years.”

A flash of some emotion, anger, lances the coolness of her poise. “It’s your Saramatians, Artorius Castus, who haven’t yet fulfilled their potential as reinforcements in our northern auxiliaries. They’re recalcitrant and have proven excessively difficult to integrate into the deployments, according to my husband.”

Artorius blinks at her sharp tone, nonplussed it seems, but his voice is hard when he answers her remark. “Perhaps it’s that the right man hasn’t yet been found. Who understands their customs without denouncing them, and demonstrates an adequate command of equestrianship.”

Amusement, subtle, washes over/melts across/softens the British woman’s regard, returns his defensive/tense words with breathy, considering little laugh. “Alas, my thought as well.

Artorius’s regards her/studies her/watches her with a closed/guarded expression. "And your husband?”

“My husband tends to concur,” Maeve states with an air of serene confidence. An unease begins to take hold of Lucilla, as the British woman’s crystalline eyes fall upon Claudius, and he motions with a nod in return. “Marcus Aurelius highly commended you. Senator Pompeianus extolls your feats in battle, especially against the Sarmatii, but it was your skill in orchestrating their/the steppe nomads’ peaceful transfer to British shores which snagged the accolades of my husband. Your name crossed the rosters for reassignment in the last year. Antius has had you marked.”

Anticipation livens Claudius’s usually /bland/stern/morbid comportment when required to interact socially with others. “The command is yours, if you wish it, Artorius Castus.”

“And what command is that, Senator?”

Lucilla glances at him quickly, sees the interest sudden, blazing, lighting up his rugged features. He carefully/deliberately avoids her stricken gaze, as she struggled to quash the rising panic, the awareness he is to be taken from her again before they ever have a chance to claim a happiness forever eluding them, duty the despair of their love.

Maeve answers before Claudius can speak. “Prefect of the Cohort of the First Wing of Sarmatian cavalry.”

He ponders her words in silence for the beat/space of a breath. Then, a rueful smile crosses his features. “That was the post Aurelius’s counsellors denied me at the juncture when their Prince, Batrades, was about to embark with the first contingent across the Channel from _____(northern French/Amorican/Norman/Breton port). They told me I treated them too sympathetically, that my interactions with the Iazyges were too familiar, and my orders were not issued to conscripts with sufficient authority or discipline to keep them in their place, subordinate.”

“You lacked the seasoning and rank back then to have been rewarded such a sensitive assignment/position. That rapid a rise would have ruffled the envy of other officers Aurelius considered too essential to snub at the time,” Claudius says. “Times are different now. The opportunities for a talented legionary, the equestrian background–well lad, there’s few who would object to your placement as head of the Sarmatian horselords.”

He’s obviously drawn to the offer, his gaze bright, what regret he might feel, once more being separated from her by distance and duty, rapidly evaporating from his mind.

“But so far?” Lucilla asks, trying to keep her voice smooth, distant/polite, wo the imposing need, but thinking how forced the words, her smile feeling forced, past the constriction of her throat. “Surely after a year at sea, and so many seasons spent in our hinterlands, you would seek an assignment more centrally located to Rome, to your family. The Praetorian ranks, perhaps?”

A strange perplexity clouds his features. “I barely know my family, at least of the Neopolitan branch. My father’s uncle is my closest living relative, who now lies near his last breath, and never gave my father more than a passing indulgence once year around Saturnalia. Home has ever been…Asturias. I’ll accept your offer, on one condition,” Artorius says, his fingers worrying/working the fanged pendant, his determined gaze on Claudius’s. The senator gives a small nod/cautious nod/slow nod. “Grant me leave to see my grandmother, assure the farm is stable, and our household provided for.”

“Done.” Claudius reaches out his hand. Artorius clasps the man’s forearm in a return, a exultant light suffusing his eyes, sealing their deal as Lucilla’s tenuous grasp at joy begins to spin away from her, into a dark abyss drilling a hole of abandonment into her soul.

“A curious pendant, those teeth.” Maeve’s voice moves over them like a gentle breeze off summer seas.

The men part, stepping back from each other. Artorius, still fingering the fangs off the leather tong around his neck, gives a cursory glance down at the yellowed ivory canines. One curved fang embossed with vertical gold etchings like bird’s feet in sand, down its the curve to the narrowed point, the other tooth bare, wo embellishment or mark.

Artorius lets the enameled teeth drop from his grasp, to rest undisturbed, just below his collarbone. “A family heirloom of sorts. It was the only treasure brought from Hibernia by my grandmother, passed to my own father, then to me upon his death.”

“The one with the writing, it’s rendered in the language of the Druids.”

His gaze upon Maeve is measuring. “Do you know what it means?”

She squints, a veiled/hooded expression/unreadable expression upon Artorius, examining the gold-embossed talisman. “It takes some time to translate druid-script into the Latin. What of the other?”

A half grin twitches across his lips. “A humbling reminder, Lady, of hubris–a novice recruit, his first assignment at the northern extent of the Rhine, and a perhaps, too reckless exuberance for adventure that turned into a struggle for survival in the face of a blizzard, between myself and the wolf who had previously made use of that tooth.”

“Would he now propose he’s free of hubris?” Lucilla asks, hurling the question like a thrown dagger, looking directly at him, probing his face, refusing to let him retreat from her silent pain.

Contrition shines from his eyes, but before any other comment can be spoken, trumpets sound through the hall, blaring the arrival of the emperor in a flurried entourage/procession from the high vaulted gallery fronting the entrance.

–Commodus’s entrance, greeting with his sister, announces for his guests to be seated in honor of his father’s commemoration/deification, change in the program of the entertainment, from Aristophanes and Lysisrrata to ??writer and Antigone, a message of familial fidelity, of devotion to one’s parents and one’s siblings, gaze fixed on Lucilla. Premonition chills her, hearing Maeve’s whispered observance, her ice-blue eyes fastened upon her brother’s procession like she’s gazing into a different world/a distant horizon just beyond. “The shadow of death lies on him.”

“What are muttering about, woman?” Claudius asks distractedly, scowling at her. “This isn’t the time to having spells/episodes, Maeve.”

She blinks, a slight pucker, snd a fine crease between her brows forming, her disconcerting gaze shifting to Lucilla. “Oh Claudius, you should have left when I told you with your wife,” she says with a peculiar remorse.

Commodus announces the change in venue, explaining it’s only appropriate on a night for commemorating their father deification, to celebrate a playwright of Antigone who had captured the virtues his father always espoused, of humbleness, modesty, dignity, serenity/patience, asking Lucilla if this is not what their father taught, as he gestures for her, in a change of seating hierarchy, in a bow to familial ties over marital, to take her old position at his right hand as they, the guests about them begin to move toward their assigned places toward the lounge-divans/cushioned/pillowed benches facing the central raised platform of a stage, Commodus’s wife, Bruttia Crispina throwing her a savage/vicious/waspish glare, and in the coup de grace, as Lucilla takes his hand, he proffers her the accusatory dagger, hurt and rage finally contorting his fine-hewn features that he shares with his sister, words filled with venom, 'The Senate sends you this gift, sister’, shock and confusion buzz from the spectators/witnesses, and Claudius demands to know what the meaning of Commodus’s insinuation is, tossing his wife a bloodied dagger, whilst in this juncture, as everyone’s attention is focused on the play between brother and sister, Lucilla stiff as a statue, color faded from her cheeks, fastened upon the dagger in her trembling hand, Maeve has melted back into the shadows at the edge of the hall, noting a slave who directs her to where the latrines are located, skirts stealthy/sneaks out unnoticed, throwing her palla over her hair, and evading groups of guards at the main entrance, as she darts out a rear servants’ access leads out from the fetid drainage/sewer alley in order to hasten back to Claudius’s mansion on foot, through the streets, and get a message off to her daughter, Artorius too is trying to make sense of the situation, 'Lucilla’, shifts Commodus’s attention to him, in a forced theatrical voice, 'Ah, Lucius Artorius Castus, I believe. I recall the praise my father heaped upon you after the close of the Macromanni assault, and my sister’s favor for you, retaining her golden cunt for her particular lovers. What, I Wonder, did she promise you, in dividing of my empire between her enchanted conspirators, Artorius says in a a low, dangerous voice, menacing, Be careful, Commodus, of what you’re charging, to which he bristles, You have no right to address me as such! I am your emperor, spurring Lucilla to intercede before Artorius advances/responds, voice tense, He has nothing to do with this Commodus, and Commodus pierced her with blazing look of despair and hatred, 'Like Ummidius Quadratus had nothing to do with this, like you hadn’t fucked him into treason against his emperor, his face livid, His blood stains that blade sister, bc he tried to take my life at your instigation, a collective gasp rippling over the audience, as she bites out in a voice like acid, 'How dare you, little brother–no more fit to hold the throne of Caesar than you are to mount a donkey. You insult our father by shitting on his vision, and parlaying with barbarians. The Senate abhors you, the people despise you, and the army disdains you. Perverted and corrupt, your reign will be nothing but a curse left to be smashed from the pillars and walls after you die, Commodus stepping toward her, she sees Artorius tense, ready to jump to her defense but her brother, only a finger breadth taller than her, only whispers, I loved you, Lucilla, above all my sisters. I valued your words, and would honored you. We would have ruled in glory, to outshine even our great father. Hesignals the Praetorians to break their formation, coming forward, taking positions around Lucilla and Artorius Castus on all sides. In a voice meant to project to the audience, he says, “Instead, sister, I order your arrest, for treason, sedition, and attempted assassination against your emperor. You will be exiled to Capri–” the Praetorians wo any command, taking up points on all sides around her–“your sentence to be decided. And Lucius Artorius Castus, to be taken into custody under suspicion of conspiracy–” Fear pierces Lucilla’s voice for the first time that night. “Commodus, he had no part in my actions, no knowledge,” Throwing a desperate look to Artorius who makes no protest as two guards move to restrain each of his arms. “Claudius, please,” she begs, “you know he is innocent!” Commodus raises his hand, commanding his guard to pause, and they freeze, like mimes sharing one mind, in unison. “Indeed,” her brother says with a small, sadistic twitch of his lips that leaves Lucilla numb with dread. His gaze falls on Claudius, who looks like he’s aged a century in the moments since his wife’s treason came to light, skin parchment pale, sagging exhaustion beneath his eyes. He shuffles toward the emperor, falling to his knees, kissing the signet ring when Commodus extends his hand. “The clemency I seek, your Grace, is not for my wife, but for this man. He has served your father, and you, fiercely and faithfully, along our water routes, and our furthest boundaries. He could not have had any knowledge of my wife’s betrayal, gods have mercy upon his life.” “Mercy,” Commodus repeats the word, as though spoken in a foreign tongue. “My father promoted justice along with mercy. And we are, if harsh, also just. Rise Claudius Pompeiaus,” he motions with his hand. “And if Lucius Artorius Castus is, indeed innocent,” he fingers clutch Lucilla’s fine-boned wrist, bringing the dagger in its grip to Artorius’s hand, as the guards thrust him, shoving him, before Commodus, “then he may prove his loyalty to his emperor.” Malice fires an ardency across Commodus’s features, meeting Artorius’s defiant gaze. “So, soldier, I ask, how ought my traitorous sister be punished?” She feels Arorius clasp the handle of the knife, his focus unwavering from her. He’s as taut as a catapult, drawn, and ready to fire. The tremor from the power of his grip on the knife, her own fingers still wrapped about its handle, shudders up her arm to her shoulder. “No, Artorius, don’t!” What happens next is a blur of outrage/alarmed cries/bellows, the dagger in his grip driven upwards, Lucilla trying to divert its momentum/force from her brother’s chest toward a point into her neck, unaware of her helpless/stricken utterance echoing through the hall. Commodus’s outraged cry sends the Praetorians into action, the nearest raising his short sword hilt like a bludgeon at the same moment Artorius wrenches Lucilla backwards/pushes her backwards, out of grasp, sending her stumbling to the ground, ramming his shoulder into the man’s armored torso, his fist smashing into the doubled-over guard’s jaw with a sickening crunch. The man behind him flails, his spear flying out of his grip across the floor, scattering the onlookers, as his downed comrade, sluggish/reeling from Artorius’s blow, crashes into him, and spins to marble floor, his shout to look to the emperor strangled by the Artorius’s foot landing in the side of his neck. Lucilla manages to stagger upright, seeing the additional regiment pour into the hall, twenty-five men, in polished black armor, advancing to the scene, as Artorius dives for the lost spear, dodging the third guard’s hapless maneuver with his shield, that he tries to leaver up, and clip Artorius’s rapid motion, but he lunges into a tight roll at the last moment, lurching to one foot just in front of the surprised guard, the closest Commodus, and trying to impose himself between the attacker and the emperor. Artorius thrusts the spear into the thunder bolt blazoned shield, using the soldier’s paralyzed astonishment to yank back, dragging the guard forward, the man loosing his footing, warning Commodus to back away while he and Artorius grapple for the man’s still sheathed sword, dangling at his waist from the leather strapped belt. With the spear shaft as his winch/lever/mast, Artorius Heaves himself bodily into the shield, shoving the guard further back as he tugs the sharpened head out of the rawhide and bronze/alloy sealed wood, maneuvering to come behind the guard, and drive the spear head into the man’s calf as the guard snarls in pain, twisting to his knees, his shield clattering to the floor as his hand flies to where the barbed lance is buried in his muscle, a pool of red liquid leeching out from the wound. Artorius, undeterred by the arrival of the additional soldiers, never stalls, launching himself with a bestial sound, all his disgust/contempt for Commodus in that sound, who staggers back, vulnerable and exposed, face a mask of fear, flinching away from the bloodied dagger Artorius aims at his throat, even as his free hand, flies out to grab her brother beneath his chin, hauling him off his feet, carrying him back, such is his anger and power in his motions, slamming Commodus into one of the grand marble columns/Quartz columns lining the room. “Was this what you thought I would do to your sister,” his voice full of menace, pressing the edge of the blade up to her brothers throbbing vessel in his neck, glaring into Commodus’s frenzied/panicked eyes, rolling in his head. “Artorius, no!” She knows there’s no recourse now. Claudius restrains her from rushing toward them as a contingent of 4 new armored men surround her and her husband, another looking to the beaten soldiers slowly recovering themselves, gathering gear and coming unsteadily to their feet, but the soldier with his leg left bleeding, groaning as a medic trained officer readies to dislodge the spear head driven into the back of his lower leg. She and Claudius are the only two left standing of the other guests as the additional Praetorian regiment cleared through the hall in a ruthless efficiency, they have forced every guest, man or woman, senator, wife, escort, actor, or nameless slave, to the ground with their swords drawn, shields in the front, every 5th man left at the perimeter of the kneeling, prone, terrified audience to survey for any surprise attack. “You’re a dead man, scum,” Commodus chokes out past the iron grip flexed about his throat. One of the black armored guards, flanked by two of his companions advances toward her brother and Artorius. “Release your lord emperor, soldier.” He levels his spear, in unison with the other two guards fanned to either side of him. Artorius ignores the command, keeping the dagger edge pressed against the pulsing artery in Commodus’s jugular. “I’ll make your death a living hell, if dare harm her.” The guards shuffle nearer, spears readied in the grasps, closing from behind where Artorius has Commodus pinned against the column. The leader stresses the words more firmly. “I repeat–release your emperor, soldier, or you invite a harsh consequence.” Commodus’s voice is audible, shaking in his fear, his forehead slick with perpetration, but his malice shines from his blue, reptilian eyes, basilisk’s gaze. “You heard them, soldier,” the word hissed. “Release your emperor. How exactly do you expect to save my traitor of a sister by murdering her brother?” Lucilla entreats Claudius’s understanding, and he releases her arm, seeming to read the plea in her eyes. The strain weighs heavy on him, and she can still see the disbelief of her actions warring with the reality of events spinning faster than he can keep apace from the loss/confusion marring his normally stern features. The troops surrounding them act, at first, to obstruct her purpose. Her raised hand, a pacifying gesture, the regality of her bearing, assure them she intends no threat. They keep their weapons trained upon her warily though, as she glides toward Artorius and her brother, locked in Artorius’s choke-hold. She stops just short of the three guards oriented near enough that could thrust a spear into his neck, or slice an arm with their short-swords if so incited. “Artorius–There is no winning this now.” She passes like a wraith between two Praetorians, coming alongside him, begging silently that he will heed the force of her will in her words and /unmoving/fixed/steady gaze centered upon him. Tension tremors his hand, squeezing the dagger blade harder against Commodus’s neck, just short of drawing blood. Her brother makes a short, strangled sound that alerts the trio of guards to close in, their spears in positioned, the men postured for the kill. Rage burns from Artorius eyes, trained upon Commodus, and for an endless heartbeat that leaps into her throat, stopping her breath, she thinks he’s about to slice the dagger across her brother’s bared throat. Contempt twists his features, and with a snarl, Artorius shoves his elbow forcefully/hard against Commodus’s windpipe, removing his throttle hold from the emperor’s throat with a rapid recoil of his hand, fingers still flexed/curled about the knife handle. Commodus falls to floor, crouched on his knees, trying to relax the spasms of his crushed throat, his blazing hatred centered on Lucilla. “He was innocent of all involvement in this, brother. The responsibility of all of this lies with me, solely.” “Lucilla…,” Claudius calls her name helplessly, a mixture of anguish, shame, and fear in his voice. “You’ve so much as condemned yourself of treason, sister,” Commodus rasps past his raw throat. He struggles to his feet, his quick glance to a guard staying the man who was about to come to his assistance. Even her brother, for all his idle cowardice, still has his pride. “Do you admit your guilt in this failed 'coup’ (did that equivalent exist in the Latin lexicon??), sister? That you deliberately deceived your rightful emperor, and plotted the assassination of your Augustus, and most disappointingly of all, devised the downfall of your only living brother, who has loved you above all his siblings?” She meets his evil/vile smugness calmly, her mind so clear in purpose now, even fear has left her, replaced by a resurgence of clarity and determination. “Will you let Lucius Artorius Castus free? With no accusation of complicity, and innocent of all malicious/malevolent intent?” “Oh, my dear,” Artorius murmurs softly at her side, a sad acceptance imparted with words. “He’s hated me from the moment of our love.” His presence by her side is a warmth, a comforting touch in her mind of reassurance, filling her with courage. She cannot look at him, or she thinks she will lose this last thread of hope to make some kind of reparation for the disaster of her plot. “Will you let him go, without threat of harm or imprisonment?” The smugness across her brother’s face makes her want to spit in his eyes. Instead, she keeps her her gaze placid, drilled on him, awaiting his decision. Benevolence floods/washes over/spreads into a gracious smile over his smooth cheeked face. “Of course, dear sister. As I said, we are, of all things merciful as we are just.” She raises her chin, eyes steadied upon Commodus, defiance, pride, in her voice to the last. “Then at least one us, brother, shall go to our death having tried to preserve our father’s legacy.” Anger tics his mouth in a sneer, immediately repressed by his facade of equanimity. She fully expects him to issue the order to his guards of her arrest. Instead, he shifts his attention to Claudius, who continues to watch their exchange cautiously. “I’ll presume by having not mentioned your husband with the same passion you defended your equestrian legionary, Claudius Pompeianus also had no affiliation with your plotting.” Shame, guilt, resentment all wash through her, reluctantly looking toward her husband’s broken expression. A man of talent whose ambitions had fallen short of greatness, disappointment leaves her with an exhaustion that almost sacks her of her stoic will. Especially when Commodus continues in his pronouncement. “Pompeianus will surely not wish to provoke his emperor’s anger by attempting any additional conspiracy when he mercifully allows Pompeianus to collect his wife for the night, to spend one last evening with her family, snd settle estates or make reparations as she might. For your son, of course, Claudius, my favored nephew, who remains innocent of all wrong-doing despite the sins of his mother.” Something bleak, creeps into Lucilla’s voice when she rallies her response. “You will not harm him, my son?” Commodus’s beneficence is sickening. “Why would I harm him?” He asks innocently. “I love him.” “You loved me,” she returns stiffly, through her dread. Her son, who she won’t be able to protect once death and the earth separate them. “And I still do, sweet sister. I still do.” Commodus inclines his head toward the guards surrounding Claudius, to allow him to approach. Commodus stretches out his bejeweled fingers, thick with the rings of his authority. The aged senator kneels, effacing himself before her brother, humbly posturing obeisance as he places his lips upon the imperial signet. “Remember Claudius Pompieanus, guard her well. The official warrant of her arrest shall be issued tomorrow.” Artorius exhales sharply, but Lucilla stays his protest with a darting glance, a short shake of her head. “A Praetorian contingent will take her into state custody at that time.” “I understand, your Eminence.” Pompeianus awaits Commodus’s permission to rise. “I am ever your faithful servant.” Magnanimously, Commodus gestures for her husband to rise, even offering his arm for the retired army general to use as support. He turns to her, and she’s struck by the haggard/worn pall which makes her husband seem suddenly ancient, shrunken, like a dying tree, is a new thing. Next to her golden haired, trim-built brother, with his high cheek bones and Asian tilted eyes the color of lapis blue, Claudius appears like a withered stump. She’s never noticed how tottering his hair has become, nor how lumpy/swollen his knuckles have grown with rheumatism, as he places a hand hesitantly, almost permissively/or submissively/timidly upon her wrist. “Come wife. Let us go make your preparations.” She feels moved to pity for the pain she has caused him, for first time, she experiences the deeper awareness/burden of the fallout of her brother’s rage that will undoubtedly be unleashed upon not only her fellow conspirators, but all members of the Senate, whether or not they were involved in her plot. Names which must have been ripped from Ummidius Quadratus’s mouth as he suffered extraordinary torment at the hands of Imperial interrogators. *So long as Artorius is spared*. Lucilla would once have sheared herself with guilt at the priority of her affections, before her husband and even her son, but she’s done with self-castigation, with deception, to herself most of all. Her father’s values of justice and moderation were her guiding beacons through her life, but it was the value of truth, to oneself, above all else that Marcus Aurelius instilled most deeply into her heart. Artorius Castus, his love, had been a treasure, a precious gift belonging to her alone. The truth was, What judgements history would later lie upon her sarcophagus, where her ashes would rest in eternal darkness, no longer caused her worry. And she knew all of them, the infamous women with whom she would be staged with posterity, from Cleopatra to Livia, Agrippina to [Vestal murdered by Domition], they were strung upon the wrack of condemnation, torn apart by ambition, led astray by lust, covetous for power, and over-reaching in their grab at immortality, at glory. Lucilla wondered when people of later generations read the story of her downfall, if anyone would read between the lines imparted by the chroniclers. If they would understand the higher purpose she had been trying to serve in her father’s memory, the honor, however miscast as the sort of nobility peculiar to women, which had been the true motive behind her attempt to oust her brother from power. Or perhaps, that was her own deception, and she truly had hungered to rule, bc she ought to have been appointed Augusta in her own right. It no longer mattered. It was now, only the moments she had shared with Artorius, worshipping each other with their bodies, as the shared the hearts and souls. That was the treasure, the gift that was hers alone, and would never be taken from her so long as she met her death, knowing in those minutes, he would still see the sunrise on this side of life the day after. He would still exist in the world, and so would she, carried in his heart, the memory and hope of their stolen seasons beneath that same sun. She lets Claudius lead her toward the arched entry of the banquet hall, sensing the rustling of dispersed guests arrayed on the floor, raising heads, trying to catches glimpse, hear a line, take the measure of the events which so rapidly unraveled, all of them still under the watchful attention of the Praetorians. She pauses, and Claudius makes no objection to her turning, her gaze searching out Artorius’s one last desperate, stolen glimpse of the happiness she had almost won, and slipped from her grasp like the salvage rope from a drowning man’s fingers. “Remember me,” she calls. His eyes hold the cast of stormy seas, anguished. “Always,” is all he can manage. She sees the rebellion, the need to fight, leap to her defense taut in his powerful form, the way his throat works, his anger at his own helplessness, the injustice at her arrest. The guards with their spears trained on him are aware of his coiled anger as well, the leader of the three leveling/weighing him with a warning look, a repositioning of his spear, indicating any wrong move and Artorius was a doomed man. The bronze band around her finger seems to pulse, grow warm, and contract, causing her skin, the bone beneath to burn like she was scalded by hot oil. Perhaps it was true, the insistence of the poets and musicians, that some magical chain ran from the ring finger to the heart, where all life in its pain was a measure of an organ beating away the time until there was no longer the despair or ecstasy of joy, sorrow, hate, loss, and most of all love. Until there was only peace, stillness, silence, and the memory of a life once lived.

It’s in that moment, when she registers Commudus’s motion to his guard, the leader of the trio who still pen/corral Artorius with their spears, and the troops fall upon him. Artorius, surprised by the first blow to his gut, doubles over, the wind knocked from his lungs an audible grunt, wheezing/gasping to breathe even as he makes to spring at his attacker, catching the man’s hand, gripping his spear, shoving it aside before the guard can react, and pummeling his fist straight into the man’s nose, bone and cartilage crunching like a rotten egg, a wet, sickening spray of blood that sends the guard tipping back, letting out a gurgle of choking, red-stained phlegm and tissue. One of the remaining guards imposes himself between Artorius and the emperor. His companion blusters his shield out in front of him , as Artorius wheels to meet them, the spear in his hand. Fellow troops cross the room, leaping into the foray/scuffle/melee. He attempts a valiant rally. The collective battering of spear butts into stomach and back, dull thud of booted feet into knees and groin, and finally a sword hilt to his temple, which downs him at last, occurs in the dead silence holding the guests in an entranced spell of horror, broken only by Lucilla’s screams, bringing her to her knees, even as her husband tries to keep her from toppling to the floor with the agony that seizes the strength from her limbs. The ring blazes against her finger, scalding, and she knows what it is for her heart weep in an explosion of grief, shuddering against Claudius, her pleas to her brother broken by her sobs, Commodus watches/scans the entire scene like a god over his enamored worshippers, in the midst of his black-armored troops, his fine-boned face, like a cherubs in its pleasure, resplendent in his triumph, glowing, his skin smooth as a boy’s over his sharp cheeks, the radiance matched by/accented by his the halo of cropped, golden curls, thick about his head.