#noone would be happy

[chaotic-so3k]

now that the billford divorce has been revealed

WHAT THE HELL ARE YA'LL GONNA DO WITH THE RELATIVITY FALLS AU??

HUH???

BILLDIP CAN'T BE YOUR SOLUTION!

AND OBVIOUSLY NO BILLFORD

WILL THERE BE NOTHING??

WHAT ARE THE IMPLICATIONS NOW????????????

[eshithepetty]

I know most of us love shipping and yuri and all that in this house, but it is kinda hilarious (and so based) to me that this is like. The Single Only One instance of anything relating to romance even being MENTIONED in the entire ENA series so far. Unless I'm forgetting something.... romantic relationships confirmed to be a thing in enaverse only to really drive home just how much of a pathetic loser Alex is <3 amen

[reegis]

Fun Fact:

if you listen to High Noon Over Camelot, but stop exactly 50 seconds into “Justice” love does actually win :^)

what do you mean theres 7 minutes and 20 seconds left on the album. i dont know what you’re talking about

[whosname]

[Id. Alcohol marker drawing of Hijikata sleeping in his mayo pajamas, hugging his mayo body pillow. He's blushing and he's very happy. End id.]

Happy for you, Hijikatakun.

[ineffablejaymee]

me, every single time i need to feel something

[kaiser1ns]

going crazy actually I JUST WANNA SEE MY MAN, DEAR MR. CRAWLING ... PLEASE LET ME SEE RED HOT CHILLY PEPPER UMBRELLA MAN !!

[drmslastmorning]

7, 26 - simplepotatofarmer

7. Which character do you think is the most similar to c!Dream?

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. I'm a little torn, actually. I've been thinking a lot about c!punz and how absolutely insane they are and want to enable c!dream at his worst - and while they are similar in the regards of how they are at their worst, I don't think they are all that similar in motivation, and when they are, well, not at their worst.

c!techno is a bit more up there. at least, in how people treat him. they are still very.. differently, actually, just in the way c!dream is ruled by fear and accepts the way people treat him - while c!techno does everything to fight it. I don't think there is anyone truly like c!dream, tbh. Which just adds to how lonely he is. There's people who can understand him, for sure, c!punz understands his chaos, but not him, c!techno understands him, sees that they are similar in the way they are treated, but will never get the way he lays down and accepts the fate he is scripted. c!sam comes close to understanding him - but they are always at an arms length. noone is truly similar to him.

26. If c!Dream had to spend the rest of his life around only one other DSMP character, which one would you choose for him?

I have a few options. Which are, hilariously enough, all ones I mentioned in my last answer.

c!techno, would be my healthiest answer. but I am also torn between choosing c!sam, simply because of how much I've been thinking about c!sam just wanting c!dream completely for himself. treating him like he belongs to him, like he is his property to oversee and control and treat like a puppet on strings and

[jjsanguine]

My parents did not try to make me believe Father Christmas was real, but I got that feeling of disappointment when IRL villains who would absolutely be getting blown up off screen in a show aimed at children persist in getting wealthier and not getting assasinated

[psalmsofpsychosis]

*curls up real tiny in the corner of my bed under 5 blankies* i miss feeling delighted about something with someone

[jackalhadrurusluvr]

i did lots of laundry today and i am changing my sheets and i would like a little bit of gentleness from the universe

[a-sleepy-ginger]

13/3/24

✿❈✿❈✿

Learned about interesting topic in psychology

Doodled a bit

Saw alot of magpies

[littlcdarlin]

Who Will Love A Little Sparrow?

summary: Joel turns sixty.

warnings: girthy age gap (60 & mid 20s), Joel feels guilty about age gap, I cried while writing this, emotional fluff

note: it took one ask to convince me to actually write this lol hope you like it, anon! Title is from the Simon & Garfunkel song

Joel hasn't quite realized he's turning sixty – sure, he knows he looks it, feels it in his cracking joints, aching back and wheezing lungs, sees it in the stares the two of you get walking through Jackson hand in hand, but your company keeps him young. Three and a half decades between you will do that to a man.

He's never liked a big fuss on his birthday; even when he was half his age all the singing and balloons embarrassed him more than anything, so he didn't mention it was coming up during the weeks beforehand. You knew, of course, and so did Tommy, but he figured patrols would keep the two of you busy enough to prevent anything more than an extra kiss from you and a teasing comment from his brother – maybe birthday sex when you were done with your work for the day.

When he wakes up, it's his first thought, though not in excitement, but resignation. Sixty. The number feels like a chasm between the two of you. It makes him feel dirty for having touched you the night before, and he wishes humanity hadn't decided on the decimal numeral system.

You're scheduled for the morning patrol, so he doesn't expect you home before noon, which for the first time in his life feels like a relief. It gives him a couple of hours to bury the guilt about your age somewhere deep and secure, under vague childhood memories and the first thirteen decimals of Pi, where it won't come bubbling up while you're laughing your sunshine-laugh. He doesn't want to dim your spark, not when you seem to just have found it again.

He scuffles downstairs, dragging his feet as if he's turning ninety instead of sixty, just to wallow in his self-pity while nobody is around to see it. If he's lucky, he'll have two more decades, maybe even three, though that kind of hope is practically brazen.

He sighs, making his way over to the kitchen, thinking that if he makes his coffee strong enough, it might make him feel fifty again.

"Happy Birthday."

His head snaps up, and he's staring at you instead of his toes, your youthful face a little blotchy from the excitement.

"Here," you say, and thrust a cupcake in his direction. There is a single purple candle on it, and the frosting isn't draped across the dough in artful swirls the way they did it before the outbreak – still, it's the best cupcake he has ever seen.

"I couldn't fit sixty candles on this thing, so you get one."

Your smile is a little lopsided, a little too understanding, and Joel swallows.

"Thanks," he mutters quietly, staring at the blue part of the flame. "Geez."

"Blow it out," you say, "and make a wish."

He doesn't believe in that, but he obliges because you somehow found him a cupcake in the middle of the apocalypse at the crack of dawn.

"Now," you say, almost business-like, as if the first bullet point of one of your little lists has been crossed off, "I got Tommy and Maria to cover us on patrols today. What do you wanna do first, drink outrageously bitter coffee, or carve a wooden sparrow?"

He stares at you. You must have found the little bird he made during his many sleepless hours – he put it on the very top shelf in the living room where it wouldn't attract attention. It's not that he's embarrassed about it, he's just not sure it's a part of himself he wants to share with the world.

You put the cupcake on the kitchen counter and turn back around, that same knowing smile on your lips.

"I got you something," you say, and Joel frowns.

"You shouldn't trade for–"

"I didn't."

You hand him a small package, wrapped in some old newspaper you decorated with tiny, drawn-on hearts.

"Tommy said you used to wrap presents in colorful paper just to throw it away," you explain, that sense of wonder in your voice, as always when you talk about the before, "I didn't have paint, but I found a pen that works."

Joel stares at the package. He remembers the last birthday present he unwrapped perfectly, can see it catch the morning sunlight on his wrist.

"I–Geez," he just says, again, and starts to carefully peel away the newspaper without creasing your little artwork too much. His thumb traces one of the hearts. There is a hint of red inside the paper, and then he's holding something small.

"Where did you get this?", he asks, voice quiet with awe and something else that seems to thicken his throat.

"I found it in an abandoned raider's lair," you say softly, "I know I should have handed it to Maria, but I thought you could use it for your sparrow. Give him a face, you know, some feathers."

Joel traces the little cross on the Swiss army knife, and feels his chest tighten.

"Don't tell on me," you say teasingly, but with a hint of self-consciousness at his lack of a response. Joel swallows, and drags his eyes away from his present and to your face.

"Thank you," he says quietly, unsure of how to voice the thoughts rushing through his head, "I– thank you."

"Yeah," you say gently, "'course."

You accept his gratitude, understand what he means by it. You don't make a fuss with your un-swirly cupcake and single candle and no singing. All of a sudden, Joel feels his eyes prick and burn, and he rubs them quickly, wipes away the wetness. You touch his shoulder, make him look at you, and he clenches his jaw in embarrassment.

"Sorry," he mutters, "you just...know me so well."

There it is, your sunshine-smile, and you press a kiss to his naked chest, as high as you can reach.

"Sixty isn't that old, Joel. Don't even think about using it as an excuse to stop chopping firewood."

He chuckles and cups your face in one of his massive palms.

"No ma'am."

[twstwizard]

Clothes

Upon first day of your stay in twisted wonderland you realized you didn't have any clothes besides the ceremonial robe and a dusty uniform you were able to find in Ramshackle. Good thing you now have a few friends to borrow things from!

Type: Headcanons, SFW, Romantic or Platonic

Characters: Ace Trappola; Deuce Spade; Jack Howl; Epel Felmier; Sebek Zigvolt

AN: I'm surprised noone has addressed this yet... Unless we're walking around in Crewel's fashion dresses the entire time-

Ace Trappola

-The man is at first reluctant at sharing his clothes, calls you a hobo and teases endlessly, even insinuating that you secretly got rid of your clothes on purpose to have a piece of him. He's horrible as always.

-But as soon as you get fed up and are ready to turn to Duece for help, all of a sudden, the trouble maker has a spare T-shirt he can lend you. Afterwards the man is simply smug that you're wearing his panties. Expect lots of teasing.

- At some point it becomes second nature for him to lend you clothes, to the extent of you two sharing a wardrobe, which can lead to comical situations of him demanding a specific shirt back for an Unbirthday party.

Deuce Spade

-Unlike certain someone, Spade is happy to help his new friend. The man does get a bit flustered the first time he lends you a pair of slacks, but nothing else. There will be no judgment on his end, regardless of what article of clothing you may need.

- Main difference between his and Ace's approach to your problem is that Duece gives you "better" clothes, once he believes to be more comfortable and in better condition.

- Spade is a good friend above all. If it means sleeping without underwear, but you having a pair in turn, he's ready and willing to make such sacrifices.

Jack Howl

- The wolf is flustered (^_-). But much like Duece he's a good friend and will share his shirts and pants with you. Unlike Spade however, Jack will keep his underwear on himself, no matter if you have any or not, though he will help you at least to buy a pair.

- Beast man always lends you clean clothes, those neutral, easily usable in most situations. Jack praises himself on efficiency and fastness of his reactions, surprisingly that shows in the clothes too. All articles matching each scenario you might need in a very convenient timing.

-The young man also asks Ruggie for places which sell clothes cheaper or an easier way for you to get some. He's simply worried for you.

Epel Felmier

- Epel is of course a bit confused by your circumstances, but much like Duece won't rub it in your face. He's a country person, came from a place where people actually build strong communities, helping one another is simply a norm.

- Pomfior student will firstly lend you items he simply doesn't like. Perhaps an extravagant blouse here, a pair of shoes there. Now you look like a princess.

- Epel will also try and pull a few strings in his dorm to shake off some things off of his roommates and such. Are they fashion powerhouse or what?

- Secretly young Felmier will ask his grandmother to knit you a few things if the two of you do become close friends. It would be only fair you get to share the warmth only a family can provide.

Sebek Zigvolt

-HA! Don't be absurd he would never share cloth with a mere hu- Wait, you said Malleus takes midnight strolls near your dorm?! Cover yourself!

- Despite all the yelling and red face Sebek will lend you some clothes. Zigvolt lends you things he either outgrew or stopped wearing for some reason, they're surprisingly well kept.

- The longer the two of you are friends the more clothes he gives, soon giving you his newer items, at times, sevens forbid, socks.

- Despite how much he yells and claims it's all to shield Malleus's eyes from your from, it's balantly obvious he's genuinely worried for you. After all freshly bought clothing sets don't magically manifest in your dorm. Or do they?

[beloveds-embrace]

noona. noon. any angsty thoughts to share for the duke au? 👁️ (i’m craving angst sorry)

Original post. || cw: angst, neglect

I DO!! Angst version of the au would be if you weren’t welcomed at all. Sure, no one is being flat out rude to you, no one is actively sabotaging you and John doesn’t hit or force you into anything.

But it’s lonely.

The maids barely touch you, as if disgusted they have to help and tend to the woman their Duke needed to and not wanted to marry, and the butlers are the same. Especially the head butler Garrick. You still don’t know his first name and he doesn’t seem inclined to tell you.

During the dinner… nights with John, you’ve started noticing that your food isn’t quite as well done as his? Less decorated, occasionally burnt or not cooked well, but you don’t want to cause any trouble so you remain silent and John never asks why you seem to eat so little.

You do also meet Duke Riley, the man that John is said to have an incredibly close friendship with, something born during his time servicing the kingdom. You’ve heard so much about him, from bad to good, and you wonder how he actually is.

In the end, you wish you hadn’t met him, too. The humiliation of being flat-out ignored in your own home while he speaks amicably with John…

So yes. Life as Duchess Price isn’t a happy one, but you are just glad you aren’t physically hurting.

But you do find solace in the only kindness your parents had bothered to show you before they gave you away; your personal knight, König. He is the only one to not treat you as such. He is the only one you can confide in, feel just a little bit of happiness and friendship with even if you haven’t even seen his face yet.

“I’m so tired,” you whisper to him one night, under the blanket of the night sky. You’d thrown a simple shawl over your shoulders, and hadn’t questioned it when he fell in steps behind you, always a protective shadow. Today had been hard. You had also decided to no longer dine with John, not too excited about the lackluster food and the stilted conversations. Cold maids, lonely night… you ached for something more.

You take in a shuddering breath, wrapping the shawl tighter around yourself. Konig stands right beside the bench you are sitting on, a familiar and comforting sight and presence. But tonight, it’s not enough. “I’m so tired, König.” You repeat, your voice cracking.

König simply stares at you for a while; you are used to it, used to everything about him. The mask, the accent, the unyielding body that is always keeping you safe. The quiet congestions you have had, during the days you lock yourself away in your office to ignore the loneliness and sadness plaguing you.

You aren’t used to seeing König bend down in front of you, holding his hands out until you place them in his. Familiar pale eyes peer up at you. Proper etiquette doesn’t matter to you in this moment; who will chastise you for the lack of it when this entire duchy holds only the most basic form of respect for you?

Even if they did, you would not let go of König, your confidant. Your knight.

“…What do you need, mylady?”

After a silent moment, you take in a deep breath and look back at him. “…I want… someone who loves me enough to be kind towards me. I want someone who loves me.”

König nods his head. With bated breath, you watch silently as he brings your hands forward, under his mask, to kiss each knuckle on your hands.

“I am your knight, mylady. I am your sword, and your shield. I, too, can be your lover if that is what you want, mylady. Whatever you desire, it is my duty to provide.” König breathes out against your skin, eyes not once flicking away, words not once breaking. He is fully devoted in his decision. “Will you allow me, mylady? The decision is your, always has been. I cannot take you away from this horrible place-“ not yet. “-but I can give you my love and devotion, just as I’ve always done. Will you allow me, mylady?”

And after everything you’ve been through, all the pain and loneliness and exclusion- you can’t say no.

“…Yes, König.”

(By the time John begins to realize that he may have misjudged you, once you find out the truth, it is already far too late for mending any bridges. There is no particular feeling when you look at him, or any of his men. You only ask that no one bothers your time alone with your shadow, your knight. It’s far too late for anything.)

Part 2 + dukedom au masterlist

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 54

Chapter; Highlights

Before battle tomorrow-before they might stand a chance of actually saving Anielle.

He was still working through all that had transpired these months he'd been gone. The battles and losses. Where Dorian had gone with Manon and the Thirteen. Chaol could only pray his friend was successful-and that he didn't take it upon himself to forge the Lock.

Needing to unravel all he'd learned, he'd left Aelin and the others near the Great Hall to find whatever food they could, immediately.

Part of him half wondered if the mare knew that his back ached, that he needed his cane, but that he chose to be here.

He ran a hand down her ebony mane, then patted her strong neck. "Ready to trample some Valg grunts tomorrow, my friend?"

Farasha huffed, angling a dark eye at him as if to say, Are you?

Chaol smiled, and Yrene laughed softly. "I should head back to the hall," his wife said.

"See who needs help." But she lingered. Their eyes met over Farasha's powerful back.

He came around the horse, still mindful of her biting. "I know," he said quietly. Yrene angled her head. "Know what?"

Chaol interlaced their fingers. And then laid their hands atop her still-flat abdomen.

"Oh," was all Yrene said, her mouth popping open. "I- How?"

Chaol's heart thundered. "It's true, then." Her golden eyes scanned his. "Do you want it to be?"

Chaol slid a hand against her cheek. "More than I ever realized."

Yrene's smile was wide and lovely enough to fracture his heart. "It's true," she breathed.

"How far along?"

"Almost two months."

He studied her stomach, the place that would soon swell with the child growing inside her. Their child. "You didn't tell me, I'm assuming, because you didn't want me to worry."

Yrene bit her lip. "Something like that."

He snorted. "And when you were waddling around, belly near bursting?"

Yrene whacked his arm. "I'm not going to waddle."

Chaol laughed, and tugged her into his arms. "You'll waddle beautifully, was what I meant to say." Yrene's laughter reverberated into him, and Chaol kissed the top of her head, her temple. "We're having a child," he murmured onto her hair.

Her arms came around him. "We are," she whispered. "But how did you know?"

"My father," Chaol grumbled, "apparently possesses better observational skills than I do." He felt, more than saw, her cringe. "You're not angry I didn't tell you?"

"No. I would have appreciated hearing it from your lips first, but I understand why you didn't want to say anything yet. Stupid as it might be," he added, nipping at her ear. Yrene jabbed him in the ribs, and he laughed again.

Laughed, even though every day they'd fought in this battle, every opponent he'd faced, he'd dreaded making a fatal mistake. Had been unable to forget that should he fall, he'd be taking them both with him.

Her arms tightened around him, and Yrene nestled her head against his chest. "You'll be a brilliant father," she said softly. "The most brilliant one to ever exist."

"High praise indeed, coming from a woman who wanted to toss me from the highest window of the Torre a few months ago."

"A healer would never be SO unprofessional."

Chaol grinned, and breathed in her scent before he pulled back and brushed his mouth against hers. "I am happier than I can ever express, Yrene, to share this with you. Anything you need, I am yours to command."

Her lips twitched upward. "Dangerous words."

But Chaol ran his thumb over her wedding band. "I'll have to win this war quickly, then, so I can have our house built by the summer."

She rolled her eyes. "A noble reason to defeat Erawan."

Chaol stole another kiss from her. "As much as I would like to show you just how much I am at your command," he said against her mouth,

"I have another matter to deal with before bed." Yrene's brows rose.

He grimaced. "I need to introduce Aelin to my father. Before they run into each other." The man hadn't been near the hall when they'd arrived, and Chaol had been too worried for Farasha's well-being to bother hunting him down.

Yrene cringed, though amusement sparked in her eyes. "Is it bad if I want to join you? And bring snacks?"

Chaol slung an arm around her shoulders, giving Farasha a farewell stroke before they left. Despite the cane, each step was limping, and the pain in his back lanced down his legs, but it was secondary. All of it, even the damned war, was secondary to the woman at his side.

To the future they'd build together.

As well as Yrene's conversation with Chaol had gone, that's how badly things went between Aelin Galathynius and his father.

Yrene didn't bring snacks, but that was only because by the time they reached the Great Hall, they had intercepted his father. Storming toward the room where Aelin and her companions had gone for a reprieve.

"Father," Chaol said, falling into step beside him. Yrene said nothing, monitoring Chaol's movements. The pain in his back had to be great, if he was limping this deeply, even while her magic refilled. She had no idea where he'd left his chair—if it had been crushed under falling debris. She prayed it had not.

His father snapped, "You fail to wake me when the Queen of Terrasen arrives at my castle?"

"It wasn't a priority." Chaol halted before the door that opened into the small chamber that had been vacated for the queen and knocked.

A grunt was the only confirmation before Yrene’s husband shouldered open the door enough to poke his head inside. "My father," Chaol said to whoever was inside, presumably the queen, "would like to see you."

Silence, then the rustling of clothes and steps.

Yrene kept back as Aelin Galathynius appeared, her face and hands clean, but clothes still dirty. At her side stood that towering, silver-haired Fae warrior-Rowan Whitethorn.

Whom the royals had spoken of with such fear and respect months ago. In the room, Lady Elide sat against the far wall, a tray of food beside her, and the giant white wolf lay sprawled on the ground, monitoring with half-lidded eyes.

A shock to see the shift, to realize these Fae might be powerful and ancient, but they still had one foot in the forest. The queen, it seemed, preferred the form as well, her delicately pointed ears half-hidden by her unbound hair.

Behind her, there was no sign of the golden-haired, melancholy warrior, Gavriel, or the utterly terrifying Lorcan. Thank Silba for that, at least.

Aelin left the door open, though their two court members remained seated. Bored, almost. "Well, now," was all the queen said as she stepped into the hall.

Chaol's father looked over the warrior-prince at her side. Then he turned his head toward Chaol and said, "I assume they met in Wendlyn. After you sent her there."

Yrene tensed at the taunting in the man's voice. Bastard. Horrible bastard.

Aelin clicked her tongue. "Yes, yes, let's get all that out of the way. Though I don't think your son really regrets it, does he?" Aelin's eyes shifted to Yrene, and Yrene tried not to flinch under that turquoise-and-gold stare. Different from the fire she'd beheld that night in Innish, but still full of that razor-sharp awareness.

Different-they were both different from the girls they'd been. A smile curved the queen's mouth. "I think he made out rather well for himself." She frowned up at her consort. "Yrene, at least, doesn't seem like the sort to hog the blankets and snore in one's ear all night."

Yrene coughed as Prince Rowan only smiled at the queen. "I don't mind your snoring," he said mildly.

Aelin's mouth twitched when she turned to Chaol's father. Yrene's own laughter died at the lack of light on the man's face. Chaol was tense as a drawn bowstring as the queen said to his father, "Don't waste your breath on taunts. I'm tired, and hungry, and it won't end well for you."

"This is my keep."

Aelin made a good show of gaping at the ceiling, the walls, the floors. "Is it really?"

Yrene had to duck her head to hide her grin. So did Chaol.

But Aelin said to the Lord of Anielle, "I trust you're not going to get in our way."

A line in the sand. Yrene's breath caught in her throat.

Chaol's father said simply, "Last I looked you were not Queen of Adarlan."

"No, but your son is Hand to the King, which means he outranks you." Aelin smiled with horrific sweetness at Chaol. "Haven't you told him that?"

Yrene and Aelin were no longer the girls they'd been in Innish, yes, but that wildfire still remained in the queen's spirit. Wildfire touched with insanity.

Chaol shrugged. "I figured I'd tell him when the time arose." His father glowered.

Prince Rowan, however, said to the man, "You've defended and prepared your people admirably. We have no plans to take that from you."

"I don't need the approval of Fae brutes," the lord sneered Aelin clapped Rowan on the shoulder.

"Brute. I like that. Better than 'buzzard,' right?"

Yrene had no idea what the queen was talking about, but she held in her laugh anyway.

Aelin sketched a mocking bow to the Lord of Anielle. "On that lovely parting note, we're going to finish up our dinners. Enjoy your evening, we'll see you on the battlements tomorrow, and please do rot in hell." Then Aelin was turning away, a hand guiding her husband inside. But not before the queen threw a grin over her shoulder to Yrene and Chaol and said, eyes bright—with joy and warmth this time, "Congratulations."

How she knew, Yrene had no idea. But the Fae possessed a preternatural sense of smell. Yrene smiled all the same as she bowed her head-just before Aelin slammed the door in the Lord of Anielle's face.

Chaol turned to his father, any hint of amusement expertly hidden. "Well, you saw her."

Chaol's father shook with what Yrene supposed was a combination of rage and humiliation, and stalked away. It was one of the finest sights Yrene had ever seen.

From Chaol's smile, she knew her husband felt the same.

"What a horrible man." Elide finished off her chicken leg before handing the other to Fenrys, who had shifted back into his Fae form. He tore into it with a growl of appreciation. "Poor Lord Chaol."

Aelin, her aching legs stretched out before her as she leaned against the wall, finished off her own portion of chicken, then dug into a hunk of dark bread. "Poor Chaol, poor his mother, poor his brother. Poor everyone who has to deal with him."

At the lone, narrow window of the room, monitoring the dark army hundreds of feet below, Rowan snorted. "You were in rare form tonight."

Aelin saluted him with her hunk of hearty oaten bread. "Anyone who interrupts my dinner risks paying the price."

Rowan rolled his eyes, but smiled. Just as Aelin had seen him smile when they'd both scented what was on Yrene. The child in her.

She was happy for Yrene-for them both.

Chaol deserved that joy, perhaps more than anyone. As much as her own mate.

Aelin didn't let the thoughts travel further.

Not as she finished her bread and came to the window, leaning against Rowan's side. He slid an arm around her shoulders, casual and easy.

None of them mentioned Maeve.

Elide and Fenrys continued eating in silence, giving them what privacy they could in the small, bare room they'd be sharing, sleeping on bedrolls. The Lord of Anielle, it seemed, did not share her appreciation for luxury. Or basic comforts for his guests. Like hot baths. Or beds.

"The men are terrified," Rowan said, gazing out at the levels of the keep below. "You can smell it."

"They've held this keep for days now. They know what's waiting for them at dawn."

"Their fear," Rowan said, his jaw tightening, "is proof they do not trust our allies.

Proof they don't trust the khagan's army to actually save them. It will make for sloppy fighters. Could create a weakness where there shouldn't be one."

"Perhaps you should have told Chaol," Aelin said.

"He could give them some motivational speech."

"I have a feeling Chaol has given them plenty. This sort of fear rots the soul."

"What's to be done for it, then?" Rowan shook his head. "I don't know." But she sensed he did know. Sensed that he wanted to say something else, and either their current company or some sort of hesitation barred him.

So Aelin didn't push, and surveyed the battlements with their patrolling soldiers, the sprawling, dark army beyond. Baying cries and howls rent the night, the sounds unearthly enough that they dragged a shudder down her spine.

"Is a land battle easier or worse than one at sea?" Aelin asked her husband, her mate, peering at his tattooed face.

She'd only faced the ships in Skull's Bay, and even that had been over relatively quickly.

And against the ilken who'd swarmed them in the Stone Marshes, it had been more an extermination than anything. Not what awaited them tomorrow. Not what her friends had fought on the Narrow Sea while she and Manon had been in the mirror, then with Maeve on the beach.

Rowan considered. "They're just as messy, but in different ways."

"I'd rather fight on land," Fenrys grumbled.

"Because no one likes the smell of wet dog?" Aelin asked over her shoulder.

Fenrys laughed. "Exactly because of that."

At least he was smiling again.

Rowan's mouth twitched, but his eyes were hard as he surveyed the enemy army.

"Tomorrow's battle will be just as brutal," he said. "But the plan is sound."

They'd be on the battlements with Chaol, readying for any desperate maneuvers Morath might attempt when they found themselves being herded and crushed by the khagan's army.

Elide would be with Yrene and the other healers in the Great Hall, helping the injured.

Where Lorcan and Gavriel would be, Aelin could only assume. Both had peeled off upon arriving, the latter taking watch somewhere, and the former likely brooding. But they'd probably be fighting right alongside them.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Gavriel slipped into the room. "The army looks quiet enough," he said by way of greeting, then unceremoniously dropped to the floor beside Fenrys and hauled the platter of chicken toward him. "The men are rife with fear, though. Days of defending these walls have worn on them." Rowan nodded, not bothering to tell the Lion they'd just discussed this as Gavriel ripped into the food. "We'll have to make sure they don't balk tomorrow, then."

Indeed.

"I was wondering," Elide said to none of them in particular after a moment. "Since Maeve is an imposter, who would rule Doranelle if she was banished with all the other Valg?"

"Or burned to a crisp," Fenrys muttered.

Aelin might have smiled grimly, but Elide's question settled into her. Gavriel slowly set down the chicken. Rowan's arm dropped from Aelin's shoulders. His pine-green eyes were wide. "You."

Aelin blinked. "There are others from Mab's line. Galan, or Aedion—"

"The throne passes through the maternal line-to a female only. Or it should have, Rowan said. "You're the sole female with a direct, undiluted claim to Mab's bloodline."

"And your household, Rowan," Gavriel said. "Someone in your household would have a claim on Mora's half of the throne."

"Sellene. It would go to her." Even as a prince, Rowan's own heritage connecting him to Mora's bloodline had thinned to the point of being in name only. Aelin was more closely related to Elide, probably to Chaol, too, than she was to Rowan, despite their distant ancestry.

"Well, Sellene can have it," Aelin said, wiping her hands of dust that was not there. "Doranelle's hers." She wouldn't set foot in that city again, Maeve or no. She wasn't sure if that made her a coward. She didn't dare reach for her magic's comforting rumble.

"The Little Folk truly knew," Fenrys mused, rubbing his jaw. "What you were."

They had always known her, the Little Folk. Had saved her life ten years ago, and saved their lives these past few weeks. They had known her, and left gifts for her. Tribute, she'd thought, to Brannon's Heir. Not to... Gavriel murmured, "The Faerie Queen of the West."

Silence.

Aelin blurted, "Is that an actual title?"

"It is now," Fenrys muttered. Aelin shot him a look.

"With Sellene as the Fae Queen of the East," Rowan mused.

No one spoke for a good minute.

Aelin sighed up at the ceiling. "What's another fancy title, I suppose?"

They didn't answer, and Aelin tried not to let the weight of that title settle too heavily. All it implied. That she might not only look after the Little Folk on this continent, but with the cadre, begin a new homeland for any Fae who might wish to join them. For any of the Fae who had survived the slaughter in Terrasen ten years ago and might wish to return.

A fool's dream. One that she would likely not come to see. To create.

"The Faerie Queen of the West," Aelin said, tasting the words on her tongue.

Wondering how long she'd get to call herself such.

From the heavy quiet, she knew her companions were contemplating the same. And from the pain in Rowan's eyes, the rage and determination, she knew he was already calculating if it might somehow spare her from the sacrificial altar.

But that would come later. After tomorrow. If they survived.

There was a gate, and eternity lay beyond its black archway.

But not for her. No, there would be no Afterworld for her.

The gods had built another coffin, this time crafting it of that dark, glimmering stone.

Stone her fire could never melt. Never pierce. The only way to escape was to become it—dissolve into it like sea-foam on a beach.

Every breath was thinner than the previous one. They had not put any holes in this coffin.

Beyond her confines, she knew a second coffin sat beside hers. Knew, because the muffled screams within still reached her here.

Two princesses, one golden and one silver.

One young and one ancient. Both the cost of sealing that gate to eternity.

The air would run out soon. She'd already lost too much of it in her frantic clawing at the stone. Her fingertips pulsed where she'd broken nails and skin.

Those female screams became quieter.

She should accept it, embrace it. Only when she did would the lid open.

The air was so hot, so precious. She could not get out, could not get out—

Aelin hauled herself into waking. The room remained dark, her companions' deep breathing holding steady.

Open, fresh air. The stars just visible through the narrow window.

No Wyrdstone coffin. No gate poised to devour her whole. But she knew they were watching, somehow. Those wretched gods. Even here, they were watching. Waiting.

A sacrifice. That's all she was to them.

Nausea churned in her gut, but Aelin ignored it, ignored the tremors rippling through her. The heat under her skin.

Aelin turned onto her side, nestling closer into Rowan's solid warmth, Elena's muffled screams still ringing in her ears.

No, she would not be helpless again.