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kriz-fics · 2 years ago

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The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Sixteen: Lore and Luminaries

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters), Slow Burn

Length: 13.8K

CW: Mentions of underage sexual exploration / mention of child abuse (physical)

“Dragon root, dried wasp stings… vervain, lovage. Grind all those up for me, if you would, my lady.”

For a long while, the sound of stone grinding against stone is the only thing to be heard in the Healer’s rooms. It is the most riveting sound, that steady rasp, bewitching in its constancy. The scent wafting from the mortar is yet another component of the enchantment that has fallen upon the space. Each breath you take is more pleasant than the last. Invigorating. It is almost enough to make you forget the purpose of the brew. And to whom you will have it served.

Mother had been taken ill a couple of days past. The sweats, they feared, at its onset. The sweats, thank the gods, it is not. The source of the bug had been confined to her cottage, to sleep away the malady and prevent its spread.

By no means was this to be the last spate of illness within the household, Healer Darya warned. The autumn storms are soon come upon you and with them the dreaded ague. It is not so lethal as the mortal sweats, to be sure, but it is a great deal more catching and takes its fair share of lives when left untreated.

The cooks have been outdoing themselves of late, churning out dish after dish bursting with greens and fish and eggs. Fare to prevent further illness and strengthen the constitution, it is known. The year’s bounty of oranges (bloody and otherwise) find themselves a constant on the household table as well. And lemons. So many lemons. From fowl cooked with lemons to lemon cakes to liqueurs, the cooks find no end to their utility. It is almost enough to put you off them for the next year. Almost. Lemon cakes are altogether too tasty to give up for a full year.

“My lady, perhaps you can enlighten me with the properties of lovage.” Healer Darya gives you the briefest of glances before turning to her work.

An unusual yet not unpleasant mixture of scents trails the priestess’s words. Peppermint, wormwood, silk moss. For the tonic to revitalize Mother. You grind your own ingredients on, as ordered, before eventually answering, “Lovage is most effective as an aid for digestion. If used too much, though, it can leave the patient extremely disoriented. As such, it must be used sparingly, and with a light hand.”

“What of vervain?”

“It is often used for the treatment of feral dog bites. However, it is also generally known as a potent restorative, especially if used in tonics. As we are using it right now.”

“Quite right, and well-put.” The Healer gauges the steadily burning flame beneath the small pewter cauldron on its iron trivet. She holds out her hand. “My lady, the paste, if you please.” The unusually pleasant scent takes on a new note and a different sort of pleasantness. Healer Darya puts aside the black stone mortar and its matching pestle, before taking up a ladle and stirring the concoction. “Perhaps I’ll set you to making the next few batches of these so I might at last move on to restocking the other essentials.”

You will take no issue with that. The past week or so of Healer lessons had been nothing less than stimulating. It began with books. The Lady Alyrya’s priestess was only too happy to oblige her mistress when you requested tuition. Light reading, to start. Greens in Your Garden; Flowers of the South; Physic and Herblore, an interesting treatise on medicinal plants, written by renowned herbalist Prior Flora, which you had started two nights past.

The true work is what you anticipate the most.

“Hang these up to dry and finish the tisane.”

A bundle of herbs changes hands, and you proceed to obey. Pennyroyal and golden parsley, you note, with no small amount of wryness as you walk toward the drying area. Herbs needed for that most infamous of brews. The Healer had been instructing you on all manners of subjects: the drying of herbs, the extracting of vegetal oils, the making of tisanes, potions, pastes. Soon, you will move on to the more difficult tinctures, perhaps even your first poultice. All of these and more you will learn. But for the brewing of that one draught.

It had not been too long ago when Father had called you to his solar, grim and grave and so disappointed. He did not give you long to wonder at his disappointment. “What is this I hear about you and Young Master Meledin?” he had inquired, brisk and uncharacteristically terse.

He changed tack at your honest confusion, which he only doubled with his next query. Young, new-flowered Lady Rhyzkova could not understand nor picture what Father was on about. You had spent a good few moments in silence, puzzling out the details. You could not imagine how you were supposed to fit that hard rod of flesh inside you, or even that you could.

So you had, truthfully, said no, Roman did not put his penis inside your sex. That new insight gave you awe, nevertheless. You might not have taken him in but you had taken him to hand, to his nervous excitement. That felt good, he said; it felt even better when you stroked. And so you did, encouraged by his eager urging, fascinated by the way he swelled and grew harder in your grip. Even the strange fluid that leaked from him in droves (not piss, he had asked Prior Ilya) did not put you off like it had that first time (your disgust did not let you get this far, and he had wilted from the embarrassment). He had climaxed all over your hand soon afterward. The milk-white liquid that came spurting from his cock was not piss, that was for certain.

For all your honesty, Father had his reservations. Healer Darya came to confirm your innocence, sent by Lord Alexander to corroborate his daughter’s claims. You were as intact as you could be, for a highborn girl, announced the priestess. It was not a boy’s cock that caused what tears there were down there. Noble girls are more like to lose their maidenheads to horses than to boys, this is known, and you have been riding since you were six, years and years ago.

Still, it stings, even now, to know Father had not taken you at your word. It is understandable, to a degree, to make absolutely sure - your value in the marriage market would have severely plummeted had you been plucked before your time. That does not lessen the sting, even so. It is some reassurance that he had not made you drink söga, at least.

Söga, the tisane you will never learn to make if Father and Healer Darya can help it. Both know well your capacity for wantonness. Your wanton streak, as Father called it. To your face. “You have a wanton streak in you, my child,” he had said, so very gently. Somehow, that had not stung - he could have worded, and delivered, it worse. He could have called it my whorish streak.

And so you are relegated to keeping your whorish streak to yourself. It is all to the good, anyway. You know well what is expected of a lady, especially one with a standing as high as yours. That does not stop the what-ifs from cropping up every so often; they especially love to crop up in the face of a handsome boy, and the court does not lack for those. You are betrothed to one of those, as it happens. That you will use forbidden knowledge to go ahead and fuck your handsome boy without any consequences, you do not know. But that is certainly something.

You can always brew the tea yourself, you suppose, as you grab a length of knotted twine off the counter and begin to wrap it about the herbs’ stems. Söga is disastrous to get wrong, though. A misstep in the recipe will blast your womb and render you barren, a woman’s worst nightmare realized. You cannot have that; you must have heirs of your own body and continue a line eight thousand years strong.

Mugwort and nettle and goldenglow hang before you in a neat row, joined shortly by your pennyroyal and parsley. Herbal soldiers in line, waiting for their commands. And like true soldiers, they lose their potency beneath too much sun. All herbalists know to keep herbs away from scorching heat, and the Healer is no exception. The sandstone visible through the glass window before you makes for a dismal view.

The views are more cheering where the sun is allowed to shine. The apothecary is aptly stationed right beside the entrance to the sanctum, giving the resident Healer easy access to its wealth of flora. No autumn hues are evident through the wood-and-glass door that leads out into the palace gardens. This far south, the seasons turn more slowly, and so everything keeps its verdant bloom. For the moment.

You leave the apothecary bearing a silver trayful of remedies: ginger and mint tea (sweetened with honey), essence of yarrow, a bowl of hot water and a square of clean linen, marlock salve and the revitalizing tonic, finished at last after half an hour’s worth of labor. You cannot help the irreverent smile that pulls at your lips as you pass a familiar corridor.

Down those halls is a certain sitting room, now scarce used. It was that which made it so enticing to two highborn whelps who were too inquisitive for their own good. You do not know how that servant managed to catch you at it; hardly anyone went down there, as little used as the wing was. Perhaps you were louder than you’d thought. Par for the course for children, who tend to have little thought of their immediate surroundings.

Father had the whole wing’s rooms locked and sealed away afterward. He hardly should have bothered. It had not taken him long to send Roman away, so you were left with no boys to play around with (no boys you were attracted to enough, at any rate). And no boys to learn the way of the bedchamber with, no one to fondle and explore just to see what went where.

The older ladies of the court told you what went where readily enough.

Mother’s rooms are empty of callers and servants but for her handmaid, the Lady Oksana Aliyeva, sister to the Lady of Noyasnoy, Tatyana Aliyeva. “My lady,” she curtseys as you brush past the gossamer hangings to enter your mother’s bedchamber. The older woman proceeds at once to tie back the drapes, her long sheet of silvery blonde hair rippling in her wake.

You set your tray down on the table placed at the foot of the bed and gather the mug of tea in your hands. You wave away the handmaid as she comes over to assist. “Leave us, if you would, my lady.”

Lady Oksana checks, draws herself up and bows before taking her leave.

“Ah, my sweet little Healer,” Lady Theresia says hoarsely from her seat in her large bed, propped up on big silken pillows against her red gossamer-covered headboard and smiling her warm motherly smile. The stuffed peacocks flanking the bed stare haughtily down at you as you walk over to the bedside and sit on the crimson bedclothes. The clay of the teacup is rough and warm beneath your fingers, the tisane not too hot, perfect for drinking.

“How are you feeling?” you ask your lady mother as you hand her the drink. Still a bit peaky, you think, taking in Mother’s drawn complexion with a surge of concern. You mislike the gravel in her voice as well as its thickness. The mint will help the rocks and the obstruction.

Lady Theresia smiles, sardonic. “The cavalry is running a charge through my body, but this old bat is otherwise fine.” Mother and daughter share a laugh. “No leeches?” Lady Theresia queries after a taste of tea.

“Perhaps later. Healer Darya will drop by to check on you.”

“Oh, thank the gods. Such nasty creatures,” Mother shudders and takes another prim sip. “Did you mix this yourself?”

“Yes.” A bowl of water is sitting beside a tiny ornate brazier on the bedside table. A square of linen floats, submerged, in the yarrow-infused liquid. You stand and take the basin, striding back to the other table at the foot of the bed.

“Your lessons are going along swimmingly then.”

The pleasant scent of yarrow drifts through the air from the bottle in your hand. You pour a capful of the essence into the fresh bowl, well-pleased.

“Tell me of your curriculum. I trust that it is a good one. And appropriate.”

You cannot fail to hear the emphatic tone your mother’s voice has adopted. “It is good. And appropriate.” No söga, have no fear, Mother dear. You hang the unused linen over an arm and gather the steaming bowl, the revitalizing tonic, and the salve before returning to the bedside table.

“Eren is a handsome lad - gods, such a handsome lad, and so well-made-” you look askance at your mother’s dreamy expression, which she hastily shakes off, “-but you can afford to wait. Not long now ‘til you can tumble your man to your heart’s content.” Lady Theresia titters as the bottle of tonic near slips from her daughter’s hand at her remark. Her laughter waxes into a hacking cough as you turn to her with abject horror on your face. Never again do you want to hear anything remotely raunchy come out of your mother’s mouth.

“Ah, but he is a sweet lad,” Mother sniffs once her laughter and the coughing subside. She dabs at her nose with a square of linen. “And he makes you happy. That is the most important thing of all.”

You set the revitalizing tonic down beside the salve. He had sent you a tonic once, over a month ago. You had never been more surprised to see Healer Dmitriy outside your rooms in Merrydell, a purple glass bottle in his hands. “Young Master Eren asked me to give you this, my lady. Essence of valerian for your insomnolence.”

As surprised as you had been at this unexpected visit, your astonishment paled in the light of the overwhelming surge of affection that coursed through you at this most thoughtful gesture. Your unrested state had struck a bigger cord in your betrothed than you’d realized. Such a sweet lad indeed.

Lady Theresia finishes her tea at last and hands you her cup. “We are lucky in our men, you and I.” Another set of smiles changes hands. “As I hope your sisters will be. And your brother with his lady wife someday. To be lucky in love is the sweetest thing.”

You putter about the bedside table, fussing at the cup and the bowl and the brazier, cheeks prickling at that most potent of words. Love.

Several moments pass before you can return to your place by Mother’s side. “Speaking of… men and future matches, how is Father taking into account the king’s continued reticence as regards the Crown Prince’s hand?” It has been some time since last you’d spoken of the matter. You hand Mother the small porcelain tub of marlock.

“Yes, well, your father has other options. As he always has in all matters.” A lesson he has been instilling in you most diligently throughout the years. Your mother removes the lid off the tub in her hand, dips her fingers in the ointment, and smears it over her chest, pulling the neck of her nightdress down a little as she does so.

“I don’t think the prince will make Lydia happy anyway.” Not when Lady Gudrun is around to be a paramour on the side.

“They can always grow into it. Such matters are a passing thing.” Lady Theresia hands back the tub, which you set aside on the table, just as a commotion in the form of your baby brother enters the room.

“Mava!”

The swept-back drapes of the bedchamber afford you both a view of little Oliver Rhyzkov tottering down the privy chamber, threading his way past the divans, the armchairs, and the tables in his route to get to Mother’s bedroom. He is carrying an earthenware bowl filled with a glistening golden mass in his little hands.

Behind him drifts his nurse, brown-haired matronly Mother Raisa, in her cerise robes lined with gold. She is carrying her own dish, this one piled high with the harvest’s bounty: pears, peaches, plums, grapes and dates and melons, all manners of berries. “My ladies,” she bows over her bowl once she reaches the threshold of the bedroom, which makes her young ward pause and dip into his own bow.

“No need to bow to your own kin, Olya,” you inform him with a grin, taking the dish from him and ruffling his hair affectionately, making the boy giggle. Your hand shoots out quick as a whip and closes around a pudgy forearm as your brother makes to run to Mother’s bedside. “Sorry, love, but no kisses for Mava just yet. You might get sick, and if you get sick, there’ll be no more playtime. And no more swimming.”

The threat of no more swimming hits hard. Olya slumps down in your hold, pouting a most magnificent pout. “But it’s tomorrow and you said you’d be better tomorrow,” he calls out, sad and plaintive, to Mother, who smiles at him apologetically.

“I’m afraid the bug is stronger than we thought, my love. But I promise I will be better.”

“I told you to let me squish it! I’m not afeared of bugs, I can squish it! So you can be better!”

“That’s why we brought these, your little lordship, to squish the bugs and make your mother stronger,” Mother Raisa intercedes as she places the fruit bowl amidst the physic on the bedroom bench. “Only a good serving of fruit can squish this sort of bug. Of course, a prayer or two will work even more wonders,” she adds piously, clutching at the golden pendant on her chest, that of the Mother Above’s scepter tipped with a tiny pomegranate.

Olya nods vigorously. “Honeycomb makes me feel better, too, so you have to eat them all today so you’ll be better tomorrow. For true.”

Sure enough, the sugary scent emitting from the bowl in your hands belongs to his favorite sweet. You place it beside the fruits, greatly endeared.

“I can’t promise you I’ll be all right tomorrow but I will be in a few days. For true,” Mother says, as endeared as you. “And then we can swim.”

Olya is not quite placated, that is plain to see, but he nods anyway. His hand drifts to his mouth, prompting his nurse to grab hold of the limb. He has been weaned, for the most part, from that most babyish of habits yet still it manifests, especially when he is upset. At five, he is too old for such conduct and needs further work to break the practice for good and all. Lydia had suggested smearing his hand with sun pepper jelly to stop him sucking. Mother had rebuked her most sharply and the issue was dropped.

“I thank you most kindly for the fare. From a harvest well done, indeed,” Lady Theresia remarks, eyeing the overflowing fruit bowl with so much pride. “Not just for us, I am told.”

“Not just for us,” you affirm, proud as the room’s stuffed peacocks. The past week or so had seen the doves coming in from all the Vascalene provinces, all with reports of excellent harvests. You have yet to come down from the heights of your satisfaction.

“A good portent. And good for public perception. Any proof of the gods’ favor of your rule will help ease the way when you come into your own.”

The fact is a most pleasing one. And much-needed, to help chase away the weight of the role.

“Oh, before I forget, you need to drink your tonic,” you exclaim, moving to measure and pour out the potion for your mother’s consumption. “We’ll leave you to it, then,” you put in once the philter has been drunk. You bend to pick up little Olya, who is not so little now, you realize as you feel the weight of him in your arms. Mother Raisa strides forward, voicing out aid, which you wave away. “Say goodbye to Mava,” you prompt the boy, and he obeys, adding a little wave into the bargain. “She needs to sleep so she’ll get better. And then we’ll swim.”

“Swimming! We’ll swim, we’ll swim like Renren,” Olya chirps, bouncing in your hold, to your distress. “Honey!” he demands, reaching for the corresponding bowl. Mother Raisa breaks off a piece of the comb and hands it to him. He sets to at once, happily munching his treat (Mother’s in truth, supposedly), wax and all.

You adjust your grip on him and bid your own farewell to your most beloved mother. You will visit again tonight. A good Healer must needs check on her patients most diligently.

Renren the Newt’s namesake is standing outside the rooms to greet you, to your surprise.

“Hello,” he raises a hand in greeting.

“Hello,” Olya replies, raising his own smaller honey-smeared hand to return the gesture.

Eren smiles that warm, tender smile that has made such a home in his beautiful face. The way he regards you and the boy in your arms is achingly soft.

You shift Olya on your hip, so conscious of Eren’s gaze. “You remember Eren, yes? My betrothed.” Encounters between your betrothed and your brother have been scant. Not least because you are keeping Eren to yourself most every time, and Olya has his own little boy agenda to go through every day. “What are you doing here?” you question Eren, most curious.

He purses his lips and sighs, all tenderness lost. “I heard Lady Theresia was sick and you were tending her. I wanted to know how she was.”

Something in you squirms at the restrained fear of his mien. You know well what frightens him so. It is hard to be confronted with memories of his greatest loss. Mother’s predicament is hitting too close to home. “She’s on the mend,” you assure gently. “A day or two and she’ll be right as rain.”

“You’re a knight, right? Teach me how to joust.” Oblivious Oliver licks at his fingers, exposing Eren to the full brunt of his special stare, that wide-eyed compelling look he loves to use on everyone if he must have his way.

It is working a charm on the most susceptible knight. And does a superb job cutting through the miserable tension in the air neat as a pin. “Do you know how to ride a horse?” Eren asks the boy, who shakes his head. “That won’t do. Before you can joust, you have to know how to ride.”

“Teach me.”

“There’s a thought,” you interpose. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Olya certainly thinks so, too. He bounces in your arms again and again and again, trilling “Teach me,” with each bound. Mother Raisa strides forward to take the little lordling off your hands, and this time you let her. There is no winning against Olya, not when he has begun to work himself into excitement.

Eren chuckles at the spectacle and moves closer to you. “Your master of horse should be the one teaching you, not me. I’m hardly the right authority on that matter.”

“You’ll make a fine teacher, and I speak from experience,” you cut in, noting the frown and the trembling mouth of the little face brought about by Eren’s statement. Nothing good will come from that trembling mouth. You turn to the nursemaid before Olya can work himself up into a tantrum. “We’ll proceed to the stables. Perhaps we can commandeer a suitable pony for Olya.” Crisis averted, you think, relieved to see the excitement return to your baby brother’s face.

“You taught me how to ride and I’m a much better horsewoman for it. Don’t sell yourself so short,” you tell your betrothed, idly fiddling with the braid draped over your left shoulder. Mother Raisa and her charge have already started down the corridor. Your fingers brush against something sticky. Olya’s honey, you grimace, lamenting the stain it made on the pale green cloth of your charovma.

“I can teach you a different sort of riding, if you find me such a fine teacher.”

Your head snaps up. “Pardon?”

Eren gives you a slow, smiling gaze and does not answer, merely reaching out to pinch your cheek. “You make the sweetest faces.” He slips his fingers through yours and tugs you along.

“I have to get changed,” you force out, emerging from one of many spells he has taken to casting on you of late. Your cheek tingles where he had pinched it. “I have been honeyed,” you clarify, plucking at your dress at his inquiring look.

“Oh.”

The comfortable silence that falls between you does not last long. “Are you… sniffing me?”

Embarrassment takes his features over, yet it goes as soon as it comes. “It’s just… you smell sweet. And green. I like it.”

“Oh.”

You play with your braid once more. These Healer’s lessons are proving to be a most valuable asset in your skillset. In more ways than one. You have no choice now but to go about it most diligently. And you do so love the smell of herbs.

Into that wild enchanted wood he strode, the prince of dreams, to take up his seat in this his arcane realm. The birds chirped, and the leaves rustled, and the maid giggled, the maid of the wood, that girl with flowers in her hair.

High up she perched on her hawthorn throne, the true sovereign of this wood, and for her he bent the knee. It was never his wood, never his realm, and this he knew as he had never known before.

“Here you are at last, my lady of the wood,” said he, the prince of dreams. “You have kept me waiting.”

“Here I am at last, my prince of dreams,” said she, the girl with flowers in her hair. “I have kept you waiting, for my person’s sake.”

“I do not mean you harm, and will never. This vow, you will see, shall I keep,” said he, the most earnest of princes.

The mystery of her intrigued him so, and the sennights had been a torment. Food had lost all savor and the sun was dark in his eyes each day spent without her radiance. He had naught of her for she gave him naught, not even a name he could call with yearning lips.

For names have power, you see, said she, the girl with flowers in her hair, and forsworn will I be should I give you power over me.

Dong!

Eren looks round at the sound and instantly leaps to his feet. The time has slipped away from him and he is late. Lore and Luminaries, a Compendium of the Legends of the United Lands is thrown unceremoniously back into the lounge’s cushions as he makes a run for the library’s exit. He spares Prior Ilya a quick nod, who returns it, stiff and disapproving, as Eren speeds past his desk. He hastily straightens out the black and silver vidnon jacket (sans tunic) he is wearing with his black pants, making sure he is presentable as he proceeds down the hallway. The timepiece by the disgruntled dark-haired priest’s elbow shows the hour, that of the lynx.

Whatever seeds of remorse that have sprouted inside Eren wilt as quickly as they grow; he ought to be more careful with books, especially ones not his own, yet he is beyond caring at this point. He can always offer to rearrange the whole library in his idle hours. For now, his lady awaits.

And a true lady you are becoming, more and more each day. Some days, you would spend hours apart, you to your councils and audiences and duty, he to books and sparring and leisure. Much as he mislikes these times, some part of him marvels at them, marvels at you and what you can become. Detestable as she is in your intimacy, Lady Rhyzkova is promising to be a most resplendent woman. The image of you coming into your own excites him more than he realized.

Goldhaven’s sanctum is unrecognizable from the wood that it was two years ago. Then, it was a forest of oak and pine and hawthorn, of cypress and poplar and willow. Now, it is a park, and what oaks and pines and hawthorns there were are now growing in disparate plots across the sward.

He strides down the stone trail that winds its way through the sanctum, eyes peeled for you. The sun is no longer at its zenith and has begun its slow descent into the west. It has dipped below the castle’s towers and so a quarter of the place is in shadow. He walks in dimness for a while until he comes across a choice of paths; he chooses the lefthand one and presses on, emerging at last into the light.

Like the gardens at home in Highridge, Goldhaven’s are elevated, perched high above the city on its leveled edifice. The wind will always blow here. It whips his hair about his face and he considers, for the briefest of moments, having it cut back to its preceding length. He has never grown his hair this long in living memory (it is almost to his shoulders now, hopelessly shaggy), and he is starting to realize why. Your voice echoes in his head, telling him how much you like the look on him, and he desists. For all the trouble it brings on, longer hair has its benefits.

A cluster of gardeners is about, trimming the verges that border one side of the large, circular fountain at the heart of the park. All turn to him and bow with their ‘Sirs’ and ‘Milords’. He acknowledges them with a nod, moving on and on and on, following his stone path.

Still, his lady is absent, yet he knows where he will find her. Past stands of trees he strolls, once again astonished by how far this sanctum goes. The only other garden he knows can match the length of this one is the Bulwark’s. Connie had often claimed that one needed a mount to negotiate the place, as he and the Lady Mikasa were wont to do; it would take them half the day to do so on foot if they so chose to ply the full breadth of it. Eren had tested the veracity of that claim one summer’s day and decided that Connie was full of hot air and made from weak stock. It only took him half an hour to range the whole thing on foot, from the castle to the end of the gardens and back again.

He finds his lady where he knew she would be. High up you perch on the hawthorn tree, right there at the very end of the sanctum, lying latently along a sturdy branch. A fold of white cloth drapes down the bough from your dress, that white dress that exposed a great deal of smooth, shapely leg, split as it is from the thigh down. You are barefoot; your sandals peep out at him on the ground, beside a wicker basket and the godstone of this garden, a smooth, gray monolith with its proud, gray god, standing in front of this proud, tall tree.

His smile comes easily at your beauty’s behest. You have made a servant of his joy, and it comes so eagerly at your presence’s command. You are making a servant of all of him, his bits and parts, and he finds that he can care little and less. You can lead him anywhere and he will come. Unquestioningly. Willingly. Freely.

Your head turns at the sound of his footsteps. You smile your own smile and rest your head on your folded arms beneath you. “You have kept me waiting, Sir.”

Eren stares up at you, utterly charmed. “Here I am at last, my lady of the sanctum. I have kept you waiting only because time slipped away from me.”

“Ah, a flaw at last. The strong and dashing Falcon Knight is a most terrible timekeeper.”

“That is most unfair, my lady. It was only the once, I can assure you it won’t happen again. Look kindly upon me, I implore you.” Wind threads gently through his hair, light as your fingers had been that night in the Sphere. It slips through the edges of his loosely tied vidnon, its touch cool and pleasant on his bare skin. He takes a step forward until he is a handsbreadth away from the godstone. The rounded top of it reaches his waist.

“Why should I look kindly upon someone who calls me unfair to my face?” Wind threads gently through your hair, lifting it from your pretty face to flutter in the breeze. The hem of your dress ripples outward like a pristine banner. Not once did your smile drop.

He rests a hand atop the godstone. “It was the judgement that was unfair, not my lady herself.”

“The Falcon Knight has a silver tongue.” You sit up, lithe and languid, and press closer to the trunk.

“See, I have more to commend me than my timekeeping.” He comes closer, hand sliding off the godstone as he takes a step forward until he is standing by the hawthorn’s roots. His lady is sitting mere feet above him, all smiles still. He need not reach up very far to take one dainty foot into his hand. Yet he does not.

“What else commends you, aside from that tongue that gives you such credit?” You place an elbow on another branch beside you and rest your head upon your arm, playful as Alena of Makan had been with her Prince of Dreams.

Eren places a hand on the trunk, gleaming up at you, his own Alena. Without the flowers in her hair. “Wouldn’t you like to know. My lady.”

You giggle, a sound as sweet as silver bells. “Oh, I would like to know indeed.” You push off the branch and make to clamber down the tree.

At once, he reaches out to assist, taking a small hand into his own and guiding your way down the sloping trunk. The smell of leaves and herbs, that most intoxicating green smell, clings to you like perfume. It smells even better on you than your own perfume. Sweet as apples and winter roses are, they are not so comforting as the scent of fresh plant life.

You bend down to retrieve your basket, and there stands before him a maid of the wood. A vevda you wear, white and sleeveless and girdled with gold, the neck dipping down sharply to bare the shapely curves of your breasts. Your legs are as shapely, peering out from the split skirt of the garment. Your toes dig into the soft, lush grass beneath your still-bare feet.

Eren gazes long and keen at you, committing the image of you as you are now to memory. A living fae maid. You only lack for flowers. A strong desire to crown you with such rises in him, and he glances about the wide, sweeping place. Flower bushes dot the area every few feet. Goldenglow and bronze betties and silver dream-of-morns, crocuses, peonies, even a patch of devil’s bloom with its black-and-scarlet petals, the garden is well-populated and still untouched by autumn’s hand. He will have enough for you.

“May I ask what it was that so engrossed the Falcon Knight that he would forget to keep a solemn promise?” you inquire lightly as you slip on your sandals.

“I was brushing up on my military science in the library. On the most sage recommendation of Sir Grisha.” You make your slow way back to the castle proper, hands clasped.

“Looking to gain more of an upper hand on me at our games, are we? I’ll have the truth of that tonight. I do admire your diligence. I would never think to read sleeping draughts as large as those during my reprieve.” You smile, shy and sweet, as he plucks a goldenglow from a passing bush and tucks it behind your ear. His hand lingers, tracing over the curve of your ear, slow and gentle, before pulling away.

Eren watches you bite your lip at the gesture and look away. He bites his own lip to keep from smiling too widely. “Once you get past his tedious style, Hoover actually had interesting theses. And it wasn’t him that grabbed my attention. Prior Horst and his compendium provided a nice respite from all the philosophy and tactics.”

“Ah, Lore and Luminaries?” You emerge at last from your reserve, eyes alight with interest.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Understandable, then. You are forgiven your lapse.”

Eren chuckles, just as you near the sanctum’s fountain. He has been rereading the old tales of late. His favorite stories ring different, somehow, though no one has changed the words. Perhaps it is he who has changed. Perhaps now he is reading with new eyes, not the eyes of a boy but of a man in l-

Thump, thump, thump.

His hands have gone clammy in yours, though you do not seem to notice as you draw him down next to you onto the stone lip of the fountain. A circular stone colonnade, open to the skies, rings the structure. Queen Yelena Rhyzkova I stands at the heart of the fount carrying jugs, one pouring water down her stone vevda, the other spraying over her regal head. The steady splashing of water blends seamlessly with the rustling of leaves about you.

All those fade to nothing until all he can hear is the beat of his heart. Thumping, thumping inside his chest. Is he truly? He glances sidelong at his betrothed, the only girl he has ever liked this much. He likes you very, very much. But is it truly? Is it truly… love?

“The girl with flowers in her hair.” You reach up to touch the blossom behind your ear. “I only have the one.”

The sweet voice brings him back, as it always can do. “That can easily be remedied.” The gardeners have moved on to other verges. Those they had been trimming are in full bloom about you. Goldenglow, laceflowers, and violets give Yelena’s fount a touch of ornamentation. Eren plucks a golden blossom, and before long, he is plucking more, laceflowers, violets, more goldenglow. Fingers, long unpracticed, begin to remember their old skill. Slowly and surely, the crown takes shape.

“Where did you learn how to make crowns?” You observe his weaving hands, rapt.

“Mother and I used to make these for one another whenever we lounged in the gardens back home.” He smiles, lost in work and in memory. “I was her little Falcon Knight. She was my Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The wreath lies finished in his hands at last, gold and white and violet. “Yours now, my lady, the title and the crown,” he avows, placing the ring of blossoms over your head. “The Queen of Dreams and Love and Beauty. The most beautiful Majesty.” The fae maid has flowered at last. “The girl with flowers in her hair.”

There it is, that look that he loves, the gentle awe of him come to grace your face again. And there it is, that word again. Love.

“The Falcon Knight has turned into the Prince of Dreams.” You brush light fingers over the petals and smile so beautifully. “You miss her so much,” you say, quiet and thoughtful, a statement meant to be a question yet comes out a statement nevertheless.

“Every day. And I always will.” The unceasing wind is the most comforting presence. He turns his face toward it, longing for the smell of salt. The sanctum faces away from the ocean, and so it is faint here, and far away. But it is there. Beneath the scents of the city - dust and woodsmoke and spices and humanity - there the salt breeze blows. Faint but never gone.

“You’re fortunate you can take care of yours,” he finds himself saying. “I could only watch, helpless, as I lost mine.” He takes your hands, marveling at how small they are compared to his, how smooth, and soft, and unscarred. Unmarked by violence. The hands of peace. The hands of a ruler. “The hands of a Healer,” he murmurs to himself, almost absently, caressing the unblemished skin. “You will preserve life, while I will take it away. And I have taken it away from a host of others.”

He stills as he feels the softness of your lips brush the back of his knuckles. You stroke the scarred skin, immersed in thought. “They have taken but they also give.” You hold up his hand and lace your fingers through his. His fingers close tight over yours as you reach with your other hand to cup his face, rubbing a tender thumb across his cheek. “And they can be so gentle. And so kind. And if they take, it’s only to preserve. You take to preserve those who matter.”

“And who are they, the ones who matter?”

You give him a long, considering look before giving answer. “I think… you would know that better than I.”

The ones I love. Those I am sworn to protect. The weak. The innocent. But who are the innocents, exactly?

It is too much to think about. Too much for the time and the place. Eren turns his head, to place a kiss on the cherished palm on his cheek. “Again, you always know what to say.”

You take your time withdrawing your hands, smile as soft as eiderdown. “I’m glad my words can touch you.”

“They do more than touch me, my lady.” He drinks in the sight of you, another one to keep in his memory for all his days. His eyes fall to the pendant that rests beneath the hollow of your throat, the family heirloom that proclaims to the world at large that you are no longer free for the taking, unavailable for marriage to anyone and everyone. But for him.

You will return the jewel to his House, as all brides must, to trade it for a more permanent piece, the scallop-and-pearl of those bound in wedlock.

The black pearl necklace’s chain gleams a bright silver beneath the afternoon light. Black and silver, like his vidnon. Black and silver, to your white and gold. Absolute opposing colors. Yet for all their opposition, a matched pair still.

“Lord Alexander invited me out for a gardening session,” he says, reminded of the fact by the basket that is sitting beside you. It is filled with greens, he now sees, indistinguishable from each other to his untrained eye.

“Oh?” You give him a look, of interest at the news, and of slight puzzlement at the change of subject. Which is just as well. You need to stir this ship to brighter, less troubled waters.

“Mm-hmm. I’m scared to death,” Eren laughs and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He cannot help recalling one of his recurring nightmares ever since you had been promised, of Lord Alexander chasing him around the halls of Midford Castle, swinging at him with a gigantic bludgeon. His future father by marriage is an amiable man, true enough, yet he is also… big.

You giggle at his expression and take his hand. “Oh, you have nothing to fear. He’s the most lovable pup despite what his size may tell you. Unless… you do mean to make me cry.” You gaze at him beadily as you tug him to his feet.

He scoffs. “I’ll tell him what I told your barkeep. I have no intentions of ‘doing you dirty.’ And if I do make you cry…” he lets his eyes dip down to the luscious curves of your breasts, and smirks, “it won’t be from grief.”

His smirk unfolds into a grin at your disbelieving huff. “That’s quite enough out of you,” you mutter, picking up your basket and pulling him into a walk. The corners of your lips are twitching upward, though. “And here I was thinking I could give you a lesson in herblore to better get you into his good graces. I’ll leave you to Father’s mercy, then.”

“Please, milady, I’m sorry, milady, I won’t say no stupid things again, I do so swear. Teach me the ways of the wood.”

You beam and laugh and wrap an arm about his waist, this girl with flowers in her hair. This girl any man can come to love. “Since you asked so nicely… I am compelled. And perhaps we can scrounge up greens for Renren’s tank.”

No, not any man. Only me. Only me.

Oluo Bossard is a man who plainly loves the sound of his own voice.

“‘-flattered that you care for me so, Lady Petra, but I cannot take you to wife for I am already wed. Duty is the most jealous mistress and she will not suffer any other woman in my life,’” Bossard yammers from his place before the blazing hearth, waving his empty teacup around as he regales… who is he regaling, exactly?

Dorin Serech is sitting before him in a pale purple armchair, yet his nose is buried in a book, apparently deaf to everything but for words writ in ink. Crowded around the window embrasure at the end of the room are the Brotherhood’s youngest. Connie Springer is holding court, entertaining Bertolt Hoover and Marin Tarasav with anecdotes of his own. He at least seems to be having more success with his audience, who are laughing and rejoining with corresponding quips. The forefront of the solar sees Erwin standing behind his desk, dictating a missive to Hange, the only woman (lawfully) allowed in the Hall of the Sentinel.

Perhaps Bossard is under the misguided impression that he is interested in hearing about the paltry niceties of his life. That annoys Levi to no end. He must disabuse the man of that notion at once. He stands from his own armchair by the fire, clutching his cup of tea, and sweeps past the still-rambling knight, who does not seem to notice his lack of an attentive audience.

Prior Hange does not so much as glance up from her work as Levi walks past her seat at the left hand of the Lord Commander’s desk. He does not escape Rolf Wolfsbane’s attention as easily, though. Hard bronze eyes glare at Levi as he leans against the wall beside the fabled princely knight, the most fabled in the Royal Guard’s history. Or so they claim. Levi ignores the glower and takes a sip of his drink. Pardon me, Your Grace, but you are only a bust and I’m free to lounge about wherever I like.

It is not long until he has drained his cup. He stares down at the specks of tea leaves dotting the porcelain and feels that old and familiar feeling once more, the one he can’t quite give a name to. It is one he always has whenever his squires come into their own and he is left to face the prospect of acquainting himself with a new boy yet again. It is part wistfulness, part resignation, he supposes. But that is the lot of the knight. Useless to tell himself never to get too attached. Somehow, some way, no matter how slight, he still does.

All that at the sight of tea leaves. He can almost laugh. He wonders if the new boy will be an exceptional teamaker. Dieter Augenstein is to be the name of the new boy, a younger son of a Lesser House sworn to the Reisses, a lad of some eighteen or nineteen years. Levi will have to teach him the ways of perfect brewing if he proves to be a botch. Eren’s first attempts at brewing had been depressingly unacceptable, yet he learned in the end. It is always a toss-up with the boys. Some will always be better brewers than others. But none have yet surpassed that most consummate of brewers, Farlan Church.

“Finished! At last!” cries the Prior, at the exact moment the Lord Commander speaks.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

Erwin is glancing at him from the corner of his eye. The leaded glass in front of him shows the Hall’s yard and Midford’s main keep right across their smaller holdfast. The day promises to be a good one for rain - the autumn storms are begun at last. If they aren’t, then they will be soon, now that the Month of Storing has started.

Levi looks away from the Lord Commander’s gaze and his right sleeve, empty, armless, and pinned up at the shoulder with an iron brooch in the shape of an anvil. “Keep your coin. My thoughts aren’t worth that much.”

“These ones are, it would seem. What has the cool, imperturbable Levi Ackerman looking so… sentimental?”

“Ah, I am starving,” Hange whines, slumping down on her seat, utterly woebegone. Erwin stares at Levi a few moments more with that piercing stare of his, then turns to sit down before his desk and pick up the letter the Prior has completed, reading over the contents.

Silently, Levi lets out a breath. Relief. Did he truly give himself away like that? I’m losing my touch. Many squires he’s had over the years, and yet the first always comes back to haunt him. It’s always the first that gets you, for everything. His first squire. His first triumph. And his first true failure.

“Where are Mike and my sweet rolls?”

“This is passable,” Erwin announces after a time, and Hange sits up, lips pouted, mind stuck on her stomach. “He’ll be pleased to hear back from me soon.”

Ortwin of Smith Street is a blacksmith of the highest standing. A standing he did not have before his son rose to prominence, some will be quick to whisper. He was one of many smiths in the area, deemed to be neither exceptional nor terrible. But that was hardly fair; his craft is as fine as any smith’s worth his salt, and he is worth his many times over. And if his son’s legend brings on more custom, what of it?

“Will you be delivering by dove or in person?” Hange yawns, rubbing at her stomach.

“In person. It’s been some time since I’ve visited.” Before he lost an arm, the Lord Commander had been known to return home on his free days and take up his old trade again. He was a capable smith in his own right; that storied blade of his, Sunstrike, is a weapon of his own making. It is no truesteel blade such as those forged by the peerless metalworkers of Old Paradis, but the sword had served him well over his years of active duty. Now it sits in his rooms, gathering dust, its vocation ended.

“How is the work coming along?” Hange asks, a little vaguely, seemingly distracted from her stomach at last. Her eyes are trained on the rest of the room’s occupants, thoughtful and ruminative.

“Well enough. Slow but sure, as they say. Fold this for me, would you?” Erwin hands the priestess back his missive and she complies, folding the parchment into a neat rectangle and securing it shut with pale purple wax, which she stamps with the Royal Guard’s seal, a crown ringed with twelve swords. “Although I fear I may never again be as able. Continuous practice is what’s needed and my duties get in the way of that. Being Lord Commander is detrimental to being a smith.”

The Lord Commander’s visits to his family forge are not entirely filial. Still he takes up his craft, trying to hone his remaining limb until it is as dextrous as the vanished one. Levi can empathize, to a point. His dear Uncle Kenny had broken his right wrist when he was a boy, soon after he had mastered the rudiments of swordplay with his dominant hand. To make him a most well-rounded warrior, the man claimed as he proceeded, brutally, severely, ruthlessly, to train his young nephew to fight with his left hand.

Not for the first time, Levi feels that most consternating confusion of anger and gratefulness that rises inside him at the thought of his uncle. Seeing Erwin struggle to recondition his body after such a profound loss only exacerbates the emotions. More than half of Levi is thankful that, should he lose his right, he will still have his left and be as proficient as he ever is in battle. Not even the Lord Commander can claim as much. Perhaps those years of hell were worth it, after all.

“Has this room ever been full?” Hange questions promptly. “With all of you lot, I mean. The Brotherhood of the Twelve instead of the Brotherhood of… Seven,” she adds after a hasty headcount of the solar’s occupants.

“It can’t ever be full,” Levi reminds her, crossing his arms over his chest. “The king is not to be left alone and unguarded under any circumstance.”

“Ah, right.” Something morose descends upon her in a flash. Unusual to the highest degree with this most upbeat of Priors. “Don’t you have three from the North? I see one northman… where are the other two?”

“Sir Julian is on duty, with Sir Keith. Sir Symon is… away,” the Lord Commander answers, careful and circumspect. Things have been uneasy with their northern brothers nowadays. Not so Dorin, not as much, with him being a Trostman (and therefore not one of the aggrieved northern parties, though their sort remains wary all the same).

Renouncing past ties and allegiances to serve one is easier said than done. Hard to keep those vows when the one you devote your life to has done you a great personal wrong. And reducing your line - a line ten thousand years old, one of the oldest in the land - to a mere shadow of what it once was is a great personal wrong, Halkin will not see it as anything but. Worse still is to eradicate your whole House, root and stem, and leave you as the sole successor to its legacy. And a fine successor Skaryn makes, one whose vows prevent him from leaving his own successors to cultivate their tree. His House will die a true death with him, in the end.

Mistrust is a chord that does not strike well with the Lord Commander yet that kingslayer Marius Zackly had given precedent for the sentiment to exist. Never again will Julian Halkin and Symon Skaryn do duty together. The squires are to be kept away from the northmen as well. They cannot risk the boys being overrun should the men act on any impulse of retribution; only the veterans will serve with them now, to keep the closest watch.

A loud whoop of laughter rings out from the other end of the room, from the squires and their cheery japes. No, not squires, no longer squires, Levi has to remind himself. They are knights now, dubbed and anointed as he is, no matter how young. And they will not remain so. Further service and battle will change that. And time. Which is, at present, working further changes on them. Connie, who not too long ago was of his height, now overtops him, to Levi’s displeasure; a large part of him feels betrayed.

“Laughter is always a good thing to hear. Sir Symon should be here to partake of it. Or at least to listen.” Hange smiles sadly. “How terrible it must be, to know you are the last. It’s a hard sentence to bear.”

“The law is the law, no matter how hard.” The Lord Commander hesitates for an instant, before advancing, “No matter his… disposition, and his judgement, it has been hard for His Majesty as well. We’re looking to you, for good measure, to keep him safe down where he will not let us follow.”

Prior Hange nods soberly, and Levi is left to ponder. His Majesty has been visiting the vaults more often these days, and lingering longer than his Guard would like. Levi can trace this change as having come about in the days of the late Lady Mariya’s death. Which had concurred with the late Zheletine priest’s court visit.

The king’s private enterprise has been years long in the making. It started with Dietrich, the most truculent of lords in recent memory. Where it will end is yet to be determined. Rod Reiss, the First of His Name, will not be the first Reiss to start this selfsame enterprise. The end may yet be imminent but it need not be uncertain, if the fates of His Majesty’s enterprising forebears were anything to go by. You would think he, or anyone else, would learn by now.

It is the stuff of the Lord Commander’s worst nightmares, this project, and it tears him between duties - to obey and to protect. He had dared ask the king, once, the nature of this undertaking, only to be coldly rebuffed and warned off of further inquiry, on pain of dishonorable discharge. No man of them has inquired since.

They can put two and two together, nevertheless. His Majesty can make his Priors swear all the oaths he requires and warn off his Guard all he likes, yet that cannot make them ignore the sounds, muffled though they are by thick metal. Levi hears them still, in his nightmares. Disembodied they are in life; at the castle in the air in the gloaming, they take on the most monstrous forms. The Titans were long before his time but he has seen the tapestries, the portraits and the paintings, and those come to life in his head in his worst nights.

It disturbs him to no end to know that the king will see them living once more.

“All this magic in the world and we can’t even wield it. All the potential, all of humanity’s progress wasted. At the least, it would make this whole thing so much easier.” Hange sighs. “It’s an ironic thing, isn’t it, that the thing we are working on is the very reason we lost our divinity in the first place.” Sworn to silence she may be yet this vow she does not keep. Not with them, the Lord Commander and his leal right hand. They proved too sharp to feign ignorance with, so there is little point in upholding the farce.

“For all the death and destruction they brought, though… Titans were a marvel unlike any other. To see even one alive… to know that it was I who brought them about… that it was due to my brilliance that the impossible was made possible… I should die happy,” Hange breathes, and slumps down on her chair, dreamy as a milkmaid mooning over her farm hand.

It is all Levi can do not to shake his head at her. “A misstep and you’ll die before you see your life’s ambition come to pass. There will be no joy in it for you, I promise you.” Doubly so should their studies cause the death of the king. Some days of late, he emerged much the worse for wear, to the Lord Commander’s increasing disquiet. Holding his tongue to obey his king is becoming more of a sore trial, day after day after day.

“The Northern Matter, it’s what’s spurring him on. They won’t stand up to him if he still had the old power,” says Hange, suddenly grim as the grave they had reduced Zheletov to.

Ill-done, it was ill-done, a voice oft suppressed murmurs within. Try as he might to play deaf, something in Levi acknowledges the voice’s truth. Once, his nights would have been spent in the company of the dangling dead. Sleeping like a log makes for a superior shield against the accusing eyes. And time. The dead have lost all the power they held over him. Something in him is appalled by the fact. Death is never supposed to be easy.

“This is not the place or time to discuss this,” Erwin breaks in tersely, a note of warning in his voice.

“Do the lads know?” Hange asks, as though Erwin had not spoken. “When are you going to tell them? Soon or late, they must know if they’re expected to perform their duty to its full.”

The Lord Commander sighs. “Soon.” When their mouths prove as closed as mine, are his words unsaid.

“I’m back.”

Hange gasps and pops up from her seat, dashing toward the solar door with cries of welcome and glee. Mike fends her off at once as best he can from his basket of goods. “Marchpane!” she squeals, grabbing at the crock of it sitting atop his promised sweet rolls. Matthias Ackerman looks on from his place by the door, unimpressed by the tomfoolery occurring beneath his bronze nose. To be sure, there is very little that can impress the bust of the first Lord Commander. Levi wonders if this was true of his ancestor in life; he will know where his own temperament comes from, if so.

“Soon?”

The current Lord Commander gives Levi the briefest of looks before he stands from his desk. The squires-turned-knights are coming over, drawn by the Prior’s capers and the smell of fresh-baked bread. Erwin proceeds to his subordinate to grab a bite of his own. “Soon.”

You tap on the door, the little knock that you and Eren have taken to using for your late-night meetings. You have not used or heard it in quite some time now, now that you think on it. The blowback from the Northern Matter had cut into your nighttime arrangements. That is not to mention the hassle that came with traveling and settling back into the rhythm of being home once more.

But you have grown peckish reading Lore and Luminaries (which you had borrowed from the library at your betrothed’s unknowing influence). Somehow, reading of Gerald and Cressida’s midnight trysts served to make you crave your beloved strawberry cream pie. And your own knight’s company. You had left the lovers of legend in their midnight garden and slipped to the guest wing, by ways only you were privy to.

Almost all castles have their secret passages, byways to cut the time spent ranging from one side of the keep to another. Most serve a more vital purpose. Father had shown you one such some years ago. It is conveniently located in the anteroom of the family privy chambers. The second panel from the tall window to the left of the room, you must always remember. This one leads to an underground cavern, which opens up to the Arsechkalan countryside. Should the worst come to pass and you are besieged by enemies, gods forbid, you are to take here the family and as many of the household as you can and escape for the nearest sanctuary.

It is a grim probability and not one you want to think too deeply on yet you know your duty. A good ruler must save as many of her people as she can in times of peril.

The passage you took to visit your knight had a less bleak purpose. Sir Bacon - may the gods give him rest, the darling thing - had found it for you sometime before you entered court. There it is, in the corridor that leads to the empty chambers connected to yours (your future consort’s, your parents informed you). The brown tabby had tripped a mechanism in one of the hallway’s alcoves and you had both slipped through. This one leads to a hidden garden, an old sanctum, now unused, which in turn leads to the inner palace gardens (this one not a sanctum). From there, it is no trouble slipping through the castle halls to your destinations of choice. It allows you to steer clear from the guards posted by the privy chambers, at least, which makes for the greatest of godsends.

You hope Eren isn’t asleep yet.

His door swings open and a god emerges. The breath leaves your lungs with all speed.

The firelight from the braziers standing either side of the entryway gives this god a bronze cast and throws shadows across his naked skin, accentuating every line, every crest of hard corded muscle. This is a sight not new to you. You saw it then in Zheletov and see it often in your most desirous dreams, yet in this warm gilded light he is even more a glory. His is a stunningly perfect body. And he is; stunning and perfect, broad and lean and muscled, handsome, so handsome, the consummate image of a man at his best. Your eyes roam lower, to the sharp-etched muscles of his flat stomach and the dip of his hip bones, to his dark pants sitting low on his hips, to what lay beneath the concealing cloth, right there in the junction of his thighs…

Your throat has gone dry as dust. You swallow and attempt to drag your eyes up to his face. A fine sheen of sweat brought on by the fuggy air makes him gleam almost golden. Like the Sun. The Creed oft depicts him as such, Lusin, god of sun and flame and youth. The golden god, young and handsome and virile, a deity to rival that comeliest of gods Elios, the male half of Lyias the Lover.

You need not look too far to see Lusin mortal incarnate. The young man before you is fire made flesh, an ethereal being, a golden man.

He has been drinking in your own form, you realize, catching the tail end of the movement of his eyes as they flick up to yours. His eyes are dark.

“Um,” you begin, knitting your fingers together on your stomach and withering a little inside at your discomposure. Bad form, bad form. “D-did I wake you?” The stutter makes you wither some more.

“Uh, no, actually, I was just… headed there. To bed, I mean.” His eyes drop down to your chest, much exposed by your short-sleeved black vevda, and back up again. “To what do I owe this nighttime pleasure?”

“I’m peckish,” you say, your voice coming steadier now, to your relief. You try to ignore the dip in his voice as he said his last two words. “I thought I’d invite you along to have a midnight nibble, just like the old times.”

“The old times of three months ago.”

You laugh lightly as the mists of tension dissipate a little. “Yes.” You pause. “Unless you’d rather head to bed. To sleep,” you hurriedly tack on when his abundant eyebrows vanish above his hairline. “I mean, it’s late and I can understand if you’re tired and would rather rest, I can go by myself-”

There is something in the way he says your name that silences you at once. Eren gives you one of his delightful crooked smiles, full of fond affection. He holds on to his doorframe, carrying on, “I’d love to accompany you. Let me just-” He gestures down his bare torso. You wish he hadn’t.

You purse your lips and merely nod, not trusting yourself to speak. He flashes you another smile, takes another peek at your breasts, and withdraws, closing his door with a soft snap.

A quiet gasp escapes you the instant he disappears. What was it he said about less dangerous hours and less dangerous dresses? “Fuck,” you curse softly, standing still in front of his door. You glance down at your chest. It hadn’t truly occurred to you just how deep this neckline went. Not until he brought attention to it with his, frankly, shameless ogling. You didn’t even mean to tease him with this garb, truly - you hadn’t been lying when you told him of your tastes in homegrown fashions.

You stride over to the opposite wall and sit on the nearby daybed placed between two rounded pillars, a lounge for hosts to mingle with and keep their guests company. Your twined fingers rest primly on your lap. For all that you tease your betrothed, you certainly are not impervious to him. And he knows that well, and takes advantage. From thus comes your ebb and flow.

He had fucked himself to you that night you noted that ebb and flow. It is one of those strange thoughts, surreal in their strangeness; they seem too… much to be true, and yet they are. Up until that night, you had not truly allowed yourself to consider the possibility that he, Eren Jaeger - sweet and kind Eren Jaeger, a boy oftentimes so stiffly awkward in the face of desire and romance - could ever desire you as much as he apparently did. And yet he did. By the gods, he did.

You had set that drying sheet aside, singling it out lest you lose it from the countless identical others in your possession. You do not know how he used it for his pleasure (and ruminating on that brings its own pleasure). You do know that it had known the touch of that glorious body, that it had caressed the most intimate parts of him in ways you could only hope to do someday (and the day is growing closer, so much closer).

The Lady Wanton was most disappointed that he had laundered the thing afterward. Gone was his most alluring essence, lost to you this time. You had so wanted to tell him - to his sweet, sheepish face as he returned the cloth the next day - that you couldn’t give two figs about him sullying what was yours. The Lady would have been thankful for a splash of water off his skin, his sweat… even a hint of his seed.

You squeeze your fingers hard upon your lap, stunned by the turn of your thoughts. Never have you shrunk back from your most wanton musings, but never before has a young man induced so much of them out. And in that capacity, too. You chuckle to yourself. It is the most bizarrely droll thing. There he is, getting dressed for one of your many late-night jaunts; here you are, sitting on the daybed and thinking about his seed…

The creak of wood and iron hinges makes you jump a little in your seat, throwing your mind back to the present and out of the gutters that it had rolled in so happily. Your godly knight comes to you in a dark vidnon, dark as the sky at midnight, black and violet both. Its silver lining at hem and sleeve and edge are bands of stars, elegant against the darkness.

Her ladyship Mistress Wanton rues the loss of the sight of his radiant body. You have not much to rue, in truth, favored as you are by the sight of his broad chest, partially bared by the loosely tied jacket. The light is his most ardent lover, so determined to show him at his finest. You stand from your seat, hands still clasped in front of you.

“My lady. Shall we?” He reaches to take one of your hands in his own.

You recoil at his touch, to both of your bewilderment.

“What’s wrong?” With his concern comes the smallest inkling of hurt.

The sight of it makes your stomach drop. “I-I’m sorry. I’m just… a little wrought up, I don’t know what came over me.” You reach out for him and slide your fingers through his, holding tight. His hand is rough, so warm against yours. As it always is. “Let’s head on, then,” you smile up at him, and are relieved when he returns it.

Perhaps your wanton thoughts and his touch make for a more overwhelming blend than you realize.

The kitchens are empty, the pantry well-stocked. Not that well-stocked, Eren complains, when it fails to yield his favorite cream cakes. “I’ll have them start making them for you, then,” you say, placing your mug of tea and plate of strawberry cream pie on the wooden table and sitting down on the bench.

You have lit the branches of candles atop a couple of the fluted pillars that bound the servants’ dining hall. It is not quite enough to banish the shadows, but it is enough to see by. The room opens up to the castle’s herb garden, so beloved of the palace cooks. The waxing moon shines over the plots; its faint light silvers the greenery and lends the place a dream-like aspect.

“Please. If it’s not too much trouble. I do miss the things.” Eren plants himself next to you, having settled on a lemon cake (Armin’s favorite and a staple of their boyhoods) and his own brew. “Let’s see if they can make them as good as Lisa does.”

“I’m sure they’re more than capable of meeting your ideals.” You take your first forkful of confection. Excellent as always, you think, well-pleased. The pastry is well-baked, the cream smooth, the strawberries sweet. Just the way you like it.

“You’ve set the expectations high, milady. Here’s hoping they can, indeed, meet them,” he raises his forkful of cake at you in a teasing toast, then begins his midnight repast in earnest. “You know, for all their tastiness, these can get really sickening really fast when you have them every bloody day,” he remarks thickly, swallowing and looking reflective. “Stupid thing to fight over, though, now that I look back on it. Boys can be the stupidest creatures in the world sometimes.” He shakes his head, amused yet hangdog. “I really gave Armin hell over loving a bleeding cake, gods… speaking of, have you heard back from him yet?”

“It’s only been a couple of days since our last letter,” you remind him, making him hum in recollection. The both of you have been corresponding with Armin this reprieve, sharing parchment and taking it in turns to write down your sections. So far as you have heard, Armin’s reprieve is proving to be rather mundane. And dutiful.

He had filled his scrolls with accounts of councils and audiences and meetings, with the occasional trifling yarn. His Alyfeis was as festive as ever, he had told you in his last missive. Some fisherman had caught a swordfish fifteen feet long, which he had offered to Lord Hagen for the audience, now they must dine on nothing but swordfish for a month, the Young Master Arlert jested. He sounds well, in any case, and both of you are glad of it.

“Nice to know it’s all rosy on his front, no matter how unremarkable,” Eren says, then snatches a piece of your pie, to your disbelief. He chews and blinks and smiles, cheeks dimpling a little, innocent as Olya after his daily shenanigans.

You pout at him a little, though you can feel your lips trembling. “If you want less unremarkable news, the one from home should serve you more than passing well.”

Eren widens his eyes at you, chewing on his own sweet now, frowning and chewing faster to chastise you as you take the moment to raid his own plate. The tartness of his cake is a pleasant change from the sweetness of your pie. He swallows and gripes, “Oi, no fair.”

“It’s more than fair, thief.”

He snorts yet smiles all the same. “All right, the debt is paid. As to that other thing… I’m to be an uncle twice over now.” His mouth curls in mild revulsion. “Their sheets must be exceptionally dirty these days for that to actually happen.”

“Oh, hush, you,” you reproach, light-hearted, smiling at his little snicker. “Took them five years this time. I suppose Zeke’s hoping for a boy. Your proper Jaeger heir.” You have to scoff at these Paradisian conventions. Ymir can rule just as well as her lord grandfather. Having or not having a cock should never be a consideration in such matters as power. In this is yet another way the Old Way triumphs over the new. You, at least, need never worry about Tibor or Oliver supplanting your rights. Vascalin is yours.

“And I move down the line of succession,” Eren declares, with no hint of envy or regret. This betrothed of yours has never aspired to further power or rule, a fact you find noteworthy. Honor, glory, and renown make his ambition, nothing more.

“Should Elva have a boy, we’ll have the making of little Ymir.” Lord Grisha had broached the matter with Father in the letter he’d sent bearing the monumental news. The birth of a brother will leave her free for wardship.

“Southron-raised, just like her uncle,” Eren mulls, taking a thoughtful sip of his tea. “A fine court to be in. I expect to see a proper lady when she comes back to us in full.”

“Of course, you’ll have nothing less.” Ludicrous to expect anything less. “Too bad she won’t have Olya for company. Still, there are the other wards, she won’t get lonely.”

Eren has finished his cake at last. “Olya’s a good lad. A champion in the making.” It had been such a joy to watch your betrothed instruct your brother in the ways of the horseman. You had acquired a pony for the little lad, a sorrel colt Olya had named… Lad. Lad was a gentle thing, an easy enough mount for a boy of five to manage. Eren had taught Olya the fundamentals, the equipment, the proper stances, and walked the boy around the inner yard to get him used to the motions. Olya had wanted to canter, but Eren put his foot down; he must walk before he could canter.

Seeing Eren handle your baby brother was… enlightening. It is not often you see him around children, yet he handles them more than exceptionally well whenever he chances to be with them. Ymir, Olya, even slightly older children like the miller’s girl Meadow, all of them he treated with an easy warmth. You find yourself pushing your fork around your plate, swirling cream and crumbs and strawberries about. He would make a great father, the smallest of voices whispers within. You smile tremulously down at the remains of your pie.

“Oh, look at this.” You have unearthed that rarest of treasures: a twin strawberry. Such luck. There it sits in the middle of the dish, a delicious red heart half-buried in sweet white cream.

“Luck,” Eren whistles, leaning closer to see. Heat prickles down your skin at his proximity.

“Do you want the other half?” You are cutting it down the middle and spearing the piece with your fork before you can think too much on anything else. You hold the utensil up to him, offering.

He does not move to take the morsel at once and merely stares at it, quite uncomprehending. Blank. There is something incredulous about his blankness, you notice. You suppress your smile. This will hardly be the first time you’ve ever fed him. You wonder what holds him back this time around.

Eren stirs back to life several heartbeats later and opens his mouth for the treat. You give it to him gladly, watching his lips close around the steel to take his half of luck. A pink flush colors his cheeks as he chews, faint in the dimness of the hall yet visible all the same. His eyes never leave yours, though.

You break the stare to tuck in to your own half, very aware of where this fork has been, of whose essence you are now polishing off the ware. Somehow, this piece is the sweetest of them all.

“There’s cream on your cheek.”

You still as a long, slender finger runs gently down the skin of your face, near the righthand corner of your mouth. You turn your head to look at Eren and watch as that finger vanishes into his mouth. He catches your eyes and flushes once more, yet his embarrassment leaves as soon as it comes. “Sweet,” he says, low and simple.

It is some time before you can think to look away, closing your slightly open mouth. You cannot recall parting them. “Let’s head back.” You make to stand from the bench.

“My lady.”

There is something in his voice that strikes. He is earnest as earnest can be when you turn to him once more. “I know I tease you sometimes but I never mean to upset. If such attentions are unwelcome, then tell me and I’ll stop. But,” he reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, looking down at his lap like a scolded boy, “I thought we’d reached a certain understanding of one another the past month or so.”

Guilt blazes up in you at his crestfallen face. “No, it’s all right! I mean,” you shy away some, fiddling with your fingers on the table, “your attentions are very much welcome.” Perhaps you had been more curt than you meant to be, earlier. And you did flinch away from him before that, much earlier by his rooms… All responses easily misconstrued. You resolve to do better moving forward. “We do have an understanding of each other now,” you add quietly. “I’m sorry if I came off so… standoffish.”

Relief overtakes him, so strongly that it brings a smile to your face. “I’m-I’m glad,” he answers softly, taking up your hand in his and kissing it, light and gentle.

You leave the kitchens with the air cleared between you.

“So.” Once again you stand at the threshold of his chambers, about to part ways this time. You give him a parting beam. “Good night, Sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, my lady. Dream of me tonight.”

Both of you giggle at that, and your fingers thread through each other upon your stomach as you contemplate your next course of action. Hesitating, hesitating… Oh, hell. You move forward and tilt your head up. Lemon and tea, soap and wood, Eren floods your being as you press your lips to his cheek, right at the edge of his mouth. You move away several heartbeats later, smiling at him one last time. “I hope your dreams will be as sweet as mine.”

And you turn and float away. You look back once you reach the end of the hall. Still he stands outside his door, staring back at you with a hand up his cheek. Like a statue. The most handsome statue. The tale of Kamilla the Kisser comes back to you then, she of the village of Swiftfrost, the girl who could turn men to stone with a kiss.

You giggle, wave, and move on.

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A/N:

Disclaimer! Any real-life herbs I mentioned and their properties are heavily played around with and may not reflect their real uses and properties in real life. Fantasy = playing around with these kinds of things, after all.

Added 1 (one) paragraph in Chap. 10 about Eren being quite fluent in the Traders’ Tongue for future purposes hehe. Also reworded a bit of Levi’s Chap. 4 dialogue to reflect the plot here - the old draft made it seem like they had no idea about Rod’s plans in the vaults.

And speaking of, yes, at last, the reveal of what His Majesty’s hobby actually is: he’s trying to bring back the Titans. Major plot point commences. To add on: Lord Commander background! And memories of squires for Sir Levi. Oh, Farlan...

I mentioned Wolfborn before, yes? Literally wrote Eren’s POV with their little theme (5:44 - 6:07) in mind and I just *sighs* *swoons* at last, one of my favorite scenes come to life! Can’t wait for the next ones, hehehe. Ahh, the young couple coming to grips with *love*. Is it love? Is it? 😬😌🤭

Speaking of themes... toying with the idea of publicizing my playlist for the fic... and maybe publishing all the lore details as an extra (most like in AO3)... the playlist is more likely to happen but... I’ll see, I’ll see. I’ll deffo post links if I get around to them.

Again, thanks so much for the support and interest in the fic! Everyone’s been so kind and I’m storing all the love in my little heart <3 Til next time!

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu @lukepattersin @tojis-discord-kitten

#eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren x reader #snk x reader #aot x reader #eren jeager x reader #Eren Jaeger #eren yeager #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan

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