#my sister is in the yard with a flaming arrow.

[girlbr0thers]

I go home and I enact homosexual psychological warfare on my father who made me. As a little treat to me.

[mctna2019]

Bloods

"Come to my father's house." Seon-ho knew Hwi's handwriting. so he went there. probably this would be punishment or revenge. well, Seon-ho had no resistance to it. in fact, maybe that was right thing. Hwi is standing in front of the wooden stool in the middle of the yard. right next to the blood stain on it that only he and Seon-ho knew the origin of, a painful secret. he looks angry and Seon-ho knows better than anyone that anger makes him more powerful but blind. +why you wanted from me to come here? Hwi puts the arrow in the bow and holds it in front of Seon-ho's chest. Seon-ho doesn't move. -I lost everything because of your damn father. Seon-ho stares him. -now I'm a dead person. so I'm not afraid of anything. my sister is dead... because of your father. Hwi shouts and Seon-ho is just like a mountain that reflects Hwi's voice back to itself. -you said we had a deal. his voice trembles a little. -I couldn't protect Yeon, like a coward man. Seon-ho can see the tears behind the flames in his eyes. his hands tremble like his voice, like his body, like Seon-ho's world. he shouts as if something would be change by doing this and it would go back to the past. -say something. you were responsible too. she loved you. +shoot. finally Seon-ho breaks silence. Hwi draws the bow more. Seon-ho moves forward so that the sharp point of the arrow lands on his chest and scratches his clothes and skin. before Hwi can take a step back, Seon-ho grabs him by the collar and pulls him towards himself. +do you want to kill me to take revenge on my father? or from me? do it, although it doesn't matter to him, at least you make me comfortable. shoot Hwi. Hwi looks at the red wet stain on Seon-ho's chest. he wants to put the bow down but Seon-ho doesn't let him. if they came to this point so they both have to continue. -what are you doing right now? Seon-ho heard Hui-jae's angry and worried voice as Hwi could see her. she comes near them quickly and with seeing the bow on Seon-ho's chest her fear is more. -Hwi isn't well now. he's wounded. Seon-ho lets go of Hwi's collar. Hwi lowers the bow, because of his physical weakness or fear. and he has to pull out the arrow that had injured Seon-ho's chest. Hui-jae stares at the wound with terrified look. -in this situation, how can you... +yes, since I'm like my father and cause death to those around me, I asked Hwi to kill me before him. maybe no one will die from now on. this wasn't sarcasm. it was just the buried words that Seon-ho was pouring out. Hwi doesn't say anything as Hui-jae doesn't react. -your father should be kill. Hui-jae said that then she takes Hwi's arm gently and Hwi walks with her like walking Dead. he stops for a moment and clutched his bow in anger and pain as he looks at Seon-ho's eyes. -I'll kill your father myself. in the worst possible way. he left, along with Hui-jae. Seon-ho slowly sits down on the wooden stool. he puts his hand on his chest. it isn’t a deep wound, but there's something more painful behind it. then he runs his fingers over the trail of blood, as if touching something precious and lost. but he doesn't notice that his hand was bloody and his own fresh blood is smeared over Yeon's old blood.

.............

I didn't want to write this. there was supposed to be something between Hwi and Seon-ho before Yeon's death. but it was dragged here. sorry.

[lilith-kruger]

THE QUEEN VISENYA TARGARYEN : Visenya, the oldest sister, was as much a warrior as he was Aegon; as comfortable with the coat of mail as adorned with silks. He was holding the long sword valyria dark twin and handled it with dexterity, because he had trained with his brother since childhood. Although he had silver and gold hair, and the violet eyes of valyria, his was a beauty hard and austere. Even those who most appreciated it considered it harsh, serious and and relentless; some said he played with poison and ventured into the land of black magic.....At stokeworth, a few ballesteros shot arrows at visenya, until the flames of vhagar ignited the roofs of the castle turret. They also submitted.

PRINCESS VISENYA TARGARYEN :When the infant finally came into the world, it turned out to be a monster: a stillborn girl, torn and deformed, with a hollow in the chest where the heart should be, and a short, thick, scaly tail. Or that's how mushrooms describe it. The dwarf also says that it was he who transported the creature to the yard to cremate it. The deceased girl had been given the name visenya, announced princess rhaenyra the next day, when the milk from the poppy had relieved her worst pain. She was my only daughter and they killed her. They have stolen my crown and killed my daughter, and they must pay for it."

PRINCESS VISERRA TARGARYEN :The youngest of the four, princess viserra, was also of a strong character, but she never cried, and certainly never cried. "Taimada" was a word used to describe her. "Vanity" was another. Viserra was beautiful, all the men coincided. She had been blessed with violet eyes, the golden and silver hair of the authentic targaryen, unblemished black skin, beautiful features, and an elegance that was somewhat disturbing and disconcerting in such a young girl. On one occasion when a young squire told her she was a goddess, she proved him right.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ASOS: Catelyn IV (Chapter 35)

Let the kings of winter have their cold crypt under the earth, Catelyn thought. The Tullys drew their strength from the river, and it was to the river they returned when their lives had run their course.

+.+.+

They laid Lord Hoster in a slender wooden boat, clad in shining silver armor, plate-and-mail.

In the wooden boat is a bunch of Tully paraphernalia. It's not terribly important, but it did make me realize House Tully doesn't have a Valyrian steel sword.

+.+.+

Seven were chosen to push the funereal boat to the water, in honor of the seven faces of god. Robb was one, Lord Hoster's liege lord. With him were the Lords Bracken, Blackwood, Vance, and Mallister, Ser Marq Piper . . . and Lame Lothar Frey, who had come down from the Twins with the answer they had awaited. Forty soldiers rode in his escort, commanded by Walder Rivers, the eldest of Lord Walder's bastard brood, a stern, grey-haired man with a formidable reputation as a warrior.

I've really gotten away from reminding you all I still can't keep track of any of these Freys.

The author could randomly throw in a Pope Frey, and I wouldn't notice. They're all one Frey Unit at this point.

+.+.+

"Walder Frey should be flayed and quartered!" he'd shouted. "He sends a cripple and a bastard to treat with us, tell me there is no insult meant by that."

Careful Edmure, a cripple and a bastard might one day be kings of the continent.

+.+.+

The seven launched Lord Hoster from the water stair, wading down the steps as the portcullis was winched upward.

[...]

Bran and Rickon will be waiting for him, Catelyn thought sadly, as once I used to wait.

+.+.+

"Now," her uncle urged. Beside him, her brother Edmure—Lord Edmure now in truth, and how long would that take to grow used to?—nocked an arrow to his bowstring. His squire held a brand to its point. Edmure waited until the flame caught, then lifted the great bow, drew the string to his ear, and let fly. With a deep thrum, the arrow sped upward. Catelyn followed its flight with her eyes and heart, until it plunged into the water with a soft hiss, well astern of Lord Hoster's boat.

Edmure cursed softly. "The wind," he said, pulling a second arrow. "Again." The brand kissed the oil-soaked rag behind the arrowhead, the flames went licking up, Edmure lifted, pulled, and released. High and far the arrow flew. Too far. It vanished in the river a dozen yards beyond the boat, its fire winking out in an instant. A flush was creeping up Edmure's neck, red as his beard. "Once more," he commanded, taking a third arrow from the quiver. He is as tight as his bowstring, Catelyn thought.

"I can do it," Edmure insisted.

This is why you can't take me anywhere. I would have started wheezing if I witnessed this.

+.+.+

No sooner had the burning boat vanished from their sight than Edmure walked off. Catelyn would have liked to embrace him, if only for a moment; to sit for an hour or a night or the turn of a moon to speak of the dead and mourn. Yet she knew as well as he that this was not the time; he was Lord of Riverrun now, and his knights were falling in around him, murmuring condolences and promises of fealty, walling him off from something as small as a sister's grief. Edmure listened, hearing none of the words.

Would you just mourn, please? I'm begging you.

+.+.+

Their father's death had been a mercy when it came at last

God, you aren't kidding.

+.+.+

He wants so much to be a good king, to be brave and honorable and clever, but the weight is too much for a boy to bear. Robb was doing all he could, yet still the blows kept falling, one after the other, relentless. When they brought him word of the battle at Duskendale, where Lord Randyll Tarly had shattered Robett Glover and Ser Helman Tallhart, he might have been expected to rage. Instead he'd stared in dumb disbelief and said, "Duskendale, on the narrow sea? Why would they go to Duskendale?" He'd shook his head, bewildered. "A third of my foot, lost for Duskendale?"

Surely Robb has to realize someone ordered this.

Too many blows. Too many distractions.

+.+.+

"I should have traded the Kingslayer for Sansa when you first urged it," Robb said as they walked the gallery. "If I'd offered to wed her to the Knight of Flowers, the Tyrells might be ours instead of Joffrey's. I should have thought of that."

You're lucky the Freys got to you before I could.

+.+.+

Catelyn's heart skipped a beat. This is something he hates. Something he dreads to tell me. All she could think of was Brienne and her mission. "Is it the Kingslayer?"

"No. It's Sansa."

She's dead, Catelyn thought at once. Brienne failed, Jaime is dead, and Cersei has killed my sweet girl in retribution. For a moment she could barely speak. "Is . . . is she gone, Robb?"

No, it's much worse than that. 😭

+.+.+

"Gone?" He looked startled. "Dead? Oh, Mother, no, not that, they haven't harmed her, not that way, only . . . a bird came last night, but I couldn't bring myself to tell you, not until your father was sent to his rest." Robb took her hand. "They married her to Tyrion Lannister."

Catelyn's fingers clutched at his. "The Imp."

Now tell him it's all his fault.

+.+.+

"He swore to trade her for his brother," she said numbly. "Sansa and Arya both. We would have them back if we returned his precious Jaime, he swore it before the whole court. How could he marry her, after saying that in sight of gods and men?"

Catelyn, it's Tyrion. TYRION. He was scheming to free Jaime immediately after that same court session.

Mom, shake it off, I need you to get your head back in the game.

+.+.+

"If I could I'd take his ugly head off. Sansa would be a widow then, and free. There's no other way that I can see. They made her speak the vows before a septon and don a crimson cloak."

Oh, well, if that's the only way, we must be shit out of luck. She spoke the vows before a septon! A septon. What else can we do?

+.+.+

"I should have let Lysa push him out her Moon Door. My poor sweet Sansa . . . why would anyone do this to her?"

"For Winterfell," Robb said at once. "With Bran and Rickon dead, Sansa is my heir. If anything should happen to me . . ."

Where are you going with that thought?

+.+.+

She clutched tight at his hand. "Nothing will happen to you. Nothing. I could not stand it. They took Ned, and your sweet brothers. Sansa is married, Arya is lost, my father's dead . . . if anything befell you, I would go mad, Robb. You are all I have left. You are all the north has left."

+.+.+

"I am not dead yet, Mother."

+.+.+

Suddenly Catelyn was full of dread. "Wars need not be fought until the last drop of blood." Even she could hear the desperation in her voice. "You would not be the first king to bend the knee, nor even the first Stark."

His mouth tightened. "No. Never."

"There is no shame in it. Balon Greyjoy bent the knee to Robert when his rebellion failed. Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror rather than see his army face the fires."

"Did Aegon kill King Torrhen's father?" He pulled his hand from hers. "Never, I said."

He is playing the boy now, not the king.

Playing the boy, indeed. Takes a real king to know when to bend the knee on the Trident.

He is determined to die, Catelyn. I'm sorry, it's over.

+.+.+

"The Lannisters do not need the north. They will require homage and hostages, no more . . . and the Imp will keep Sansa no matter what we do

I'm sure he'll try.

+.+.+

Theon's murdered Bran and Rickon, so now all they need do is kill you . . . and Jeyne, yes.

+.+.+

Robb's face was cold. "Is that why you freed the Kingslayer? To make a peace with the Lannisters?"

"I freed Jaime for Sansa's sake . . . and Arya's, if she still lives. You know that. But if I nurtured some hope of buying peace as well, was that so ill?"

"Yes," he said. "The Lannisters killed my father."

"Do you think I have forgotten that?"

"I don't know. Have you?"

Catelyn had never struck her children in anger, but she almost struck Robb then.

LET ME DO IT.

+.+.+

Catelyn had been so lost in grief for her own that she had almost forgotten the two Freys she had agreed to foster. No more, she thought. Mother have mercy, how many more blows can we bear? Somehow she knew the next words she heard would plunge yet another blade into her heart. "The grandsons at Winterfell?" she made herself ask. "My wards?"

"Walder and Walder, yes. But they are presently at the Dreadfort, my lady. I grieve to tell you this, but there has been a battle. Winterfell is burned."

"Burned?" Robb's voice was incredulous.

[...]

Wordless with rage, Robb slammed a fist down on the table and turned his face away, so the Freys would not see his tears.

But his mother saw them. The world grows a little darker every day.

You know what's so great about Catelyn chapters? You get to keep reliving the worst parts of the story.

+.+.+

"The women and children hid, my nephews Walder and Walder among them. With Winterfell in ruins, the survivors were carried back to the Dreadfort by this son of Lord Bolton's."

"Bolton's son?" Robb's voice was strained.

[...]

All I can tell you is that my nephews claim it was this bastard son of Bolton's who saved the women of Winterfell, and the little ones. They are safe at the Dreadfort now, all those who remain.

This is hell. I'm in hell.

+.+.+

"I cannot speak to that. There is much confusion in any war. Many false reports.

I'd like to leave now.

+.+.+

My lord father bids me tell Your Grace that he will agree to this new marriage alliance between our houses and renew his fealty to the King in the North, upon the condition that the King's Grace apologize for the insult done to House Frey, in his royal person, face to face."

An apology was a small enough price to pay, but Catelyn misliked this petty condition of Lord Walder's at once.

There you go! She hasn't totally lost it. She's back in the game.

+.+.+

As you accept these terms, I am then instructed to offer Lord Tully the hand of my sister, the Lady Roslin, a maid of sixteen years.

Nobody go look up how old Edmure Tully is.

+.+.+

Edmure shifted in his seat. "Might not it be better if I first met—"

"You'll meet when you're wed," said Walder Rivers curtly. "Unless Lord Tully feels a need to count her teeth first?"

Edmure kept his temper. "I will take your word so far as her teeth are concerned, but it would be pleasant if I might gaze upon her face before I espoused her."

You're also concerned about that age gap, right? Right? Edmure?

+.+.+

Lame Lothar spread his hands. "My brother has a soldier's bluntness, but what he says is true. It is my lord father's wish that this marriage take place at once."

"At once?" Edmure sounded so unhappy that Catelyn had the unworthy thought that perhaps he had been entertaining notions of breaking the betrothal after the fighting was done.

"Has Lord Walder forgotten that we are fighting a war?" Brynden Blackfish asked sharply.

Is it too much to ask that somebody figure out what's going on here?

+.+.+

Catelyn was growing less and less comfortable with this arrangement. "My brother has just lost his own father. He needs time to mourn."

YES.

+.+.+

Lame Lothar rose, and his bastard brother helped him hobble from the room.

Edmure was seething. "They're as much as saying that my promise is worthless. Why should I let that old weasel choose my bride? Lord Walder has other daughters besides this Roslin. Granddaughters as well. I should be offered the same choice you were. I'm his liege lord, he should be overjoyed that I'm willing to wed any of them."

See, this is hard for me.

On one hand, I feel for the guy, hate the position he's being forced into, hate this practice, and don't want this marriage to take place.

But on the other hand, I'm aware that one of his sisters was forced to marry a corpse, while the other sister he's currently sitting next to, also wasn't given the option to meet or choose her husband, and in the backdrop of all of this is a 12-year-old hostage child bride married to a demon, so I kind of want this entitled little boy to shut the fuck up right now.

I'm getting pulled in too many directions, it's so unfair to me.

+.+.+

"It must happen," said Catelyn, though not gladly. "I have no more wish to suffer Walder Frey's insults and complaints than you do, Brother, but I see little choice here. Without this wedding, Robb's cause is lost. Edmure, we must accept."

NO.

+.+.+

"We must accept?" he echoed peevishly. "I don't see you offering to become the ninth Lady Frey, Cat."

"The eighth Lady Frey is still alive and well, so far as I know," she replied. Thankfully. Otherwise it might well have come to that, knowing Lord Walder.

She already married a stranger for an army, you muppet. Find another argument. Any other argument.

I apologize, everyone is making me cranky.

+.+.+

The Blackfish said, "I am the last man in the Seven Kingdoms to tell anyone who they must wed, Nephew. Nonetheless, you did say something of making amends for your Battle of the Fords."

"I had in mind a different sort of amends. Single combat with the Kingslayer. Seven years of penace as a begging brother. Swimming the sunset sea with my legs tied." When he saw that no one was smiling, Edmure threw up his hands. "The Others take you all! Very well, I'll wed the wench. As amends."

Final thoughts:

Okay, that's it. I've reached my limit. I'm ready to be done with this.

Catelyn & Robb Death Countdown

22 down, 3 to go.

Blame @aegor-bamfsteel.

-> return to menu <-

[late-nite-scholar]

Day 2- Storms/Magic

Prompt used- Magic

@tes-summer-fest

Wordcount: 1181

Warnings: Violence/fighting

 ***

He found the day to be warm, but Farkas watched his new Shield-Sister pull her cloak around her. Or at least, she'd be his newest Shield-Sister if things went well at Dustman's Cairn. And they'd know soon enough; he was pretty sure he could see it up ahead. 

"Everything all right, Besharat?" He asked. 

"Yeah, I… I'm just not quite used to the cold, yet. I grew up in pretty much the opposite of this." 

"I don’t think I asked, where abouts in Hammerfell are you from?" 

Her naturally serious face brightened a little. "Bergama. In the Alik'r Desert. It's about as opposite to here as you can get." 

"I've heard stories about it. Kodlak spent time in Hammerfell when he was younger. He has a lot of respect for your people." 

"We are warriors, much as you Nords are. And I've seen the strength and heart of your people. If one such as Kodlak respects us, then I am honored beyond measure." She raised a hand to her chest, giving him a smile that made his heartbeat quicken.   

"Well, you sparred well against Vilkas. I'd say that counts in your favor." 

"You saw that?" 

"Yeah. It was a good fight. Real clean." Left unmentioned was the peculiar swell of pride he'd felt as he'd watched her knock his brother on his ass in the practice yard, or the guilt that had followed for such feelings. But she had fought well; she’d earned that victory. 

"Oh. Thank you." This time, a little color rose in her face. She looked out ahead. "I think this is it, isn't it?" 

"Yup. You ready?" 

"Yes. I really hope the shard really is actually here. It would be amazing to find it.” She chuckled, “I know only a little of such things. My brother has the fascination for ancient stuff. Pieces of Ysgramor’s actual axe? He’d give his left arm for something like that.”

He patted her shoulder. "Well, even if it isn’t there, perhaps you can still have a good Trial. But I hope we find it, too." 

A whistle interrupted them. An arrow landed at their feet, vibrating with the force of impact. Besharat whipped her shield off her back and onto her arm, sword following closely behind. Farkas had his blade in hand just as fast, but she was already putting herself in front of him. More arrows followed, pinging harmlessly off the shield's iron face.

“You picked a bad time to get lost, friends!” A voice called out. Bandits sprung up, seemingly from behind every bush and boulder around them. 

“You don’t want to fight us.” Besharat’s voice was calm and steady, but with a clear undercurrent of threat. 

“On the contrary, I can’t wait to count your coin!” One of them cackled. It set the rest off, and they charged.

Besharat had stepped around and now stood at his back. And then the bandits were upon them. The man in front of him wore leather and fur, but nothing above the waist. That proved his undoing; Farkas’ sword cut him cleanly through the torso, and he fell in two pieces.

They fought on, moving in a natural rhythm like they’d fought and trained together for years. But there wasn’t much time to appreciate it. The archer had started up again, and Besharat charged toward her. Even wearing heavy iron armor similar to his, she moved fast. She was almost upon the archer when his attention was pulled back by a yell. 

He turned, but the bandit was already swinging. He dodged, but she struck out with a second, smaller knife. It caught a glancing blow across his cheek. He grinned. 

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” His two-hander punched right through the woman’s ribcage and out the other side. With a swift kick, he pushed her off and onto the ground. 

“Farkas!” 

The panic in her voice raised all the hairs on the back of his neck. He turned, blade at the ready, to see a wiry little man leaping at him. But the man stopped short, eyes bulging as he was engulfed in flames. Farkas looked up past him, a gasp falling from his lips. 

Besharat was standing with the fallen archer at her feet. But all her concentration was on the man who burned. Her shield hand was stretched out, fire streaming from her palm. Her teeth were bared in a snarl, and she didn’t stop until he was no longer recognizable. The fire stopped, and she dropped her hands, chest heaving as she looked around. There was no one left standing but the two of them. She wiped her blade and sheathed it, picking her way back down to where he stood. 

When she was back at his side, he asked, “how did you do that?”

“Magic.” 

He stiffened automatically. “I didn’t know you had magic.”

Her shoulders dropped, and she hugged her arms around herself. “I don’t like to advertise it. My people don’t trust magic much, your people don’t trust magic much. I…I don’t know a lot, I’m nowhere near what you could call a mage. Just a few useful things. Like the fire. It’s good when making camp. I know a little healing, too. I could fix that cut on your face.”

He took a step back from her outstretched hand out of pure instinct. And regretted it immediately. Hurt bloomed across her face, and she pulled her hand back close to her chest.

“I’m sorry. I… I suppose we should go back to Whiterun, shouldn’t we?” Her voice wavered, breaking a little at the end.

“Why?”

“None of you are going to want me in the Companions now. Why bother with the Trial?” She was nearly in tears now, and it sent an arrow through his heart. 

Closing the space he’d made between them, he took one of her hands and held it firmly. “I want you in the Companions.”

“You do?” 

“I do. And I’m sorry for how I reacted. You saved my life. It wasn’t fair of me to do that.”

“I’ve gotten used to it.” She shrugged, her hand falling away from his. The dullness of her reply cut him to the bone. 

“That doesn’t make it right. And you’re right, it’ll come in handy making camp.” He was glad to see his attempt at lightness worked, and she smiled a little. “And I can’t really argue with healing, no matter where it comes from.” 

“May I, then?”

“Go for it.”

She reached up, putting a hand on his cheek. The other rested on his chest, and he was glad he had his armor between them so she couldn’t feel how it made his heart speed up. Her startlingly-bright eyes narrowed in concentration, and he saw a flash of gold in his peripheral vision. As she pulled her hand away, she smiled. By the Nine, but it was a beautiful sight. 

“Thank you. What do you say we go see if there really is a shard of Wuuthrad in that cairn?

“I’d like that a lot.”

“Let’s go, then, Sister.”         

[raphaelshusband]

you are beautiful | saphael one shot

"Are you afraid?" He asked, brushing his thumb over the back of his hand.

"A little" Raphael swallowed. His eyes wandered around the room. His fingers tightened on Simon's hand. "I mean.. I am afraid of complications.. or that it will be worse than it is.."

"It will be all right," Lewis's hand reached the Mexican's hair and began to gently ruffle it. "I will be with you."

"You can not.."

"Mentally" he cut in on his word. The drugs slowly started working, Santiago felt more and more intoxicated. He heard the door open.

"Ready?" The doctor's voice rang out, and he quickly switched to "you."

"Yes.. I think so.."

"Wonderful" moments later, he was on his way to the room, Simon still didn't let go of his hand. Raphael heard the soft clatter of Simon's boots. Then he felt a gentle kiss on the back of his hand.

"Good luck," Simon whispered.

***

The coffee from the hospital vending machine looked like tar, it tasted like cardboard, but he needed caffeine to keep himself awake. It has now been three hours since Raphael has disappeared through the door of the operating room.

The Mexican was blind. He lost his eyesight at a very young age. His mother fell ill when he was still a teenager. Not long after his sixteenth birthday, she left him with her brothers and sister. They met in the most ordinary way. The older boy was hanging out in the park with his sister. They were both sitting on the end, leaning against a tree trunk. They had their hands clasped together, which at first made him think they were a couple. The girl then told him what was happening in the park, what it all looked like. The blurry eyes of the boy who stared at one point told him everything.

Simon Lewis, on the other hand, was a very social person, he decided to talk. They were both very friendly, however Raphael showed shyness. They became friends quickly, ended up being best friends.

And it was the younger man who took the first step. At the end of the school year, he went to pick up his friend from school. It was he who escorted him home, holding him under the elbow and telling him which way to go and whether he should be careful, because he was about to fall into a pole. Santiago's family did not have enough money for a walking stick, let alone a guide dog.

It was Simon who stopped in front of his house and confessed his love to him. It was he who caused Raphael to tears. When he went to college, they moved to their own little apartment, and on his twentieth birthday the Mexican got a dog that is with them to this day.

Simon decided to take the next step. He started collecting money for operations for his partner. She was disgustingly expensive - yes. But for the next four years he managed to collect the appropriate sum. Lewis had a ring box in his pocket since the beginning of this year.

The ringing of the telephone broke him out of his thoughts. He woke up and pulled the device out of his pocket. The name and number of Raphael's sister Rosa appeared on the display. He pressed the green receiver, holding the cell to his ear.

"Hello?" He started, taking a sip of his coffee, wincing.

"Simon. How's it going?" she asked.

"He's been in the hall for three hours," he replied. "You have nothing to worry about, Rosa" cheered her up. The siblings quarreled a few days ago. The woman felt terribly bad about it.

"I would like to be there with you so much. So much.."

"But you have a party on your head," he reminded her, smiling to himself.

"Yes" she giggled. "Let me know when it's all over."

"You have my word."

"Until next time."

"Bye" hung up and tossed the paper cup into the trash.

***

He opened his eyes to meet the darkness again. A shudder shook him. So it failed. He thought. Or I died. So I could go down there after all. It's over. Never again..

"Raphael?" Simon's sleepy voice rang out. "You woke up?"

"Simon? Y.. yeah.." he started looking for his hand.

"Oh, thank God.. I'm rushing to get the doctor." Lewis could hardly hold back a laugh. Raphael heard the sound of his feet and the sound of the door opening. He didn't know anymore what to think, whether he had succeeded or not. At least, he was sure he wasn't dead.

There was another patter of feet, the scuffing of a stool. Raphael felt the rough skin of the doctor on his face as he started to sort something out.

"I want to tell you, everything went according to plan" Santiago heard the doctor's voice and felt as if an ice arrow had pierced him. The thing Adam got off the Mexican's face was the bandage. And he slowly saw the light.

The light was too harsh, way too harsh for his sensitive eyes. He sat up in bed in a daze. The walls of the hall were white, the floor was tiled with alabaster tiles. Before the doctor could leave him, he was locked in a firm embrace.

"Gracias" he whispered. "Gracias.." began to sob. Adam patted him on the shoulder.

"I leave you alone" and he left. Raphael looked at Simon. His eyes stung terribly from his tears, but he ignored it. The salty drops began to flow out in greater amounts and his mouth began to tremble.

"You are.. you are beautiful.." he stammered, placing a hand on his cheek. "B.. beautiful.." he smiled broadly. He pulled him closer, hugged him tight, and rested his head on his shoulder. Lewis couldn't hold back his tears, he cried with him.

***

On the way home he did not take his eyes off the nature, houses, people and animals that flashed through his car window. He rested his head on the back of the chair and the smile did not disappear from his face.

"Everything is so beautiful," he said softly. Simon took one hand off the steering wheel and placed it on his partner's lap. "Everyone is so beautiful," Lewis said nothing but smiled. When they reached the house, the Mexican got out of the car, stood in front of the building, and stared at it. "Wow" the brunette took his bag out of the trunk and locked the vehicle.

"Come on. The rest are waiting."

"The rest? What is the rest?" He began to look around the area.

"At home" wrapped his arm around him and they walked through the black gate. A stone path stretched further, and after a while they were standing at the threshold of the door.

"Raphael!" Rosa ran out of the kitchen.

"Rosa?" Confusion seized him. He recognized her voice.

"Raphael. Dios, I'm so sorry.."

"Not now" he cut into her word. "Not now" he wrapped his arms around her. "This is not the time for our argument."

***

It was evening. Santiago was sitting on the swing in the front yard, watching the flames of candles burning on the table. With his other hand he was scratching the golden retriver. He felt heavy because he didn't feel sorry for his food at all. Simon joined him and wrapped the blanket around him and took a seat next to him.

"How were your impressions after today?" He asked quietly, brushing a lock of black hair from the older man's forehead.

"Wonderful," he replied. "You've done so much for me, Simon. You've helped me so much." the brown-eyed man reached into his back pocket. "I have no idea how to repay you, Simon. A simple thank you will not be enough. A little word will not pay off that much debt to you. Simon, how can I repay you?" He looked at him. Lewis took out a red box and opened it.

"Becoming my husband." There was silence between them. "Raph.."

"Yes.." Raphael put his hand to his mouth and shook his head. "Yes, Simon. I will" the man smiled and grabbed his hand and slipped a ring onto his finger. "Dios, Lewis, how many more times will you make me cry?"

[the-stars-belong-to-us]

Lost Sun and Moon

Under the dark of night two women speak in hushed tones, secreted away in a place the undead of Lahmia have yet to find them.

“You think someone’s coming to siege the city?” The heavily robed one asks, she gives off a dim light from the horn that grows from her temple- a ring of flame at the base.

“I saw it, on the horizon, while scouting on the wall.” Her elder sister nods, opening her coat and ensuring the large arm-length bolts that line the inside are all accounted for. “Not to mention the guard on the wall is growing- they are expecting something.” She finishes with a small smile, reaching for a contraption on her back, a seemingly well decorated club of iron- two metal pincers protruding from the top.

The other girl, Thanatob, huffs as she leans her shoulder to the dusty wall. “Who would come, though? Did you see a banner?” 

“I thought my eyes could be deceiving me,” Tiho replies, looking over her weapon and ensuring all it’s moving parts are in order. “But I could never mistake the banner of King Settra for any others.”

“But he is long dead?” Thanatob remarks with a raised brow, she had been told of the Arch Necromancer while they traveled back home, but she was not told he was raising the rulers of eld… much less had the ability to break the seal upon Settra the Great’s tomb. “Are the vampires being besieged by Na-”

With swift movement of her hand, Tiho silences Thanatob- who hears footsteps on the sand just a few yards away from their hiding place- the ring around her horn is extinguished and they are plunged into silence until the marching passes. “Fool- I told you to not speak his name!” Tiho admonishes in a harsh whisper as she pulls away. “And no, the Userper would not have the power to break the wards on the King of King’s pyramid. Don’t be foolish.” She peers out past the corner, making sure the coast is clear.

“What are we going to do, then?” Thanatob asks with a sigh, gently picking up her staff and ensuring the metal of its top piece does not clatter. She really does not care for her sister calling her a fool.

Tiho looks back with a mischievous glint in her golden eyes, “We will throw open the gates for them, and be free of this cursed city.”

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

The left gate was Tiho’s undoing. She had managed to sneak in unseen and unheard. She took her large bolts and transformed her club into a large bow- she tied rope to a bolt, then the gate, and crouched down to get a wide stance, aiming for one of the far buildings. She lets out a calming breath, readying her void to teleport her away, and she awaits the distant scream of arrows.

Moments pass before she finally hears the towers fire, releasing the tension in her fingers. The power of her arm and the size of her bolt work in tandem to rip one door from the other. None had seen any units sneak to the gate, and Tiho was long gone before anyone had investigated.

As she made her way to the middle gate, a plume of flame and smoke erupted from the far right gate. Thanatob never was good at subtly, she muses as she readies herself to open the center gate by herself. 

The younger sister was an amazing distraction, at least. As she blasted the gate doors loose from their great hinges. With any hint of secrecy lost to her, she abandons her cloak- letting it burn to cinders as her wings burn bright and she takes to the sky for a moment, raining fire down upon the units on the wall, completely unprepared for the surprise attack. She dips behind the wall after a moment, not wanting to draw unwanted attention from the invading force’s arrows, readying her staff to fight off any undead that chase after her.

@oldworldfantasyrp

[vitalpen]

The Daily Visit

(Written for The Webcomics Review’s Write a story you worthless piece of shit contest

Prompt: A dragon is kept locked up in a tower by an evil princess )

A slight figure descended on clacking shoes down a flight of spiraling stone stair.  She’d have been stomping if not for the heeled slippers on her feet.

As she reached a heavy wood door, she held up a ring of keys, having already found the correct one. This was the last of several barriers between the base of her tower and the cavern in the mountain which it rested on. She shoved the key in with a small grunt, turned it, and wrenched the door open.

The stone brick staircase was traded for one carved into the rock wall.  Her steps now echoed off into the massive dark.  She carried a torch with her, but it only lit the few yards in front of and behind her.  Any further and the chasm swallowed its light.  Bringing it was more habit than anything these days.  With the sheer number of times she’d been down here, she could’ve taken the steps blind.

It was a scheme 7 years in the making… and counting.  She’d known about this cavern for years, but it was only when she’d finally decided she’d had enough that she began to use it.  At ten years old, she’d first discovered the creature.  By the time she was eleven, she’d devised her plan to capture it.  In her twelfth year she’d killed her parents and replaced them with puppets, animated with her own prodigious magic to a facsimile of life, then she’d created the strongest magically binding shackles the world had ever seen.  At thirteen, she engaged with, fought, and tricked her target into the cavern, binding it with the shackles.

That was supposed to have been the hard part.  

Yet here she was, at seventeen, four years later…

Not a day went by that she didn’t think about it and it never failed to sour her mood.  All that work, the kind that even the most powerful magic users would balk at, and she’d done it.  At thirteen.  She could already go down in history as one of the greatest sorceresses to ever live.

She came to the bottom of the cave, a smooth surface, slick with dripped water.  Only a passing thought went to her skirt dragging through the puddles and she quickly decided that she didn’t care.

“Speaker!”  Lucia DuFort shouted the name it told her heatedly into the shadows.

The first response was something between a growl and a groan.  Whichever it was, it shook the very air.  “GOOD EVENING, YOUR HIGHNESS.”  The words were spoken slowly, tiredly, and snidely.  It was the cadence something very old and powerful with nothing but time on its claws.  “YOU SEEM… IN POOR SPIRITS.”  It chuckled, sending a gust of foul-smelling wind toward her.

“You might say that,” she replied through gritted teeth.

The ground shook as it shifted in its spot with a laugh.  It knew that she had been dreading this thinly veiled excuse for aristocrats to masturbate over their status for weeks.  That’s what all these parties were, an orgy of the egos.  She could hear the rumbling of the creature standing up and the sound of parting wind as its long neck swung down to her. Then its lid opened, revealing a swirling green and black orb that was twice her size and a slit-shaped pupil she could’ve walked through like a doorway.  “WAS THE BALL NOT WHAT YOU HAD HOPED?”

Lucia’s face twisted into a snarl.  With graceful, practiced movements, she lifted her arm and outstretched it toward the beasts.

Blood-red streaks of lightning lanced from her fingers, bathing the room in angry illumination. They revealed the entire mountainous form of the dragon she had worked so hard to break.  They pierced its scales, causing it to howl in pain and thrash against the perfectly polished shackles that had held it for the past four years.  She tortured the beast for nearly a full minute before her bloodlust subsided. When she was done, the dragon was heaving in its spot, smoke rising from the fresh burns that covered its body.

That was when she heard it, the unmistakable sound of deep, growling laughter.  “WORSE THAN EXPECTED, THEN?”  The snark to its tone was pained, but strong.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve endured tonight?”  She snapped at it, resisting the urge to simply shock it again.  Instead she dropped onto the floor and began tugging the uncomfortable heeled slippers she’d been forced to wear for the entire day.

“WOULD IT BE COMPARABLE TO ELECROCUTION?”  When she only glared in response, it continued with a grin. “DO TELL.”

“For the past eight hours, I’ve been made to play host to the most pompous, mind-rotting, ivory-tower-dwelling band of narcissists I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.” Free of her footwear, she stood up once more.  “These… degenerates are supposed to be the ruling class, yet they are so insulated from the outside that I am deeply surprised I was only subjected to a single ‘dear wife and sister’.  They’re as inbred as the backwood troglodytes that work the fields.”

The dragon let loose a roaring guffaw at that, massive belly shaking.  “TRULY THE HEIGHT OF YOUR SPECIES.  I IMAGINE THEY GET ALONG WITH YOUR PARENTS FAMOUSLY.”

“Quite,” she took on a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.  “Puppets with only a semblance of thought, a perfect match, really.  It never ceases to amaze me how no one has noticed anything different about them in five years.”  Lucia had nothing but animosity for the inane pair of twits that brought her into a world of idiots.  Only when she was approaching “marrying age” did they begin to interact with her whatsoever.  Gutting them in their sleep was the first thing she’d ever truly enjoyed.  “Did you know one of the visiting kings has a rebellion on his hands?”  Finally, her eyes matched her smile and she actually began to giggle.  “Because he doesn’t. He’s going to be slaughtered in his sleep by the month’s end and he has no idea.”  She spoke the words like they were school yard gossip.

“IS THAT ONE OF YOUR PET PROJECTS?”

“The rebellion?  Not this one, no.” She shook her head, still smiling. “They’ve simply been overtaxing and underfunding.”  She dowsed the torch and let her eyes adjust to the dark, pulling her legs in and hugging them as she began to pout.  “I hate being used as decoration for these people.”

“IGNORED, WERE YOU?”

“You know if there’s one thing I hate, it’s being talked about like I’m not in the room.”  She grumbled.  “I don’t think a single thing of substance was said to me the entire party.”

“AND WHAT OF YOU PARENTS?  DID YOU LEARN ANYTHING INTERESTING FROM THEM?”

“Nothing that I didn’t alre-“ she stopped, deflating a little.  “Ah yes. The men.”

The dragon laughed again. “YOU ARE GETTING TO THE MARRYING AGE.”

“From time to time, it seems I made those puppets a little too well.”  She lied back on the stone.  “They have to keep up the charade and part of that includes introducing me to… suitors.”  With a huff, she climbed to her feet.

“NO PLACE FOR ROMANCE, CHILD?”

“If these are the only options I have, I’ll gladly die alone.”

“AH, TO BE YOUNG AND DRAMATIC AS A PRINCESS JUST SHY OF ADULTHOOD.”

“You’ve seen my archery?” She asked, ignoring the snipe, taking a solid stance, and mimicking the well-practiced form of a bowman.

“‘SEEN’ IS AN INTERESTING CHOICE OF WORDS,” Speaker replied pointedly.  

It was only now that Lucia recalled that she’d temporarily blinded it with arrows to the eyes some months back.  The memory made her chuckle.  “Then you’re intimately familiar.  See, despite six years of training both on foot and on horseback, a certain prince from the north is simply convinced that I’m a novice and he must graciously impart to me the wisdom he’s obtained in the past year on the subject.”

The dragon groaned in annoyance.  “PLEASE TELL ME THAT THIS ISN’T THE SAME ONE FROM THE LAST PARTY.  WHAT WAS THE NAME AGAIN?  ALTI-SOMETHING.”

“Oh, so you remember Prince Alitran Bartimus von Gildenshire,” she emphasized each and every syllable of the name with pure, distilled contempt.  “Long pursuer of my affections and condescender of my every step.”

“THAT TWIT, YES.”

“Well, I am pleased to report he is no less an ingrate since last we saw him.  You would also be interested to know that my back is ‘too straight’, my shoulder blades are ‘too close’, my legs are ‘too wide’.  It was all I could do not to plunge a damn arrow into his throat.”   Her fists were squeezed so tightly they were starting to hurt, but she was too angry to care.  “And his parents are no better.”  She began to pace and took on an unflattering imitation of King Gildenshire’s pompous voice. “Our ‘quaint’ little kingdom is so charming to them and my parents so agreeable that they couldn’t bare to see anything terrible befall us.  After all, we’ve only just a thousand soldiers in our ranks, barely enough to keep the peace should the peasantry grow restless!”  She picked up one of her shoes and stared daggers into it.  “We’re one of the smallest territories in the region. So of course we’re the but of every joke and belittling backhanded compliment.”  Her grip on the shoe tightened.  “Quaint.  I could kill them all in an instant and they have absolute gall to call my kingdom quaint.”

Speaker chuckled, drawing her attention.  “CAREFUL CHILD.  PRIDE IS LIFE’S GREAT FOLLY.  I BELIEVE I AM LIVING PROOF OF THAT.”

“It’s not pride if I’m right,” she snapped back, magic crackling in her hands momentarily. “They talk like they know anything that goes on in their own kingdoms.  I know more about their kingdoms than they do.  But I’m just the daughter of a bumbling, unthreatening king and queen, good only for my looks.  And all the while, I must sit there,” her voice took on a sickeningly sweet tone, even raising in pitch.  Meanwhile, smoke began to rise from the shoe in her hand.  “I must be sweet and bubbly and charming as can be,” just as quickly as the façade came, it left.  “Constantly denying the ever-more-tempting urge to slide a blade into the throats and drag it across.”  As if to punctuate the sentence, the shoe burst into flames and she dropped onto the floor.  “And do you know the worst part?”

“I MIGHT, BUT ENLIGHTEN ME NONETHELESS.”

“Trapped beneath the castle, beneath my tower, is a force that could reduce armies and cities alike to ash.”  She lifted up from the ground, feet leaving the floor and levitated right up to the giant set of eyes.  “But it. Won’t.  Cooperate.”

The dragon made a show of lowering its head onto its front claws and blowing air out its nose ponderously. “TRULY A DILEMMA FOR OUR TIME. I ONLY REGRET THAT I AM INCAPABLE OF ADVISING YOU ON HOW TO ATTAIN THIS POWER YOU SEEK.” The formal tone, the overcomplicated sentence structure, Lucia knew when she was being made fun of.  The dragon suddenly raised its head.  “AH!  GRACIOUS INSPIRATION, I HAVE KNOWN THEE ONCE MORE!”  it turned to her again, its eyes dead serious.  “HAVE YOU CONSIDERED POLITELY REQUESTING ITS SERVICES?”

Lucia began to bite the inside of her cheek, a habit she’d picked up recently to try and keep herself calm in the face of unyielding rage.  She couldn’t let it get to her, not now.  “Have I not shown I am worthy,” she almost pleaded.  “Have I not demonstrated my dedication to these lofty goals?  What must I do?!”

“YOU HAVE DEMONSTRATED YOUR ABILITY TO STALL AND WHINE.”  With a gust of air from its movement, the dragon stood up and came to its fullest height, glaring at her with a ferocity she hadn’t seen it use since the day she captured it.  Only this time, there was an element of familiarity to it that stung.  “YOU ARE A CHILD WITH ALL THE POWER SHE COULD EVER DREAM OF, ALL THE CUNNING AND RESOURCES SHE COULD EVER NEED.  YET YOU ARE STILL A CHILD.  AND NOT ONCE SINCE BIRTH HAVE YOU BEEN TOLD YOU HAVE VALUE.  YOUR MOTHER AND WERE NAUGHT BUT FLEETING DISAPPOINTMENTS. BY THE TIME THEY BEGAN TO CARE, YOU COULDN’T STAND HAVING THEIR APPROVAL.  SO YOU SOUGHT THE APPROVAL OF SOMETHING FAR GREATER.  YOU DO NOT SEEK A SERVANT, YOU SEEK A PARENT.”

The words, spoken with equal parts dismissal and disappointment, stung her in a way she hadn’t been expecting.  And Lucia couldn’t understand why.  She wasn’t just a child, she was a sorceress, she wasn’t stalling, she was planning, she never cared what her parents thought.  She didn’t care what anyone thought.  The very idea that she did… it brought upon her a pure distilled rage that overwhelmed her.  It was only now that she noticed the metallic taste of blood.  She’d bitten her cheek too hard.  That taste was all it took to send her over the edge.

“I do not want your approval,” she spoke, trembling as sparks of red arced between her fingers. “I want your SUBJUGATION!” With a scream of rage, she let loose her lighting with both hands, impaled the creature in dozens of places. Speaker screamed in agony and writhed on the ground.  Only the shackles prevented it from bringing the entire cavern down around them.  Lucia didn’t know how long she held it like that, but it had long since stopped moving when she ceased the onslaught.

All was silent.  The dragon was still.  “Speaker?”  Lucia called warily, suddenly feeling her resolute rage crumble away like sand against the tide.  “Speaker?!” She called, more frantically.  There was no reply.

No.  She hadn’t.  She couldn’t. It wasn’t.

What had she done?

All that time, all those talks, every hour she’d spent planning, preparing, everything in the last seven years of her life.  Gone in an instant.  Slowing, her hands moved to her head, fingers running into her hair.  Slowly her grip on the locks began to tightened.  She began to shake again, not from rage, but from fear, anguish, and frustration.  Tears welled up in her eyes.

Then it began to move.

“FOOLISH CHILD. FRAGILE CHILD.  RECKLESS CHILD.  WEAK.  CHILD.” The only way to describe Speaker’s tone was ‘ominous’.  The words were laced with history, experience, and disdain.  For the first time since they’d met, Lucia felt the millennia behind the voice.  “WE DRAGONS HAVE BUILT A LEGACY OF OUTLASTING.  NIGH IMMORTAL, NIGH IMPERVIOUS, I HAVE SEEN THE RISE OF CIVLIZATIONS THAT YOUR GRANDPARENTS DON’T REMEMBER.  YOUR EMPIRE COULD LAST TEN GENERATIONS OR MORE AND IT WOULD BE LONG FORGOTTEN BEFORE I FIND MY FINAL REST.  THE OLDEST AMONG YOU ARE BUT CHILDREN TO ME, AND YOU ARE BUT A CHILD TO THEM.  DO YOU TRULY BELIEVE A HUMAN LIFE IS BUT A TRIFLE FOR ME?  WHEN YOU DIE, YOUR ENCHANTMENT WILL FADE AND I SHALL SIMPLY BE FREE AGAIN.  YOU WILL, BEFORE TOO LONG, BE NOTHING BUT A DISTANT MEMORY TO ME.  AN AMUSING DIVERSION WHILE IT LASTED.  JUST LIKE OUR LITTLE TALKS.”  It spit the final word out with more venom than any viper.  It lied back down on its claws and closed its eyes.  “NOW I SUGGEST YOU GO AND SLEEP.  IF I RECALL CORRECTLY, YOU HAVE ANOTHER PARTY TOMORROW.”

Without a word, Lucia flew back to the doorway was fast as she could, locking the door behind her. When she was safely back up the stairs and in the tower’s basement, she fell to the floor and wept bitter tears. She had the monster in chains, unable to do anything but endure, and somehow it had come away the victor.  All her pride, all her ambition, what did it really mean if she couldn’t act on it without the terror of failure holding her back? Speaker understood that perfectly. All she’d accomplished, all her power, and it amounted to a raindrop in the ocean to a dragon.

--

Einwyther, known to the young princess as Speaker, allowed herself a smile.  In just four years, the girl had displayed dramatic improvement.  Many others would brush off this opportunity for introspection or worse, wallow in it. Not Lucia.  It might take a moment, but she would come back stronger, as every time before.

In another year or two, she’d be ready.

[minniepetals]

String of Fate 03

— summary: they set fire to the world around them but would never let a flame touch her.

— pairing: bts x reader

— genre: fluff, angst || poly!au, soulmate!au, mafia!au

— word count: 4.5k

— warnings: none

╰ Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 

"Dahyun? What's wrong?"

Sitting against the edge of the couch, knees up against her face as she sat there, head huddled by her arms, Dahyun looked up at the sound of your voice. You winced at the sight in front of you and instantly felt like crying with just the sight of your best friend's tears.

"Y/N, when you fall for someone, I hope they will love you just as much because you deserve so much better." Hearing the croaky vulnerability in her voice, you were almost instantly right by her side.

"What did he do?" Your brows furrowed, blood boiling with anger as you watched the tears restlessly flow down Dahyun's cheeks. "What the heck did he do?" You demanded.

But Dahyun shook her head, the warrior within her usual self already thrown out the window. "It doesn't matter anymore," she sniffed. "We're over. It just proves that we weren't meant to be."

Clenching your jaw, you felt ready to storm out the apartment. "I'm going to—"

"Please don't," Dahyun told you otherwise as she held your hand back from leaving. "When I said that I needed a shoulder to cry on, I actually meant that."

Sighing sadly at her unusual vulnerable form, you gently wrapped your arms around your best friend. "I'm here. You never deserved this. He doesn't deserve your tears," you said softly, rubbing her head with one hand while the other gently patted her back to help her breath.

You had wanted to talk to her about your own problems but you knew at the moment, it wasn't right. Your best friend who had always been there for you had fallen in love for the first time...and gotten her heart broken as well. Both of you were amateurs in love, knowing nothing of its experience and the painful emotions it gave, which was why you didn't know what to say to her.

You've only ever read and watched romance scenes playing out, never actually experienced them. You didn't know whether it was due to the fear of it or just the fact that you were still waiting.

Still though, seeing your best friend crying over a guy was certainly making you have second guesses on what you were going to do with the seven Bangtan men. If you'd ever see them again.

But they knew you—well, your name at least—and that was something still swarming around your head, amongst the other things.

"This is why I never wanted to try out love."

You sighed sadly. "Honey, how were you supposed to know he'd end up leaving you?"

Dahyun shook her head stubbornly. "I shouldn't had involved myself with him in the first place. I shouldn't had fallen in love."

"Dahyun—"

"I'm so freaking stupid." It was hard to deal with a stubborn Dahyun but with knowing her your whole life, you knew how to handle her. She was going to be like this for some time, regretting on things but eventually forgetting it in the end.

"It's going to take some time to forget this," you nodded empathetically with acknowledgement. "But I hope that you know that you have me. I may not know anything about relationships and stuff, but I'm here."

Slightly letting her go, you looked into your best friend's eyes to show her you were serious. Of course Dahyun had already knew that but still, you could tell showing her your support and comfort would make her feel better.

She smiled a little at you, her lips tight together while her eyes stared at you with curiosity. "You were with them, weren't you?"

Them.

Did she knew? But how did she?

"Whatever you choose to do," she continued on, "whether it involves them or you ignoring every sign, I hope you understand that fate will always work it's way for you to be happy again."

You frowned, brows furrowing in confusion at your friend's words. "What are you doing? I'm supposed to be the one comforting you in this situation, not the other way around."

Dahyun chuckled lightly. "My duty as your best friend is to stay by your side and support you throughout your life."

You shook your head as you went on to wipe away her remaining tears still stained on her soft cheeks. "Your duty can be to stay by my side, but you should live your own life as well. For your own self, not for anyone else's. I know we've been together since childhood," you said, tucking back some strands of hair behind her ear, "and that while your parents died and my father took you in, you don't need to keep feeling like it's your duty to do anything for me. We're practically sisters. It's okay for you to go on your own without worrying about me. I'll be alright, and so will you."

In some ways, Dahyun felt like your older sister, in another way, she was younger. Either way, the two of you had taken care of each other for quite some time and you couldn't imagine your life without having her as your best friend by your side. She was there for you through your rough days, helping you sort yourself out, she knew you more than anyone. Maybe the two of you had been best friend's in your past lives as well, perhaps that was why you felt so close and connected to Dahyun.

"You never change," she smiled a genuine smile, the light finally reaching her eyes as she went on to ruffle your hair. "Thank you, Y/N."

"What are friends for?"

~~

Night after night, you've had nightmares of warship. Each time, you could feel your heart shattering into fragments, waiting for you to find your source so that they could mend back once more. If it weren't for you waking up each morning, you could've swore the wars were for real. Everything felt surreal, from the touches you felt, to the pains that stabbed through you. You couldn't understand it, why you kept receiving the same dream over and over from the night you had met them.

The battle cries and the flying arrows, you could still hear them as you went about your day acting as if everything was fine. But everything weren't, everything was completely wrong.

It was a week and two days later after your last meeting with Bangtan.

Yes, you were counting. You didn't know why but it just felt like the days were only dragging along. You dreaded the next day to come and a piece of you felt missing like that moment you left their place—only it was worse. Something didn't felt right and you wanted to fix it but had absolutely no idea what could be the reason to your distress. In your friend's case, she looked alright in the eyes of others but you knew she was dying inside, hoping and wishing the pain could just go away. At least she knew what her problem was.

You were walking down the same street you had last met Hoseok, feeling even more emptier than before. You could still remember those eyes, those warm eyes that had casted a spell on you and made sure you were alright despite your fear of him. Why were you scared? Even though he was a mafia, you knew his only intention was to help you out.

The same went for Jin as well, although you had never intended to look like you were scared of him, but you felt he had probably assumed that fear due to you leaving. And perhaps everyone else felt the same as well, that you were fearful of them.

But then again, why would their feelings matter?

You had never really cared much before, simply going about your days and ignoring every sign of love interest that could had happened if you looked back, cared, and took a moment to enjoy them. Yet something within you had always told you to keep going, to move on with your life even as some men might've shown interest, and to just leave them all because you were going to get the best if you waited for fate to do its job.

Yet now that seven strangers had came into your life, seven mafias, you've suddenly began to feel yourself drawn to them. It felt so unfair, how they seemed to know so much about you with just the warmth in their eyes, while you knew nothing.

Just trying to hold onto those fragments of broken pieces, hoping for it to magically form back. But you knew it wasn't going to be easy. You had to first find out your reason for your shattered heart.

You had to first find out who they were.

Because a part of you felt as if the source came from them, especially as you took a moment to stop walking in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at your hand where the gash should had been. Whoever they were, you needed to know.

When you looked back up from your hand, you saw a strange man standing just a few yards from you, eyes staring right at you without wavering a bit. Instead of panicking, you stayed there standing still, looking right back at his brown eyes. You stared at him, thinking back to that moment with you and Jin, alone in his room as he examined your arm with reassuring words to help keep you calm.

Looking back on it, he really did showed you nothing but kindness. Yet there you were, running away without an explanation. He deserved your explanation, he deserved to hear your reason out rather than to suddenly be left alone feeling as if he had done wrong.

Because he didn't.

You should had told him you only left because you had to, because of an issue. You should had assured him it wasn't because of him, that you hadn't at all been afraid of him. But you could still remember that hurt in his eyes, the ones that had downcast the moment you asked him for the exit. You should had said something else. Now you wondered if you'd ever see him, or any of them again.

It was then when you realized who the person you were staring at was.

Min Yoongi.

Mysterious out of them all, yet also had that same warmth and, at the same time like the rest of them, the pain filled his eyes as well. You took a step forward, wishing, hoping you could touch him. Yet the second you blinked, he was long gone, as if the man had never been there in the first place.

And that was when you finally panicked.

Your head swerved around, body turning and eyes searching for those familiar pair of eyes. Maybe it had been your imagination all along. Maybe everything had been your imagination. Perhaps because you had been alone for so long, you were craving for someone to come into your life to complete it, only to face not one but seven handsome strangers.

But you lost it and it was all your fault.

The tears wavered at your waterline, waiting to fall, and as you tried to blink them away, they only fell along your cheeks.

Where are you? Please, this can't be my imagination.

Maybe that was how Jin had felt when you left without an explanation. Yoongi showed up only for you to blink and he was gone before your eyes. How could you had let him go? Why didn't you called out his name when you saw him? Why weren't you fast enough?

You could still feel his presence near. You just knew Yoongi was there despite the lack of his actual presence, but he was there...somewhere.

"Yoongi," you called out softly, and you could've sworn a light gust of wind blew past you as if delivering the message of reassurance that Yoongi was really there. Only, he didn't show you his presence.

"Yoongi," you repeated once more, a little more desperately this time. But as another gust of wind blew past you, it delivered only a goodbye.

And you were left with a small flower sitting just inches from your feet. You had always been interested in flowers and their meanings, so when you went to pick up the small flower, you were quick to realize what it was.

Forget-me-not.

~~

The annual flower show had always been your favorite part of the year, but it was always so busy as well. Being a florist had its benefits, you've loved flowers since the moment you laid your eyes on one and never once had you stray away from that love. Still, even as you busied yourself, running all over the place to make sure everything was perfect for the flower show, your mind couldn't get off the forgot-me-not flower. They said that the one who gave the flower meant as a symbol for a strong love, to, like the flower's name, never forget them.

Was there something you were missing? Surely Yoongi, or any of the guys for that matter, was someone you've never met before, right? But the familiarity still couldn't get past your mind and you were left only to stare at the forget-me-not flower in front of you.

"Y/N, we're opening in two minutes!" You heard your boss yelling over and quickly remembered the situation you were in.

Gasping, you quickly apologized to her, following behind her to greet the upcoming guests.

It was a tiring yet exciting day, all of it worth it in the end as you walked home with a bouquet of flowers for your hard work. Night had already fallen and the only sources of lights were from the street light with occasional passing cars here and there.

You couldn't wait to just go home and fall asleep, that was the only motivation you had as each passing steps you took grew a bit more eager than the last.

Until you slowed down your steps after seeing a familiar figure just across the street. His body glowed under the street lamp, watching you with a piercing gaze. He wore a simple black suit yet the style on him made him looked so much more handsome than he already was.

You watched him silently from where you stood but was quick to call out his name the second the man took a step away.

"Wait! Jin!" You gasped but Jin didn't waited.

So recklessly, you ran onto the road, dropping your bouquet of flowers and not caring to watch for vehicles passing by, that being the last thing on your mind as your only concern was for you to reach Jin in time. It couldn't end up like Yoongi, it couldn't had been your imagination, nor could you let him go that easily either. You felt so desperate to reach him so that you could make things right and to clear up the misunderstandings he had with you.

The least you had expected was for you to trip on your high heels and fall on your bottom.

Well, at least that got Jin's attention as he was quick to run up to you.

"Why are you running in heels?" His brows furrowed as he examined your foot, eyes diverting yours.

You could only blush in embarrassment. "I was afraid you'd leave," you told him before adding in, "like Yoongi."

He was quiet for a moment, looking at nothing but your foot. It was the least of your concern though, because in all honesty, you hadn't exactly twisted it or hurt it in any way.

"You saw Yoongi?" Jin all but asked and you nodded. With the look on his face, you could tell he knew what you had saw. Still, he refused to look at you in the eyes.

"Jin—"

"Can you walk?" He interrupted with another question.

You shook your head, lying. "No." If the only way you could talk to him was by lying, then that was exactly what you would do. "It hurts," you said, pouting and faking a pained expression.

But of course, Jin saw through you. "Did you know that I'm a doctor," he chuckled before lightly poking at your nose. "You're a horrible liar too."

The light tone in his voice made you crack out a smile, until you saw his expression return to a serious, cold face. "What is it that you want, Y/N?"

Smile disappearing, you told him, "To apologize."

You saw the way his hands retracted away from your sight, placing them in his pockets as he stood up while you followed suit. You didn't know what was wrong, but you had an idea with the way he decided to hide his hands. You followed behind him as he walked the two of you away from the road, in a safer environment so that you didn't needed to worry about cars passing by.

"What for?" Jin asked, back still turned your way.

Your heart ached at the sight, craving to see his face. So you reached out to hold the hem of his suit, watching as Jin finally stopped walking yet still refusing to face you. You let out a sad sigh then walked around to let him see you. "I'm not afraid of you, if that's what you're worried about," you started as you looked at him right in the eyes as a sign to show him your words meant nothing but truth. "I'm sorry I made it seem that way, but I'm not afraid, why should I be?"

"You have every right to."

"No," you shook your head, disagreeing. "The only reason I left was because a problem came up that I couldn't ignore, I wasn't deliberately trying to ignore the sad glint in your eyes. I...I know you're special, all of you are. Yoongi disappeared right in front of my eyes - don't tell me it had been my imagination because I know it isn't - then with Hoseok, I closed my eyes and counted to five and the next thing I knew, we were right in front of your home. And you—"

With just the mention of him, Jin's jaw tensed and he was quick to looked away from you once more. Your brows furrowed with both pain and frustration that he thought so little of himself. "You helped me, Jin," you emphasized, meeting your hand with his arm in hopes of him turning back to you. "You healed me, how can I ever be afraid of that?"

Taking you by surprise, Jin looked at you but with a glare as he aggressively asked, "Why aren't you afraid of that?" You flinched backward and wished you hadn't, otherwise you wouldn't had seen a more hurtful gaze on him. "See?" He scoffed bitterly. "You're afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you," you denied stubbornly and desperately.

"I'm a mafia, Y/N, don't lie to me. You don't even know anything about me."

That hurt. It had hurt for Jin to say that, letting him sink in the reality that you really were gone from his grasp and that you remembered nothing of him and the others. And it had hurt you because you knew it was true, yet something told you you should had known. There were so many things inside of you, telling you all sorts of things.

One told you to leave and admit to reality that trying to convince a mafia you weren't afraid of him wasn't worth anything. Yet another thing told you that you should stay, to try and get to know him, to understand the situation you were in, to stop escaping. Of course the latter was the choice you decided in making despite the fact that he was a mafia. At that point, it really didn't even mattered that he was a mafia. The only thing you saw was that Jin was a human capable of human emotions.

"No, I don't," you admitted, looking away from Jin as you watched a car pass by before returning your gaze on him. "But you do, don't you?"

He averted his eyes with that question, so of course, you knew it was true. "There's obviously something I'm missing and I'm the only one in this oblivion. There's something I'm...forgetting. Just like that flower Yoongi showed me, that forget-me-not flower." You looked away once again, only to go in a little shock as you realized another passing car had ran over the flower bouquet you had dropped.

A small gasp escaped your lips as you watched the petals fluttering into the air, ripped and torn. "Oh no."

You wanted to rush onto the road and recollect it and you were about to but Jin had grabbed your wrist before you could. "Don't. It's not worth it."

"But the flowers.." Your eyes saddened at the sight then turned to him to pout. "This is your fault," you pointed accusingly. Sure it was actually your fault for running out recklessly, but technically he was the reason why you had dropped your flowers in the first place.

"The car even ran over the flower Yoongi gave me," you said with a frown.

A soft sigh was heard above you and you felt a hand patting you on the head. Soft as you knew he was, you couldn't help but let your heart flutter at just the simple touches from Jin. "I'll give you new ones," he promised you.

Meaning I'll see him again.

You felt ecstatic over the revelation and smiled up at him, deciding to take that chance to ask him something. "Then can you also walk me home?" You wished aloud, hoping he'd agree, but was instead greeted by another dark frown. Jin's hand retracted and you watched the way his brows furrowed, eyes wondering away before meeting yours again.

"I'm a mafia," he repeated once more as if trying to get you to realize the situation you were in, that you were refusing to leave a mafia alone.

"I don't care," you simply stated, once again following your heart rather than your mind, because at this point, you felt your heart was actually telling you the right thing to do. "I'd feel more safer if you were by my side than to walk alone while the moon is high above the sky and shining brightly."

He took a few seconds to look upon your eyes as if searching for confirmation that you indeed weren't scared of him. Jin was already insecure, as much he hated to admit it. He hated doubting himself around you and hated the most of the vulnerability you made him show. But how could he not when just one look at you could just break him?

You were so persistent, so stubborn, and Jin knew you were still quite clueless to the truth.

But perhaps that wasn't a bad thing.

"Alright," Jin decided and you let out a bright smile, a smile he had grown to love so dearly.

~~

"Miss Lee?"

Your boss looked up at you while her hands continued staying busy in arranging some flowers. "Yes?" She responded coolly. You had always thought you were one of the luckiest people out there who got to enjoy comfort in spending time with their boss. After all, there were a lot out there who feared whomever they were working for. As for you, however, your boss had always felt like a second mother to you. She was always caring and had been the one to recognize your talent in flowers.

"Tell me about the forget-me-not flower," you asked her as you reached for the lilies for your own flower arrangement.

You watched her as she reached for the calla lily and a soft smile appeared on her face. "There is a sad legend that accompanies the forget-me-not flower, a sad German legend," she told you.

"Oh?" Your brows raised, hearing this for the first time.

"Two lovers were walking along the banks of a river," Miss Lee began and you felt already entranced by the story. It had always been fun to listen to legends, especially when they had involved lovers of some sort. "The waters had been angry that day, running wild and crashing against the rocks. On their walk, the young lady had spotted beautiful blue flowers and immediately fell in love with it. She wanted it, and so the young gentleman vowed that he’d get them for her.”

You stopped working on your flowers and leaned your chin against the palm of your hand, your elbow resting against the table. You saw as Miss Lee’s movements slowed down as her eyes casted a soft sad glint.

“The gentleman swam to the other side and grabbed the flowers, but before he could return, the rushing waters pulled him away, for the current had been much stronger than him.”

Your eyes saddened at the story, a small gasp escaping your lips.

“The last words he shouted were ‘forget me not,’ and the lady returned his words. And that, my dear,” she breathed in with a tight smile, “is how the flower got its name—at least that’s what the legend says.”

“What a sad legend,” you frowned, making your boss nod in agreement.

Was that how it was going to be with you? Ending up with a sad ending just like that legend? Or rather, had that already happened to you?

Maybe that was why Yoongi gave you the flowers, because some tragic past had occurred. But how when you didn’t even know them? Perhaps that was the whole purpose of the flower then, a sign of reminder, that old love was to never be forgotten. And maybe that could explain the war dreams?

Death, pierced through the heart.

A different occurrence of death but nonetheless, it was death.

“Y/N?” Miss Lee looked at you in concern. “Was there a reason why you asked about the flower?”

You nodded, deciding to be straightforward. “I received the forget-me-not flower by this gentleman,” you told her, still perplexed on Yoongi’s reasons.

“You do understand what that means, right?” She asked and you nodded once more. “Did something happen?”

“That’s the thing,” you furrowed your brows. “I don’t know.”

Your boss leaned back against her chair, arms crossed against her chest and looking as if she was trying to analyze the problem.

It was complicated, everything was so complicated you felt as if this whole situation was taking up all your time. There was no way you could give your full focus on other things when you still had a mystery to solve. If only things could just clear up, if only they could tell you what was going on.

“Then go.”

You looked back at your boss, head tilted in confusion.

“Go find him,” she said, giving you a confident smile. “Go to him.”

You sat there at first, not knowing what to do even as your boss had already given you permission to leave. With an assuring nod casted your way, you stood up to politely give her a short bow in thanks, then turned around and made your way out.

It wasn’t a him you were trying to find, it was a them.

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - Battle for Winterfell AU - “To Exhale”

Battle for Winterfell AU. Please forgive me for any failings, military strategy is not my forte, but I'm changing it up a bit here. Jon stays on the ground with his troops. The Dothraki aren't decimated in a useless charge. Bran actually tries to warg into Viserion. They build more than one fucking trench.

There is Major Character Death and Graphic Depictions of Violence ahead. This is a tragedy. I'm giving you fair warning now.

“To Exhale”

He looks at her one last time and – and oh – she would walk with him in that godswood, she would cloak him night after night, she would swear her affection into his skin and drink his moans.

She would hold him to her beneath a wolf’s moon and make him a Stark – make him hers.

(Except he already is – and this, perhaps, is the cruelest truth of all.)  -  Jon and Sansa.  To love, to lose.

* * *

To love is to breathe in, to inhale.

           She looks around the grey stone walls of a torch-lit Winterfell as she stands amidst the courtyard.  She looks at Bran, those fathomless eyes unblinking in the snow as Theon wheels him to the godswood.  She looks at Arya, fitting her dragonglass arrows into the quiver along her back, a ready smirk on her lips.

           She looks at Jon.

           (To love is to breathe in, to inhale.)

           Sansa lets it fill her lungs, anchors the air tight, keeps it bundled in her chest.

           Jon finally looks to her from across the courtyard.

           It is a Long Night stretched out before them.

           Her breath stays lodged in her throat –

           Choking on the inhale.

* * *

           “So, what do you say, Bran?  Is there a victory in our future?”  Jon asks it on a tremulous chuckle, a wild hope, a desperate distraction from the way his hands sweat inside his gloves and how the wind bites just a bit too harshly along his cheeks and the way his brother (his brother – damn what blood says) is looking at him with hollow eyes.

           And then Bran smiles, barely-there and quiet as snow.

           Jon stares down at him unblinkingly, his stomach twisting.  Bran’s never warged with something dead before, but perhaps there is just enough magic left in this world to try.  The weirwood towers above them, red leaves glinting like blood in the darkness.

           “Sometimes I see a little girl with red hair.”

           Jon sucks in a sharp breath, face falling.

           Bran tilts his head, as though in contemplation.  “She has your eyes.”

           And then it is Sansa, and only Sansa, and always Sansa, and Jon thinks he might not be able to hold it back if he lets it overtake him.  So he grips at Longclaw’s hilt, bites his tongue, doesn’t acknowledge the wetness at the corners of his eyes.

           Bran’s face is blank again, his eyes drifting over to the heart tree – a face of mourning, if Jon lets himself think too long about it.  “But most times I just see nothing at all,” Bran says softly, an imperceptible ring of sorrow to the words.

           The noise that catches in Jon’s throat is half-sob, half-growl.  He closes his eyes, breathes deep, uncurls his fingers from around his sword hilt.  When he opens his eyes, Jon turns to Theon standing just past Bran’s chair.  “Protect him.”  It’s all he can say.  All he’ll allow himself to say.

           (Not for us or for Sansa or please.)

           Theon nods, one hand already fitted to his bow.  “Like a brother,” he affirms.

           Jon clenches his jaw, remembers Theon’s cocky laugh when he’d bested him the first time at archery, and the way he’d teased him whenever Jon refused the brothel, and the way he snuck him a pitcher of ale that one night when they got pissed out their gourds and Lady Catelyn found them the next morning passed out in the training yard.

           He remembers Theon Greyjoy.  And he remembers Theon Stark.

           “Like a brother,” Jon says, his voice low and catching.  And then he’s leaning down and pressing a kiss to Bran’s forehead, holding it there, eyes squeezed shut, and the night could take him, right there, it could swallow him whole.

           But it will not have his brothers.

           Jon stalks purposely from the godswood, the last image in his mind a tiny girl with copper hair and wolf eyes – maybe they’ll be Tully blue, maybe Stark grey.  He knows her face regardless – he sees it in his dreams, after all.

           Jon swallows back the lump in his throat, wet eyes stinging against the cold.

           This night may swallow him whole.

           But it will not have his pack.

* * *

           “I’ll come for you,” Arya tells her, her glass-gilded staff tight in her grip.

           Sansa peers past her sister’s shoulder to the Unsullied marching up the stairs to the battlements, the fog of winter settling in heavier all around them. The dead approach, even now.

           “No, you won’t,” Sansa says mildly, her eyes shifting back to her sister’s, a quiet, barely-there upturn to her lips.  “But it’s a lovely lie.”

           Arya reaches for her arm, her gloved fingers wrapping around Sansa’s elbow as she steps into her, peering up with dark, Stark eyes – a shadow on her face Sansa does not recognize, nor thinks she ever will.  “Sansa,” and it is as much a plea as it is a denial.

           She cups her little sister’s face in her hands, the tears sudden and bright and stinging against her lashes.  “Show them what it means to be a Northerner.  Show them what it means to be a Stark.”

           Arya swallows thickly, her eyes shifting back and forth between Sansa’s, and then she’s nodding, her face still in her sister’s hold, and Sansa leans forward and wraps her arms around her, Arya’s face pressing into her chest, the hand not holding her staff gripping at Sansa’s back, and the kiss she places on the crown of her head is both trembling and true.

           “Winter is here,” she breathes against her sister’s hair, and Arya sighs into her embrace.  “But so are the wolves.”

           “I’ll come for you,” Arya repeats, her fingers digging into her cloak, her breath a rattle against her chest.  “No matter what you say, I’ll come for you.”

           Sansa holds a hand to the back of her head, breathes her in, and when the time comes to let her go –

           She lets her go.

* * *

           “Sansa gets out alive, do you understand?” Jon commands Brienne, his eyes fervent, the torchlight casting slants of shadow that flicker threateningly over his features.

           Brienne only holds her chin higher, her gaze never wavering from Jon’s.  She nods mutely, her hand already fastened to Oathkeeper’s hilt.  “I will shield her back, and keep her council, and give my life for hers, if need be.”

           Jon heaves a heavy sigh, his face a fallen ruin when he recognizes the words. “The need may be,” he answers hollowly, his shoulders slumping slightly.  “Tonight,” he finishes.

           “I keep my oaths,” Brienne replies solemnly, titling her head in a final, farewell nod, before she turns from him to join her regiment.

           Jon feels something sink inside him – heavy and worn like a drowned stone, falling straight through the current, deep-sought.

* * *

           The screams are instant.  The light is less so.

           Sansa takes in the shadowy collision of the first charge from her position along the battlements, her guard of Stark men at her back.  Her chest aches, her terror a tight knot in her belly, her thumb worrying a hole through the glove covering her other palm.

           Jon is beside her suddenly, Ghost at his heels.  “Sansa.”

           She turns to him, and everything falls away.

           Outside their walls, the Dothraki wails are as piercing as Daenerys’ ream of dragonfire from the storm-grey sky.

           “Get to the crypts.”

           “I won’t.”

           He huffs a single, impatient breath, his brow angling sharply down.  “Sansa, this isn’t – ”

           “I won’t,” she says again, shoulders stiffening, her hand reaching for the dragonglass at her belt, curling around the uneven hilt beneath the cover of her cloak.

           Jon eyes her steadily, and then he’s shaking his head, his gaze looking out past the wall.  He sighs, and it takes all of him.  “Ghost will stay,” he says lowly as he begins to stalk away.

           Sansa glances out past the ramparts, the battle waging below in fire and shadow, in heartbeats and carrion.  “No, you need him.  You need Ghost out there.”

           Jon stills just a few feet from her.  “I need him here.  With you.” He doesn’t grant her his gaze when he glances over his shoulder, his eyes instead on the grey stone at her side, the Winterfell around her.

           She will not argue, not now.  Not here, at the end.  So she nods mutely and curls a hand in the scruff along Ghost’s neck, his fur a warmth and comfort she hadn’t thought possible.

           Jon leaves her then.

           She watches, words dying on her tongue.

           (Breathe in – hold it tight to your chest.)

           Sometime between Ghost’s howl and the thunderous beat of dragon wings against the stone ramparts, Sansa realizes her hand has stayed fastened to the dragonglass dagger at her hip.

* * *

           Jon looks around the courtyard at the open gates, ready to flood the field and reinforce the first wave of their forces already fighting the dead.  He looks at the Hornwoods and the Mormonts and the Cerwyns.  The Flints and the Karstarks and the Manderlys.  The Tallharts, the Dustins, the Dormunds.  The Whitehills, the Glenmores, the Forrestors.  The staunch and the proud and the Northern.  

           Jon glances down the line.  First left, then right.  

           Rhaegal screeches in the dark clouds above.

           But it’s his brothers, his northmen –

           (the heavy lull of their breathing, and the curl of their gloved fists over dragonglass, and the shuffle of their anxious feet in the snow – blaring even over the hoarse screams and clash of battle just past the gates)

           Jon knows what it means to fight for home.

           (Tully eyes and hair like flame and a mouth that cuts as fine and true as steel)

           “For the North!” he yells, Longclaw raised, his chest heaving, eyes wide, the storm bearing down.

           For more than the North, he promises – silent, steady, true.

* * *

           The first trench lights magnificently, the Northern forces drawing back behind the flames, the Dothraki and wildling archers riddling the dead with dragonglass arrows from atop the battlements.  Sansa watches alongside them, Ghost pawing at the snow nervously.  

           She settles a hand at his nape, and he releases a long whine, glancing up at her. “I know,” she murmurs, eyes never leaving the dead, never leaving the carnage.  “I know.”

           Because she would be out there with him, if she could.

           She would be out there with him, blade in hand, heart at her throat, back to his, if only she could.

           But she can’t – and she’s the first to acknowledge what a hindrance she’d be.

           She can only be this.  She can only be the Lady of Winterfell.

           And when she looks out across the line of soldiers manning the wall, her thunderous shouts of “Nock” and “Draw” and “Loose” echoing through the snow-strewn night, she knows this is where she must be.

           Still, she lets Ghost howl.  She lets him howl for them both.

* * *

           Jon cuts them down.  One at a time.  Sometimes two.  Another and then another, until his blade is black-slick and copper-lined.  Until the dead squelch beneath his boots like rotted, frostbitten grapes.  Until he is panting and ragged and war-torn.  Until the men at his back are roaring their rage, their desperation, and he tastes it in the air.

           How he’s just so tired.  So utterly, incomprehensibly tired.

           The dead Viserion releases a chilling screech, barreling into Drogon in the sky above, their wings a beating shadow against Winterfell’s stones, and without warning, Rhaegal crashes into the northeastern wall, blowing rock and mortar and blood-tinged snow through the air, harrowing the men with a rain of debris.

           But that unearthly wail, that dragon scream –

           His skin lights with the terror.

           “Bran,” he breathes beneath the blood.  And then he’s sprinting for the fallen wall.

* * *

           “No,” Sansa whispers, the snow-blurred sky alight with dragon fire.

           The dead push past the first trench, the Unsullied signaling the retreat, and she has lost sight of Jon long ago.

           The second trench lights against the darkness.  Rhaegal blows straight through the wall, tumbling into the courtyard amidst flame and rubble.  The screech of ice and death and far worse fills the air.  Up in the clouds above, the two remaining dragons tear at each other. She glances over and sees the white walkers flooding in through the gaping hole that Rhaegal left.

           “Bran,” she chokes out, hands bundling in her skirts as she races down the length of the battlements.  

           “My lady!”

           “Hold the line, Ser Davos!” she calls back, never slowing her run, her Stark guard at her heels, Ghost already bounding ahead.

           Beneath their walls, the dead are falling, and they are rising.

* * *

He makes it to the overrun training yard when Davos calls to him from above.  Jon’s eyes snap up, instantly searching for copper hair amidst the chaos of the battlements, and finding none.

“The godswood!” Davos shouts down in answer – never needing to hear the question.

Jon sucks in a sharp breath, breaking through the horde and dashing into a nearby hall.  A clutch of air in his lungs, his legs already aching as he sprints, shadow and dragon fire glinting off the Winterfell stone in equal measure, his sword slicing through a dead man’s open chest cavity, his foot kicking back a jawless, mindless corpse, his grunt of frustration echoing through the halls as he cuts another down, and then another, stumbling back, barreling into someone, his sword raised instantly, eyes locking on grey –

           On Stark grey.

           And it takes only a moment for him to recognize Arya’s piercing, wide gaze in the shadow of Winterfell’s halls before he’s swinging down on the wight at her back, and she’s plunging the blade end of her staff into the dead at his shoulder.

           They stand there, panting, blood seeping over Arya’s right eye, and he reaches for her.  She shakes it off, licks her lips, glances down the hallway where he came.  The dead are already echoing their presence.

           “Bran?” she asks him, chest rising and falling with her labored breaths.

           He clamps his jaw shut.

           “Sansa?”  And this time her voice quakes, her eyes blinking back the wetness.

           He has no answer for her.

           Arya swallows, twirling the staff in her hand into a low-ready position.  “Go,” she tells him, and then she’s dashing past him, back into the fray.

           Jon thinks of home, of snow-touched weirwoods and Arya’s laugh.  He thinks of Robb’s taunts in the training yard and Bran’s daring climbs atop the rooftops.  He thinks of how Rickon used to steal Sansa’s lemon cakes.  He thinks of how she used to let him.

           He thinks of many things, mostly winter-worn and flame-haired.

           He thinks of many things.

           And then – when he grips Longclaw to his chest and dashes through the blood splashed hall – he thinks of nothing at all.

           ‘Go,’ she had told him.

           And he does.

           He goes until his lungs give out.

* * *

           She finds Bran in the godswood still, eyes white, barely breathing, his mouth twitching in something less than words but more than an exhale , the Ironborn fighting off wights and walkers and suddenly Sansa is… Sansa is –

           “Oh gods.”

           Ghost bounds past her, hurtling into the wight running at her, and she fumbles in her cloak, finds the dragonglass dagger, and everything falls to pieces around her.

           Somewhere above, Bran is warging into the dead Viserion, its screeches lighting the air as blindingly as its blue fire, Drogon’s accompanying roars a thunderous rush in their scream-filled wood.  Men die at her left.  They die at her right.

           Sansa staggers toward Bran, just a few feet away, still unmoving and white-gazed. Just a few feet, and then he’s there. He’s right there.  Her hand reaches out, her other fist clenched over her dragonglass, and a sweep of snow-feathered wind overtakes her – she lurches back, blinks against the biting wind, her eyes meeting blue, and her breath stalls in her chest, the white walker suddenly there and immediate and there and she falls back just as he swings at her, her elbow jarring against the ground painfully, her hip hitting the snow hard, and then Ghost has his jaws around the walker’s arm, his snarl sharp as he tears at it, and she watches with wide eyes as the walker drags his ice blade up and slices Ghost at the stomach, up and over his hind.  Ghost yelps and releases his grip, stumbling back, falling against the snow, pushing up with his failing legs, and when the walker brings his arms up with his blade, ready to strike Ghost with that killing blow, Sansa’s bellow of rage lights her lungs and roars out of her as she scrambles to her knees, thrusting her dragonglass blade up and into its sternum, her grunt of pain locking her elbows, before she heaves, pushing deeper, and the walker stills, mouth open in a soundless cry and the dry cracking of ice fills her ears and it shatters before her, nicking her cheek with the cut of its cold and she falls back, panting, arms aching, clawing at the ground as she pushes herself back amidst the snow, one hand reaching for Ghost.

           He’s pushing up from the snow, legs trembling, blood coating his white fur from his chest to his hip and Sansa’s tearful cry tumbles out of her chapped lips.  “Oh Ghost, Ghost please,” and then she’s crying, and she’s fumbling in the snow for her dagger and the wind hasn’t stopped and neither have the screams and then her hand lights along her dagger, hobbling to a stand just as she hears the snarl of a wight bearing down on her.  And then it’s Theon at her shoulder, his blade slicing the corpse’s head clean off, another wight crashing into him and he falls back against Bran’s chair, the pair of them toppling into the snow at Sansa’s feet.  

           “Theon!”  Her gasp tears from her, the carnage of the wood loud in her ears.  And then her eyes flick to Bran.  “Oh gods, he’s – Bran, he’s –”  Her words lay slaughtered in her throat, her hands bunching in her unmoving brother’s cloak, trying to drag him from the toppled chair.

           “Get him out of here!” Theon yells, parrying a swing, pushing the wight off.

           “He’s not waking up!”  She pulls again, heaves with all her weight through the sludge, tripping on her own snow-logged cloak, and she gasps when she slams into the ground, her vision going white for a terrifyingly long second.  A pair of boots enter her vision and she snaps her gaze up, sharp blue eyes wide and terror-tinged.  

           “Sansa, get up,” Theon urges, panting, reaching for her, his hair matted in blood, his left arm bent at an unnatural angle, and she can’t control the sob that leaves her.

           “Theon.”  Her chest tightens, her breath rushing from her in a single, swift exhale.

           The glint of ice is sudden, barely-there.

           When she looks back, she wonders how she saw it at all.

           But she sees it.  She sees the ice-blade come down on Theon from behind, splitting him from gullet to gut, his blood spraying out over her face, her eyes blinking back against the onslaught, mouth parted, cry muted.

           He drops to his knees, the white walker blue and ice-touched and unmoved behind him.

           Theon splits at the cut, falling to pieces at her feet.

           Her scream rends the air.

* * *

           When he was younger, Jon used to watch her in the morning light.  From his window overlooking the courtyard, he could see Sansa walking to the sept at the crack of dawn, her silk gowns fluttering in the wind, her hair like spilled wine.

           Go to your prayers, summer child, he used to think.  They won’t be answered.

           They never have.  And Jon isn’t simple enough to think they will be now.

           But even still… even still he clutches at his chest, gloves slick with blood along Longclaw’s hilt, the acrid scent of burning flesh stinging his lungs as he runs.

           Even still he lets it fill him, that dangerous want, that memory of waiting at the window for the chance that she’d turn, morning light catching her face like a promise.

           It’s a useless wish, the wrong kind of wish – for that wine-spilled hair spread along his furs, that silk gown at the foot of his bed, her mouth – her wet and parted mouth (never before parted for him, not like that, at least) – pressed against the hollow of his throat.

           When he was younger, things used to be simpler.  He never saw the dead rising, he never had to placate a dragon queen, he never panted his desperation through the bloodied halls of his home.

           He never used to love his sister-cousin – not the way he does now.

           No, their prayers have never been answered before.

           He sees no reason that should change now.

* * *

           A snap of frigid air, her hand clenched in Ghost’s bloodied fur, her other bunched in Bran’s cloak, and then Brienne’s thunderous shout breaks against the night fog, Oathkeeper swinging into Sansa’s cone of vision – whispering dangerously close to her cheek – as it shatters the ice blade into dozens of pieces, a single shard whistling through the air to bury deep in Sansa’s thigh.

           Her howl of pain is not unlike a wolf’s.  She barely has the presence of mind to notice Brienne towering over her huddled form, fighting off the white walker.  The wights rush through the Ironborn line, and then Ghost bites down on her shoulder and she cries out again, wincing beneath the clench of his teeth through her wool dress as he drags her back in the snow, stumbling in his own blood. The tears are instant and hot on her lids as she grips at her bleeding thigh, flurries of snow blinding her vision. She sees the dark, still form of Bran still laid out several feet away.

           “Ghost, no, it’s Bran.  It’s Bran, please, I have to – I have to help him, please – ”

           Ghost whines at her shoulder, faltering in the sludge of gore and snow beneath his trembling paws even as he keeps dragging her and she chokes on the cry of pain in her throat.  The dark shade of the weirwood overtakes them suddenly and she looks up at the blood red leaves, a glint of moonlight shifting through the branches.

           All at once, it is simple.

           The terror fills her, the biting cold warmed by the blood in the air.

           The dawn was never meant for her.

           Sansa struggles in the snow, pushing Ghost away at her shoulder, a wet gasp breaking from her chapped and bloody lips when he releases her.  She scrambles to her feet, a hand held against the wound at her thigh, limping over to Bran.

           Bodies drop around her and distantly she thinks she hears Brienne shouting her name.

           No, the dawn was never meant for her, but she’s a Stark.  She’ll always be a Stark.

           And Starks have never shied away from Winter.

           Not even their own.

* * *

           Jon breaks into the clearing and stills, eyes wide as they take in the carnage. His throat constricts when he catches sight of Theon bloodying the ground, but he can’t linger on it, swallows it back, tastes the bitterness, eyes sweeping the wood.  He catches sight of Sansa’s Northern guard clashing with the wights and walkers alongside the remaining Ironborn, and then a vicious roar catches his ears and he sees Brienne stabbing Oathkeeper through a white walker, the shards of ice breaking over her flagging form, and just past her, there, a bundle of bloodied furs and snow-caught, copper hair – there – Sansa and Ghost are dragging an unconscious, white-eyed Bran back along the snow, toward the courtyard entrance.

           Everything fails him at once.  His heart, his senses, his instincts.  

           He liked her songs the best, though he’d never told her.  

           (He wants to tell her now – tell her how her soft laugh fills his own chest, how her fine-boned fingers make him tremble, how he lies awake at night cursing this desire of his, this need –

           He wants to tell her how she can stagger him with but a look – especially the frantic, blood-flecked one she wears now.)

           Yes, everything stops.  And then it crashes alive again, and he’s bolting to her, lungs aching, head pounding.

           “Jon!” she cries, half-wailing, half-panting.

           He drops down beside her, Longclaw falling to the snow, his hands gripping at her arms. “What in seven hells are you doing here?”  He shakes her – he shakes her, he’s so furious, so panicked.  “Why aren’t you in the crypts?”  He can’t help the way he yells it.  Won’t help it.

           “Bran, he’s – he’s not waking up.”  Her eyes are wide and salt-sheened, her face splashed with a fine arc of blood.  “Jon, he’s not waking up.”

           Viserion still wails above them – unearthly screeches ricocheting through the clouds.  Around them, the battle still wages.

           “I don’t know how long he can hold it,” Sansa sobs.

           Ghost huffs beside them, and Jon looks at the direwolf, chest clenching at the bloodied sight of him.  But Ghost is looking up, red eyes trained on the clouds through the heavy shade of the weirwood.

           And suddenly, Jon understands.

           The wind is fire-lit, copper-stained.

           (To love is…)

           He takes a moment, just a beat – enough to breathe in, to inhale, to hold that pull against his ribs and let it flood his lungs.

           “Sansa, we have to go.”

           She blinks up at him, mouth parting, but nothing comes.

           “Can you run?”

           She must see something in his eyes, because she nods mutely, instantly, her hand gripping at her bloodied thigh.

           “Brienne!’ he shouts, twisting round in the snow, pulling Sansa up by an elbow, bracing her weight against him when she staggers at the sudden surge.

           Another wight falls to the knight before she whips her head around, catching Jon’s gaze amidst the falling snow.

           “Your lady has need of you.”

* * *

           Sansa limps through the grey halls with Brienne’s arm around her waist, her cloak long-forgotten in the godswood, wisps of hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, Theon’s blood caking along her cheeks, her own bloody shoulder marring her knight’s chest guard – what isn’t already black and filthy with rot.

           Jon’s just behind her with Bran slung across his back as he runs after them, their brother still unconscious.  Ghost pads unsteadily ahead of them, leading the way with the two remaining members of Sansa’s guard, a single torch lighting their path.

           The stones around them echo with screams in every direction.

           A regiment of Vale knights crosses the corridor in front of them, a shout of incomprehensible Dothraki following, archers running up the stairs behind them to the eastern ramparts, and then a blur of black cloaks rushes past.

           “Sam!”

           They swirl to a stop, Sansa gripping at Brienne’s belt to keep herself upright.

           One of the blurs stumbles to a halt at Jon’s shout, and before Sansa’s inking black vision, the outline of a familiar face takes shape.

           “Jon!”  And then a quick grasp of arms, Jon adjusting the weight of Bran over his back.

           Sam’s face crumbles instantly from relief into dread, eyeing the unconscious Stark.  “What…”

           “Where’s Davos?” Jon asks impatiently, huffing beneath his fatigue.

           Sam seems to gather himself, nodding, eyes back to Jon’s.  “He’s ordered the retreat back behind the third trench.”

           Jon swallows thickly, a minute nod of acknowledgement passing him, and Sansa swears he glances at her beneath his dark brow.

           “Here.”  He slides Bran from across his back, adjusting him in Sam’s grip, who takes him without hesitation.  “I need you to get them out.  I’ll signal Davos for the final retreat.”  He stops, swallows, doesn’t look at her.  “I’ll hold the gate until you make it out.”

           “Jon,” she admonishes, breathless, pushing from Brienne.

           He ignores her, looks up at their loyal knight.  “I’m holding you to your oath, Ser Brienne.”

           “Jon.”  Sansa’s pleading now, grasping at his arms, fingers curling in the leather of his sleeves.  Her voice breaks.

           Jon closes his eyes a moment, opens them, doesn’t look at her.

           “I won’t fail you, my lord – my king.” And then Brienne nods, eyes glistening, mouth a thin line.

           Sansa shakes him, wincing at the ache in her shoulder.  “Jon, look at me!”

           He swallows thickly, eyes locked to Brienne’s, body rigid.  “She’s yours to protect now.”

           “I’m not!” Sansa screams, a fist landing on his chest.  “I’m not, Jon, I’m not! I’m not anyone’s but yours – please.  Please.  Just look at me, just – ”

           And then he’s kissing her, and it isn’t apologetic, it isn’t even soft.  It’s rough and wet and with teeth clacking against each other, his hands gripping at her hair, his breath flooding her mouth and he tastes her sudden sob – her regret as stark as winter on his tongue.

           As stark as his own –

           (And maybe ‘stark’ should mean something in this moment but it doesn’t – it doesn’t mean anything.)

That regret.

           That sudden, biting knowledge that somewhere along the way they’d lost their chance – well and truly lost it, beyond any hope.

           Beyond a needful last kiss.  Beyond her hands grappling for his tunic and his chest heaving against hers and the modest, knowing way the others turn their gazes for a moment.

           For just this single, blinding moment.

           He breaks from her, mouth still panting against hers, and then she’s laughing – tear-lined and delirious, her hands shaking as they wind up his chest and into his hair, tangling in the ash and snow lighting his curls.

           She thinks this will kill her – maybe not today, not this moment.  But sometime in the future when she least expects it – she will linger on this moment and fracture away, crack beneath the weight of irreparable grief, think of his kiss and his desperate pants and his hands framing her face like she’s some precious thing, and she will break.

           “You have to go,” he breathes against her mouth, sliding his cheek against hers and nuzzling softly, the break in his voice lost in her hair.

           “I can’t.”  She hiccups through her cries, her fingertips lighting along his cheeks, feeling his tremulous sigh at her ear.  “Not without you.”  She’s panting and desperate and shaken.  So shaken.

           His hands tighten in her hair, the breath rattling from him.

            “Still wish we’d gone someplace warm instead?” she asks on a dark exhale, her delirious, rueful laugh clattering painfully through her chest as she shakes against him.

           She feels the barest hint of his smile at her ear, and she thinks this might be peace.  In some small, immeasurable way – some impermanent way.

           “You are my someplace warm,” he says, and she crumbles against him, chest heaving.  The raw cry that leaves her reverberates through the hall – a hollow, tear-laced keen.

           But then he’s pushing from her, bracing her back against Brienne.  His hands linger over her shoulders for one long distressful moment, and then he pulls stiffly from her.

           “Jon,” she pleads once more, unable to say anything else.

           Because please, gods, no.  No.  Not him. Not after everything.

           He looks at her one last time and – and oh – she would walk with him in that godswood, she would cloak him night after night, she would swear her affection into his skin and drink his moans.

           She would hold him to her beneath a wolf’s moon and make him a Stark – make him hers.

           (Except he already is – and this, perhaps, is the cruelest truth of all.)

           He walks away, back into the shadow-filled corridor, back into the night, back into the screams.

           Something anchors between them like a drought – a winter-worn famine.

           “Jon, no!”  She tries to run after him, but Brienne’s arms lock around her form, and her knee buckles beneath the pain of her gashed thigh, caught in her knight’s hold.

           “Jon!” she screams, wails, belts into the night, scratching at her captor’s hold and it’s so tight – this hand at her throat, this clutch at her heart – it’s so blinding and so staggering and she thinks she might collapse in on herself, right here, right here in the halls where she’s meant to feel safe, right here in her home, right here beside the ruined pieces of her heart and she reaches out, struggles against Brienne’s grip, hand grasping, mouth opening, panting, screaming, begging –

           “Jon!”

           Something strikes her at the base of her skull, thwarting the wail in her throat, breath catching, vision inking slowly black as she stills her struggle.  She blinks her suddenly groggy eyes at the shadow that flits before her, catches her sister’s heavy grey gaze staring back from a blood-drenched face, one cheek swelling up with a brutal, purple bruise.

           “Arya,” she whispers, slipping into the darkness.  Brienne’s grip loosens as she slumps forward into her sister’s open arms.

           Sansa’s eyes slip shut.

           She’d come for her.

           She had.          

(Even when she wished she hadn’t.)

* * *

Jon likes to think it matters, in the end.

All of it.  Or at least, some of it.

Another thunderous heave against the gate, his feet braced readily on the other side – waiting.

He’s been to the other side before.  He’s seen the red dawn.

(A little girl with Sansa’s hair and his eyes. A little girl.  A daughter.)

Jon has seen it in his dreams too long to not see it now – in the end, in whatever darkness awaits.

The gate breaks open.  The dead swarm through.

Jon takes a breath, holds it firm against his ribs –

* * *

To love is to breathe in, to inhale.

Sansa lets it fill her lungs, anchors the air tight, keeps it bundled in her chest.

           “Jon, he…”  Arya’s voice falters.  She licks her lips, shakes her head, looks ahead as her horse trots beside Sansa’s dilapidated cart, Brienne and Podrick tugging her along.

           Bran lays beside her under the furs, his breathing low and uneven.  She strokes Ghost’s head in her lap, eyes locked on the smoke-lined horizon where Winterfell used to stand, growing ever smaller in the distance.  

It’s a grey dawn, a dawn she hadn’t meant to see.

No dragon wings beat overhead.  No banners fly amidst their meager flood of fleeing civilians.  No sun makes it through the dark, snow-laden clouds, even as dawn creeps over the North.

“He isn’t coming,” Sansa says softly, hardly expecting any kind of answer.

Arya keeps her eyes fixed to the path – fixed to the South.

Ghost whines lowly into her skirts, tongue flicking out to lick at the gash along her thigh, the ice shard since melted into her flesh, tainting her skin with a permanent freeze, an everlasting cold.  

Sansa soothes Ghost back to stillness, calmly, without trembling.

She looks back across the horizon.

She looks back at a lost Winterfell.

She looks back at her last, her only, her greatest regret.

To love is to breathe in, to inhale.  Sansa takes a deep, stinging gulp, and then swiftly –

(to lose is to exhale)

– she breathes it out.

[allisondraste]

Temperance (17/?)

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary: Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary:   A chance encounter in the Coastlands turns Nathaniel’s life upside down. 

First Chapter Previous Chapter [AO3 LINK]

The Coastlands, 9:31 Dragon

Black smoke billowed up from Amaranthine City, filling the sky like quiet, brooding storm clouds. Though it had been days since Lucia had given the order to burn the capital of the arling to the ground, the last of the flames were yet to die out, and the hazy sky that resulted was a dark testament to the tragedy that occurred.  Difficult and ruthless as it was, she made the right decision. Nathaniel had said as much, though she didn’t believe it.

Just days before the darkspawn attack, Delilah had written to him to say that she and Albert fled the spread of disease in the city to stay with his family in Kirkwall.  Even before the Mother’s forces laid siege, Amaranthine was a lost cause. Lucia’s actions prevented more harm than they had caused, though the stubborn woman insisted upon blaming herself.  He could scarcely fault her for that either. She was a young mage, not a hardened general and it was difficult to watch a city burn, especially one that did so upon your own command.

There was a flash of lighting, and thunder rang out, causing Nathaniel to jump, his attention shifting from the ruins in the distance to his more immediate surroundings.  The Coastlands stretched between Amaranthine and Highever and were known for their temperamental weather. Now, they were better known as the lands where the talking darkspawn stragglers fled.  When news of the creatures attacking villages and outposts in the area reached Vigil’s Keep, he offered to investigate and search for entrances to the Deep Roads. Velanna and Sigrun, the newest recruit, had asked to join him.  Though he would not say so directly, he was glad. Being a Warden, having comrades who cared for him, it was the first time since he’d spent his last summer with the Couslands that he felt like he truly belonged. Solitude no longer had the same appeal.

“Fenedhis,” Velanna hissed as another clap of thunder rattled the sky, introducing the subsequent downpour.  She pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head, grumbling.

“You sure are jumpy for someone who’s lived on the surface your whole life,” Sigrun said, giggling, “Nate too.”

“And you are surprisingly unaffected by the storms,” Velanna remarked dryly.

“I’m used to it,” the dwarf answered with a shrug, “The Stone is loud when it moves.”

Nathaniel laughed and pulled up his own hood, scanning the area around them for anything that could provide shelter from the cold, winter wind and rain.  They’d be no use against any darkspawn they encountered if they were soaking wet and freezing. He spotted a cliff several yards in the distance with a sizable overhang that would be suitable protection from the elements.

“We should take cover,” he explained, “Just until the storm lets up.”

Velanna and Sigrun nodded, relieved expressions crossing each of their faces, as they made their way toward their temporary shelter.  The space beneath the overhang was actually larger than he expected, and even he was able to stand comfortably beneath it. He sat anyway.   He should rest while he had the opportunity. His blood vibrated in his veins as it did when darkspawn were nearby, and it was certain to be a long afternoon of scouting and fighting, not to mention the several hours of walking back to the Keep.  It wouldn’t have hurt the Warden-Commander to spare a horse or two.

“You are quiet,” Velanna stated, voice as soft as she could manage, which was not actually that soft.  She was so accustomed to having to shout to be heard. It made sense.

“I am always quiet, my lady,” he replied, with no effort to hide the smirk that twitched at the corners of his mouth, “Unlike yourself.”

“I am not -,” she began, stopping as she heard her own voice echo off the stone around them.  She crossed her arms and adjusted her voice to just more than a whisper. “I am not loud.”

“I apologize,” he said, a twinge of guilt pricking at him, “I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious.”

“He was just flirting ,” Sigrun interjected without looking up from the dirt where she traced spirals with her finger, “He thinks its fun to tease you.”

Velanna turned to look at him, brows furrowed, blinking in disbelief.  Nathaniel just shrugged in response. It wasn’t an inaccurate appraisal, after all.

Velanna opened her mouth as if to speak, closed it, and then opened it again, but before she could do more than huff at him, she was interrupted by men shouting and a horse whinnying in distress.  The commotion came from the cliff just above them.  

Nathaniel rose to his feet and  grabbed his weapon. “I’ll check it out.”

His companions nodded in response, each preparing themselves for battle, should it come to that, and he rushed out from beneath the overhang and up the hill that led to the ledge.  A group of four men in worn, rough leathers surrounded a cloaked figure in expensive plate, who sat atop a horse that looked twice as expensive as the armor. Bandits looking for profit, and some noble fool who was stupid enough to travel alone while flaunting his wealth.  He shook his head. He’d have to save the idiot.

Nathaniel readied his bow, aimed, and shot in one fluid motion,  the arrow piercing the back of one unfortunate man’s knee just as he landed a blow to the fool’s arm, causing him to release the reins and fall from the horse.  The thug cried out in pain and collapsed to the ground as well, his comrades turning to face Nathaniel.

One of the men, middle aged, carrying a shield decorated with an all-too-familiar bear, scowled and shouted, “Oh, look.  It’s a Warden. Bet his pretty little head is worth a fortune.”

“Them’s the ones that burnt the city,” added another, younger man—no, a boy— knuckles white against the hilt of his sword.  He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, trembling with tears filling his eyes. “My mum was in there. Little sister, too. You lot are murderers. ”  

“I lost my wife to the darkspawn,” said another, “Lost my son to the fire.  Heroes my arse,” He bounced his daggers in his hands and spat, and then flung one at Nathaniel.  Before he could move to dodge the projectile a wall of roots and vines surged up in front of him catching the dagger before receding back into the ground.  

“A knife-eared witch,” rasped the man on the ground, pointing a shaky finger at Velanna who now stood just behind Nathaniel.  

“What did you say, Shem,” Velanna growled, clenching her fists.  The ground around them trembled and Nathaniel stretched an arm out in front of her.

“Don’t,” he said softly,

“What?” She shook her head indignantly. No!”

“Look at them,” Sigrun spoke, “They’re terrified, and they look like they haven’t eaten in days.”

“We haven’t,” the men chimed in unison.

“We’ve got nowheres to go,” the boy added, a large tear visibly streaking down his face. “No money. Nothin’ to our names.”

“You meant to rob that man just to get by.” Sigrun furrowed her brows and frowned. She was thinking of Dust Town, no doubt.

The men nodded, silent and stone-faced.  The hooded man who had remained remarkably still and quiet, clutching his wounded arm, had only been attacked because these men were desperate.  They were only desperate because they’d lost everything. The Wardens had cost them all but their lives. It didn’t matter how many people had been saved, the Wardens were villains in their eyes.  To them, the means would never be justified, regardless of the ends.

“On behalf of the Grey Wardens,” Nathaniel said bowing his head, “I apologize for your losses, I-“

“What do you now of loss, Warden?”  The middle- aged man spoke calmly, despite the deep, disdainful lines on his forehead, and his stance that suggested he was ready to attack at any moment.

“Me?” Nathaniel laughed a dry and empty laugh, reaching up to remove his hood despite the heavy rain that still fell.  “My name is Nathaniel Howe. In case you are unfamiliar: these were my family’s lands before the Wardens took them from us.  I am bitter, and I am angry, and there isn’t a day that goes by without me wishing I could have been here to make sure that this didn’t happen.”

Nathaniel paused and scanned the faces of the men, noting their shock and bewilderment.  They all had lowered their weapons, and the boy had stopped his crying.  

“But I am also grateful.  You heard what happened at Ostagar, the West Hills.  Without the Wardens, there would be no lands left untainted by darkspawn filth.  I am sorry for what happened to your families, your homes. It was a difficult and terrible decision, but it was the right thing to do.  We desperately want to make things right -- I desperately want to make things right -- but that won’t happen if you go around killing us before we get the chance.”

“Lord Howe,” the middle-aged man said with some degree of reverence.  His shield was clearly a symbol of his loyalty to the family.

“I am no lord,” Nathaniel said, shaking his head, “Not anymore.”

“But -.”

“Here. “ He removed his coin purse from his belt and tossed it to the ground at the man’s feet, “There’s enough there to feed you and your men… and to fix that one’s leg.”  He motioned to the wounded man.

“I… thank you.”

“If you need refuge, you are welcome at Vigil’s Keep.  We’ve been providing shelter for those displaced by the darkspawn uprising.”

“But we tried to kill you,” the boy protested.

Nahaniel smirked.  “You’ll be surprised to know how little that matters to the Warden-Commander.”

He sighed as he watched them walk away, hoping he’d made some difference, that they’d choose a better path.  There was no way to be sure.  

A warm hand squeezed his shoulder and he turned to see Velanna offering him a smile.  “As much as I would have loved to teach those shemlen a lesson, I believe you did the right thing.”

“I agree,” Sigrun added, a sad smile on her face as she, too, watched the men walk away.

A rustling and scraping together of metal behind them reminded Nathaniel that the man he’d saved was still there, wounded.  He turned to see that the man had risen to his feet and removed the hood he’d been wearing. Nathaniel blinked several times at the sight of his face, a familiar face, and one he would never have expected to see in the middle of the Coastlands being attacked by starving refugee bandits.  

“Maker’s Blood.”  He took a few steps forward, examining the man more closely.  There were more lines on his face since the last time they’d seen one another, but there was no mistaking who he was.  Especially not when he smiled that wide, cheerful grin. “Fergus?”

“Little Nate,” Fergus replied, clicking his tongue, “All grown up, and a Grey Warden at that.”  

There was a long, heavy pause before he moved forward and embraced Nathaniel, who tensed at the sudden affection.  It was as tight and sincere a hug that could be managed with only one arm unwounded, ending with a rough pat on the back as Fergus pulled away.  For the first time Nathaniel could ever remember, there was an indescribable sadness behind the man’s eyes, and he didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t have to, as Fergus spoke first.  “It’s good to see you, brother.”

Brother.  It had been so many years, and there was so much strife between their broken remnants of families now, the term hardly felt deserved.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Nathaniel said, still stunned.  This whole affair had been emotionally taxing to say the least, and now Fergus Cousland was standing in front of him.  Not dead, and a very solid, very real reminder of what Father had done. He looked down, rage and grief building in his chest again.  Then, he looked up. “I-.”

“I know what you’re going to say, Nate,” Fergus interrupted him, shaking his head, “And don’t.”

“Delilah told me what Father did,” Nathaniel explained, holding onto his composure by a thread, “I owe you an apology.”

“No you bloody don’t,” Fergus snapped, “You aren’t you’re father, and you’re not responsible for his actions. Besides, I’m sick of apologies.  It’s been the first thing out of everyone’s mouths when they see me. It’s a nice gesture and all, but no amount of sorry is going to bring my family back, you know?”

Nathaniel nodded.  “I know. I just… wish I could have been here.  I would have never let it happen. I’d have died first.”

“I know.”  Fergus smiled somberly but then hissed and clutched at his wounded arm with the opposite hand, which was stained with fresh blood when he pulled it away. “Damn. It’s worse than I thought.”

“Velanna, do you think you can…” He trailed off, motioning vaguely at Fergus, his mind in a blur.

“I will see what I can do,” she answered, “But we will need to get out of this rain.”

“Good idea,” Sigrun said, teeth chattering,  “I’m starting to change my mind about this whole weather thing.”

They returned to their spot beneath the rocky overhang, Fergus walking along beside Nathaniel, clumsily.  He must have been disoriented from falling from horse which had run off during the fighting. Fergus said that he figured she hadn’t gone far and would wander back eventually. Either she was a well trained horse, or the man’s hopes were misplaced.

It was still cold under the ledge, and it’d be difficult to start a fire with damp kindling and wood.  However, it was dry and illuminated well enough by the daylight that Velanna could get a better look at Fergus’ arm.  

Nathaniel sat quietly observing as Fergus introduced himself to the other Wardens, charming as ever.  Sigrun bantered back and forth with him playfully, but Velanna scoffed and rolled her eyes. She was probably a lot more entertained than she’d let on.

“Can’t say I expected you to return to Ferelden after everything,” Fergus said, grimacing as Velanna pulled away his armor and the tattered bloody fabric just below his shoulder.

“I had to see what happened for myself.” Nathaniel laughed.  “I planned to kill the Warden who destroyed my family and took our lands.

“And so you joined them instead?”

“I was conscripted, a pardon for theft.”

“Theft?” Fergus squinted. “You’re no thief.”

“The Wardens claimed some of the Howe heirlooms belonged to them.  I got caught trying to take some of them back.”

“Maker’s Breath… and they conscripted you for that?”

“It was that or the noose.” Nathaniel shrugged.  “I chose the noose, but the Warden-Commander refused, so here I am.  Killing sentient darkspawn and pissing off the people of Amaranthine.”

Fergus shifted uncomfortably as Velanna began to tend the wound. Without healing magic, it needed stitches, and stitches were painful.  Nathaniel wished he had something to offer him to cut the pain. It was a shame Oghren wasn’t around with a flask of whatever. Ever since he’d started to cut back, he was much more inclined to share. In fact, he’d been annoyingly pushy about it. Nobody wanted the ale he found in some dungeon somewhere.

“That’s actually why I came out this way,” Fergus said through a pained growl, “I’d received word of some commotion in Amaranthine City, but nothing official from the Arlessa.”

“The Warden-Commander was busy putting out fires,” Nathaniel replied more defensively than he should have.

“Seems more like she’s been busy starting them,” Fergus said with a wink and Nathaniel relaxed, “Sounds like it was necessary, though.”

“Unfortunately.”

There were a few moments of silence and Nathaniel spoke again hoping to change the subject from such an intense focus on himself.  “You’re the Teyrn now, huh.”

“Unfortunately,” he mimicked Nathaniel, before grinning.  Again, his smile only barely concealed his sadness. “It’s unbelievable to me that people would be so hungry for this kind of power.  It’s miserable. I miss my family. I’d be a poor, powerless man if it meant I could kiss my wife again, if I could tuck my son into bed.”

“I can’t imagine.” Nathaniel frowned, unsure what else to say besides an apology that Fergus would no doubt reject.  

“Elissa had it worse than I did, there in the castle, witnessing it all…” Fergus trailed off, eyes losing their focus briefly.  “She blames herself, you know. Wishes she could have died instead of my son as if the Maker would have been open to barter. You should really try to talk some sense into her. She might listen to you.”

For a moment time stood still, as Fergus’ words rang in Nathaniel’s ears.  Liss was alive.

“What’s wrong, Nate?” He flinched as Velanna continued stitching the wound.  She looked up at Nathaniel briefly, meeting his eyes. Sigrun watched him as well, and Fergus continued. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I…”  He couldn’t quite form a meaningful message for his mouth to say.

“You… you didn’t know my sister survived, did you?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “No.  My sister told me everyone who was in the castle that night died. I just assumed-.”

“You know better than to underestimate Liss,” Fergus scolded, “Fought her way out with a borrowed sword wearing nothing but her nightgown.  She’s a damn legend.”

“Where is she now?” Nathaniel’s breath was shallow and his heart raced up his throat as if it were going to crawl out of his mouth at the news.

“Denerim, working for Queen Anora,” Fergus answered, smiling mischievously.  “You should pay her a visit. It’d make her entire year, I think.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?  Your father isn’t stopping you anymore.”

“It’s been nine years.” Nathaniel laughed and shook his head, despite his nagging desire to take off to the capital at that moment. “I’m sure she’s -.”

“What?  Happy and moved on?”  Fergus interrupted him.  “Hardly. I mean, she tried, but nobody ever mattered to her like you did. She never stopped waiting for you, even when she swore she had.”

“Oh, how romantic,” Sigrun said, clasping her hands together.

“There,” Velanna announced abruptly as she finished tying up Fergus’ bandages.

“Thank you, Lady Velanna,” he chirped cheerfully.

“Ugh. There’s two of them,” she groaned, and rolled her eyes. “You are welcome, I suppose.”

She wiped her hands off with a strip of cloth and busied herself with putting things back into her pack —loudly— and announced that she needed to take a walk, stomping out into the rain, which still lingered as just a light drizzle.  Fergus looked to Nathaniel, eyebrows raised in amusement, but Nathaniel just sighed. It wasn’t amusing.

“Anyway,” Fergus said rising to his feet, “You should at least talk to her.  You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t.”

“I will need to think about it,” Nathaniel stood as well, “I am not the same person I was when I left.”

“Neither is she.” Fergus laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and eyed him sincerely.  He hated that the man could still get to him like that

A horse whinnied behind them and Fergus’ face brightened.

“There’s my girl,” he said, walking over and running a hand down the horse’s forehead and muzzle. He turned back to Nathaniel.  “Well, the storm’s let up. I suppose I should head out. Let you all get back to… wardening. Thanks for saving my arse back there.”

“Take care, Fergus.”

“Yeah, you too,” Fergus said, climbing up onto his horse, “Go talk to my sister, and don’t be a stranger.  We’re family.”

Nathaniel nodded, a smile spreading across his lips and Sigrun waved at his side.

“It was nice to meet you, Lady Sigrun.  Lady Velanna, too, if you’ll pass along the message.”  

“Did you hear that?” Sigrun giggled, bringing a hand to her face, as they watched Fergus ride off in the direction of Highever. “He called me a lady.”

Nathaniel was silent in response, aching already at Fergus’ departure.  As fraught with emotion as their reunion was, it had been good. He’d missed the man, someone who’d so readily accepted him as a friend and brother.  Perhaps they’d have more time to catch up in the future, especially if Liss, well, if he went to her in Denerim. If nothing else went horribly wrong.

“What are you going to do?” Sigrun asked, eyes blinking up at him.

“I’m going to find Velanna,” he answered, knowing that wasn’t what she meant, but hoping to avoid a discussion about it. “Then, I’m going to kill whatever darkspawn are nearby making my blood itch.”

It did not take long to locate Velanna, who sat in the grass, leaning against a large tree that looked as if it had been split in two by lightning.  She stared off into the distance, forehead wrinkled and twisting the tattoos that marked her face.  

“There you are,” he said, sitting down beside her.  “I’d ask if you’re okay, but considering the way you stormed off, I think I already know the answer.”

“I apologize for leaving as I did.” She shook her head.  “It was juvenile.”

“My conversation with Fergus upset you, didn’t it?”

“As foolish as that sounds, yes. It did.” Velanna brought her eyes up to meet his briefly before looking away. “I have always been an outsider.  Lonely. Misunderstood. Excluded even by my own kind. I thought that it was some sort of flaw in me, that it was how I deserved to be treated. It’s not as if I had any reason to believe otherwise.

“Then I met you, a human, a noble...the epitome of everything I should hate, and yet I could not.  Besides Seranni, you were the first person to ever treat me as if I was worthy of kindness before I did anything to earn it, or before I scared it out of you.  On top of that you gave me compliments, called me beautiful. It would be hard for anyone not care for you after that, I should think.”

“You would be surprised,” he answered, dryly, “Justice did not take kindly to my compliments about his complexion.  The rotten bastard called me disingenuous.”

“You were being disingenuous,” she said laughing slightly, “With him. Not with me.”

“No.” He shook his head, tone serious. “I meant what I said to you.  Still do.”

“That woman you all spoke about, his sister.  She is the person you could never move on from isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Nathaniel admitted, “I have been in love with her since I was just a boy, though I was never allowed to say as much.”

Velanna was quiet, and he worried for a moment that she would lash out at him, furious that he led her on, but she didn’t.  Instead, she just smiled and sighed. “I envy her.”

The soft acceptance pierced him more deeply than any amount of anger could have.  “Velanna, I’m sorry. I would not have been so forward with you had I any idea whatsoever that she was alive.”

“I know that,” she assured him.  Her small hand was warm to the touch as she placed it over his.  “Please do not be sorry. I’m not.”

“But-,” he began, interrupted by the soft pressure of her lips against his cheek.

“I am disappointed, but that is all,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder.  “I will get over it, and I would like it if we could still be friends.”

“I’d like that, too.”

Taking a deep breath, Nathaniel wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and they sat in silence for several moments before Velanna spoke again, moving out from under his arm to glare at him. “You have to tell her how you feel, Nathaniel.  You would be a fool to let her go again.”

“I know,” he said, rising to his feet and offering a hand to her, “As soon as we take care of these darkspawn stragglers and return to the Vigil, I will ask for leave to go to Denerim.”

“Good.” Velanna took his hand and allowed him to help her up. “I will harass you if you do not.”

“At this point, I think everyone is going to harass me if I don’t.”

By the time they found Sigrun, she had -- to no one’s surprise -- already dealt with a half-dozen darkspawn, and made a much-deserved prod at Nathaniel and Velanna for being “lazy bones.”  They had not exactly been lazy, but they also had not been fighting hurlocks either. Altogether it only took a couple of hours to scout the area and finish off the remaining creatures. They located only one Deep Roads entrance in the area, and boarded it up so that some unfortunate wanderer would not stumble into it accidentally, and set out on the return trip to Vigil’s Keep.  One of the experts there could seal the hole properly at a later date.

It was not until the next morning that Nathaniel sought out Lucia to request permission to travel to the capital.  He and the others had not arrived back at the Keep until late at night, and he’d been too emotionally and physically exhausted to do anything but take a bath and collapse into bed.  No doubt the Warden-Commander would grant him permission. She would most likely wonder why he even felt the need to ask her. Still, regardless of their friendship, she remained his commanding officer, and he intended to give her the formality and respect she deserved.

He made his way to the Great Hall, intending to visit Lucia in her office, which was just off it’s east wing.  The office had previously belonged to his father, and he was never allowed in there. He wondered what the man had been hiding, if anything at all.   He was stopped in his path by Garavel, the former Guard Captain who was promoted to Seneschal in the wake of Varel’s heroic demise.  

“Warden Howe,” he shouted, his voice reverberating throughout the hall, “I take it you are looking for Warden-Commander Amell.”

“Yes.”

“She’s not there,” Garavel stated with some hesitation.

“You seem concerned, Seneschal.”

“We don’t actually know where the Warden-Commander is right now,” the man explained, “Some of the guards saw her leave her quarters in the middle of the night, but she has yet to return.”

“Was she armored?”

“The guards said she was just wearing nightclothes…” he trailed off as Nathaniel shook his head and sighed.  “What is it?”

“I know where she is,” said Nathaniel, turning to exit the hall. He grabbed a woolen blanket from the storage bin conveniently placed by the main door.  “Thank you, Seneschal.”

The battlements that surrounded Vigil’s Keep were extensive, encompassing the entire courtyard, as well as the castle itself.  When he was a boy, Nathaniel had often sought refuge from his father’s wrath up there. If anything, it kept him out of the way during the worst of it.  Father had lacked the patience to search the entire length of the wall for him. He suspected that’s what had happened with Lucia and the guards. He’d run into her up there several times, often late at night and completely underdressed for the weather.  She seemed to have as much trouble sleeping as he did, perhaps more.

Certainly enough he found her, elbows on the parapet, looking out over the Keep.  She did not hear him at first, and he took a moment to watch her as she twisted what appeared to be the dried up remnants of a rose between her fingers.  There were tears in her eyes, and she looked so broken and sad. It was too intimate and not for him to see. He shifted uncomfortably, preparing to walk away and attempt to speak with her again later, but she heard him, hurriedly wiping a tear from her cheek and straightening her posture.  

“Nathaniel?”  She furrowed her brows at him as he moved forward to stand by her side.

“Sorry to disturb you.  Some of the guards saw you leave your quarters in the middle of the night, and Garavel was worried when you did not return.  I figured I might find you up here, attempting to freeze to death,” he explained, unfolding the blanket and draping it over her shoulders, “If you want to die, I can think of a hundred more noteworthy ways to go about it.”

“I’m not trying to freeze to death,” she snapped, pulling the blanket more tightly around her, “I just… couldn’t sleep.”

“Troubled?”  It was none of his business, really, but he had to ask.  He leaned forward and joined her in resting her elbows on the parapet.

“I’m fine.  Just restless.”  She looked straight ahead, off into the distance, and sighed.

“You know, you’re an excellent commander, but a piss poor liar.”  He looked at her, then down to the flower in her hand, nodding at it. “What’s that?”

She laughed humorlessly and looked at him.  “My latest weapon of choice.”

“A withered rose?”  It appeared he was not the only with difficult feelings he’d rather avoid.

Lucia shrugged. “It’s poetic.”

“Right.”  He rolled his eyes, grateful she was his friend as well as his commanding officer.  Any other commanding officer might be offended by the sheer insubordination. “Permission to speak candidly?”

“Always.”

“I’m not sure what is on your mind right now, and I’m not going to ask.  Whatever it is, though, you’re thinking entirely too much about it.”

“That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”  She raised her eyebrows and grinned. “I believe “brooding” is the term Anders uses to describe you.”

“Maybe so,” he conceded, “But, just from experience alone, I know that it’s stupid to waste so much time thinking about all the things that could go wrong that you lose something important to you.”

“It’s unwise to act without thinking things through,” she argued, “That’s how you end up hurt: making rash choices.”

“Failure to act is also a rash choice.”

“I… I don’t know what to do, Nathaniel,” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up, voice cracking, “I feel like every decision I’ve made in the past year has been wrong.  I made sound, logical choices and they all had horrible consequences. People got hurt. People important to me. I don’t want that to happen again.”

“People always get hurt, even when you do the right thing ,” he said gently, his own voice raw with emotion, “Sometimes, all you can do is go with your gut, and hope it works out.  You have to trust yourself. I learned that the hard way.”

“How does one go with one’s gut,” asked the woman who had clearly never made an impulsive decision in her life.

“If you could do anything in the world you wanted right now without consequence, what would you do?”  

“I’d go to Denerim,” Lucia replied almost instantly.  Nathaniel couldn’t help but smirk at her coincidental answer.

“Then you need to go to Denerim.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he answered with a nod, “It’s funny because I actually came up here to ask for leave to go to Denerim.  I have some business to attend to there, myself.”

“That’s ironic,” she laughed, “When shall we leave?”

“Now, if you’re up for it.”

Lucia tensed up and blinked several times.  “Now? Right now?”

“Yes.  Right now.   I’m tired of both of us moping about.”   He whirled around as he spoke, waving for her to follow, and she did.  

For better or worse, they were bound for Denerim.

[talatomaz]

route 64 | caitlin snow x drake!reader

a/n: i really love caitlin and dinah so i figured why not combine the two?

hex = vigilante name

prompts: “nobody’s seen you in days”

warnings: mentions of death/loss

word count: 1.5k

masterlist | request list | request rules

reader has telekinesis and got her powers from the particle accelerator explosion. she’s dinah drake’s sister but works on team flash where she’s in a relationship with caitlin

i do not give you permission to repost or translate my fics on any platform - likes/reblogs are okay and are much appreciated

“I can’t believe I really just used my powers to get a cat out of a tree. Am I a firefighter or something?”

You shook your head laughing as you sat down in the cortex.

“Hey, at least she tipped you.”

“She gave me a butterscotch, Cisco. It doesn’t matter anyways, at least she got her cat back. How he got up there in the first place though, who knows?”

You were interrupted when the computer started beeping and Barry, Caitlin and Iris came running in.

“Someone’s just robbed a bank.” Iris said.

“Okay, Cisco, Caitlin and I can handle this.”

You said, as Cisco produced a breach which the three of you jumped through.

***

You had managed to stop the robbers in the bank but there was a fourth person you were all unaware of who was driving the getaway car.

As you went to stop him, the car swerved from a lorry and rammed into an incoming car causing the car to flip upside down.

Without a second thought, you ran towards the accident and used your powers to help the injured woman out of the car as Caitlin and Cisco helped the robber out of his car.

You dragged the woman far away from the car and as you looked at the wreckage of the two cars, your mind flashed back to the worst moment in your life, and to make matters worse, the car blew up in flames.

You watched as the flames surrounded the woman’s car and as smoke filled the air.

Hex. Y/N.

You shook your head and focused on Iris and Barry who were shouting through the comms and on Caitlin and Cisco who had now put out the fire and were looking at you in worry.

You looked down at your hands which were covered in soot and then back up at the burned cars.

Then you took out the extrapolator from your pocket and breached yourself away from the scene.

***

“So no one’s seen her?”

Dinah asked, standing in the cortex with the rest of Team Flash, excluding you.

“No. And it’s been almost three days.” Cisco said worryingly.

“She’s only messaged me saying that she was okay and when we traced that, it pinged back to her apartment but we’ve been there and she’s not there.”

Caitlin explained, pacing around the room.

“Yeah, and I’ve searched the whole of Central City. I have no clue where she is.” Barry said.

“So what even happened? Just run me through it.”

“Y/n had just finished helping some woman and when she got back, we got an alert that a robbery was in progress so she, Caitlin and Cisco went.” Iris began.

“Yeah, and we stopped the robbers but it turned out there was a fourth guy who was in charge of the getaway.” Cisco continued.

“And when he tried to escape, he ended up swerving into this woman’s car, y/n got her out and then completely froze when the car went up in flames. And then she disapp-”

“Wait, it was a car crash?”

Dinah interrupted Caitlin, her demeanour completely changing.

“Shit,” she said when they all nodded in confirmation, “I need to find her.”

She went to walk off before being stopped by Caitlin.

“Dinah, what’s going on?”

Dinah looked at the group and sighed,

“A few years ago, before the particle accelerator exploded, y/n was in a car accident with our Mom. Y/n made it. Mom didn’t.”

Dinah cleared her throat when it broke slightly and then walked out of the cortex.

“Dinah, wait,”

Caitlin came running after the vigilante,

“I’m coming with you.”

“Are you sure? Y/n’s been through a lot and I know she’s not gonna be okay when we find her.”

“Dinah, she’s my girlfriend and I love her, I’m here for her always.”

Dinah lightly smiled in response, knowing that Caitlin meant every word.

It calmed Dinah to know that you had found someone who really loved you because you had dated a lot of idiots in the past, many of whom Dinah hated.

Who was she kidding?

She hated them all.

***

As Dinah and Caitlin drove through Central City, they fell deep into a conversation about the loss they had experienced when it came to relationships.

Dinah had lost Vinnie and Caitlin had lost Ronnie.

“You get through it in the end, y/n’s really helped me. Sometimes I just have really bad days and she just takes care of me.”

“I get it, she was the same with me when I was with Vinnie. But not a day goes by when I don’t think about him.”

It was weird for Dinah to be opening up to someone like this; it was only ever you she revealed her true self too. Hardly anyone on Team Arrow knew the real her.

Well, maybe Laurel and Felicity.

“I know I’m with your sister but if you ever need to talk, I’m here for you too. It does get better with time though. After a certain point, I realised that I stopped thinking about Ronnie, not in a bad way, but there came a time where I wasn’t upset all the time and I know that everything will be okay for you too.”

Caitlin said, stepping out of the car, and Dinah responded by placing a warm hand on her shoulder and smiling, “Thank you.”

“So where are we exactly?” Caitlin asked Dinah.

The two women looked up at the house where you were currently hiding.

“Our home. It looks exactly the same. Even down to the roses that Mom used to plant.” Dinah said in shock.

“It’s beautiful.” Caitlin said.

She had no other words to describe your home.

She noticed how the bright red roses towered above the lilies and how the difference in colours made the red stand out even more. She loved how the modern house was painted a light blue which contrasted beautifully with the dark grey of the roof.

It really gave the impression that the house was truly a home.

***

Dinah and Caitlin walked through the house and the former couldn’t believe the fact that nothing had changed.

“Y/n must have been coming here continuously. Nothing has chan-”

Dinah stopped talking when she heard a familiar voice coming from the room on the far end of the hallway.

When they reached the door, Dinah listened for a moment and then tears filled her eyes as her suspicions were confirmed.

She took a hold of the handle and gently opened the door to reveal you crying on the floor, wrapped up in your mom’s favourite blanket, watching a video of you, Dinah and your mom having a water fight in the front yard when you were kids - your dad was behind the camera.

You turned to look at the two figures at the door, your eyes were red and dripped with tears.

“Oh, baby girl.”

Dinah murmured as she went to sit next to you where she enclosed her arms around you.

You were still for a second, and then another, before you wrapped your arms around your sister and cried into her shoulder.

“I miss her so much.” You sobbed.

“I know, baby girl. I do too.” Dinah said, her tears now falling shamelessly from her eyes.

When you stopped crying, you pulled away from Dinah, stood up and looked up at Caitlin who was standing at the door, watching the embrace, her own eyes filled with tears.

“Nobody’s seen you in days.” Caitlin whispered.

“I’m so sorry.”

Caitlin’s heart practically broke when she saw how upset you were.

She walked up to you, placed a warm hand on your wet cheek and said,

“I’m here for you, no matter what.”

And just like that, the dam broke again and you began crying in Caitlin’s arms.

After a moment, Dinah moved to hug you too and you guys stayed like that for a few moments before you pulled away and wiped your tears.

“How’d you even find me?”

“I know you, y/n. This room was always your safe place. I still can’t believe it looks exactly like it did when we lived here.”

“I come here sometimes. Whenever I miss Mom a lot.”

You looked over at Caitlin, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Sometimes I just need to be alone to work through it.”

“Hey, don’t apologise. You do whatever is best for you. And if being alone is what works for you, then I don’t mind, so long as you know, that if you need me, I’m here.”

“And I’m here for you too. If you ever need me, I’m only one phone call away and with the help of Barry, I can be here in a few seconds flat.”

“What about Oliver?”

“Baby, he knew what he was dealing with when he asked me to join. Besides, you come first. You’re my life, y/n.”

You took a hold of both Dinah and Caitlin’s hands,

“I love you both with all of my heart.”

[she-wolf-of-highgarden]

Every time Arya mentions songs

“Despite the hour, Harrenhal stirred with fitful life. Vargo Hoat's arrival had thrown off all the routines. Ox carts, oxen, and horses had all vanished from the yard, but the bear cage was still there. It had been hung from the arched span of the bridge that divided the outer and middle wards, suspended on heavy chains, a few feet off the ground. A ring of torches bathed the area in light. Some of the boys from the stables were tossing stones to make the bear roar and grumble. Across the ward, light spilled through the door of the Barracks Hall, accompanied by the clatter of tankards and men calling for more wine. A dozen voices took up a song in a guttural tongue strange to Arya's ears.” - Arya IX, ACoK

“The song came drifting up the river from somewhere beyond the little rise to the east. "Off to Gulltown to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho . . .” - Arya II, ASoS

“I'll make her my love and we'll rest in the shade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho." The song swelled louder with every word.” - Arya II, ASoS

“Lightfoot, she moved to the big old willow that grew beside the bend in the road and went to one knee in the grass and mud, within the veil of trailing branches. You old gods, she prayed as the singer's voice grew louder, you tree gods, hide me, and make him go past. Then a horse whickered, and the song broke off suddenly. He's heard, she knew, but maybe he's alone, or if he's not, maybe they'll be as scared of us as we are of them.” - Arya II, ASoS

“For once he did not argue. They set off as she had wanted, walking their horses slowly down the rutted road a dozen paces behind the three on foot. But before very long, somehow they were riding right on top of them. Tom Sevenstrings walked slowly, and liked to strum his woodharp as he went. "Do you know any songs?" he asked them. "I'd dearly love someone to sing with, that I would. Lem can't carry a tune, and our longbow lad only knows marcher ballads, every one of them a hundred verses long.” -Arya II, ASoS

“For once he did not argue. They set off as she had wanted, walking their horses slowly down the rutted road a dozen paces behind the three on foot. But before very long, somehow they were riding right on top of them. Tom Sevenstrings walked slowly, and liked to strum his woodharp as he went. "Do you know any songs?" he asked them. "I'd dearly love someone to sing with, that I would. Lem can't carry a tune, and our longbow lad only knows marcher ballads, every one of them a hundred verses long." "We sing real songs in the marches," Anguy said mildly."Singing is stupid," said Arya. "Singing makes noise. We heard you a long way off. We could have killed you.  Tom's smile said he did not think so. "There are worse things than dying with a song on your lips.” - Arya II, ASoS

“ Hot Pie shifted his seat. "I know the song about the bear," he said. "Some of it, anyhow.” - Arya II, ASoS

“ Tom and Hot Pie resumed their song on the other side of the brook, with the duck hanging from Lem's belt beneath his yellow cloak. Somehow the singing made the miles seem shorter. It was not very long at all until the inn appeared before them, rising from the riverbank where the Trident made a great bend to the north. Arya squinted at it suspiciously as they neared. It did not look like an outlaws' lair, she had to admit; it looked friendly, even homey, with its whitewashed upper story and slate roof and the smoke curling up lazy from its chimney. Stables and other outbuildings surrounded it, and there was an arbor in back, and apple trees, a small garden. The inn even had its own dock, thrusting out into the river, and . . .” - Arya II, ASoS

“What, with only the boy here? I told you twice, the old woman was up to Lambswold helping that Fern birth her babe. And like as not it was one o' you planted the bastard in the poor girl's belly." He gave Tom a sour look. "You, I'd wager, with that harp o' yours, singing all them sad songs just to get poor Fern out of her smallclothes.""If a song makes a maid want to slip off her clothes and feel the good warm sun kiss her skin, why, is that the singer's fault?" asked Tom. "And 'twas Anguy she fancied, besides. 'Can I touch your bow?' I heard her ask him. 'Ooohh, it feels so smooth and hard. Could I give it a little pull, do you think?” - Arya II, ASoS

“There was laughter all around. Then Tom drew his fingers across the strings of his woodharp and broke into soft song.” - Arya III, ASoS

“You'd know for certain if there was a song," said Tom Sevenstrings. "One good song, and we'd know who Ser Maynard used to be and why he wanted to cross this bridge so bad. Poor old Lychester might be as far famed as the Dragonknight if he'd only had sense enough to keep a singer." - Arya IV, ASoS

“Lem and Gendry played tiles with their hosts that night, while Tom Sevenstrings sang a silly song about Big Belly Ben and the High Septon's goose. Anguy let Arya try his longbow, but no matter how hard she bit her lip she could not draw it. "You need a lighter bow, milady," the freckled bowman said. "If there's seasoned wood at Riverrun, might be I'll make you one." Tom overheard him, and broke off his song. "You're a young fool, Archer. If we go to Riverrun it will only be to collect her ransom, won't be no time for you to sit about making bows. Be thankful if you get out with your hide. Lord Hoster was hanging outlaws before you were shaving. And that son of his . . . a man who hates music can't be trusted, I always say.” - Arya IV, ASoS

“Lem snorted through his broken nose. "Was it you who made a song of it, or some other bloody arse in love with his own voice?" "I only sang it the once," Tom complained. "And who's to say the song was about him? 'Twas a song about a fish.”  Arya didn't care what Tom's stupid songs were about. She turned to Harwin. "What did he mean about ransom?” - Arya IV, ASoS

“The wench is dead," the woman hissed. "Only worms may kiss her now." And then to Tom Sevenstrings she said, "I'll have my song or I'll have you gone."So the singer played for her, so soft and sad that Arya only heard snatches of the words, though the tune was half-familiar. Sansa would know it, I bet. Her sister had known all the songs, and she could even play a little, and sing so sweetly. All I could ever do was shout the words.The next morning the little white woman was nowhere to be seen. As they saddled their horses, Arya asked Tom Sevenstrings if the children of the forest still dwelled on High Heart. The singer chuckled. "Saw her, did you?" - Arya IV, ASoS

“The singer laughed. "The sound of me, at least. She always makes me sing the same bloody song, though. Not a bad song, mind you, but I know others just as good." He shook his head. "What matters is, we have the scent now. You'll soon be seeing Thoros and the lightning lord, I'll wager.” - Arya IV, ASoS

“Someone could make a rare fine song of that.” Tom plucked a string on his woodharp.” - Arya IV, ASoS

“Now when did you ever say no to anything, Tom?" the woman hooted. "I'll roast some mutton for your friends, and an old dry rat for you. It's more than you deserve, but if you gargle me a song or three, might be I'll weaken. I always pity the afflicted. Come on, come on. Cass, Lanna, put some kettles on. Jyzene, help me get the clothes off them, we'll need to boil those too." - Arya V, ASoS

“Finally Tom ran out of rain songs and put away his harp. Then there was only the sound of the rain itself beating down on the slate roof of the brewhouse. The dice game ended, and Arya stood on one leg and then the other listening to Merrit complain about his horse throwing a shoe.” - Arya VII, ASoS

“You must be a lackwit, boy," said Lem. "We're outlaws. Lowborn scum, most of us, excepting his lordship. Don't think it'll be like Tom's fool songs neither. You won't be stealing no kisses from a princess, nor riding in no tourneys in stolen armor. You join us, you'll end with your neck in a noose, or your head mounted up above some castle gate.” - Arya VII, ASoS

“Anguy drew an arrow. "We're outlaws. Outlaws steal. It's in the songs, if you ask nice Tom may sing you one. Be thankful we didn't kill you." - Arya VII, ASoS

“My hair comes out in handfuls and no one has kissed me for a thousand years. It is hard to be so old. Well, I will have a song then. A song from Tom o' Sevens, for my news." "You will have your song from Tom," Lord Beric promised. He gave her the wineskin himself.” - Arya VIII, ASoS

“Nay," said the dwarf. "You're not. The black fish holds the rivers now. If it's the mother you want, seek her at the Twins. For there's to be a wedding." She cackled again. "Look in your fires, pink priest, and you will see. Not now, though, not here, you'll see nothing here. This place belongs to the old gods still . . . they linger here as I do, shrunken and feeble but not yet dead. Nor do they love the flames. For the oak recalls the acorn, the acorn dreams the oak, the stump lives in them both. And they remember when the First Men came with fire in their fists." She drank the last of the wine in four long swallows, flung the skin aside, and pointed her stick at Lord Beric. "I'll have my payment now. I'll have the song you promised me  And so Lem woke Tom Sevenstrings beneath his furs, and brought him yawning to the fireside with his woodharp in hand. "The same song as before?" he asked."Oh, aye. My Jenny's song. Is there another?"And so he sang, and the dwarf woman closed her eyes and rocked slowly back and forth, murmuring the words and crying. Thoros took Arya firmly by the hand and drew her aside. "Let her savor her song in peace," he said. "It is all she has left.” - Arya VIII, ASoS

“Because I hacked your little friend in two? I've killed a lot more than him, I promise you. You think that makes me some monster. Well, maybe it does, but I saved your sister's life too. The day the mob pulled her off her horse, I cut through them and brought her back to the castle, else she would have gotten what Lollys Stokeworth got. And she sang for me. You didn't know that, did you? Your sister sang me a sweet little song.” - Arya IX, ASoS

“The music from the castles was louder here. The sound of the drums and horns rolled across the camp. The musicians in the nearer castle were playing a different song than the ones in the castle on the far bank, though, so it sounded more like a battle than a song. "They're not very good," Arya observed.” - Arya X, ASoS

“Firepits had been dug outside the feast tents, sheltered beneath rude canopies of woven wood and hides that kept the rain out, so long as it fell straight down. The wind was blowing off the river, though, so the drizzle came in anyway, enough to make the fires hiss and swirl. Serving men were turning joints of meat on spits above the flames. The smells made Arya's mouth water. "Shouldn't we stop?" she asked Sandor Clegane. "There's northmen in the tents." She knew them by their beards, by their faces, by their cloaks of bearskin and sealskin, by their half-heard toasts and the songs they sang; Karstarks and Umbers and men of the mountain clans. "I bet there are Winterfell men too." Her father's men, the Young Wolf's men, the direwolves of Stark.” - Arya X, ASoS

“She had no more time to watch the tents then. With the river overflowing its banks, the dark swirling waters at the end of the drawbridge reached as high as a horse's belly, but the riders splashed through them all the same, spurred on by the music. For once the same song was coming from both castles. I know this song, Arya realized suddenly. Tom o' Sevens had sung it for them, that rainy night the outlaws had sheltered in the brewhouse with the brothers. And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?” - Arya XI, ASoS

“Come with me." Sandor Clegane reached down a hand. "We have to get away from here, and now." Stranger tossed his head impatiently, his nostrils flaring at the scent of blood. The song was done. There was only one solitary drum, its slow monotonous beats echoing across the river like the pounding of some monstrous heart. The black sky wept, the river grumbled, men cursed and died. Arya had mud in her teeth and her face was wet. Rain. It's only rain. That's all it is. "We're here," she shouted. Her voice sounded thin and scared, a little girl's voice. "Robb's just in the castle, and my mother. The gate's even open." There were no more Freys riding out. I came so far. "We have to go get my mother.” - Arya XI, ASoS

“The Hound no longer watched her as closely as he had. Sometimes he did not seem to care whether she stayed or went, and he no longer bound her up in a cloak at night. One night I'll kill him in his sleep, she told herself, but she never did. One day I'll ride away on Craven, and he won't be able to catch me, she thought, but she never did that either. Where would she go? Winterfell was gone. Her grandfather's brother was at Riverrun, but he didn't know her, no more than she knew him. Maybe Lady Smallwood would take her in at Acorn Hall, but maybe she wouldn't. Besides, Arya wasn't even sure she could find Acorn Hall again. Sometimes she thought she might go back to Sharna's inn, if the floods hadn't washed it away. She could stay with Hot Pie, or maybe Lord Beric would find her there. Anguy would teach her to use a bow, and she could ride with Gendry and be an outlaw, like Wenda the White Fawn in the songs.” -Arya XII, ASoS   

“You'd be dead if I had. You ought to thank me. You ought to sing me a pretty little song, the way your sister did.” - Arya XII, ASoS

“I thought your sister was the one with a head full of songs," the Hound growled. "Frey might have kept your mother alive to ransom, that's true. But there's no way in seven hells I'm going to pluck her out of his castle all by my bloody self." - Arya XII, ASoS

“That's stupid, Arya thought. Sansa only knows songs, not spells, and she'd never marry the Imp.” - Arya XIII, ASoS

“Arya took a step backward as the long steel song began. The Tickler came off the bench with a shortsword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Even the chunky brown-haired squire was up, fumbling for his swordhilt. She snatched her wine cup off the table and threw it at his face. Her aim was better than it had been at the Twins. The cup hit him right on his big white pimple and he went down hard on his tail.” - Arya XIII, ASoS

“Don't lie," he growled. "I hate liars. I hate gutless frauds even worse. Go on, do it." When Arya did not move, he said, "I killed your butcher's boy. I cut him near in half, and laughed about it after." He made a queer sound, and it took her a moment to realize he was sobbing. "And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her. I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf." A spasm of pain twisted his face. "Do you mean to make me beg, bitch? Do it! The gift of mercy . . . avenge your little Michael . . .” - Arya XIII, ASoS

“Worshipers came to the House of Black and White every day. Most came alone and sat alone; they lit candles at one altar or another, prayed beside the pool, and sometimes wept. A few drank from the black cup and went to sleep; more did not drink. There were no services, no songs, no paeans of praise to please the god. The temple was never full. From time to time, a worshiper would ask to see a priest, and the kindly man or the waif would take him down into the sanctum, but that did not happen often.” - Arya II, AFfC

“You believe this is the only place for you." It was as if he'd heard her thoughts. "You are wrong in that. You would find softer service in the household of some merchant. Or would you sooner be a courtesan, and have songs sung of your beauty? Speak the word, and we will send you to the Black Pearl or the Daughter of the Dusk. You will sleep on rose petals and wear silken skirts that rustle when you walk, and great lords will beggar themselves for your maiden's blood. Or if it is marriage and children you desire, tell me, and we shall find a husband for you. Some honest apprentice boy, a rich old man, a seafarer, whatever you desire." - Arya II, AFfC

“Cat had made friends along the wharves; porters and mummers, ropemakers and sailmenders, taverners, brewers and bakers and beggars and whores. They bought clams and cockles from her, told her true tales of Braavos and lies about their lives, and laughed at the way she talked when she tried to speak Braavosi. She never let that trouble her. Instead, she showed them all the fig, and told them they were camel cunts, which made them roar with laughter. Gyloro Dothare taught her filthy songs, and his brother Gyleno told her the best places to catch eels. The mummers off the Ship showed her how a hero stands, and taught her speeches from The Song of the Rhoyne, The Conqueror's Two Wives, and The Merchant's Lusty Lady. Quill, the sad-eyed little man who made up all the bawdy farces for the Ship, offered to teach her how a woman kisses, but Tagganaro smacked him with a codfish and put an end to that. Cossomo the Conjurer instructed her in sleight of hand. He could swallow mice and pull them from her ears. "It's magic," he'd say. "It's not," Cat said. "The mouse was up your sleeve the whole time. I could see it moving." - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

“When Cat slipped inside the brothel, though, she found Merry sitting in the common room with her eyes shut, listening to Dareon play his woodharp. Yna was there too, braiding Lanna's fine long golden hair. Another stupid love song. Lanna was always begging the singer to play her stupid love songs. She was the youngest of the whores, only ten-and-four. Merry asked three times as much for her as for any of the other girls, Cat knew.” - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

“Cat was thinking about the fat boy, remembering how she had saved him from Terro and Orbelo, when the Sailor's Wife appeared beside her. "He sings a pretty song," she murmured softly, in the Common Tongue of Westeros. "The gods must have loved him to give him such a voice, and that fair face as well." - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

“Dareon's song was finally ending. As the last notes faded in the air, Lanna gave a sigh and the singer put his harp aside and pulled her up into his lap. He had just started to tickle her when Cat said loudly, "There's oysters, if anyone is wanting some," and Merry's eyes popped open. "Good," the woman said. "Bring them in, child. Yna, fetch some bread and vinegar." - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

“Not for me. Her nights were bathed in moonlight and filled with the songs of her pack, with the taste of red meat torn off the bone, with the warm familiar smells of her grey cousins. Only during the days was she alone and blind.” - the Blind Girl, ADwD

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Hounds of Justice--Ch. 65

Chapter 65

           It wasn’t how I thought I would spend my first Wrestlemania. There was always the thought in the back of my mind—I could have been in a main event… I could be there on the grandest stage of them all in front of millions of people. Instead, I was stuck in a wheelchair, unable to feel anything below my navel, terrified of being seen by the WWE Universe.

           “Why did I let you guys talk me into this?” I murmured as we sat in the hotel room I shared with Seth before the Hall of Fame ceremony. The three of them were dressed in perfectly tailored suits, looking cleaned up and sharp.

           Dean had a cream garment bag hooked onto his fingers and draped over his shoulder. His blue eyes were shining with mischief. “Because you love us. And you secretly really want to get all prettied up.”

           Roman slapped him in the chest with the back of his hand so hard that he grunted. “Not that you aren’t beautiful already, itiiti. Dean meant…”

           I smiled softly. “I know what he meant, Ro. I just… it’s been five months since I’ve been seen. And there’s this thing…” I gestured to my chair, feeling self-conscious.

           The thought of being anywhere near the cameras tonight… when everyone was being dissected for what they were wearing and how they looked. Next to women like Lana, Sasha, Naomi, Mandy, Alexa, Becky… there was no way that I would compare to them with this hunk of metal beneath me.

           Grey blurred on the edges of my vision. A high-pitched squeal rang in my ears. The world hovered in and out of view, slid sideways. Angry heat burned into me, momentarily overpowering the constant buzz of pain that followed me.

           Something heavy hit the floor. Gentle hands gripped my own, squeezing tightly. Voices came from far away. The soft cadence of Samoan washed over me. A hand cradled the back of my head, thumb brushing gently against my scalp. Another rested against my cheek.

           The world came into focus in fits and starts. Ro crouched in front of me, holding my hands and speaking soothingly. Where is my little sister, he asked in Samoan. Where is my little sister? Dean stood to my left, his hand on my head grounding me to my center. Seth’s fingers brushed my cheek, pulling me back into orbit.

           “O iinei,” I whispered as my voice awoke.

           They let out a collective sigh. Roman stood up, not caring that there were wrinkles in his suit. Seth unbuttoned his jacket, started stripping it off. “You two have a main event match tomorrow. You go to the ceremony. I’ll give Hunter and Stephanie a call, let them know I can’t make it.”

           I reached for his hand, squeezed it feebly. “No,” I said firmly. “Go to the ceremony. You’re the Intercontinental Champion, Seth. I promise you, I’ll be fine for a few hours.”

           His dark eyes watched me carefully, as if he was measuring the truthfulness of the statement. He brushed his thumb along the line of my jaw. “I’ll keep my phone on me. If you need anything, just call me. And… your mom is just down the hall, okay?”

           I smiled, wrapped my fingers gently around his wrist. “I know. And don’t forget that I love you.”

           Seth leaned down, kissed me softly on the lips. “I love you too, Llane. Always.”

             Electricity crackled in the air. The arena was still far from full. Those with front row seats were filing in, fresh from their meet-and-greets backstage. An hour before the show, the superstars started warming up, getting in the zone for their matches, making last-minute changes to their gear, going over their entrances one last time. Somewhere back there, the Hounds were getting themselves together, ready to run the yard.

           Hannah and I were ringside near the time-keeper’s area. Space had been cleared out for my chair at the end of a row. My foster mother sat to my left, excitement bright on her face. After everything she’d done for me, it was a wonderful thing to be able to give her this moment.

           “I wish I could have seen you up there, Llanie,” she murmured, squeezing my hand gently. “One day.”

           I smiled faintly. “Yeah, one day.”

             Seth’s music filled the arena. It was that heart-thumping, adrenaline spiking base line that had always my pulse quicken. The screen erupted with flames, burn it down screaming from the speakers. Pyro went off, arcing up into the air. Seth appeared at the top of the ramp. His gear pants were red with black swirls that started near his boots and continued up around his calves, behind his knees, and around his thighs. Flames burned along the outside of his hips. The interlocked SR of his logo was on one hip. When the camera swept to the other side, I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. My logo was emblazoned in flame on the other side. The vest was designed like the pants, except it was black with red swirls that danced like fire up from his waist over his torso and up his chest.

           He sauntered down the ramp, his Intercontinental Title glittering in the lights. Seeing him like this, in his element with all the confidence of a god assured of his praise, it made my heart swell in my chest. He was breathtaking.

           Up the steel steps. Climb the ropes. Basking in the glory that was his rightful place.

           I knew the moment his eyes landed on me. He jumped down, jogged around the ring. At the barricade, he stopped, eyes bright with adrenaline and pride. Seth gestured to Hannah, grabbed her in a warm hug. They whispered to one another for an instant before he turned to me.

           “Thank you,” he murmured. He stripped off his belt, handed it over to a keeper, and hopped the barricade. He grinned as he cupped my face in his hands, kissed me full on the mouth in front of the cameras and tens of thousands of people. “I love you so much, Llane Black.”

           Heat raced beneath my skin. I couldn’t stop smiling. “I love you, too, Seth. Now go kick ass.”

           He let out a whoop before kissing me again, then climbing back over. As if nothing had happened, Seth took back his title and swept back into the ring, posing on the turnbuckles as his music faded away. Drew’s music hit, and the battle began.

           It was nail biting from start to finish. Seth was fast and strong, there was no doubt about it. But Drew was big, long limbed, and mean. He had no problem with playing dirty and hurting his opponents when it served him. And he wanted nothing more than to take Seth’s title, even while Seth fought with every ounce of his will to keep it.

           Drew grew frustrated when a Glasgow Kiss didn’t fell his opponent. His frustration turned to ferocity when the Claymore wasn’t enough to keep Seth down. Seth dug deep, fighting as if his life depended on it. He used everything in his playbook. Superkicks. Bucklebombs. The Blockbuster. Falcon Arrow. Suicide dives and slingblades. Drew had an answer for every single one. Even the curb stomp wasn’t enough to get a three count.

           Sitting on the bottom rope, gripping his ribs and panting for breath, Seth looked as if there was nothing left in him. Drew was struggling to his feet on the other side of the ring, murder in his eyes.

           “C’mon, Seth!” I shouted, electricity crackling through me. “C’mon!”

           At my side, Hannah started chanting along with me. Her enthusiasm was contagious. I screamed louder.

           In the ring, Seth stood, his face twisted in rage. He stomped hard on the mat. Burn. It. Down. It ran through the arena, rumbling so loud that it nearly ruptured the roof. Drew ran at him, straight into a boot. It was over in seconds. Drew’s head bounced against canvas, Seth fell into the pin… one… two… three.

           Seth’s music hit, barely audible over the sound of cheers and screams. Hannah let out a wail of praise as he rolled beneath the bottom rope, title clutched against his chest. He staggered to the barricade, sweaty, hair frizzy, but a glorious grin on his face. I rolled forward as far as I could, turned so that he was within reach. For a moment we just looked at each other. Then he leaned over, wrapping me in a deep, bone crushing embrace.

Tag List

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[ellanainthetardis]

And now I give you the greatest show on Earth! Let me know your thoughts!

[ff] or {ao3]

Chapter 2 : Capitol Circus

The second night in a town was usually the busiest but the area around the Big Top was sadly lacking a crowd. There were a few people wandering around waiting for the show to start, some of them Haymitch knew from town, others he had never seen before. The people from the circus themselves were easy to spot. They were running around in a hurry, some already wearing make-up or costumes…

Haymitch strolled through the animals display and decided that they were short staffed.

He wasn’t sure what he even was doing there. He had told himself again and again that he wouldn’t come and yet there he was, wearing a black leather jacket that had seen better days and his only pair of clean pants that didn’t have holes anywhere. He hadn’t bothered trying to comb his hair or shave the stubble that ate half his face but he figured for once he wasn’t sticking out like a sore thumb like he had everywhere else ever since he had left the circus.

The pull had been too strong.

He had walked all the way, swearing to himself he would turn back and go home with every new step, but the moment he had spotted the huge striped red tent, he had been lost. The Big Top called to him like a beacon and he had purchased a ticket from the young man at the booth without even realizing it.

Here, everything was a reminder.

The music in the air, drums and fanfare tunes that were intrinsically linked to the couple of hours preceding a show… The smell of popcorn, hay and animals… The sounds of people calling out to each other, of various animals making their opinions known, of vendors haranguing the visitors for souvenirs… Children laughing… Here, a grandfather holding a little girl’s hand and pointing at a zebra with his walking stick… There, a boy escaping his mother to run to a woman leading horses out of their paddock… The fairy lights being switched on when the night fell properly…

It was so similar to the last time he had been in a circus, to that last night…

“Hurry up, Bitchy Mitchy…” Mabel had laughed when she had left the main tent, leaving him to check on the dismantling process. “You know I don’t like going to bed alone…”

The last words he had heard from her.

Afterwards, when it had only been ashes and smoke and shocked-shell people holding each other tight and crying… He could still hear her voice ringing in his ears… Hurry up, Bitchy Mitchy… And his gruff annoyed answer… Don’t call me that… The same annoyed answer he always gave to that nickname, the only reason she used it in the first place…

He walked between makeshift paddocks and iron cages, barely registering the animals inside. The menagerie never was his department. He had always felt a bit sorry to see them trapped like that. Hayden had loved them though. His brother had always been begging to be allowed to help with them. Elephants. That had been Hayden’s favorite animal. Elephants.

There were no elephants at the Capitol Circus but everything else was more or less like he remembered it. There were goats, for some reason, and there was a woman inviting kids to come and pet them which was either a clever idea or a recipe for disaster.

Haymitch was still pondering the wisdom of a petting zoo when he found himself face to face with an honest to god lion. Right there, in the middle of an alley of cages, free to roam around, there was a lion who had clearly seen better days. A part of his right ear was gone, patches of hair were missing from his mane and he had a wild spark in his eyes that had Haymitch standing very, very still.

“Don’t worry. Buttercup is tame.”

He blinked and dared looking away from the wild animal long enough to spot the little girl he hadn’t noticed next to the huge predator. She was holding a leash, he realized, a leash that was linked to a leather collar around the lion’s neck. The collar had blue gemstones on it that matched the girl’s costume. Her blond hair was parted into two French braids and her blue eyes were sparkling with amusement but no mockery.

“Sweetheart… I’m pretty sure that’s not a puppy you’ve got here.” he said, glancing around in hope that he would find the animal trainer rushing to them. The place was deserted though.

“I rescued him from another circus when he was a baby.” the girl explained, unconcerned. She was petting the lion’s side, apparently not realizing that if the animal leaped away, she wouldn’t be strong enough to hold him back. “They weren’t nice to him but he’s my best friend. We have an act together. Are you coming in to watch the show?”

And, of all things, the mangled lion started purring.

Haymitch opened and closed his mouth twice and then found himself nodding. “Yeah.”

The little girl – she couldn’t be more than twelve, he figured – flashed him a bright smile. “You should go take your seat then. It’s going to start soon. That’s what the bell means.” The bell… He must have missed it, too lost in his memories. And he must also have looked too hesitant because the girl slipped her hand into his as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

She led him toward the Big Top’s entrance and he followed, just like the lion on her other side.

“You know it ain’t safe to talk to strange men lurking in the dark, yeah?” he asked, for the sake of it, because she looked like a nice kid and he wasn’t sure how the posh woman was running her circus.

“Buttercup would eat you if you tried to attack me and my sister can hit the bullseye at a distance of sixty-five yards.” she answered calmly.

He supposed that made sense.

“Your sister throws knives?” he asked, interested despite himself.

“She’s an archer.” the girl grinned. “The best ever! Wait until you see her eat fire…”

He didn’t really see what one had to do with the other but he shrugged and accepted that at face value.

“Here you are!” she said brightly when they reached the entrance. “I have to hurry or I will miss the opening! Enjoy the show!”

He watched her saunter away to what he presumed to be the back entrance, the lion stalking after her like an overgrown dog. He was pretty sure she didn’t need the leash at all.

Well… That was something.

He gave his ticket to the same young man who had sold it to him and quickly climbed at the top of the bleachers. Most of the audience had gathered on the first few rows but that was for amateurs. The best view was at the top, plus it allowed him to hide in the shadows and that was how he preferred it.

The least one could say was that the show wasn’t sold out. Half of the seats were still free but he figured, given the war, it wasn’t that surprising.

The lights dimmed a minute or so after he had taken his seat and he leaned forward a little, all the better not to miss a thing. His heart was beating fast in his chest, like it used to every time he was about to jump on stage…

Then a spotlight pierced the darkness and… He leaned back, a smirk on his lips. Well… Nobody could say that woman didn’t rock red. That was certainly a new look for ringleaders and one the men in the crowd were sold on if the appreciative murmurs were to go by. The red bodice hugged her body and left very little to the imagination, the golden fluff on her shoulders and the matching embroideries on the red fabric were a nice touch, but his eyes fixated on her endless legs… The thigh-high black boots, the top hat on her blond curls and the black bowtie around her neck that was purely decorative… He hardly registered any of it.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” Effie Trinket’s voice boomed in the tent as she tossed her arms in the air. “Welcome, welcome, to Capitol Circus!”

The whip in her hand, he decided, was overkill.

A flick of it and the show was on the road. He clapped with everyone else when she asked them to greet the artists but pursed his lips when he realized how few of them there were. No wonder she was looking to hire.

The first number was a dexterity performance probably the sister of the lion girl. The girl launched arrows after arrows, never missing her target. The first one was a practice target, the next one was a flying plate, the third one was an apple placed on another girl’s head. That one tore a few gasps and admiring applause from the crowd but it was too little too late. It felt like a built-up and not a climax.

Of course, then she started playing with fire and while a part of him instinctively recoiled at the sight of flames – he knew exactly how long it would have taken fire to swallow the tent and the surrounding trailers, how fast it could claim lives and how savagely it could devour everything – he had to admit it was daring and interesting. She wasn’t just a classic fire-eater, she conjured it. She spit it out, she waved her hands and it burst forth around her…

He understood the black dress better now.

It took him all of two minutes to spot the hidden mechanisms but it was a nice trick and he wondered if she had been mentored by another magician or if she had developed that herself. With some proper training…

“Katniss Everdeen, The Girl On Fire!” the ringleader presented with a graceful sweep of her arm when the girl ran off under the crowd’s applause.

Someone needed to teach that kid how to smile, he decided.

The next number was a clown one. The young man whom he had bought his ticket from. It wasn’t bad but it wasn’t awesome either. Then again, he was alone and a clown number was hard to pull without a sidekick.

It was followed by a horse show with a young woman doing figures on their back, directing the four horses and the two zebras the circus owned as if she could speak directly into their minds. It wasn’t too daring, she was obviously playing it safe, but the girl was pretty and she shyly waved at the crowd as Effie announced her off.

There was a boring strength number from a kid who piled up weights as if it still interested people to watch people flex and lift things up… If, at least, he had been lifting interesting stuff but no…

Gale Hawthorne didn’t convince him and if the lukewarm applause was to be believed, he didn’t convince the crowd either. That being said, he was far more amusing when he was tied to a spinning wheel and Johanna Mason tossed axes at him.

Why she needed to wear two thin pieces of spandex while she was doing that was anyone’s guess but it worked. She was better at throwing axes than Haymitch used to be at throwing knives.

Then came Prim and her lion. Buttercup obediently jumped through loops and opened his mouth so she could place her little head between his pointy teeth. It was classic and not too original but she was so young it worked anyway and the crowd was wild for her.

“Primrose Everdeen!” Effie Trinket cheerfully shouted, making the applause double.

There were more numbers. A girl and a boy called Glimmer and Marvel had a sword swallower act going. A little black girl around the same age as the lion girl performed an aerial silk number that made him check several times that the safety net was in place. Rue The Bird, Effie cheerfully called at the end. Well, Rue was exceptionally good at what she did. Then came a boy called Thresh who did some acrobatics figures with a trampoline…

And when he was done another young man announced Effie Trinket which wasn’t the norm. The ringleader called the number, no matter if they were performing next or not. But he understood why she wasn’t the one manning the mic when he spotted her at the top of the tent. She had lost the black boots.

The next thing he realized was that they had rolled off the safety net.

His mouth ran dry.

Rationally, he knew nobody would have taken that decision lightly, even to add a wow factor to the show. If she was going up there without a back-up plan, it was because she could, and yet…

She was a posh girl from a posh family, so what did she know? You didn’t just wake up one day and buy a circus… You were born into it or life tossed you that way but you didn’t just…

She was walking the tightrope, strutting on that thin line as if she was strolling down the street. She danced, unconcerned by the void underneath…

And then she did a cartwheel and his heart might have stopped beating in his chest. The rope was far from being steady, he could see it from down there, the swaying was light but at that height it was enough to be fatal. It took her a second to find her balance back and more than one person in the audience gasped and then cheered when she took a bow, apparently unbothered that she had almost plummeted to her death.

Another cartwheel and she fell…

Haymitch’s heart did stop in his chest, certain he was about to witness a gruesome accident.

And then he gaped when he realized it was deliberate. She was hanging from that rope by a foot, her curly hair was swinging under her head… Once the shock was off, the audience cheered and clapped.

He brought the flask he had been steadily drinking from since the start of the show to his lips and then put it away. She had done the impossible and put him off liquor.

She righted herself on the rope – he wasn’t sure how because that had never really been his area of expertise but he had watched Mags fly in the air often enough to know there were a thousand tricks – and then she did a somersault and …

The only thought in Haymitch’s head was that she was determined to break her neck. There was no safety net and no way she would grab that rope back…

But she never intended to…

Someone caught her in mid-air. The young man who had announced her.

The cheering was loud and enthusiastic. Trapeze acts were always popular but Haymitch had to admit this one was particularly good. He could see Mags’ touch in it. The guy made it look simple and Trinket made it look like she had always been meant to fly. They exchanged trapezes, did figures, caught each other at the last possible moment…

By the time they made it back on the ground, Haymitch was clapping with everyone else.

“Finnick Odair!” Trinket called out, a little out of breath, once Rue had run back to her with the mic.

The young man took an exaggerated deep bow and sent kisses to the audience who bought into that like a charm. Music rang out and all the performers trickled back in, singing what probably was the circus’ anthem. It wasn’t in synch and, just like the opening number, it left a lot to be desired.

Still, the audience seemed to like it. They were all happy and smiling when they wandered out of the tent, guided by the clown who had sold tickets before the show. Haymitch followed them down the bleachers until he was back on even ground, hesitated, and then wandered on the ring…

Oh, the memories…

The heat of the spotlights was still the same, still enough to make him sweat in his jacket. He rubbed his mouth, the stubble irritating his palm.

Haymitch Abernathy, The Victor Illusionist!

Ladies and Gentlemen, clap for your ringleader!

“Sir, this way please…” the clown called out to him.

He crashed back to the present with a start. He was the last one in the tent. He glanced at the flap from which all the performers had come from and he felt torn.

He should leave.

He knew that.

He didn’t belong there.

It wasn’t the Quell Circus. His mother wouldn’t be backstage collecting costumes that needed repairs and his brother wouldn’t be checking all the animals had water, food and clean hay and Mabel wouldn’t be waiting for him, an easy joke on her lips… And the others… The others were either dead or scattered around the globe in different circuses if they hadn’t been tossed in the green hell that was Nam already…

He didn’t belong there.

But he didn’t belong to the stream of spectators either.

The hay stuck to his soles when he took a few hesitant steps toward the flap that hid the artists’ entrance.

“Sir…” the clown frowned behind him.

“I’ve got an appointment with your ringleader.” he lied without even a glance for the kid. They shouldn’t let the clown do the placing and crowd ushering anyway. Clowns weren’t supposed to talk, it broke the magic.

Backstage, it was the usual chaos he remembered well. People were walking around the small space, laughing or shouting out to each other, reliving the show and its mishaps… A draft of cold air was sweeping in from the open entrance at the back of the tent… He spotted Trinket easily enough.

She was talking to the archer-slash-fire-eater.

He sidestepped the little aerial silk artist and ignored her curious gaze, ignored the way the acrobat with the trampoline immediately gathered her close when he spotted a stranger in their midst… Brother and sister, maybe.

Haymitch marched on straight to the ringleader in her red and gold bodice but smirked at the kid she was talking with.

“Nice dress.” he told her, his eyes narrowing on the cleverly hidden mechanisms on her sleeves. Then he glanced at Trinket and lifted his eyebrows, letting his gaze travel down the short expanse of red fabric. “Not yours.”

She pursed her lips but they twitched in what he thought to be amusement anyway. Her eyes were narrowed and she planted her hands on her hips. “Are you always drunk, Mr Abernathy?”

He hadn’t been sure she had picked up on that the previous day. He shrugged, his smirk deepening. “Afraid so.”

They stared at each other for a while. She averted her eyes first, glancing at the girl who was frowning and then looking back at him. “I am glad to see you. I was not confident you would come.”

“What can I say… I’m a masochist.” he retorted.

She pursed her lips harder and he decided irritating her could quickly become a favorite hobby of his. She was too easy to rile up.

“Dare I ask what you thought of the show?” Her voice curbed into forced civility. She was the kind of person who was always polite, he supposed.

“You need an opening number that doesn’t want to make people go to sleep. The closing number sucks and everything you’re offering’s been done a hundred times.” he said frankly. “You’re common and that’s not gonna cut it in this day and age. Ten, twenty years ago, that would have been okay but now people want sensational and you’re not selling it.”

Trinket took it on the chin like a pro. Her face was set in a mask of polite interest, she didn’t even blink.

The girl though. She choked.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” the kid snapped, loud enough that all the artists who had still been hanging around turned toward them.

“Just a simple guy who knows a thing or two about circus life.” he snorted. “By the way, you might want not to tug so hard on that string when you do your final fireball thing… Bit obvious, sweetheart.” The kid could sneer, he would give her that. “And you’ve got as much charm as a slug. Might want to work on that too.”

“Please, do try not to antagonize everyone on your first night.” Trinket winced.

“First night?” the girl repeated with clear alarm. “What do you mean first night?”

A few of the others had gathered and Haymitch rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t mean anything ‘cause I haven’t said yes yet.”

“You are here, isn’t that answer enough?” Trinket challenged. Her face suddenly lit up and she darted a hand toward her trapeze partner who had just entered the tent to see what the commotion was about. “Finnick! Come here! Mr Abernathy, this is Finnick Odair. Mags’ grandson.”

Haymitch frowned, a little shocked. He had known Mags all his life and he had never known she had had children…

“Adopted.” the young man said, as if reading his mind. He outstretched a hand that Haymitch shook. “It’s good to meet you, though. I’ve heard a lot about you…”

“Abernathy?” another kid repeated. The blond girl who swallowed swords.

“Like the magician?” the black little girl who did aerial silk piped up, excitement in her eyes. “You’re famous!”

Was he still? He had been once upon a time. Posters with his name plastered around towns were guaranteed to bring people to the circus the next night. But that had been almost a decade ago now. Before he went to Vietnam, when he had still been young. Sixteen at most. Afterwards… Afterwards he had come back to a circus that was quickly falling apart and he had stepped up because someone needed to. He had been too busy running it to spend time on his acts. The daring innovative magician who always wanted to do more, go bigger, had started relying on what he knew how to do. Mabel had started getting bored to play his assistant even… She had been developing her cards tricks into an act of her own… And then, of course, the fire…  

“You’re joining?” Finnick asked, hopeful but not surprised. Unlike the others.

Mags had sent Trinket to him, after all, so it wasn’t that surprising that the young man would be aware that the woman had sought him out.

“What do we need a magician for?” the fire girl grumbled, a scowl on her face. “He hated the show and we’re doing just fine.”

“You need a magician ‘cause a magician’s job is to distract the audience and dazzle them into seeing things that aren’t there. Like talent.” he said quietly, reaching behind the little girl’s ear and producing a coin seemingly out of thin air. It was a cheap trick. One that he had mastered when he was five. One that he hadn’t pulled in years. The aerial silk girl grinned at him and snatched the coin. He looked back at the scowling girl and shrugged. “That’s also the job of a ringleader, turns out.”

“Effie’s our ringleader.” the girl snapped back.

“Not out of choice.” Trinket cut in calmly. “And we do lack an artistic vision since Mags passed, Katniss.” It was plain to see the girl didn’t like it and Trinket sighed. “Please, can you go check Annie and Prim have the animals covered?” Then, she turned to her partner. “Finnick, will you…”

“I’ve got it, Effie.” the young man smiled. “I’m gonna help Gale and Peeta dismantle and then I’m gonna make sure everything is loaded and ready to go.”

“Thank you.” she beamed. “Mr Abernathy, if you would…”

She gestured at the tent’s entrance and he stepped outside, almost shocked by how freezing it was. He had been so caught up in the circus, he hadn’t realized how low the temperature had dropped. Circus life tended to do that to him. Got his blood flowing.

Unless, of course, it was the ringleader and her tight red bodice…

[wisdomfish]

Lust can make you feel hopeless. Like a worn down beast of burden, we carry the weight of it upon our backs, tarrying further into darkness. Who will save us from this body of death?

~ Brittany Allen

I sat quietly as prayer requests were shared. Typical answers were offered: busyness, health, etc. Until I heard my own struggle spoken through the words of another woman, and I realized I wasn’t alone. We were both battling a lustful heart.

I thought my promiscuous past was the cause of my strife back then. But over time, women have confided in me regarding their own struggle, most of them being women who grew up attending church.

We’ve been taught to believe lust is a man’s issue, but truly, it’s a human issue.

Lust can make you feel hopeless. Like a worn down beast of burden, we carry the weight of it upon our backs, tarrying further into darkness. Who will save us from this body of death?

Lustful Heart Defined

Lust takes many forms, and its definition goes beyond sexual fantasy. For clarity’s sake, I’m defining it how Baker’s Evangelical Dictionary of Biblical Theology does: “a strong craving or desire, often of a sexual nature.”

Lust starts in the heart, springs forth to our thoughts, and most often results in an action. In Matthew 5:28, Jesus tells us “everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”

Men are prone to visually undressing a woman in their mind, though certainly women fall prey to this too. But for most women, lust is less about desiring a man sexually and more about wanting to be desired sexually and emotionally.

Regardless of the shape our lustful thoughts take, they always tempt, and often persuade us to sin outwardly. To battle our lustful heart, we must be equipped to fight, using our minds and our bodies.

Therefore, preparing your minds for action, and being sober-minded, set your hope fully on the grace that will be brought to you at the revelation of Jesus Christ. As obedient children, do not be conformed to the passions of your former ignorance. (1 Peter 1:13-15)

We must prepare our minds for action and be obedient to Jesus, striving to be conformed into his image instead of our fleshly passions.

Fight by Renewing Your Mind

If we aren’t striving to renew our mind, we mimic a deer in open season. Eyes wide and body void of response to danger, we stand in the pathway of sexual temptation—and it hits us like an arrow between the eyes. We cannot escape Satan’s “flaming darts” if our minds are too dull to discern the threat (Ephesians 6:16).

Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect. (Romans 12:2)

We must put off thoughts of our old self and think on things of our new life in Christ. Meditate on the gospel—remember who you were before Jesus called you to himself and praise him for making you a new creation (2 Corinthians 5:17). When temptation enters your mind, choose to think on things that are true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, excellent, and worthy of praise (Philippians 4:8).

We renew our minds by immersing them in God’s Word, seeking him fervently, and praying he would purify our hearts (James 4:8).

Fight by Fleeing

Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body. (1 Corinthians 6:18)

To flee is to bolt—to run away from danger. Sexual sin is dangerous. Here are some practical ways to “flee”:

Go for a walk/run.

Go for a drive and call someone.

Run an errand.

Go to a coffee shop to study.

Listen to the Bible while doing house or yard work.

Go to the gym.

Furthermore, we must recognize where we’re tempted most often by our lustful heart, and set boundaries to protect ourselves.

Maybe temptation floods in at night when all is quiet and coffee shops are closed. We might be tempted to yield in order to get some rest. But it’s better to lack sleep than to transgress against God. Instead, we can redirect our mind by accomplishing a task or reading Scripture.

Fight With God’s Word

Though it’s the last thing we want to do when feeling sinful, our greatest need when faced with temptation is God’s Word. Force yourself to focus on a passage of Scripture, and pray for help to abstain from sin. Allowing ourselves to wallow in shame over temptation we face is exactly where Satan wants us. If he can keep us there, we’re more likely to give in. Keep your Bible on your lap, mind fixed on God, and he will give you grace to fight. He’s not aloof in our struggles. He is near.

Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. (Hebrews 4:16)

Draw near to him. He promises mercy in time of need.

Fight With Accountability

There’s lack of transparency regarding lust among women, causing many to feel alone in their struggle. Reaching for help feels paralyzing, and we may fear the response of others.

Truly, we cannot fight this on our own. To overcome lust, we need to share with a godly mentor. This provides accountability and shines a light on sin’s darkness, making it less attractive.

Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person has great power as it is working. (James 5:16)

Whether we’re the struggling sister or the one who’s struggle has eased, we must grow in our openness regarding sexual sin. If we don’t, our sister remains isolated and in bondage to lust. But if we speak forth, “Me too. Here’s how I fought it. Let’s fight this together,” we lift our sister up, bearing her burden with her.

Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness…Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ. (Galatians 6:1a, 2)

Fight From Freedom

Many believe their lustful heart is unbeatable. Its draw is strong and its lies, sweet to the ears, but any pleasure found in it quickly turns sour.

Sin has the capacity to ruin us, but the born-again believer has a choice. We don’t have to sin. Remember, we are free:

We know that our old self was crucified with him in order that the body of sin might be brought to nothing, so that we would no longer be enslaved to sin….Let not sin therefore reign in your mortal body, to make you obey its passions. Do not present your members to sin as instruments for unrighteousness, but present yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life, and your members to God as instruments for righteousness. For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace. (Romans 6:6, 12-14)

While those who remain dead in their sin are still enslaved to it, sin has no dominion over the Christian. We aren’t fighting for freedom; we are those who fight from freedom—the freedom Jesus Christ bought for us.

Lust isn’t invincible, nor is it outside of God’s power—and his power lives in you if you are his. So choose to wage war on your lustful heart today. This battle is difficult, but with each step toward victory, temptation will have less and less strength.