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psalacanthea · 6 days ago

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The Courting of Ghilan'nain

well this was meant to be a little fanfic friday dribble-drabble, but just kidding it's actually 3.8k. So I guess I should actually put it on AO3. Hang on. Ok, I put it on AO3. Here's the link.

Andruil x Ghilan'nain, Andruil & Solas, Ghilan'nain & Solas, 3.8k T

Impossibly tall and twisted trees denoted Andruil’s camp deep in the forest.

As Solas wandered the wood, a spirit-home of wild fade currents, tendrils of magic and air brought him whispers from the gathering. They said the Mother of Halla, great benefactress of the mortals, had not deigned to greet the Huntress; there was silence from her den deep within the trees. This wood was the home of monsters, strange creations that appeared from the dark depths, some helpful, some vicious. Many had destroyed by the Huntress’ arrows, but some, like the proud halla, thrived among the people.

The halla did not bow her head; not even to the gods themselves.

An insult.

Even the Huntress’ lenient temper would be roused by Elgar'nan's order. When Mythal had heard she’d demanded the Mother of Halla be captured, Mythal had bid him come and see what was afoot. For as her husband loathed them, Mythal loved the halla, who were happy to serve her when they scorned Elgar’nan.

Perhaps a petty reason for him to leave her side, but Solas was curious, too.

What punishment had Andruil devised for the mortal who crafted beasts that defied the gods?

The grand camp, a temporary home crafted by an eager fade-sculptor among Andruil’s court, did not infringe upon the wood. A gentle shimmer in the air kept wildlife away, each root-woven archway blending into the world around them. But beyond that border, it was far from ordinary.

Without was autumn, but within was early spring. The air was crisp and breathtaking, sky bright with stars and a rippling aurora stolen from a place where night and cold still reigned. Solas gazed up at as he passed the outer court dotted with small shops and dwellings, each with their own unique design. It was a beautiful and impressive feat, to walk a portal from autumn to spring thaw. Wilderness to civilization.

Andruil preferred not to upset the game, her preferences visible among the ephemeral fade-sculpted fancies. This camp had been built around what was, not replacing it. Even the snowdrops were raised from the crude soil beyond their season rather than created, lured by beckoning magic. Solas walked the streets of the ever-changing and ever-moving city of Andruil, listening to the chime of breaking ice and the soft sounds of conversations muffled by the harmony of the Fade.

A light snow drifted down, dusting the carved ice path leading to a central camp surrounded by twisting cherry blossom trees. They shed insubstantial petals that melted at a touch, an ever-drifting veil that led into a tunnel of constantly melting and freezing wisteria wrought of ice, their droplets falling onto tuned stones that made a charmingly random melody. Trickles of ice-freed springs laid a soft ripple of sound underneath, rivulets of melt dripping from every surface as he passed from the tunnel to face the final ascent.

Most, if not all of Andruil’s court were within.

Solas made himself a wandering shadow, avoiding eyes and notice. He was welcome to travel where he would, but often found it best to avoid notice unless he was required– though the habit did rouse suspicion. Mythal had asked him to witness this moment. It was more convenient to do so without rousing attention. He would intervene in case of disaster, of course.

Andruil could be…impulsive.

Her followers held too much sway with her.

The path led to a hunters’ rest of filigree ice walls and woven birch pillars, a massive central fire blazing low with flames of silver and violet. The lights matched the aurora overhead, lighting the whole space with hues of purple, green, and blue. It was those dressed in scarlet and orange who suffered most of the choice in lighting, Solas noted. The natural stone stair had been given more gravitas with ice-wrought railings, the moss that sprang from every crack coated in perpetually-melting frost, the delicate carpet still autumnally green and brown despite the artificial winter.

Solas wondered idly if changing the seasons out of order would do some damage to the wood, unprepared for such cold.

The moment he entered the temple-like camp, open to the sky, his eyes were drawn to not to the vista above, but to she who required all this posturing. The Mother of Halla had been captured, herded into the presence of Andruil at last…whether she desired it or not. Andruil did not take ‘no’ for an answer.

Alone, Ghilan’nain stood shunned by the gathering of immortal and spirit, lingering in the shadow of a twisted sapling column wreathed in sculpted vines.

Yet once the eye found her, it could not leave her.

Eyes like strawflowers stared across the room, compellingly alien, too large for her elongated face. They were set oddly far apart, alert and wary, pupils a horizontal bar. And that was far from where her idiosyncrasies ended. Her face was nothing but flaws, her nose too long with a flattened bridge, her mouth too wide and too pale. Her ears were nearly clownish, turned outward proudly. Unforgivably flawed. Yet she was harmonious, wholly herself by design; this curious sculptress of beasts clearly considered herself a canvas as well. And so she drew the eye as to art, to be judged on some higher plane than mere attractiveness.

The Mother of Halla was unbound, and unwatched by the guards, ostensibly here of her own will. But Solas knew the lie. He could feel her frustration and distraction, her disdain for the feast, her unease with the celebratory crowd that gazed at her like she was yet another of Andruil’s bizarre trophies.

This is what he had been sent to observe.

In a sea of spring color she was wilted and faded, draped in the hues of skeletal fallen leaves. But it suited her, the odd fragility and simplicity of her dress, the richer palette. The truth of the world outside. And if she was barely dressed for the occasion, well, she was a mortal and it was appropriate for her to avoid outshining her betters.

She showed no signs of discomfort with her unfashionable iconoclasm.

Mockery flitted around the room behind hands, venomous butterflies flitting from each gossiping bubble to whisper their disdain for her. Jealousy, all of it. The entire city of Arlathan knew of the Huntress’ obsession with the sculptress of beasts, her hunger for her attention. To be favored by the gods was to be feared and hated.

A truth Solas was all too aware of.

Andruil’s pride was simple and fierce. She wore it like a child, with expectation of praise and glory for her accomplishment. And, like a child, her pride was easily wounded– she lashed out thoughtlessly when it was threatened.

He was curious to see if the Mother of Halla would survive her long-awaited first encounter with the Huntress.

When Andruil arrived, it was with laughter and shouting.

The Huntress was celebrated upon her arrival, not like Elgar’nan, whose court was silent and fawning, or Mythal’s, which was peaceful and full of gratitude. No, Andruil’s court was a place of drinking and song, of story and boasting. The line between fashion and armor blurred, with the goddess herself arriving in a silver breastplate and a violet sash like a peacock’s tail that spread behind her as she walked. Her armored leggings were spattered in mud and blood, half-bared chest sporting a jagged wound that still seeped blood.

She wore the injury as proudly as her exposed scars, the armor designed specifically to show them. One from each of her great battles in the war. Her people knew the story of each scar, or at least her version of them, and treated the tales as their sacred scriptures.

It seemed Andruil wanted to make a show of her arrival tonight.

In the center of the magic-hewn stone dias that stood at the top of the lodge, her altar and her throne, Andruil paused. Her boisterous, equally-wounded hunters stalled far back from her. The noise died. There was still a smile on her lips, arch and arrogant. It pulled slightly from the deep scar at the corner of her mouth that arched up to her cheek– won at the final battle of the great war, the conflict that had granted her eventual godhood.

“Generally when a goddess camps within your borders, oh Mother of Halla, one does not need to be invited to pay her respects!”

Andruil’s voice rang out, drawing every eye in the place back to the strangely-sculpted mortal. She clutched the pillar with one hand now, but she did not flinch when addressed, lifting her chin and averting her eyes. Step by step, she approached the dias, figures moving out of her way at her approach. The fire roared as she passed it, briefly washing her in strange, sharp shadows that made her all the more fragile.

At the bottom of the stairs, she bowed deeply to Andruil, until her knees touched the floor.

Ghilan’nain said nothing.

The silence pleased Andruil, her smile widening, shoulders rolled back. “Bring the trophy!” she bellowed, giving no more words to the still-kneeling mortal.

Solas curiously observed the prisoner, who did not at all behave like one. In fact, he would say she was remarkably composed, and remarkably brave. He would admire it, were it not counter to her continued survival. Still, there was much to be learned even in fleeting moments of those whose audacity spelled their doom.

Beauty even in melting snow.

Andruil returned, holding proudly in her hands the severed head of a halla. It wasn’t the beast itself that surprised Solas, but the sheer size of the head cradled between Andruil’s gauntlets, its intricately carved antlers eclipsing her face. A marvellous beast, larger than any he’d seen before. Its blood-spattered fur was golden, dead eyes rolled up towards the rippling sky.

“Rejoice, Mother of Halla! I have defeated the greatest of your beasts, and won our ferocious competition at last!” No cheers broke after Andruil’s bold pronouncement, the entire court respecting the gravity of the moment.

A sob broke the breathless silence.

A gasp of shock and horror flickered around the room, shadows lengthening, air chilling.

Ghilan’nain wept.

And not with overwhelmed honor at the skill and glory of the Huntress, but in pain, her face falling into her hands, graceful body crumpling to the floor in a puddle of gossamer skirts. Heartbroken, voice borne on the ringing silence, she sobbed, tears spilling from between her fingers and dampening her skirts. Solas’ eyes were drawn to her, as many were, but the focus was not on the weeping mortal, but the triumphant goddess.

No; Andruil was triumphant no longer.

Her pride had been shattered by the mournful response, and she stared in shock and dismay. Her hand fell, the proudly-displayed beast’s head falling with a thump. There was no blood left to spill, but its mouth hung open grotesquely as it rolled down a stair, beautifully curved horns clinking against the crystalline stone.

“Why do you cry?” Andruil asked, words blunt and fierce as ever. But they were open, straightforward, puzzlement and pain clear. “I have bested you at last.” Her expression cleared, fierce eyes softening. “Are you overcome with the honor?”

“I did not make her for you to hunt!”

The accusation rang out, so full of suffering that the spirits thrummed with the vibrations her agony rippled through the air. The light changed, candles burning fiercely golden, banishing the violet shadows. In the gilded light the weeping mortal glared at the goddess, her agony pure, her heart open to them all like a flower.

The room was silent, watching the challenged goddess in fear and anticipation.

Armor gleaming in the fierce firelight, Andruil took a single step down from her dias. “Do you not challenge me, mortal? I have hunted your great beasts of land, sea, and sky. Why do you weep now?”

“Challenge you?” The question was full of too much pain for offense, great tears spilling again as Ghilan’nain’s chin rose. Her lashes trembled, gleaming. “They were imperfect. Flawed. But her–” Her voice cracked, bleeding.

The Mother of Halla reached out a dappled hand, long fingers stretching as she crawled up the shallow stairs, tears still spilling from her autumnal eyes, gown spread across the crystal like the shivering wings of a wounded moth. She grasped the severed head of the gilded beast, hands cradling its gilded muzzle, dragging it down into the embrace of her arms. Chest heaving with the force of her tears, she pressed her forehead to the halla’s.

“She was perfect. Perfect!” The last word rang like an accusation, an arrow to Andruil’s heart. Ghilan’nain’s head lifted, her eyes wounded and hazy from her unceasing woe. Her question, her anger was posed to the room, as if each soul who witnessed bore the burden of the desecration. “How could you?”

The heartbroken anguish echoed.

Her sorrow was too profound and too beautiful. Elvhen who had mocked her were now weeping for her, faces turned away in shame. Still, more watched in fear, anticipating the displeasure of the Huntress.

But Solas knew better.

Andruil’s eyes behind the mask of her face were full of pain and shock, a child whose clumsy fingers had crushed the butterfly she admired.

“Tell me– were they not tokens of your worship? Challenges to my skill and might?”

Ghilan’nain laughed, the sound bubbling over miserably. “No. No.” She wilted, curling in on herself like a child afraid of a blow. The severed head was shielded from the room in her arms, as if denying them any further spectation of the beast’s demise. When her chin jerked up and her eyes met the goddess’, full of outrage and pain, there were murmurs of shock, whispers of magic-shielded conversations.

Such defiance…

Solas tucked a hand beneath his chin, watching the scene with detached fascination.

Truly, this Ghilan’nain did not fear death.

“I have made nothing for you.”

“You say that now because I have bested you,” Andruil scoffed. She stared down her nose, looking more bemused by the defiance than angry. There were not many who would raise their voice to the general without a blade in hand to challenge her. Tears were new. “If you wished the great Golden Halla not to die, you should not have sent me so many challenges. Can you not see that it is your failure, weeping mortal? It was inevitable she would die– it is only a beast and you are no god.”

Andruil’s benevolence was tentative, one hand beginning to rise, but stalling before her reaching fingers could extend fully. Curiously, the Huntress was taking far more care with Ghilan’nain than even he would expect. She seemed utterly at a loss beneath the bravado.

When her gaze scanned the room, Solas knew his attempts to stay a mere observer would not succeed.

A voice echoed in his mind, rising and falling with Adruil’s always-wandering attention when her regard found him. “If you must spy and pry for Mythal, at least serve your purpose.”

The viciousness of her voice in his mind did not concern Solas, though Mythal had told him time and time again that she could not protect him if he went too far. He did not challenge Andruil, so there was no reason for her to attack him. Her plea, while high-handed and rude, was genuine.

Andruil truly had thought the mortal was courting her attention.

And worse, she had been charmed by it.

There was a simple solution if all she wished was to please the mortal in return. “Swear to protect all of the halla that remain. Elgar’nan finds their arrogance displeasing, but if you demand their enshrinement, he will agree. You are owed the boon.”

“Lower my head?” Across the room her eyes blazed, piercing the shadows he watched from.

Solas was exposed, and eyes that previously cast past him were now fixed upon him as he stood in the shadow of a colonnade, hands tucked behind his back. They spoke in silence, but their conversation left currents in the air that eyes tracked. He could see the smattering of attention at his appearance. “You have proven your skill and it does not move her. Prove your benevolence now.”

As soon as he offered an answer she would accept, Solas was ignored.

With his purpose served in her eyes, Andruil no longer paid him any heed. Finally she broke her stern silence, and the air began to move again, chests rising as the Elvhen were freed from the grip of her furious confusion. The Goddess of the Hunt gazed across the room, and then down to the mournful mortal at her feet.

They had spoken in few moments, but it seemed Ghilan’nain had no intention of a response. Her face was flat and expressionless now, tear-streaked and cold. Even that was beautiful, the way her skirts floated down around her as she rose, the bravery of her strange reddened eyes, her lifted chin.

She was as brave in her calm as she had been in her tempest.

“Your beast was a worthy challenge. A warrior of great grace and strength,” Andruil said with more confidence with no further argument posed. “She will celebrated in story and song!”

There was a cheer from the court of the Huntress. It was an honor they understood, and more than a mortal should hope for. Solas was not surprised in the least when what followed was in fact the opposite of what Andruil intended.

Without a word, Ghilan’nain turned away.

Immediately five hundred hands went for weapons; there was no way she would escape without the Huntress’ grace, no matter how brave he was. But Andruil lifted a hand and waved them off imperiously. The court stood down. No one would question the goddess’ whims, for she was a dauntless god, and her skill in the hunt was not to be questioned.

The Huntress allowed Ghilan’nain to flee, wounded, Solas knew she would be hunted down before long.

Her reasoning simply defied Andruil’s divine confidence.

Chatter turned to feasting and laughter, making light sport of the obviously confused mortal too overwhelmed by the presence of a god. No, it was not the tale of the night. Instead the story of hunting the Great Golden Halla spread, making certain to highlight that the beast had been sent as a challenge to the goddess of the hunt. Andruil’s boasting confidence could turn any wild tale into myth.

Even when they had seen the truth with their own eyes.

She, sadly, did not allow him to linger and enjoy the company of her ranks. Once the wounded halla was gone, and the feasting had begun, she found his mind again.

“Have you seen enough, whimpering beast?”

“Mythal wishes for your success. Shall I depart?”

“Stop.” He watched her gilded profile in the distance, her eyes fixed upon the butchery of the rest of the beast. It seemed she had no intention of sparing this kill from the feast. Vulgar. Her voice in his head was sharp, short, belying the frustration she had hidden from her people. “No riddles, servant of Mythal. If you are so wise, tell me what I must do. For Elgar’nan has demanded I stop the flood of beasts that come from this wood.”

Ah. The full scope of this ceremony was now clear to Solas. He should report to Mythal with haste, once he had sufficiently soothed the Huntress. As had crossed his mind before, the halla offended Elgar’nan. But now the people depended upon the halla, revered and loved them, and seeing them forced into service would enrage them and tarnish Elgar’nan’s reputation. So, he sought to destroy their creator, fearing the independence of beast and creator both.

He could not, and would not abide their refusal to serve, not when they flocked to Sylaise and bowed to Mythal.

A fascinating puzzle that was not for Solas to solve.

“You could kill her,” he suggested, curious to hear her reaction.

“Easily.” In the distance, Andruil shot him a distant sidelong glance, like a dagger of emerald. “If I wished to, I would have, you useless slave.”

The insult, like every single one before it, was ignored. “You misinterpreted her.”

“Do you call me a fool?” She instantly retaliated, as he had presumed. “I did not misinterpret her. She was overcome. Why would she create such vast and terrible creatures, if not to gain the notice of the Huntress? I thought you were wise.”

Pleased with the success of his manipulation, Solas smiled faintly to himself, turning away for an archway of skeletal branches covered in pale green buds.. Very well, he would make no further attempts to enlighten her with the truth of the situation. If she preferred ignorance, so be it. “Then if she is merely overwhelmed by the honor paid, as you claim, if you deigned to arrive at her home yourself she will throw herself at your feet.”

“Of course she would.” But, much to his surprise, Andruil did not seem eager to claim the bait he laid. “But…she seems a delicate creature. And it seems the loss of the beast has touched her deeply. If I appear too suddenly she may offend in her grief.”

Another truth revealed itself.

What other emotion but desire could evoke so much understanding?

“You, Voice of Council.” It still wasn’t his name, but it was not ‘slave’. “Go speak with her, and set her mind at ease so she is prepared for my arrival. At the third dawn.”

“As you command,” he replied, bowing his head across the great hunter’s lodge to Andruil. There was no point in saying no. With a moment to report, he was all but certain Mythal would suggest he do as Andruil ordered, and so to resist would be pointless.

As he departed Andruil gave him one brief look of acknowledgement across the cold temple, then turned away to her hunters once more. No doubt whatever tale was told of this night would be only from her perspective, and not the truth. After all, the truth was…unflattering.

A mortal’s tears had bested the will of a god.

As he hunted for the Mother’s den, the wolf wore a smile.

Mythal would be pleased.

#thea writes #idk what to tag this so I'm not except for #dragon age #for my blocking pals #I got u #this got out of hand so forgive typos and repeated words #but I don't want to look at it any more #haha

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wishcamper · 4 months ago

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Nessian Week Day 6 - Legends & Destiny

Happy second to last day of @nessianweek! I have for you a Witcher!Cassian and sorceress!Nesta AU.

You can read here or on ao3!

Out of the Fog, Into the Mist

CW: consensual sexual content, reference to underage marriage and sex trafficking.

In the town of Mulbrydale, just north of the river near Hanged Man’s Tree, whispers rode the chill autumn air like restless ghosts. For weeks, the townsfolk held their breath as a dark shadow loomed over them: girls had begun to vanish. Four in total, all last seen in the gnarled woods at the fringes of their fields. And so a notice was put out on boards around Velen, that anyone who could find the girls (or the culprit) would eat and sleep well in any house, and could lay claim to a hefty sum.

It smelled like trouble, the sickly sweet of a body left long to rot, but Cassian needed the coin. And after four nights sleeping on the hard-ass ground of this war-ravaged cesspool, he wasn’t picky about how he got it.

“They go over the ridge to let the goats feed in the scrubs. Come sundown the goats come back, but not the girls,” the local innkeep explained, and Cassian saw the ripple of fear pass through him as he said it, the curl of his stooped shoulders.

“Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ignore the stink wafting off his new employer, though maybe he’d ceased to be nose-blind to himself. “So you want me to find what’s killing them.”

“Not killin’, Master Witcher - snatchin’.” The man’s voice was grave despite the lilting accent. “We’ve searched these wood a dozen times and found naught, not a bone. Tweren’t even no blood. Must be a fearsome thing to take them without a trace.”

He gave Cassian a look he’d seen a thousand times then, the furtive dart of a gaze that lingered on the cat-like yellow of his mutated eyes, the two swords at his back: steel for men, silver for monsters. He tried to ignore it, along with the rage that bubbled up at how common folk saw him, a beast barely better than those he slayed.

“And it’s only girls? No boys, too?”

The innkeep shook his head, leaned in to whisper, “The boys come home all dazed-like, remember nothin’. Except for Young Ian, but he were half mad already.”

Cassian sighed and considered the possibilities. There were the tragic but mundane - the girls got lost, or else ran off, ending up for the wolves either way. Then the tragic and unjust, that someone or something was abducting them: slavers, traffickers. It seemed less likely the cause was supernatural, though hags were known to have a penchant for young females, maybe a lesser vampire.

He didn’t relish any of the outcomes, if he was honest with himself. But he’d seen the lavish church at the end of the high street and knew there could be no drought of money in this town, despite the dilapidated dwellings. Crisis had a habit of making converts of even the most secular, and the people of Mulbrydale shed their coin for the Church of the Eternal Fire like the yellow birch leaves now littering their street.

“What did this Young Ian claim to see?” he asked, and the innkeep shrugged where he’d turned to wipe a grimy mug. Whether beast or bastard, Cassian figured the snatcher must have a stash spot nearby since none of the bodies had been found, or else there’d be tracks from a caravan or band of outlaws.

“He says he saw a lady in the wood, the same day the last girl disappeared. Said she spoke to him day afore yesterday when he went lookin’ for his own sister, Abby. Didn’t find no trace of her, but came back babblin’ like a loon about how he met some Gray Lady. Blue eyes and hair spun of gold, he says.”

Instincts prickling, Cassian leaned closer across the grubby counter, trying to hide his voice below the din of other midday patrons who apparently had nothing better to do than drink. “Did he seem.. Out of it? Acted strange ever since?”

“Well he’s never been quite right, but he did turn down a sympathy romp with Marna over there when he came to tell the tale. Never afore he done that.”

The aforementioned must’ve heard her name, for a dull-eyed woman rose her head from where it had been plastered to a scrubbed wood table and offered him a watery smile. The innkeep gave him a significant look, eyebrows raised.

The pieces were beginning to fall into place, an artist’s first pass of paint over a canvas. It definitely wasn’t wolves, and while he hadn’t ruled out some other creature it was clear this being was intelligent, enough to cover his own tracks. That left fewer options, all of them dangerous.

Cassian straightened, confident he’d wrung every bit of useful information out of the man, tossed his last few coppers on the counter before draining his ale.

“Thank you. Tell me where to find this Young Ian, and the families of the girls, and I’ll be on my way. And as for my fee..”

They haggled for a moment, and he managed to get the innkeep up a few more crowns, enough to see him through until he reached Oxenfurt. Once there he could rest a bit easier, in more comfort with the dearth of contracts in the city. Maybe even spring for a sympathy romp himself.

Cassian left his horse tethered outside the inn and made his way to the main street. Townsfolk froze in their churning and smithing and general idling to gawk at him, some spitting in his path or crossing themselves and mumbling prayers to the Eternal Fire. Even the reedy looking man in the pillory had the gall to sneer at him, but they were all reactions he’d endured for many years, and Cassian only sent his well-practiced curse to his parents for selling him off so young.

For it was a witcher’s lot in life to be both needed and reviled, a freak mutated with poisons to be stronger, faster, with keener senses and quicker healing. His kind were made, not born, though he might as well have been for all the choice he had in it.

At the first three girls’ houses Cassian found similar scenes - weeping mothers, dull-eyed siblings, fathers crackling with impotent rage. And the same story thrice over: that their daughter walked over the ridge to the forest like she always did, and at sundown only the goats came home, no trace to be found.

The tale was simple enough, but something snagged in the back of Cassian’s mind as he trudged up the lane toward the last house. Maybe it was that all the girls were near age thirteen, all described as both comely and disobedient by their fathers. The way the mothers cringed away from their husbands, the young boys in each house better nourished than their sisters.

Abby was the third girl who’d gone missing, who also happened to be the sister of the young man who’d claimed to see the phantom in the forest. Her former house was a sad little cottage of pitch and straw at the end of the lane, leaning drunkenly to one side from time and shoddy construction. Its owner leaned in much the same manner where he sat out front, propped up on a stool with a jug between his feet, dirt and sweat caked along his hairline.

Cassian cleared his throat and the man jolted upright at the sound, somehow startled even though Cassian was big enough to cast a shadow across him from several feet away.

“I hear your daughter’s gone missing,” Cassian bit out, already expecting no useful information. “And your son saw a woman in the woods. What can you tell me?”

The man hiccoughed and blinked up at him, weaving slightly though he was sitting still. “My Abby. She’s gone. The Gray Lady took ‘er.”

“What Gray Lady?”

“Ian seent her, my - hic - son. When he went lookin’ for his sister.” He gestured toward the forest and belched wetly, making Cassian take a step back. “Said he saw a figure in the woods before passing out, and when he woke this was - hic - in his pocket along with one of Abby’s hair - hic - ribbons.”

The man nodded downward. Cassian looked closer now at the jug between his feet and saw a small flower sticking from the opening, an ordinary celandine. But the yellow petals shimmered in the light, strange, unearthly, and he felt his witcher’s medallion hum against his chest at the presence of magic.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It won’t die. The priest says it’s an omen from the Eternal Fire, that it marks the unnatural has - hic - taken ahold of her. That I gotta pay to have my home cleansed so the blight don’t spread to my others. But I think she sent it as a sign she’s still out there, that she needs me to come save her. Somethin’s not right in those woods, I’m tellin’ you. Somethin’ wicked snatched my girl, I feel it.”

Zealots and swindlers, all priests of that bloodthirsty religion, but Cassian couldn’t deny the wrongness that radiated from the flower, a clumsiness in how the magic wavered he couldn’t quite place. The girl’s father burst into pitiful tears then, and Cassian almost felt sorry for him, as much as he was capable of, anyway.

“And it would take her of course, my Abby. Most beautiful girl in Velen. She was supposed to be - hic - married next month, you know. I knew one day some important man would come through and see her and have to take her for a wife. Offered a handsome sum, too. My girl. Knew she couldn’t have been born so pretty for - hic - nothin’.” He dissolved once more into weeping, mumbling to himself, a man lost in his own head.

Yet despite the way his voice trembled, something about his grief left a bad taste in Cassian’s mouth, like beer gone slightly off. And not because of the myth that witcher mutations robbed one of normal human emotions - he had more of those than this man was having coherent thoughts at present - but he seemed much sadder about the lost coin than his own flesh and blood.

After a few additional questions that got him nowhere, Cassian left the man cradling the flower, stroking it with one delicate finger and muttering about farm equipment that needed repairing.

The mystery was starting to come together more clearly, though parts still felt obscured, a thick bank of fog blocking the places where it all connected. The flower was strange, the magic rudimentary, but Abby at least had reasons to run away, or perhaps a suitor uninterested in paying her father what he thought she was worth.

He trudged back up the lane, stomach growling.

With information from a street urchin he cajoled by letting her hold his sword, he soon found Young Ian hiding in the community stables. He could’ve been no older than twenty, sprawled in a pile of straw with one hand tugging hard at his fluffy hair, a ragged feather quill in the other. There was a piece of grubby parchment stretched over his knee, and Cassian wondered if the innkeep was right about his sanity when he saw line after line written and crossed out, fitful scribblings of an unsound mind.

“Wanted to ask you some questions about the missing girls,” Cassian said gruffly, and the sandy-haired head whipped upwards, startled.

“I didn’t see nothin’,” he grumbled, muddy green eyes hazy. “Now git on with ye, I’m in the middle of somethin’.”

“Yes I can see that. Mind taking a break so we can both get on with our business?”

Ian bared his teeth to retort but seemed to catch himself, spotting Cassian’s leather armor, his twin swords. “Aye, you’re one o’ them witcher’s, ye are. I heard stories about ye. No feelings, none at all.”

“Thanks for your input. Now tell me about the woman you saw.”

“N-no, I didn’t see no-” Ian stammered, but Cassian felt his patience growing short. His belly was empty and so was his coin purse, and none of that would be remedied by debating his own emotional capacity.

“I don’t fucking care what you were doing out there, just tell me what you saw.”

“She told me not to tell.”

Beyond aggravated, Cassian felt his hand moving up to cast Axii before deciding to do so. Ian’s eyes instantly went glassy, his own will dampened, and he glanced out the stable door before leaning in close.

“I saw her,” he said, voice wavy with delight. The reverence that broke across his face crinkled the dirt at the corners of his eyes. “The Gray Lady. She was there in the woods, in naught but a robe, and she was the most beautiful -”

“This was a human woman?”

“Tweren’t nothing human about her, Sir Witcher, sir. She was - She -”

A faint buzzing sounded, and Cassian felt his medallion hum against his chest again. Something was preventing the young man from telling what he’d seen despite Axii’s influence, perhaps from remembering it altogether. He could read now the scribbled lines on the parchment - poetry, declarations of love to a golden-haired goddess. The gifts he’d lavish upon her, where he’d lick -

With a groan, Cassian lumbered away from the young man, who returned moony-eyed to his musings with hardly a second glance. This job just kept getting worse.

It was too late to back out now, he reasoned, and he returned to the inn to wait for nightfall. And to stew over what the fuck he was going to do.

For this was no common trafficker or hag or even an incubus that took those girls, any of which would be preferable to what it probably was. It was most likely a creature more formidable than all others, against which he had a particular weakness. Cassian sharpened his silver sword while the townspeople descended into drunkenness that evening, trying to ignore the dread that had begun to coil in his stomach, wondering if the blade would even make a difference.

When the moon was a pale wisp on the horizon, he slipped out of the tavern and proceeded into the woods on foot, not trusting his horse to resist whatever tricks may lay in wait. The forest was dense and silent, quieter than it had any right to be, and he met none of the usual night creatures as he wound further between the trees. Cassian found himself holding his breath at intervals, the creeping feeling that he was treading somewhere he ought not go, pressing ahead in defiance. Perhaps in foolishness, too.

Water sounded close by, the smell of wet earth and something sweeter, trunks thinning to indicate a glade ahead. The ground was softer here, and with his witcher’s sight he noticed a crisscross of small footprints in the mud, a scrap of flowery fabric snagged on a branch. A twist of magic drifted on the air, sharp and metallic, making his lip curl and his medallion shudder.

Yet at the same time his better sense begged to turn back, a thread tugged low in his gut, pulling him forward. With the blessing of vision in the dark, Cassian crept through the trees until he came at last to a starlit clearing.

A gray-robed figure stood in the pool of a silver waterfall, hood shrouding the details of her heart-shaped face. He could tell it was a woman from the contours of her body, from the long, golden-brown hair that swayed like reeds in the updrafts from the falls. Though he’d approached on silent footsteps, she turned in greeting like he’d come crashing through the brush, her full mouth bracketed with annoyance as if he’d kept her waiting.

Slender hands reached up to remove the hood, and the woman beneath was unlike he’d ever seen, tall and willowy, her face glowing like the moon. And those eyes - he could see why Ian was trying to put his passion to paper. They were the blue-gray of a winter sky reflected in his sword, smoldering like white-hot embers in the night. His empty stomach fell out then, for such unnatural beauty only graced one kind of creature.

A sorceress.

All around him plants rustled in a phantom breeze, giant tropical flowers, willows with branches that trailed in the clear pool at his feet. He could see silver-scaled fish flashing in the water, chiming where they brushed against one another, against her shapely legs. Legs he’d die to have wrapped around his waist, or crushing his head as he -

A tendril of magic wrapped about his throat, choking off his breath before he could shield himself. Cassian saw one elegant eyebrow raise when he didn’t pass out immediately, knew it was a trap but oh, what a trap to die in.

Fucking sorceresses.

“You seek the missing girls.”

Her voice was like liquid starlight, and he tried to stammer out an explanation but found only a dumb groan pouring from his throat. “Do you mind toning down your glamour?” he managed once he’d collected himself enough. “It’s giving me a headache.”

The woman’s brow furrowed, and he wondered if she expected him to fall to her feet as the village boy had. As many others had before, he suspected.

But she relented, the intense aura around her dimming somewhat to reveal a woman more earthly, yet somehow more beautiful still. She had a severe look about her, her face all angles, and he couldn’t help how his eyes traced her lush body, more gorgeous than he’d seen in many long years. Not that it meant anything about her potential to rip him in half, though it certainly was an.. Obstacle.

“You know where they are,” he choked out.

She smiled, cloying, and the wind brought the scent of lilacs drifting toward him once more. “I take it you’ve come to rescue them from evil, brave knight.”

Her countenance was soft and inviting, but Cassian knew what wolves could live in pretty clothing. Knew the dangers in taking her kind’s word, drilled into him through experiences both vicarious and personal.

Don’t ever trust a fucking sorceress.

He should be better at learning from his mistakes by now.

“Where are they?”

“Safe.”

“And I’m supposed to take your word for it.”

He’d heard of crooked mages snatching girls to sell to the academies, earning commissions based on each student’s aptitude. In a dream world the law would put a stop to it, a fool’s dream given Velen had a skewed view of justice these days. But something about the woman before him gave him pause, a crispness in her manner that belied a stronger moral code. Mostly the fact she hadn’t killed him yet.

“What other choice do you have?” she said in her silvery voice, and a shudder threatened to steal through him.

“I could kill you.The families think some evil creature stole them. Want me to bring back its head.”

He knew it was a gamble, but he wanted to gauge her power, how much of a threat he posed to her. Her moonbright eyes darted toward his weapons - he saw genuine fear there, and Cassian wondered if he’d misjudged her before her expression melted back into smugness.

“Two swords. I should’ve known.” She wrinkled her delicate nose and gods, he wanted to kiss where the skin crinkled. “They’ve hired you to dispatch the monster, and here you are.”

“Tell me where the girls are and there’ll be none to kill.”

“Those zealots wouldn’t know a real monster if it were clawing at their hollow legs,” she muttered to herself before straightening. “Then it seems I must plead my case. Come. Let’s see if I can’t convince you to spare me.”

She flashed that sensual, terrifying smile again and Cassian was half tempted to turn around and sprint away. Sorceresses were of a duplicitous ilk at best, abjectly cruel at worst, and whatever this one was doing out here on her own, the whole thing spelled trouble. He got the distinct impression she was concealing something, though what it was difficult to say. But when she extended a hand out toward him, Cassian couldn’t find it in himself to deny her, to think anything but whether its owner would let him press his lips to it, among other places.

“Well?” she asked. “Are you coming in, or must we do this in the cold?”

She beckoned him forward before turning and walking straight through the waterfall. Cassian followed dumbly on leaden legs, braced himself for the rush of chill water but was met with only a whisper of warm air, the scent of lilac and parchment dancing on the wind.

They emerged into a circular courtyard, surrounded on three sides by a stone villa tucked into a mountainside, archways leading to various chambers beyond. The remaining side stood open to the night air, the steep drop beyond, shadows shifting in the light of several braziers along the perimeter. His hostess looked different, too, her roughspun cloak transformed into a high-collared gown, the deep plum fabric spotless where it swept against the polished stone floor. A lush banquet was laid out before them, and even as his stomach growled Cassian knew this was a mistake, knew she already had her hooks in him and was just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

“Let’s have dinner before you decide to kill me.” Her smile was luminous and terrifying, and he swallowed in spite of himself. She gestured to a plush-cushioned seat at one end of the long table, draping herself in the one opposite. “Well, witcher. Have you the courage to drink for a sorceress’ cup?”

Along with her clothing, she’d transformed into an even smoother, more self-assured woman now they were in her bower, a spider biding time at the edge of her web. A goblet appeared before him when he eased into the chair, as if dropped out of thin air. The wine within was blood-red, and Cassian felt himself overcome with a thirst that he tried to resist.

“Depends.”

“On what?” She quirked her head to the side, amused.

“Whether I can be of some use to you.”

Her eyes flashed, and he thought saw something like his own hunger mirrored there, but it might’ve been a trick of the light.

“Oh I’m sure you can be very useful, Lord of Bloodshed.”

He balked when she used his nickname, the one he’d earned on the battlefield in the last Temerian rebellion. Her smile widened.

“Let’s negotiate. You believe I’m involved in the girl’s disappearance. The villagers have asked you to come kill me, and offered you a certain amount of coin to do so.”

“That’s right.”

Cassian eased his swords off his back and set them against the table beside them. That she’d let him keep them would’ve been comforting to a novice, but he knew enough now to tell she wasn’t foolish. Just secure enough in her own power not to worry.

“So it would stand to reason that if I offer you the same amount of coin, you’d happily be on your way.”

It might not be an empty promise - along with the fine dishware on the table, all manner of gemstones and arcane artifacts cluttered the high shelves between the archways, any one of which would’ve doubled his commission.

“That would be true if I didn’t have a reputation to uphold. A witcher doesn’t skip out on a job without good reason.”

“Am I not a good enough reason?” she asked, fluttering her lashes.

His eyes were immediately drawn to the supple curves of her breasts visible above the table. With great effort Cassian managed to keep his expression stony and shake his head.

She huffed.

“You’re a harder nut to crack than the rest. I don’t imagine threatening you out of it would work either. Oh, don’t get twisted about yourself,” she added when his hand moved automatically toward the hilt of his silver blade. “All that would happen is you’d break a lot of my things and then I’d have a great bloody mess to clean up. Truthfully I can’t be bothered.”

“You’re wasting my time, sweetheart,” he growled, patience waning. “Where are the girls?”

“Don’t be beastly,” she scoffed, disgusted, and Cassian bristled at her offense, at the accusation in her eyes. Here she was trying to lure him into a trap, bribe him from his duty, yet acted like she saw nothing but a brute across from her, just like the townspeople.

“Snatching children from their homes, I could argue you’re the beast. No better than a bog hag, bathing in blood to stay young.”

It was a low blow but he didn’t care, wanted to see her face twist with fury, relished the silver fire that sparked at her pale fingertips.

“Of the two of us at this table, who was crafted to kill?” she snarled, jumping to her feet to lean toward him, an accusing finger pointed at his heart. Rage pounded harder through his skull, and Cassian found himself on his feet too, fuming at her across the banquet table.

“Tell the truth for once in your crooked life, sweetheart. All this is an illusion. At the end of the day, you’re just like me. Blood and guts, bones and coin. Only you like to pretend the dirt doesn’t cling to your skirts.”

“The girls are never going home.” Her skirts whipped up in a sudden wind, a whirl of violet, lighting crackling overhead. “Tell the families they’re dead, bring back my head if you must. It will not change the facts.”

“Then you’re every inch the fucking monster you pretend not to be.”

He braced himself for her wrath, the wave of magic coming to steal his breath. But to his surprise she stilled, watched him for a moment, that same evaluating stare from the clearing. Something sad passed across her face, and Cassian felt like he could see through a chink in her armor, just a peek at the scared girl she’d likely once been.

“You think I look at you and see a brute. But I know you and I both have curses to bear. Doomed to live on the outskirts, worth just what we offer to others. I only wish for my freedom.”

An understanding passed between them, of two people stranded in an eternal no man’s land. For himself, Cassian had surrendered long ago to his fate straddling the fringes of society, helping people who smiled in his face and spat at his back. He’d tried living away from civilization altogether for a few decades but found it brutally lonely.

There were respites, of course, when he found favor with a noble or a woman who could tolerate him for more than a night, but he aged so much slower that eventually everything permanent proved it was not.

They both sat back down in unison, a truce. Cassian took a sip of wine, and her stormy blue eyes tracked the movement, a blush creeping across her chest.

“You could have both,” he observed, and she wrinkled that perfect nose again. “A sorceress like you could easily find home in a court. Why hide out in this shithole?”

“A boring, sad question with a boring, sad answer. You and I have more interesting things to discuss, I think.”

The hunger rose in her eyes once more, and he saw them rove over his body, pink tongue coming out to wet her lips. He chuckled. So this was the trap at the web’s center.

“You must be wanting for bed partners if you’ll have me, sweetheart.” An understatement given he’d been sleeping outside for a week, but his hostess stood after downing her own glass, waving a bored hand.

“Nothing a little water can’t fix.”

She crossed to one of the archways and opened the door to a lush bathing chamber, the sunken pool steaming with fragrant water, lilac and sage. Cassian rose and followed, but he caught her arm on the threshold, heard her breath hitch when he pulled her body flush to his.

“I don’t make a habit of bedding women whose names I don’t know.”

“It’s Nesta,” she said, smiling, and the wind echoed her: Nesta Nesta Nesta.

He let her have her way with him the first time, knowing from experience she wouldn’t be satisfied until he was on his knees before her, where he belonged. She combed his hair while he recovered, and atop her silk sheets had her way with him again, only allowing him to explore her once she was wrung out and purring. Squeezed those lovely legs around his head and ceded the high ground at last, crying out beneath him as he took her as he’d wanted to from the beginning, hard and fast and desperate. Whimpered so sweetly when he kissed a line down her back and claimed her from behind, though they both knew who was in charge. He thought he might die from it, from her pressing back into him just as eagerly, the roundness of her hip in one of his hands, her pleasure in the other.

He brushed the hair from her forehead where she lay against his chest after, skin glistening under the soft blanket of the moon. Her bedchamber was cluttered with books, piles of them on the dresser, the small desk. A portrait of her and two other young women hung over the hearth, all with the same gold-brown hair.

Nesta flinched when he bent to kiss her soft cheek, just the smallest amount, that mortal eyes would likely miss. There was something heartbroken about her he couldn’t quite place, a loneliness even their coupling hadn’t remedied. Like she still expected to have to kill him.

Then light shifted in one of the archways, the air rippling, and he knew.

“They’re here.”

She hummed in annoyance and kept her eyes closed. “Don’t speak yet. You’re ruining this for me.”

“Tell me where they are.”

She pulled back and regarded him for a long moment, evaluating, and he tried to be whatever it was she was looking for, if only so she would keep looking.

Nesta nodded, having found it, and strode toward one of the archways wrapped in the blanket, drew back a curtain of air with a graceful sweep of her arm. A portal.

Inside lay a stone chamber filled with moonlight, a round table in the center carved with runes and littered with herbs and gemstones. Beyond a door on the far wall he could see rows of bunks built into the stone, the forms of children sleeping, their gentle snores carried to him on a lilac-scented wind.

“Are they here of their own will?”

“Somewhat.”

“So, no.”

“They are my pupils.”

“Some would call them hostages.”

She clenched her fists, incensed, and he saw the waves of power gather about her, Chaos begging for her touch. “What shall I do, leave them to be used as pawns by their families? Sold to wretched old men or wasting away in that cesspool? I’m giving them a way out.”

“And condemning them to walk alone in the process.”

“They deserve to decide their own fate.”

“And be like you? Hiding in the woods?”

“Do you pity me, witcher?” She was so close he could see the veins of magic in her eyes, as if her very blood was luminescent. “I may not have the splendor nor the influence of a court mage, but I am shackled to nothing but my own desires. Do you not seek the same?”

I seek nothing but a warm bed and a hot meal, he thought. But when he tried to say it, Cassian bit his tongue so hard he drew blood, and her eyes blazed brighter. He tried again and bit down even harder, the spell preventing the lie from passing his teeth.

“Do you not?” she repeated, and he heard the broken edge there, the plea. “When you sleep on the ground, do you not do so with a glad heart because it is ground you have chosen?”

“We’re all shackled to our fate, sweetheart. Trying to defy it only makes it come faster.”

Before Nesta could respond, there was a small cry from the bunk room and she rushed to attend to it, exposing her back to him without a second thought. Guilt leapt in his stomach, and Cassian couldn’t tear his eyes away as she comforted the girl, pulled the quilts back up over her and stroked her hair.

Feeling intrusive, he moved to don his trousers, and was just reaching for his shirt when she reappeared. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You weren’t wrong. About the solitude. Though it does help to have visitors, to pass the time.”

She trailed over to kiss him again and her mouth was sweet as Toussaint wine. They tumbled back to bed once more, slower this time, and he pretended not to see the shine of her tears in the starlight.

“One of your pupils sent something to her family. An everlasting flower. Gave them hope she’s still alive,” he panted when they were spent, having somehow ended up on the rug before the fire.

“Foolish girl. Her father was preparing to sell her to a traveling merchant. Thirteen years old.”

“One of them will go back one day. Bonds of family are strong. ”

“Not for us though, right?”

Cassian swallowed, knew it wasn’t worth bothering to refute her. His own family was likely long dead by now, and he didn’t even know where they were buried.

“You put yourself at risk doing this,” he warned, not wanting to touch that tender spot any longer. “You’ll have to stop or move on soon.”

“I don’t recall asking for advice.”

“Not advice. Concern.”

“I can take care of myself, witcher.” Nesta looked down from where she sat astride him now, smirking. “Haven’t you learned that by now?”

Cassian woke hours later at the edge of the waterfall’s pool, a spray of shimmering lilacs tucked in his pocket, sunrise just a few breaths off. Felt the ringing in his head as he plodded back through the woods, the fuzz of wine, the ghost of her fingers in his hair.

He didn’t bother thinking of a tall tale to appease the townsfolk, didn’t even consider stopping at the inn to finagle his commission. On the way out of town he passed Abby’s father sprawled stone drunk by his front gate. Clutched in his hand was the enchanted celadine, still glinting weakly.

Cassian made the sign for Igni and set the flower alight before kicking the man awake.

“Your daughter’s dead.”

He turned his back on the howls of despair, tucking his cloak tighter about him as he headed down the road toward Oxenfurt.

#nessianweek2024 #nessian #the witcher #sorceress!nesta #Witcher!cassian #Day 6: legends & destiny

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wonderfullyinlovewithlife · 10 days ago

Text

Of Monsters and Men (part 2)

Kai Parker x Reader

WARNING: THIS IS DARK!!! THE THREAT OF SA is at the for front of this work, please be aware of this. know this. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Burning bodies, dead children. It's wild in here. Pain. Gore. CANNON KAI. I REPEAT. CANNON KAI. I think we forget that this man is a SOCIOPATHic KILLER FIRST. Though part one and two are seriously more light than what is to come.

Happy New Year!! So proud of myself for posting on the first of the month! I hope that means that writing will be at the for front of my year!! Love you all.

Enjoy! Please comment your thoughts at the end, I love seeing what you guys thought. And with that, onto the story....

Before today, you hadn’t known there was an hour in the day when a forest could be silent. That such a space could tolerate silence. Though, in all fairness, you hadn’t noticed the absence of sound until the lonely chirping of a small bird broke up the stillness with its song. You held your breath. Hours had passed, but you still felt incredibly on edge, waiting patiently for whoever was out there to find you in the rabbit hole.

Your knees felt stuck into place, skin cold and numb. You worried this bird was giving you away, as illogical as you knew it was to think such a thing. The sun wasn’t entirely out yet. It was sunrise, you figured, or that moment before sunrise when everything seemed cast in blue. Cold light streaked into the mouth of the hole you were in. You tried to relax a little, wanting to close your eyes, not necessarily to sleep, but not to have to look, to stare into the dark mud wall in front of you. You hadn’t touched the girl again after she slumped against you, dead. Your white shirt was soaked entirely in her blood.

You looked at her then for a long time. Was this a dream? You wondered if she had gotten smaller in the hours you had hidden away together. She looked like even more of a child now. This small girl you were sure you could hold in both of your arms if you tried. You wanted to commit her face to memory, but with her eyes closed, her small features seemed too child-like and nondescript, safe for a button nose that curved up so deliciously it made her look like a doll.

In the dim light, you could finally see the scratches around her hairline. It was as if she had tried to claw off her own face. You imagined that someone must have grabbed her by the hair, and this was her trying to fight them off. But you didn’t know where to take this scenario. Who would hurt a child like this? What kind of monster?

When it felt sufficiently bright enough, you twisted around to get your feet behind you to crawl out head first. You gently pushed the girl to rest against the other wall, her head making a horrible clicking noise. You turned your face away so as not to breathe in the waft of rot she emitted. For a moment, you thought you saw her jot. You froze, terrified. Was she not dead? You didn’t wait to look, scrambling out of the hole quickly, wanting nothing more than to return to the surface world.

It hurt your knees to stand. You took a tentative step forward and almost fell to the side. You needed a moment to adjust. You leaned against the nearest tree, a slim birch that wasn’t very wide, though its bark pattern intrigued you. It twirled in on itself, making it seem like the tree was covered in eyes. It was warmer than the dirt wall you had just spent the night against. The muscles in your back felt tight. You figured it was a result of the dampness, but you couldn’t do anything about it now. Now was the time to plan. You looked around at the forest. The trees here weren’t necessarily dense, but there wasn’t anything thick enough for you to hide behind or climb. They were all thin and tall, these trees. Like massive pickets sticking out of the ground.

There were two probable threats that you knew of in the forest. Firstly, those men who chased you into the woods and then, whoever had stabbed that little girl. The former was probably long gone by now, and if not long gone, then certainly waiting for you by the front of the forest, where their truck was parked. But that seemed far enough away not to be an immediate threat. You didn’t know what to do. Part of you figured that since the girl was hiding in the hole facing the front, she might have come running from the same direction as you. Perhaps that was how she found the hole. Maybe she fell in it like you.

It made good sense then just to continue walking forward. To the other side of the forest, if you could.

It seemed like a good idea. You let yourself take slow steps, the light fooling you into a calmer state where you didn’t need to rush as much. But it was strange now. You wanted to believe it was just the terror of the night that had changed you and made you see the world with new eyes. But the world around you hadn’t developed a new sense of beauty and mystique. As you walked towards nothing, you had the keenest feeling that the trees around you were anything but trees. Perhaps, you thought to yourself, this is but a dream, and I am still inside that hole.

You pushed down this feeling, not knowing what to make of it, and kept walking until you found yourself in the middle of a clearing with a big, beautiful house. It was a warm shade of grey, but behind it, a column of smoke stretched out into the sky. You thought at first that the back of the house was burning. You wanted to run out and tell the people in the home. But something in your mind held you back. The more you watched the smoke build, the more you realised that whatever was burning was doing so, behind the house. It wasn’t the actual house itself.

You wanted to see what was causing the smoke. But cutting through the clearing, you knew, would leave you too exposed.

The more you looked at the house, the more it seemed to soften. Like it wasn’t altogether there but rather a mirage of a house. A sophisticated illusion.

Hide, you thought to yourself, something here is very wrong. Though what, you couldn’t be sure. You let your mind take over and stuck to the tree line, carefully manoeuvring between them as you walked around the house. This was odd, you thought, to place a home here, in the middle of nowhere, so far from everywhere else. Was this where the little girl lived? You felt your head shake, no. You didn’t think so. She and this house felt like they belonged to different worlds.

The smell of burning got stronger, though the column of smoke you were approaching didn’t seem to grow anymore. It quickly faded into the white of the sky. You wondered if it was the owners of the house burning their trash. That was a popular thing around here with the more isolated homes. Though you were sure that wasn’t the case because it didn’t smell terrible. If anything, it smelt like sausages or maybe fatty meat cooking.

You froze at that, taking only a few more steps to see if you could catch what was in the bonfire. There were a few birch in the way.

It was bodies. Piled up. One on top of the other. Maybe seven altogether. That’s what was causing the smoke. Beside the fire stood a dark-haired man. You watched him poke at the bodies with what looked to be a large stick. You couldn’t quite tell from where you stood. You watched the fire break down the people.

Without breathing, you walk backwards the way you came. Those men in the parking lot be damned. You took one step, then another, not wanting to alter the man you were here until you were around the front of the house again. You couldn’t run, your ankle was still tender, but you needed to escape. Since he was behind the home, you figured you could cut through the clearing diagonally and go another way, not back the way you came.

But the second your foot broke the barrier of safety found in the tree line, you felt the world tilt to the side a little bit. You kept hobbling along. Repeating in your head so that you wouldn’t stop: He’ll kill you. He’ll kill you. You were going to die if you didn’t keep moving.

‘Hey!’ A voice called out from the front of the house. You didn’t even turn around. ‘I said, hey!’ You could hear someone jogging up to you, but you kept walking, limping along as you did. You wouldn’t turn, you wanted to get out of here.

The stranger grabbed you by the arm, spinning you around.

It was him, him. You started to shake and cry. You couldn’t stop yourself. It was getting hard to breathe. The skin around your face felt too tight.

‘You need to let me go.’ You said.

‘Why should I?’

‘I have to go home. Please let me go home.’

‘Why’re you covered in blood?’ He said to you, a jovial quality in his voice making it seem like you were talking about something light-hearted.

‘It’s not mine.’

‘Hot. But not an answer to my question.’

You looked down at yourself and then up at him. There was a strangeness to his face, like the lower half of his face was trying to convey something different to the top half. His mouth was smiling now, friendly. It was a practiced expression of civility. You could tell by how the upturned corners of his mouth quivered like he was forcing himself to look at you nicely. But his eyes were impassive. He watched you like you were a rodent, something he needed to make away with.

‘There were these boys.’ You began…not wanting to bring up the girl.

‘Boys?’ He frowned,’ Where?’

‘I don’t know.’ You said. ‘I think that way.’ You pointed in the direction behind you. He was still holding on to you. His grip tight.

‘What did you do to them?’ He asked now, some of that ice in his eyes thawing.

You shrugged, realising then that he had misunderstood you. But you couldn’t correct him, not now. Not if it made him back down. You used this opportunity to pull your arm back.

‘I did what you would do.’

‘Oh, I doubt that.’

‘Doubt whatever you like.’

‘I’m Kai Parker.’ He said, cocking his head to the side. ‘What’s your name?’

You didn’t know what to say.

He extended his hand out and kept it between the two of you, waiting to see if you’d take it and touch him.

‘I have to go now Kai. I have to go home.’

‘What’s home?’

You didn’t know.

‘Is this your house? It’s mighty big. There must be a lot of people here.’

‘You could say that.’

You nodded. Turning away from him and walking off.

‘Hey. Hey.’ He pulled you back around. ‘What’s the rush? It’s only a little after seven in the morning. With all your moving around you’ll wake the dead.’

‘Hm.’ You swallowed bile, mouth suddenly very dry.

‘Where is everybody else?’ You whispered.

‘They’re around back. Let me introduce you. It’s not often we get guests. Well, that’s not true. We get a lot of guests. But they don’t look as good as you, usually.’

‘I’m good.’ You said, standing very still. It was the wrong thing to say though, the resolve in his face was beginning to shift.

‘Walk. Now.’ He grabbed you, and you let him. ‘I wanna show you around.’

#lexi.thinks #kai parker x reader #masterlist #tvd x you #tvd x reader #tvd #self insert #kai parker

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itsagrimm · 2 years ago

Text

He Who Comes from under the Water

Chapter 6 - Safekeeping

Monster!König X she/her afab Reader

CN dead fish

Notes for better understanding at the bottom!

Beta-read by @queenquazar. She is a writer as well and does amazing work which you should definitely check out.

2,3 k words

Masterlist

The water ran playfully past your bare feet dangling in the little stream. You had taken off your shoes, sitting at the grass covered bank while watching König fish. It was shallow, but you could not bring yourself to go deeper than this. König of course did not mind the water, hip deep, and comfortably towering as he straightened victoriously like a tree surviving the flood to pass you one sorry little flapping creature after another, asking you with much elation if that sorry thing would do for lunch.

“A Pike? Yummy.”

“No, not the Rodd. Too much bone.”

“Please don’t make me eat a snail.”

“Another Pike! How did you manage to catch a second one so quickly?”

As the caught fish collected in a basket next to you, waiting to be gutted and prepared, you leaned back on your elbows. It had been a… strange morning.

König had come inside your home for breakfast, only to reveal you might die due to the dangers of being his underwater queen. His words had felt like getting pushed back into a dark pit you had barely managed to crawl out of moments ago. Every time you gathered back your strength, something happened, and you were back where you started. But unlike you, König was not as quick to give up and dragged you back up once again from the pit.

In fact, you wondered why he had not given up on you, just leaving you to find himself a better, more suitable, queen? No, König was bent on keeping you alive, jumping up from the kitchen table declaring ‘I have an idea’ and running out, shouting for the Heron. Confused, you had stayed where you were, only for König to run back in again, lifting you up in a surprising hug accompanied with a ‘you will live, you will live’-chant. You had squeaked in surprise, and he nearly dropped you on the floor, mumbling an excuse before running out again and returning what felt like no time with a bit of fresh birch bark, asking you for a knife.

“Why?”

“It is to write a letter.”

Confused, you passed him a kitchen knife and he started scratching symbols into the soft bark with it. The little blade looked so ridiculous in his large hands, like a dainty daisy in a bear’s claw. Despite it all, you laughed. A desperate little laugh fighting its way out of your lungs.

He looked up.

“What is it, Bride?”

“Nothing. Your hands are so big and the knife so small. That is all.”

He leaned back.

“Would you prefer to write yourself with this tiny knife in your tiny human hands?”

“I can’t,” you replied shortly, still giggling. What a stupid question.

“Why? Can you only use a knife to chop fish?”

“Yes,” You dead panned and smiled softly, the easing laughter helping you with your heavy mood, “I can’t read. Women do not read or write. Don’t you know? Only men can and Ivar, the village teacher, never allowed girls, despite my brother being a student of his and practising at this table next to me. I still was never allowed to attend.”

König frowned under all the messy tangled hair.

“We should change that. Downstream in the cities, everyone knows how to read and write - man, woman or whatever you humans can be. It would be good for you to learn it - but not today. The Heron will not be able to guard you. They have to deliver this letter and hopefully give us the help we need for you to stay alive.”

He paused, his eyes shifting from the pragmatic to a soft questioning gaze.

“Would you like to spend the day with me instead, Bride? I promise, I’ll keep you as safe as the Heron.”

And that was how you ended up wandering the forest with König. Watching him search for trees to fall for the palace with his big axe, while you followed collecting berries and harvesting herbs with your little, tiny kitchen knife until you grew tired and rested at this little stream.

A little splash of water to your face made you squeal in surprise, and you opened your eyes.

König stood before you, a huge catfish under his arm struggling to get free and splashing water everywhere.

“Don’t fall asleep in the sun, Bride,” König chided softly. “You will get a headache from it. The old man complained about it all the time.”

You giggled. “Yes, grandfather liked to have naps but never chose a good spot for it.”

You got up to move into the shadows of a willow for a quick nap.

König nodded approvingly, the catfish under his arm joining in in an attempt to get free.

“Can you make a fire before you nap? It is not my strong suit and, unlike me, you don’t eat raw fish.”

Surprised you turned to König. The man who appeared to be able to do anything – scare away Ivar, summon speaking animals and swamp lights, catch fish and lift heavy wood – did not know how to make a fire.

“No fire under the water, remember?”

You paused before nodding.

That made sense.

The catfish nodded too before finally wiggling out of König’s grip and slipping back into the water.

With a curse König dived after it, leaving you to make a fire.

With practised ease you build a little pile before lighting it up and feeding it more air and dried bark until it was big enough to sustain itself.

Casually you grabbed a few sticks, sharpened them with your knife, gutted and cleared the caught fish and skewered the pike meat wrapped in some of the herbs. It would make for a great meal and you felt your body going from tired to awake enough for food and an eventual nap afterward.

König emerged from the stream and stepped on land, his unhuman appearance mostly covered by a dripping cloak except for the shimmery wet skin from the water and the sunlight.

“No catfish?”

He grumbled something in defeat before sitting down next to the fire.

“You need to teach me how to do this fire and cooking thing, Bride. Could be useful.”

“Oh yes, I will,” You promised, “Who else is supposed to make meals while I sleep?”

He chuckled.

“You humans are so delicate – always needing rest, food, shelter, air, water – but only the clear sweet waters and none of the green or salty ones. I wonder how you make it through the day laughing. Your lives are so harsh.”

“It is pretty okay being a human.” A grin spread on your face as you shrugged. “Better than coming from the water and having to munch raw catfish. Oh wait, the catfish got away. Guess you’ll go hungry, love.”

The word slipped out of you before you could think - a little treacherous word telling of little, treacherous dreams in your little, hopeful heart.

Love.

You looked down, pretending to concentrate on the fire and picked up one of the sticks to grill the fish.

“Be kind and do not let me starve, maiden.” König called out playfully and picked up one of the prepared sticks. “How do you do this?”

You showed him how to hold the fish without burning it, reminding him he had to turn it once in a while, so the fish will be cooked from all sides, and explaining how you used the herbs on the meat.

“And no bark?” König asked after your explanations.

“No bark.”

“Hmpf.

You looked up at him, his features hidden by his hair and hood. Except for his mouth with gleaming sharp teeth turned down in an unhappy frown.

Very sharp teeth.

You shivered, the reality of your fiancé’s inhumanness hitting you in the face like water from the struggling catfish desperate for life.

“Humans do not eat bark but if you like it so much, do what you want.” Your voice went thin as you spoke, a strange lump of fear and worry weighted down deep in your gut.

“Say, König,” you started. “What exactly is so dangerous about me becoming your wife?”

There, the words were out.

Hanging in the air like the skewed fish over the fire, slowly burning and sizzling away skin – painful and inevitable, unless doing something to prevent it.

König sighed.

“My brother,” he explained with a defeated tone, “Can be very pessimistic. He said I might accidentally kill you by drowning. But,” He looked at you, his eyes clear as ice piercing through any doubt. “I will not do that. I promise you are safe with me and there might be someone who can help with removing that danger. Also,” He continued as a careful, toothy smile grew on his face. “So far I have at least somewhat succeeded in keeping you safe, right? You are here and not hurt or hidden away in the house. Not saying I’ve done it perfectly but…” His voice rippled off in waves, making your eye brows narrow slightly

“It is good enough for now… right?”

You stared into the fire, thinking about König’s words. Yes, you were afraid. His otherness sometimes confusing you, or making you withdraw from him in fear. But never had he done anything to harm you.

At least not willingly.

Yes, there were accidents and mistakes. But, he tried to keep you safe and looked out for you. You could not remember anyone being so honestly interested in you and your well-being. Not the villagers who dropped you the moment you became uncomfortable for them. Not the boys you had kissed in secret, or girlfriends who had stopped visiting you when you started to cry more than you laughed from all the death and misery in your life. And certainly not your family who loved you, but kept you as their obedient child to help at home and carry any expectations they placed on you without opposition. That included your beloved grandfather who promised you to someone without asking your permission, counting on you to just follow his command. Love was complicated. You missed your family, your friends and old life. But there was bitterness thinking about them now. The old house had become as much a sanctuary as it was a prison.

Being with König was not that different: like an axe to build a new palace or yield as a weapon.

Yes, it was unfortunate how you had come to be the Bride of the King from Under the Water.

And maybe it would be your death.

But so far, your engagement has come with much more grace than you had ever known.

“Do not worry, my love,” You whispered those words with a grim dedication to all that it might include. “I know you are keeping me safe, and I trust you will continue to do so.”

The silence of your words weighed heavy as you stared into the fire without seeing the flames.

A hand touched yours and you jerked up. König had moved closer, carefully lifting your hand with the skewered fish up and away from the heat.

“I am not much of an expert on fire but this looks like you could light yourself up like that,” He declared with a soft ring as if trying not to smile. “You said it yourself - ‘turn it so it does not burn’. I would do a poor job keeping my bride safe if I let you burn your fingers now.”

You blinked in confusion, before adjusting the grip on the stick in your hand under his large right palm.

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

He kept his hand around yours - warm, strong, pleasant - and you hummed in approval as his other wandered around your shoulder and pressed you closer to his side.

My bride. My bride.

That’s what he had said.

The words rang pleasantly in your ears as you nuzzled into Königs chest.

XXX

Cultural context notes:

König writes in Old Church Slavonic. Old Church Slavonic is the basis of many the Slavic languages written form. It was ‘created’ by two monks named Methodius and Cyril (That’s why the modern alphabet is now called Cyrillic) who were tasked with helping to convert the Byzantian Slavs in Moravia to Christianity. To do that they translated several religious texts, most importantly the Bible, into Old Church Slavonic which could be understood by the Slavs. Old church Slavonic is really cool and can still be understood by many modern speakers of Slavic languages despite coming from the 9th century. Also, the Polish band Batushka / БАТЮШКА sings in Old Church Slavonic if you want to know what it sounds like.

XXX

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