#not even trying to pretend he's not more at home in courtly intrigue than out in the woods somewhere

[hoboblaidd]

Winter Palace Solas is truly top five Solases. That's the Dread Wolf in the corner wearing the ugliest fucking hat in the world, holding a glass of wine that never runs dry, downing frilly Orlesian cakes and ham that "tastes of despair", people watching everyone, waltzing through an assassination plot drunk off his ass, and getting ready to dance with his partner. What an icon.

[evangeline-of-montfort]

ash garden (iii)

chapters 1 & 2 read it here on ao3

The bison, freed from Atara’s control, whip around in wild fear. They charge blindly, knocking raiders aside like bowling pins. I see a blur of black as Tana evades one with lethal grace. She ducks to the left and spins around again, pulling the trigger and taking the beast in the heart. It collapses, a two thousand pound deadweight, and I can practically feel the ground shudder.

“Those are a protected species,” Davidson gripes under his breath. 

Despite the circumstances, I smile. “Given that they’re trying to kill us—” Someone raises a gun, and I make a fist, squeezing his weapon into a crumpled ball—“I don’t think they give two shits about bison.” 

“You have a point,” he concedes. 

A raider takes advantage of our brief distraction to attack. Davidson reacts before I do, tossing a shield in front of himself like a grenade in a blinding flash of blue light. She slams into it with a sickening crunch. 

He staggers back a pace from the effort, and I move to catch him. “Are you okay?” 

Davidson throws out his hands. A flickering glow appears between them before blinking out again. “Ability exhaustion. I’m out.” 

“I can cover us,” I say, widening my focus. Every bit of metal in the vicinity sings in my perception. My ability envelopes us like a protective bubble, sending enemy bullets flying back towards their owners. 

He smiles grimly and draws a gun from his belt. “In that case, we’re about to see how good of a shot I still am.” 

We wreck havoc together, covering each other as we push forward. The premier’s aim is steady and unerring. Every time he pulls the trigger, a raider goes down. I’ve never encountered a better shot, barring my Samos cousins.

“I used to be one of the best snipers in the Nortan army,” Davidson says as I wave away another round of bullets. “Not proud of it, but the skill does come in handy.”

A greeny thrusts out her arms, and a tree erupts from the ground a hair from my face. Vines snake from the branches, as fast and agile as a pit viper. 

With a burst of concentration, I rip a gun out of a raider’s hand, turning it into a dual set of blades. The vines rip at my skin and hair, regrowing as soon as I cut them. It feels like I’m fighting an entire forest. Everywhere I turn, there’s another one, writhing in my vision until all I see is a blanket of verdant green. 

A gunshot rings out, and the vines wilt instantly without the power of a greenwarden. 

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun,” Davidson says. The raider topples over behind him, dead before she hits the ground.

“There’s plenty to go around,” I point out, sidestepping the tree. “As I recall, you seem to be the one that keeps saving my life.”

His easy manner disappears, and he looks me square in the eyes. “I consider that a duty, Evangeline. That’s why I’m here.”

Warmth blooms in my chest like a firework. Over the years, I’d worked closely enough with the premier to know that he’s fiercely protective of the people he loves. I’d just never stopped to consider that I had somehow become one of those people. 

The last two raiders back into the cover of a pine tree. One is a stoneskin, pebbles and earth sloughing off her rocky flesh. The other is a blood healer, probably a member of the former House Blonos. His face is unnaturally smooth, skin stretched tightly around his skull like a morph suit. I’ve never fought a Blonos son before, and Lord Arven didn’t have much to say about them in Theory. I wonder how hard they are to kill—or  if they can be killed. 

Before either of us can attack, the Nortans take us by surprise, and they both lunge at Davidson—the weaker target, with his abilities exhausted. He fires reflexively, taking the stoneskin in the shoulder, but she brushes it off with a snarl. 

Blonos is on him before he can do anything else, landing a kick to the gut. The premier gasps, doubling over. The gun clatters from his hand. 

The feeling that erupts in the pit of my stomach is similar to my reaction at seeing Tolly in danger. Red-hot anger surges in me like a torrent, and I unleash the energy with a shout. 

Guns and bullets shred under my wrath like paper. With another burst of willpower, I create a whirlwind of shrapnel, sending it swirling around the Nortans in gales of copper, gusts of steel.

The stoneskin falls under my onslaught, bleeding from countless wounds, dozens of projectiles buried like splinters in her gray skin. I swallow a bolt of nausea and look away. It’s not the worst way I’ve killed someone, but it’s pretty close.

Blonos heals just as quickly as he bleeds. A million cuts open on his too-perfect skin, here one second and gone the next. He curls his lip, utterly unaffected by the maelstrom. “Is that the worst you can do?” 

I sneer in response, but I can feel my energy waning already. A metal tornado is not sustainable for long periods of time. 

Blue energy flickers suddenly between Davidson’s hands. It’s weak, a shadow of his usual power, but it’s definitely  there . Then it flickers one last time and disappears.

Blonos turns to him, his expression still dripping with contempt. The last cuts on his face close over as my whirlwind slows and stops, metal projectiles dropping harmlessly to the ground. “My, how the mighty have fallen. Is this what Montfort is? Runaway Silver daughters and–”

He doesn’t get any further before I spear him in the chest. The lance goes through him like a knife through butter, in and out before he can blink. It’s a clean shot to the heart—one of the only ways to kill a blood healer. 

A part of me thinks of Corvium, of how my brother killed Mare’s the same exact way. Some scars never fade. 

Blonos falls slowly, as if through water. His frame seems to shrivel as his skin wrinkles and his hair turns gray, decades of anti-aging reversed in a single second. When his body finally hits the earth, it is surprisingly quiet, even somber. 

The silence that follows is almost deafening. 

It’s over. We’re alive. 

We’re alive. I take a deep breath, the first in what feels like hours. 

There was a time today when I thought that I wouldn’t be going home to Elane. That perhaps my intended fate was inescapable, and I would end up tethered to a throne after all. Relief washes over me—waves and waves of it, cold and sweet. 

“Thank you for showing up,” I manage to say, turning to Davidson. “And for that last distraction.” 

“Least I could do.” He frowns at the back of his hands. The tiny shield flickers more violently between them before blinking out again. “I pushed myself a little hard with the bison.” 

“The other option would’ve been dying, if you prefer that,” I remind him. “Now, let’s head back, before Elane and Carmadon go–”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. A sixth sense, honed over years of arena battles and courtly intrigue, tells me to stop. Something is wrong.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of movement—a shadow ghosting from the trees—and a glint of white as the sun flashes off her teeth, bared in a triumphant smile. 

Tana Iral draws a dagger from her belt and throws, moving so fast my eyes can’t follow her movement. But I was trained in a hard school, trained to be faster than even the silks of House Iral. I barely blink as I push outwards with my ability. 

I’ve done this so many times that I see it in my head without even trying. The tiny resistance as I stop the blade in midair and turn it back. The shocked look on Iral’s face as her own knife sinks into her chest and she crumples to the ground.

But that isn’t what happens.

In fact, nothing happens. My ability meets nothing, and the blade keeps coming. 

Time hangs suspended—half a second stretching for an eternity—as I freeze, too surprised to react. I don’t understand. This isn’t physically possible.

Sunlight gleams through the dagger: not off, through, and I want to scream. Tana’s wolfish smile makes sense now. The dagger is glass. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. 

My mind flashes to Elane, Ptolemus, Carm and Davidson, even Mare and Cal—everyone I thought I would have more time with. Everyone I thought I could make amends with. I’m so sorry. 

And then the moment ends, the blip in time brushed over. Someone—Davidson  —shoves me hard to the side, out of the way of impending doom. I hit the dirt and roll, springing to my feet in anticipation of a fight, but Tana has disappeared into the gathering darkness. Coward. 

“Thanks for the save,” I gasp, turning to him. “I thought I was–” 

My heart stutters midbeat. 

Davidson staggers, clutching his stomach. Scarlet seeps through his fingers, as red and inexorable as the dawn. 

He pushed me out of the way and took the knife himself. Shielding me even without his ability. 

“No.” I run to him, lowering him to the ground as his knees buckle and his legs give out. “No, no, no.” This is not happening. 

This cannot be happening. 

“I’ll get you to Carmadon,” I hear myself saying. “We’ll find a medic. Skin healers—they can fix this. They can fix anything. Do you hear me?”

Even in this state, his composure doesn’t fail. When he speaks, his voice is calm and measured. “Yes, Evangeline… I hear you.” For a second, if I close my eyes, I can pretend that everything is alright; that I am nineteen again, and the premier is chiding me for an impulsive decision. 

But I have to open them again eventually, and I come face-to-face with cold reality—Davidson slumped on the ground, crimson still seeping through his shirt. My hands curl uselessly at my sides. I was raised on a battlefield with skin healers in the wings, ready to treat anything. I don’t know what to do in this situation. 

Maybe there’s nothing I can do, and that’s the worst truth of all. 

The long shadows and mountain air chill me to the bone as I kneel at his side, my knees digging into the freezing earth, but I refuse to move. “They—they can fix anything,” I repeat again, robotically, but this time even I can hear the denial in my voice. 

Davidson shakes his head, his gold eyes piercing me to the bone. “Not… this,” he rasps, and blood flecks his lips. I don’t want to think about the way the glass probably shattered and cut up his insides. “There’s no way back, Evangeline.” 

My brain refuses to comprehend his words. Dane Davidson was—no,  is —a visionary, rebel, fighter, and leader. A man who escaped from Norta’s Silver boot to crush kingdoms to dust. He couldn’t possibly be brought low by an assassin’s dagger. 

He couldn’t possibly be brought low saving me.

I’m not worth that. 

He grips my hand with surprising strength. His breaths come shallower, and his chest rattles as he fights for life. Despite my denials, I’ve seen enough battlefield deaths to know what will happen next.

The inevitable.  

I swallow, surprised to feel tears streaking down my face. Tears I never wept after the death of my father, five years ago on that cursed bridge in Archeon. 

But I cry them now. Davidson was the father of a country, an entire dream made reality. And more than that, he gave me advice, mentorship, a new life in Montfort. He was more of a father to me than the man who married my mother.

His life prevented the death of millions, and now, because of me, it’s about to end. 

“Why?” I find myself asking. “Why did you just… trade your life for mine?” 

“You are worth it—worth dying for. We have more important things… to talk about.” He clutches at the collar of his shirt with trembling fingers, and for a second I think he’s struggling for air. Then Davidson produces a thin chain, and my breath catches when I see what’s on the end. 

The ring glints in the waning sunlight, still untarnished after decades. It is identical to the one his husband wears: silver for the color of Carm’s blood, gold for Davidson’s burning gaze.

“Give this to Carmadon,” the premier whispers, Something in my chest shatters at the way he says his husband’s name, the way he pores slowly over each syllable. Carmadon. Car-ma-don, like he doesn’t want to let it go. “Tell him I am sorry. He—he will understand.” 

I can only find it in me to nod wordlessly. My vision blurs as Davidson’s fingers slacken, still holding the ring, clasping it to his chest as it rises and falls. “ I am sorry,” I manage to stutter. “I should’ve done more—should’ve—”

“Rage and guilt destroy lives brighter than yours,” he interrupts with surprising force, suddenly gripping my fingers. His hands are callused, still warm, and I take this feeling, this moment, and bury it deep in my chest. Willing myself to never forget it. “You hold your emotions too tight, Evangeline. Please, don’t let this be the case with me.” 

“Still giving advice, still trying to better someone else,” I say quietly, but I know he’s right. Ice-cold anger already whispers through my veins, trying to eclipse the sorrow in my heart. Anger at Iral, anger at the Silver Secession, anger at myself most of all. “Some things never change.”

His voice is getting softer, but it is no less assured. I should’ve known a flame like Davidson’s would burn until the end. “That is who I always have been. My entire life. I’m… content with that.”

“That is good,” I whisper. Every other word that has ever existed fails me. They don’t come close to describing the gravity of this moment. There’s nothing else to say.

“But now,” Davidson breathes, “I am done. But you—” He squeezes my hand again, weakly, and with an awful finality—“carry on. Have strength, Evangeline.”

The rise and fall of his chest slows and stops.

I kneel there, my hands still gripping his, my chest hollowed of all emotion as I keep vigil in the bitter cold. 

The sun dips below the mountains, gold fading to scarlet fading to deep blue.

I do not move again until the scarlet returns in the east.  

~~~

taglist: @freaky-freiday @evangelineartemiasamos @farleydiana @fuvkingmagnus @folkoftheair @lilyharvord @scarletbarrow @gansey-just-gansey @glossy-vanilla

[missn11]

Chapter two and three of The Devil’s Advocate, since chapter two is quite short, but these chapters are giving us some build up by introducing a mysterious woman luring people in a poorer neighborhood to the local abandoned church with her song.  And we catch up with Liza and Owain and see how things are done in the Atlanta Camarilla court.  

The song called. Antwuan made his excuses to his friends and left. They weren’t going anywhere. Nobody Antwuan knew was going anywhere. Nobody but Antwuan. His friends had always ragged on him. Except for Little Johnnie, Antwuan was the only one who’d stayed out of trouble, “kept his nose clean,” like his mama put it. Soon he would be old enough to work for his uncle Maurice driving a cab. He was going to save some money, buy his own place. The ladies would like that. He wasn’t going to spend his whole life in Reynoldstown. 

I seen too many folks get shot down, or go crazy on drugs. None of Antwuan’s friends really thought they’d live much The Devil's Advocate 63 past thirty, anyhow. None except Little Johnnie, and he was just too scared to get himself killed. Antwuan liked hanging out with his friends, but he didn’t need them every night. And it wasn’t every night that the song called. The first time Antwuan had gone had been for other reasons. Taquanna had hinted that he should come, so he’d figured, play his cards right, he might get down her pants. Seemed worth a shot. Since then, though, there was no question. The song called, he was there.

The old church had always been a part of the scenery for Antwuan. It was there, he just didn’t mess with it. Nobody messed with it. The place had that feel to it, and people stayed away. Not even the up and coming gangstas congregated there. Hell, Antwuan reasoned, plenty other boarded up buildings to trash. 

Lol, I think we have a title drop here with that street name!

Again as he approached, Antwuan heard the notes that floated through the night and sum- 64 Gherbod Fleming moned him. He had never heard the song before that first time, but now he heard it every time, no matter where he was. This past summer he’d been down at a Braves’ game, and even over the miles, the traffic, and the crowds he’d heard it and hopped on MARTA and gotten back as quickly as he could. There was no one else around as he walked up the cracked sidewalk into the shadows surrounding the church. But there would be others, he knew. The song would reach out to those who were aware, and many would come. Antwuan was glad he lived so close and could almost always make it. He reached for the door, the lofty, lilting notes pulling him more forcefully now. It was a prelude, as his mama called it when she made him go to their church, only this music was far more alluring than any church prelude, and the service was nothing he would expect from Preacher Rutherford. Antwuan chuckled at the thought, but immediately fell silent as he entered.

She stood at the front of the sanctuary before the toppled, graffiti-carven pulpit—the pale angel. Her skin was white as ivory, made more noticeably so by the dark black hair and straight bangs that framed her thin face, now lifted toward the heavens, eyes closed, lips slightly parted to allow forth the most enticing sound heard to man.

Place your bets on what Clan this woman is! I’m thinking at the moment a Toreador with a high level Presence.

Her voice brought them to her, held them there, not that they would want to tear themselves away. Antwuan closed his eyes, let the music ease his mind, carrying away thoughts of trouble, of his mama pestering him to get a job now instead of waiting till he was old enough to work for his uncle, of the long empty days since he’d dropped out of school, of wondering if the gunshots he heard at night would kill a member of his family or one of his friends. The daily concerns were washed away, replaced by soothing music, the closest thing to true contentment that he’d ever experienced. But even this contentment was not complete. At its heart was a tiny ache, the seed of desire, a rising need. The music did not erase this need, did not carry it away, but rather caressed it, cared for it. Now the music changed, shifted indescribably. Antwuan knew that if he opened his eyes he would see the others around him, ten or fifteen of them. He felt the familiar presence of Taquanna beside him, her shoulder inches from his. The angel still 66 Gherbod Fleming sang above them; her music reminded Antwuan of a song his grandmother used to sing to him as a little boy, but he couldn’t quite fully summon the tune to memory. Besides, that would only distract him from the pleasure at hand.

and then they dance and Antwuan has sex with Taquanna, which isn’t told in great detail, more tastefully really. Then later Antwuan feels super happy on the way home and he collapsed on his bed, sleeping until very late into the day.

Chapter three starts with Liza making her way to the art museum for the Camarilla gathering

Liza took a detour through Piedmont Park. She loved the freedom of walking the city at night by herself, something she couldn’t do as a mortal. Not only did she revel in her newfound powers, she always looked for a chance to show them off, to convince herself they were real more than to impress anyone else. Liza don’t need nobody else, she told herself quite often. She hoped somebody would give her trouble, wished that some thinks-he’stough asshole would try to mug her, or better yet, to rape her. She’d leave him with his dick stuffed down his throat. I bet ol’ Dietrich give Francesca a big hard one, Liza mused.

Probably got spikes just like on his head. The Devil's Advocate 69 Strangely enough, it was Francesca that intrigued Liza more. The way she rrrolls her rrrrs. The very thought gave Liza shivers. Maybe the two women would meet again, without Dietrich. The freak. Who knew when another Sabbat mission might bring them together again? The team had worked well enough: Liza, the Atlanta native, guiding; Dietrich helping herd their prey; Francesca giving the orders and immobilizing old what’s-his-name at the end. To Liza’s disappointment, it was a slow night in Piedmont Park. After about forty-five minutes completely unmolested—not even a nibble—she headed toward the High Museum of Art and Prince Benison’s exhibit.  

The Camarilla, the vampire sect that controlled Atlanta, claimed every vampire as a member. So Liza, as an Atlanta Kindred, was automatically invited, even if Benison didn’t really want her there. Technically, she was an anarch, a rebel who didn’t acknowledge the strictures of the Camarilla, at least not all of them. But since the Camarilla claimed her, there was plenty of gray area to use as she saw fit. Liza liked gray area. Gray area meant freedom. Although if Benison, or any of the 70 Gherbod Fleming other Atlanta Kindred for that matter, found out about her Sabbat connections, that would be the end of freedom, not to mention her life. She’d be staked, or beheaded, or left out for the sun, or all three.

And we get our first look of who’s who of the Atlanta Camarilla court at the gathering. 

Occasionally, Benison had midnight prayer breakfasts at Rhodes Hall, his mansion just a bit down Peachtree Street. Liza avoided those like the plague. No way was she going to go listen to the crazy Malkavian prince spout scripture, pretending that God still cared about the Damned. Liza the The Devil's Advocate 71 anarch had that freedom. She could skip out on any gathering she felt like. Not so for these other Kindred. Stupid bastards. Prince Benison frowned on subjects missing his courtly functions. That was another reason to attend this relatively painless exhibit: to rub it in the others’ faces that she didn’t have to be there. 

And they were all there all right, Liza noticed: Eleanor, the prince’s snobby bitch wife wearing her poofy Gone With the Wind dress; Benjamin and Thelonious, resident legal eagle and Mr. Civil Rights, brothers who bought into the white folks’ world; Owain Evans, the youthful and good-looking but boring-ass businessman; Hannah, the local Tremere grand wizard or whatever; Marlene, artist wannabe, porn queen more likely. There were others too, but Liza was distracted by the sight of Alex Horndiller, Benison’s righthand ghoul, leading two young men, mortals, toward the center of the gallery. She strutted over to them, her black tights drawing quite a few stares amidst the formal evening wear crowd.

Liza causes a stir when she feeds on two of the ghouls before the Prince has a chance for the first sip.

She slapped the ghoul on the shoulder, hard enough that he almost stumbled. “Corndicker, what you got for me?” Without another word, Liza took the forearm of the first young man, tall, blond, maybe in his early twenties, and sank her teeth in. He flinched only slightly; the collective gasp that arose was from the onlookers. Liza tried not to 72 Gherbod Fleming laugh—she hated when blood ran out her nose— but it was so like the courtly Kindred to be shocked…like she knew they would be. The two men were the refreshments for the evening, common vessels, but of course the prince should have enjoyed the ceremonious first sip. Liza wasn’t hungry, not after feeding on that vampire sap with Francesca and the Elephant Man, but this was almost as much fun as ripping apart muggers in the park would have been. She let go of the first man and grinned at the irate Horndiller, red splotches forming on his face. “Not bad,” she said as she winked and pinched the blond vessel’s ass. “And I like the Dixie cup.” Before Horndiller could form his indignant sputterings into words, Liza sank her teeth into the second man, stockier and more darkly complected than his counterpart.

She had drunk only a little when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Corndicker’s got more balls than I…but before she could finish the thought, she was spun roughly around, and to her shock, it was not Horndiller who held her. Instead, it was J. Benison Hodge, prince of Atlanta. Liza stumbled backward in surprise, but the prince’s iron grip held her upright, his fingers pressing down to the bone of her shoulder. He towered above her, his massive dark red beard inches from her face, his green eyes ablaze with more anger than Liza had ever seen in them. 

She tried to speak but The Devil's Advocate 73 could only wince at the pain as he squeezed her shoulder more tightly. The prince spoke in a low, throaty growl. “I offer hospitality, and you mock it.” The words were meant for her, but Hodge’s forceful baritone easily carried across the chamber to the onlooking Kindred, about whom Liza had very nearly forgotten. The prince released her shoulder and quickly drew back his hand to strike her backhanded across the face…but he stopped, spotless white glove raised, arm trembling with rage. His stiffened jaw forced his beard forward. “I will not tolerate this.”

Liza could do nothing but cringe at this awesome display of barely controlled ferocity. One swipe of his gloved fist would likely crush every bone in her face. She suddenly felt very young and weak and small confronted with this force of nature that was the prince. Benison took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Just as slowly, he lowered his arm. Not for one moment did his severe gaze release Liza from scrutiny. “For one year and one night, I do not want to see you, I do not want to so much as hear report of your name.” A savage, psychotic glint flashed across the prince’s fiery green eyes, as if he wanted to end it now, as if he wanted nothing more than to strike her down this instant for her affront to his honor, but the brief wavering passed, and though his wrath was undiminished, restraint held the day. “If I do, 74 Gherbod Fleming you will find final death.” The prince turned his back to her. “Begone.” It took Liza a second to realize that she had not been struck down, that he had not snapped her neck as surely he could have. She swallowed her wounded pride and slunk away

Then we switch over to Owain’s POV, who’s still thinking about the chess game he lost.

Owain probably had never been to a courtly function in a fouler mood. Three hundred years of strategy and planning abruptly catapulted to hell, he kept telling himself. It was not a misfortune he could lightly set aside and forget. How? How could it happen? Overconfidence? Carelessness? The art exhibit was hardly a sufficient distraction. At least it’s not one of those damnable prayer breakfasts. Prince Benison, through his contacts on the board of the High Museum, had commandeered this gallery to show the artwork of one of the Atlanta Kindred, Marlene. Marlene fancied herself something of a sculptor, and though she was Toreador, Owain did not feel that the term “art” accurately described her accomplishments. Apparently ceramics or clay were too subtle media; Marlene had taken to welding together various shapes and sizes of scrap metal and then attaching somewhat grandiose titles to the resulting monstrosities. What her work lacked in vision it certainly made up in magnitude. No mantlepiece The Devil's Advocate 75 collectibles in this portfolio.

Not a big lover of modern art is he? XD

As usual at these functions, Owain attempted to stay out of the way. There was much more to be learned from watching and listening than from taking a lead in most endeavors, a fact that Owain had learned well over his centuries of vampiric existence. And one that anarch rabble would do well to learn, Owain thought as Liza was shown the door. Her little outburst had been entertaining. Owain had to admit that, although he had been quite guarded in not displaying his amusement at the spectacle. She won’t live long confronting a prince that way. Owain was surprised by her brazen recklessness, her stupidity. There are more efficient ways to undermine a princes’ position, subtler ways, safer ways. Owain could only wonder if the prince’s treatment of her might have been more irreversibly detrimental had she had time to actually insult the “artwork.”

At the time of Liza’s little scene, Owain had been standing to a side of the room, near the Tremere chantry leader, reclusive Hannah. He was close enough that most passersby, assuming that he and Hannah were merely pausing in conversation, continued on without disturbing him, but not so close that he actually had to speak to the Tremere. Owain suspected that Hannah appreciated the arrangement as well, she not being one of the more socially ambitious Kindred in the city. For the most 76 Gherbod Fleming part, the only people who expressed more than the most passing of interests in speaking to Hannah were her Tremere lessers from the chantry. Several attempted to toady but quickly retreated having received nothing but coldly polite and formal responses

Owain also noticed that Chantry Mistress Hannah’s reaction to the anarch-prince confrontation was as muted as his own, only a slight wrinkling of her nose indicating her distaste. Owain himself was not a stickler for manners. Over the years he had come to see their value as a stabilizing factor in both mortal and Kindred affairs. He was not offended by the “affront to the prince’s honor.” Rather he was dismayed by the anarch’s idiocy. Owain shook his head thinking of her misguided actions. She wanted to embarrass him, to damage his reputation. 

But Hodge came out looking stronger than ever, and now she’s banished for a year and a night. Owain laughed to himself. A nice touch that—a year and a night. Hodge does have a flair for the dramatic. The duration of the punishment was a clear echo of the length of Arthurian quests—a year and a day. Owain was particularly enamored with the legends, as many of the earliest were of Welsh origin. It was clear to Owain that the prince saw himself as some type of crusading knight, protector of moral fortitude. It fit all too perfectly with the prince’s other derangements. 

No, Owain was not offended by Liza’s little show, unlike many of the other gathered Kindred who bought so completely into the aura of southern gentility that Hodge, his wife Eleanor, and his sire Aunt Bedelia so convincingly affected. To Owain etiquette was a means, not an end unto itself. It was sometimes the only keeper of civility between enemies, and more importantly it was a veil behind which to work deceit. That line of thought reminded Owain that there was business to be conducted this evening. Mostly he was biding his time, making sure to stay long enough not to insult the prince, but not so long as to seem to be attempting to ingratiate himself. Almost no vampire, Owain felt, was worth the time of a social engagement, and very few mortals or ghouls. But if he had to be here, he might as well get something accomplished.

Then Owain tends to some business but first he has a brief encounter with the Prince’s sire, Aunt Bedelia.

He scanned the room until he saw Benjamin, a fellow Ventrue but hardly a friend. As he moved to leave his safe haven near Hannah, however, Owain nearly stumbled over Aunt Bedelia in her antique wheelchair being ushered around the gallery by her childe the prince. “Goodness, J. Benison. Someone has stepped on me,” Aunt Bedelia chittered shrilly. “Who is that?” She squinted up through her half-moon spectacles in Owain’s general direction. Her heavy wool dress swallowed her frail form. “My apologies, Mother,” muttered the prince, 78 Gherbod Fleming gracious and mild-mannered now that civility was restored to the gathering. “This is Owain Evans.” Owain smiled dutifully. “Never heard of him.” “Of course you have, Mother,” Benison patiently reminded her. “He came from Europe during the Great War. He’s from Wales originally. He…” “Never heard of him,” Bedelia snapped, testily this time. 

The prince lowered his head and sighed. “Of course you haven’t, mother. Mother, I present to you Owain Evans, Ventrue of King Road, Atlanta. Mr. Evans, my sire Aunt Bedelia.” Bedelia held her left hand before her. Owain, standing to her right, glanced at the prince who was watching him expectantly, so he stepped around her, delicately took her hand, and kissed it. “The pleasure is all mine, Aunt Bedelia.” “Charmed, I’m sure.” Bedelia smiled sweetly, quite content now that she had been paid the proper respect; so content, in fact, that she had apparently fallen instantly asleep, her eyes closed now instead of squinted. She began to snore quietly. 

Benison was smiling broadly. “Always good to see you, Owain. Mother and I couldn’t be happier that you made it this evening. Enjoying the artwork?” Before Owain could answer, the prince glanced off to his left. “No, I don’t think we need to send any- The Devil's Advocate 79 one to follow her,” he said, answering a question that no one had asked. Then, without missing a beat, he was smiling at Owain again. Owain hesitated. This peculiar behavior was nothing new for Benison.

The prince waited a moment. “The artwork?” he asked again. “Oh yes,” Owain assured him. “I’ve seen nothing like it elsewhere.” Benison cuffed Owain on the shoulder and laughed heartily. “Good, good. Of course you haven’t. Our little Marlene is quite the artist.” “She is something,” Owain agreed. He wondered what else Marlene was to the prince that she should merit such patronage. Owain had it on good authority that the prince’s wife was no paragon of fidelity. Perhaps the indiscretion was reciprocated. Though few vampires retained any type of sexual desire, there were always other…displays of affection that a spouse might guard jealously. “Well, Mother and I must attend the other guests,” said the prince. “Always good to see you, Owain. Enjoy the exhibit.” 

At this, Bedelia perked up. Her gentle snoring ceased abruptly as she blinked herself awake. She squinted up at Owain as if she had just asked him a question and was expecting an answer. Owain, nodding respectfully at the prince, saw that Bedelia was still watching him expectantly. “A 80 Gherbod Fleming pleasure to see you, madame,” he offered. She continued staring at him, as if oblivious to his statement. “Have we met, young man?” Benison broke in quickly, “Well, Mother, here’s your favorite bridge partner, Hannah,” as he wheeled her away. “J. Benison, why didn’t you introduce us?” Bedelia was asking, but the prince continued on their way, greeting Hannah with great enthusiasm and seeming not to hear the protestations of his sire.

Owain gratefully slipped away. He always had gotten on fairly well with the prince. Both were warriors and, even though their wars were of different eras, there was a certain camaraderie in that. Aunt Bedelia was a different matter. Owain was sure her “forgetfulness” was merely an intended slight, a game meant to lessen him somehow. He shrugged off the encounter. Let the old hag pretend she doesn’t know me. I’d rather continue advising the prince than have her approval. Now where has Benjamin gotten to? Must have slipped into a side gallery.

He also skirted the main work of the exhibit, a behemoth of a piece consisting of three major chunks of curved and twisted metal The Devil's Advocate 81 with numerous smaller additions, suspended in its entirity from the ceiling by chains. It was a work Marlene had crafted several years ago titled “Benison’s Ride,” in honor of the prince’s purging of the Atlanta area of those anarchs and caitiffs who had not paid him the respect of announcing their presence to the court. Benison was quite fond of the piece and arranged for public viewings periodically for the edification of the Kindred in his domain. A vociferous Brujah had surmised that the sculpture was actually a representation of a whale spewing forth a Volkswagon. The prince felt otherwise. That particular Brujah no longer resided in Atlanta. Other colorful yet more discreet speculations had included but not been limited to: a severely disfigured head wearing a propeller hat, three falcons fornicating, and a ballet dancer engaged in projectile vomiting. At the original unveiling, Owain had limited his response to polite applause. 

Finally Owain finds Benjamin with the Prince’s wife Eleanor.

Benjamin, an African-American dandy with his impeccable Brooks Brothers suit, tidy short-cropped hair, and wirerimmed glasses, was relatively young in his undeath but there was power in his blood. Next to the prince’s wife Eleanor, he was ostensibly the most influential Ventrue in Atlanta. Owain tended to keep his distance from clan politics; he’d been there too many times before. The fewer everyday entanglements the better, he felt. Both Benjamin and Eleanor, however, held this detachment against Owain and regarded him with suspicion. If they only knew how much older and more powerful he was than they, they would fear him as well.

“Benjamin, we must speak,” Owain said as he approached. A young female, whose name escaped Owain at the moment, edged away from Benjamin with only a glare at Owain, a grudging display of deference to the elder. Benjamin frowned, the expression causing his glasses to slide down his nose. “Yes, Owain, how The Devil's Advocate 83 may I be of service?” he asked in a cool formal tone. Benjamin’s slight but noticable English accent always amused Owain. True, the young lawyer had studied for several years at Oxford, but after more than fifteen years back in the States such an acquired accent would normally have faded. Unless, of course, the bearer consciously chose to maintain it as an affectation, a vanity. Owain, after living in Wales, London, France, Spain, and now Atlanta, had studied language and made a concerted effort to acquire an almost accentless English that raised no eyebrows. Speech patterns could give all too much away about a person. Even his current name, “Owain Evans,” was a concession to the need to remain unobtrusive and seemed choppy and harsh in comparison to his original “Owain ap Ieuan.” “Owain?” Benjamin’s voice snapped Owain out of his woolgathering, a bad habit and one he’d been succumbing to increasingly of late. “How may I help you?”

Owain edged closer to his fellow Ventrue and spoke in a low voice that would not be overheard by the other Kindred milling about. “I need a favor, a simple thing really.” Benjamin regarded Owain skeptically but said nothing. “There is a certain case,” Owain continued, “that will be heard this week by Justice Chamberlain of the Superior Court. You know Justice Chamberlain?” Benjamin shrugged noncommittally as he pushed 84 Gherbod Fleming his glasses back up. “He’s an acquaintance.” “Ah. How fortunate. You see, this particular case involves a zoning dispute. Mercator Manufacturing has bought property near downtown with the intention of constructing a regional distribution center. Unfortunately, certain rather reactionary individuals, most notably the Citizens Empowerment Union, have taken it into their heads that such a project would not be a desirable addition to the area. Never mind the jobs it would bring. Never mind the investment in surrounding neighborhoods….” “Never mind,” Benjamin interrupted, unable to hold his tongue any longer, “that the jobs would be non-union minimum wage, or that the people would be working for an international corporation with a history of closing shop when standards of living rise to a point where workers demand raises, then relocating to centers of cheap foreign labor.”

Despite Benjamin’s refusal, since the whole thing is just basically wage slavery, Owain blackmails him into agreeing since he knows about his relationship with the Prince’s wife Eleanor. 

He loves Eleanor too deeply to harm her, but you…? I don’t think he would exercise such restraint in dealing with you.” 86 Gherbod Fleming A polite smile masked the venom of Owain’s words to any who might be watching. Owain stepped back. Benjamin could not hide his dismay, his shock, his fear. His every muscle was taut; his glasses slid down his nose again. “Now that I think of it,” Owain went on, “not only will Chamberlain uphold the rezoning, but the Georgia Supreme Court will refuse to hear the appeal.” He winked at the still speechless Benjamin. “I’ll be in touch.” Owain turned and left the side gallery laughing to himself at the expression on young Benjamin’s face. That should teach him some respect for his elders.

Yikes, Owain! But we knew that anyway,from when he killed his niece in las and her children. After being a really huge dick, Owain walks back to the main gallery and sees a wild scene unfolding.

Just as Owain entered the main gallery, a cacophony of gasps, exclamations, and laughter errupted. Owain saw why instantly. Atop “Benison’s Ride” perched Albert, the wiry, bearded Malkavian known to all Kindred in Atlanta. Completely naked. “On, Dasher! On, Dancer!” He rocked back and forth, in his own way reenacting the prince’s heroic ride as the massive metal sculpture wobbled precariously beneath him. Marlene, the self-proclaimed artist, had fainted dead away. The prince, doting over Aunt Bedelia at the other end of the gallery, his back turned, was quite oblivious to the evening’s second spectacle behind him. That was as much as Owain cared to see. He nonchalantly eased around the room—the oppo- The Devil's Advocate 87 site end from the prince—toward the elevator. Several Kindred were ordering Albert to dismount, but they were unwilling to risk breaking the sculpture by pulling him from his seat. As the elevator doors closed behind Owain, he could hear Albert singing, “Rollin’ rollin’ rollin, keep them dogs a-rollin’!” at the top of his lungs, the sculpted representation of the prince towering upward between his hairy legs like a giant scrap metal phallus. And then dead silence. Owain could picture the prince turning around. “Albert!” 

[carbonitekisses]

New Threats and Threads

III

Cersei hates having the dirty people of Kings Landing in the throne room, the same people that ridiculed her when she walked naked in the streets of the city. However, they will be needed in the future. They are the ones that will die in the battlefield and starve without the harvest. Let the commoners that are present today spread word to the rest, of the dragon queen come to burn them alive. You have met your match, Daenerys Targaryen. No one speaks yet the panic is audible and echoes against the vaulted ceiling. The throne is the last thing that remains to me. 

//

Little birds. Sansa needs to speak to Arya. Privacy is practically nonexistent if we don't get rid of Varys’ ‘little birds’.

Jon brought more than people to their home. Memories, shadows, and secrets trailed behind him when he arrived.

On AO3

//

How quick are the vermin to follow the lute. Cersei breathes in the fear of the courtiers, lords, ladies, and peasants. They are wise to do so. The lute plays no lies. 

"...and I were the only ones able to escape from that hell. For it was hell, your grace. Carts, gold, horses, food...men. Burnin'." Weak lips tremble while eyes widen in remembrance, "Night was not able to-to hide—"

Cersei struggles to maneuver her features into that of a caring queen. "Continue, you are there no longer. We must know what new threat the seven kingdoms are now facing."

In truth, she has already heard the trembling boy's report. He was half dragged into the throne room and accused of being a deserter by one of the City Watch. Ashes, he had cried kneeling before the throne, tha's all was left of us. The boy inside the polished soldier's garb says nothing that she had not heard from Jamie before he abandoned her. They had planned on holding an assembly like the one being held right now. Jamie would have stood beside her, reminding the lords and ladies of the Targaryen threat. But then he left. He betrayed her and left on a halfwit's quest for honor. And so now she has to make due with the sobbing mess before her. 

The women shuffle their feet hidden under skirts. The men divert their eyes away from the boy as he tries to regain his composure. Perhaps his sniffles work in my favour, Cersei thinks, Jamie would have stood tall and proud. Cersei half-listens as the boy begins to speak again. The boy's fear heightens their own. Cry some more, boy. Make them see what you saw that day. 

"We waited until it was dark to come out. When we did we saw—" his arm comes up to clean his dribbling nose "—the bodies. They was nothing more than ashes in the form of men. A little wind and they crumbled into the ground. The dragon queen even left the bodies of my liege lord and his son in the field." The archer hammered onto his uniform catches the light streaming in. "Left them bones there, she did. They was good men an' she burnt them."

Here is the reaction she had waited for.

Tarly.

The name is whispered by terrified eyes. They would speak it if they didn't fear her. Instead, the name of the nobles' dead contemporary walks unspoken amongst them. She feels almost inclined to thank the silver-haired bitch. Cersei knew her position in Kings Landing was not secure after the destruction of the Sept although the chaos that followed allowed her to easily claim the throne.  And then came a Targaryen conquerer from beyond the Narrow Sea with Dothraki hordes, Unsullied, and dragons. The stupid twit had everything to win the game. She had the men, the firepower, the ships. The day she burnt an entire field of Westerosi men and the Tarlys was the day she lost to Cersei.

"This is the danger we face now. When I last spoke of her, in this very hall, there were some lords who were willing to betray me and seek alliances with her. Do you know what worth she places in alliances?" She rises from the throne and descends the many steps that lead up to it. "Daenerys had Lord Tarly and his son in her possession." She is halfway down. "There was no offer to be sent to the Wall. There was no offer to keep them as hostages."

Cersei stops before she reaches the floor. All of the people gathered in the hall look so small from where she stands. "She could have asked to trade them for her allies, the traitors Ellaria Sand of Dorne and Yara Greyjoy. Instead they remained in the black cells. Unprotected and unspoken for. What does that say of her state of mind? Her actions speak of madness. Fire and blood are the Targaryen words." 

Nothing unites people more than fear. Daenerys Targaryen has proven with the Tarlys that the highborns of Westeros are not safe from her dragonfire. She has pushed any potential Westerosi allies into Cersei's waiting arms. Now, it is only a matter of turning the commoners against the invader. 

"Westeros must stand together if we are to defeat this new threat. Nobles and smallfolk alike." The queen tilts her head slightly upwards in order to address the small pack of commoners standing in the back of the hall. "Be assured, for as much as the Targaryen pretender speaks of freeing the common people, she made no distinction between commoners and nobles. She burned them all the same; men and boys who were merely transporting the food and gold that would feed the realm. Gone."

She hates having the dirty people of Kings Landing in the throne room, the same people that ridiculed her when she walked naked in the streets of the city. However, they will be needed in the future. They are the ones that will die in the battlefield and starve without the harvest. Let the commoners that are present today spread word to the rest, of the dragon queen come to burn them alive. You have met your match, Daenerys Targaryen. No one speaks yet the panic is audible and echoes against the vaulted ceiling. The throne is the last thing that remains to me. 

Cersei gives the order and the vermin scurry back to the streets and alleys of Kings Landing. 

She's standing alone once more with only the Mountain to guard her. 

I've lost it all for this.

Joffrey. Myrcella. Tommen.

Jaime. 

Your desire for what is mine will be your fall. 

//

The day is young and new. Hammers in the forge strike their mark in tandem with clashing swords on the training ground.

"Lord Varys," Sansa affably greets him without turning away from the courtyard below,  "It is a pleasure to see you once more."

It isn't a pleasure so much as a reminder of the past. Never in her life had she imagined a situation such as this. The Master of Whispers and Lady Sansa, greeting each other atop Winterfell's walkways. She escaped her southern cage years ago only to see her home transform into the pit of whispers and fog that she left behind. Tyrion Lannister, Lord Varys...Daenerys Targaryen. She was not so naive as to think that Littlefinger's death severed all ties with courtly intrigue; nevertheless, the North seems to recoil in protest. Who else will pass through Winterfell's gates?

"My lady, there is no need for such falsities with me. You and I are both quite aware that my presence gives you no pleasure." Sansa turns and makes to dissuade him but Varys continues, "And I cannot fault you for it. Only a simpleton would find pleasure in welcoming and hosting former enemies and strangers into their home.

"And you are no simpleton, Sansa Stark. On the contrary, you have proven to be a most..unexpected winter bloom."

Sansa softly smiles, not so much as to read false.

As a child Sansa would have preened at being addressed as such by a man of Varys' status. Now, the compliment leaves her feeling exposed and threatened. To be noticed by the Master of Whispers is dangerous—especially when he has the ear of a dragon queen. Her meeting with Tyrion yesterday was fruitful but lacking in substance aside from Cersei's supposed secret. A roaring fire, choice wine, and a scared little dove loosened Tyrion's forbearance; she would be remiss if she became a pawn once more. Still, yesterday was only the beginning of a path she knows is littered with traps, ploys, and unknowns. And the man before her is known for knowing many of those unknowns. 

What do you know of Winterfell, Spider? What have you managed to catch in your webs?

Varys wears no covering; the snow that blows off the turrets melts on his baldness. He looks nothing like a spider but Kings Landing taught Sansa that appearances are nothing more than costumes. Varys lifts an arm in an invitation to walk. 

"There is one matter that I came to specifically address with you, Lady Stark," Varys makes a sound of sudden recollection. "If I'm not mistaken our mutual friend, Petyr Baelish, was last here in Winterfell. I wonder at his absence so far..."

Their walk continues. He knows. He must know. Sansa lets his fabricated wonder hang in the air. If he's mentioned it, there is little chance that he is not well aware of, or at least doesn't suspect, Littlefinger's fate. What else does he know? How long have his threads been in Winterfell?

A Winterfell guard passes by. "My Lady." He ignores Lord Varys. 

"My lord, you do well to worry for your friend." They arrive at the head of the wooden stairs. "Mockingbirds don't fare well so far away from the temperate south—especially in Winter. Little birds often try to find heat in castle walls only to be found cold and dead." Varys looks almost...amused? Sansa looks over her shoulder after taking the first step down, "Again, welcome to Winterfell, my lord. If you'll excuse me, as you can imagine your arrival means there is much work I must attend to. "

Sansa barely hears the eunuch's parting. Her feet touch solid ground but she has never felt more...she struggles to name the feeling as much as she struggles to draw air. She almost uses what little of it is in her lungs to laugh at her pathetic state. Why am I behaving like this? Have I yielded to some kind of madness? Her dress is too constricting, the voices of the people walking from one task to another are too loud and...and...

Little birds. She needs to speak to Arya. Privacy is practically nonexistent if we don't get rid of Varys' 'little birds'.

Jon brought more than people to their home. Memories, shadows, and secrets trailed behind him when he arrived.  

"Lady Sansa, are you alright?" Brienne, for it must be Brienne who discreetly offers her a steadying arm, asks her.

The arm goes unused. It wouldn't do to seem frail. Instead, Sansa says, "Please follow me. I must speak with my sister, privately, and I'll need someone to stand guard while I do so."

Sansa vaguely directs her body's movements in the direction of the Stark chambers. The guards posted at the end of the hallway bend slightly at the waist and move aside to let her pass. "You are relieved of your turn, go and get something to eat. Lady Brienne will stand guard for now."

Brienne takes their place and Sansa knocks on Arya's door; there is no answer. Arya's room is empty of little sisters. Dissuaded and in need of air she pivots and allows herself to quicken her steps to her own chambers. Brienne won't think little of her for showing a little weakness. She calls to her sworn shield, "Let me know if my sister comes. I will only be a minute in my own rooms."

"Yes, my lady."

She nearly smiles at the knight's formality. Sansa wouldn't mind if Brienne addressed her more familiarly. Unlike the concession she made to Tyrion, Brienne has earned her trust and right to call her by her name. 

Her hand trembles slightly but the key turns the lock and the door swings in.

No.

I can't do this. Sansa takes a step back into the hallway. Not right now. 

"Stay," he asks of her. Loud enough that she hears him, quiet enough that she is sure Brienne knows nothing of his presence in her rooms. She could leave and none would be the wiser. 

Sansa was a lady at the age of three. A lady's courtesy is the only reason she takes one last painful draw of free air, steps into her room, and seals the exit.

[sometimesrosy]

When do you think Bellamy fell in love with Clarke and when did he realize it? I've been shipping them since the first season and i honestly think they started to develop feelings for each other at the very beginning of the season but especially after the day trip episode

I’ve gotten more than one ask about this, so if you asked this question, here’s the answer. Because I’m going to try to go into it for a bit. When I answered how Clarke fell in love with Bellamy I was expecting this question. So.

Okay, well, I think Bellamy’s process of falling in love with Clarke was both quicker and longer…I will explain. I’m going to have to go back farther with this one. 

I think Bellamy was intrigued with Clarke from the beginning. Clarke was intrigued, too, but she had Finn as a romantic interest, so that was where her focus was going. As they built a relationship based on respect and trust and responsibility, instead of the immediate power struggle, which, to be honest, neither of them are REALLY all that interested in. Bellamy tried, but he was more focused on taking care of people than taking power. He couldn’t help it, that was his nature. And that Clarke was also about taking care of them… it was important to him. That she would take care of HIM? When she killed Atom so he didn’t have to? That was the moment when he realized she was something special. OH CRAP. Parallel. She took responsibility for killing Atom because he couldn’t bear it. So in the mountain, HE took on responsibility for killing the mountain because she couldn’t bear it alone. If that was the start of their non-romantic partnership in season 1, when Bellamy let her in, the that was the start of their LOVE RELATIONSHIP in season 2, when Clarke let her feelings for him in. (Okay, but that wasn’t HIS moment. Taking care of HER was not what took him over the edge. It was not a landmark moment for him the way it was for her. Just like killing Atom was not an important thing for her the way it was for him. That’s what makes it a parallel. It was a moment of action that made the other have deeper feelings for them.)

Back to Bellamy’s feelings. His partnership with Clarke was building in season 1 as they do all their delinquent stuff. She asks him on Day Trip with him, because she doesn’t like him. LOL. But that trip bonds them. Bellamy can’t help liking her, he is thrown by the intimacy of their gun lesson and realizes he is indeed very physically attracted to her, so he backs off. Physically. Steps back, shakes it off. See, Bellamy is used to controlling himself, keeping his personal secrets, keeping emotionally distant from other people.

But then comes the fight with Dax (his first kill. which was not only in self defense but in defense of Clarke.) At the tree, when he opens up about being a monster and wanting to run and then Clarke says “I need you,” and he looks at her like he’s amazed because he thinks SHE needs him. But she amends it “we all need you,” and he looks so disappointed. This is the moment I started shipping it. And I think this is the moment when he realizes he WANTS Clarke to like/need/want him. This is the moment when his respect and attraction turns into a CRUSH.

But I do not consider that to be him falling in love with her. It’s just a beginning. When she defends him to Jaha, the crush is confirmed. He’s amazed that she’s on his side. BUT I believe he has decided to NOT pursue it, because their partnership is too important and they are responsible for keeping The 100 alive. So, like Bellamy tends to do, he sacrifices what he wants for the needs of other people. Thus, when Clarke flirts with him in Unity Day, he gets it, but he steers her away and tells her to go have fun, as if she wasn’t just, well, inviting him to have fun. With her. 

From here, he resists his attraction and feelings. ALTHOUGH when Clarke goes missing and he thinks she has run off with Finn, I think his feelings are hurt. So when Raven wants to get rebound/revenge sex, he is not just having sex, he is not just helping her out, for him, it’s similar to Raven’s motivations, just not as formed. When he asks Raven if it helps and she says no, he doesn’t look like it helped him either. Helped him with what? He wasn’t jealous, dammit. Or was he? I think he was, but again, resisting it. Pretending he wasn’t.

In season 2, Bellamy is just as concerned with Clarke as Finn is, but he steps back and lets Finn take over. This means he doesn’t have to decide, but he also gets to search for Clarke (and the others) and it isn’t until he is confronted with OTHER people who need him that he realizes he can’t just hunt for Clarke, he has a responsibility. Because that’s who he is, and lets Finn go off alone to find her.

But he’s the one whose arms she hurtles into. He is SHOCKED that she would show him feelings like that and he doesn’t understand what it means. Neither does he. When they go off looking for Finn, the campfire scene is Bellamy realizing that Clarke Griffin is the only other person on earth that he cares about as much as Octavia. She’s the only other person that he would miss if she were gone. (UGH and priaimfaya had him losing them BOTH.) This is the scene that I think is a translation of the one in the book. You can see him turning from Octavia to Clarke. He’s still not “in love” with her, but it’s another step. And he notices it. He still is not making it romantic and he still claims no hold on her. He knows about Finn and he lets it go. But after Finn dies, and Clarke says she can’t lose HIM TOO? He’s kind of blown away that she’s put him on the same level as Finn. He doesn’t know what it means, but it means something. 

Then we have the scene where he understands Gustus’ devotion to Lxa innately. Because he felt that himself. I think he gets confused here, because he knows it with Octavia, in a fraternal way, and he can see it with Gustus, which is a platonic or mentor kind of way, and then there’s him and Clarke, which is how again? He doesn’t know. But when we get that scene with Octavia, who already knows that he’s thinking of Clarke, and she warns him about the “thanks” he’d get. And THEN we get Lincoln, who looks at Octavia when Bellamy says “he’d do anything for her,”  and Lincoln and Octavia are 100% romantic. I think that shows the potential for what this devotion means, and it shows that for Bellamy, maybe it’s not clear what it means to HIM. 

But when Clarke comes up and tells him it’s worth the risk to send him into the mountain, he does not know that she’s connected love with weakness. So to him, it is confirmation that Clarke has no romantic feelings for Bellamy and does not value him as more than a…. well, knight.

So, Bellamy is her knight. He moves it more into Gustus territory, where he’ll do anything, and sacrifice himself so that he can save “Their People.” It has NOTHING to do with Clarke at this point. His entire trip into MW is NOT about Clarke or his feelings for her. He’s knighting his way along.

HOWEVER, the knight/princess trope is actually a romantic tradition going back to the medieval times, and it was BOTH romantic love AND platonic love. The knights were devoted to their ladies, but it was not at all sexual. Which I think is fitting for their relationship in season 2. (just in case you’re wondering, I think Clarke returns his courtly love feelings, in season 2, and she’s the knight protecting HIM on his quest, until she realizes it’s not platonic and she likes him likes him but that’s the last love discovery meta)

When she left him. She left him heart broken. He was in love, but the courtly love love. Platonically devoted. Or so he thought. He also thought he was okay with that. And he made a life with Gina, even though it wasn’t quite right. And when he found Clarke, all of a sudden, nothing could stop him from going to her and saving her. DEVOTED! right? Normal, right? Right? Monty doesn’t think so, but I don’t think he lets it bother him yet.

And when Clarke refuses to come home when he comes to rescue her from Polis, and Gina dies (he left Gina behind while he went to save Clarke, yikes, guilt,) he feels more than heartbroken, he is DESTROYED. And betrayed. Abandoned. More than leaving him outside of Camp Jaha. 

He doesn’t see Clarke again until after Hakeldama where she wants him to be her knight again and work for her AND LXA, and he is just like. WTF, look at what you did! And he lays out all her sins and how she HURT him, and this was what it was. It was Clarke, you left ME. You abandoned ME. I needed you. you can’t come back in and just put me to work. And then she starts to cry and he goes to comfort her and takes her wrist and looks up at her and THIS…

THIS is the moment where he looks at her and his jaw drops, because HOLY SHIT HE’S IN LOVE WITH HER. 

It isn’t platonic. It isn’t courtly. It isn’t non-romantic partnership. It isn’t just saving people together. He wants HER. He wants her with him. He wants to keep HEr safe. He wants to kiss her. And he freaks out and regresses to caveman Bellamy when the only way to take care of the people he loved was to lock them up and keep them out of danger, so he handcuffs her to keep her from going back to Lxa. 

Then she betrays him again and shocklashes him and runs off.

NOW he knows he is in love. But Clarke did not choose him. She chose Lxa again. And when she comes back, they are stiff, but she’s still in love with Lxa and grieving her. And that never lets up, as far as he can tell. Honestly until s4. But he’s committed to being her non-romantic partner, and refuses to think of her like that, even though he is in love with her. 

S4 was straight up mutual pining because neither of them thought the other loved them. S5 is a mess. Bellamy’s screwed. But secrets come out, don’t they?

[princessvicky01]

Part 5 - You need to sit down

Part 5 of ‘Happily ever after’ following Cullen X Annabel lives after the events of trespasser.  

To read from the start click for Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 - with several more parts to come! All on AO3

Summary: The first full day the newlyweds spend at Annabel's family home proves to be unforgettable. SFW Fluff. Also features my other main oc Lord Bryan Trevelyan and @inner-muse oc Lady Kelandris <3

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They’re late for breakfast, not that either is complaining about why after the morning of delights they’ve just shared. Even so, Cullen would've rather made a better second impression with Annabel’s brother than he had his first. Entering the small private dining room saved for intimate settings he spies Bryan. He finds it quite remarkable how his eyes, hair and skin tone are startlingly similar to Annabel's and even at a distance, there is no mistaking their kinship. The woman sat next to him, however, stands out, her hair touched by fire, eyes by amethyst, her skin pale with freckles marking out high cheekbones, all above thick pursed lips. She's beautiful, poised and graceful, but the tug of his wife’s small hand puts any desire to explore her further aside.

“Lady Kelandris,” Annabel beams the warmth of her greeting with a sunny smile. “It’s good to see you again…and I hear congratulations are in order.”

There is a tender smile in return as they’re invited to sit. “Bryan said he’d told you, secretly he couldn’t wait for the big reveal,” a sharp but quick smirk passes over Kelandris face before she delicately picks up buttered toast, ignoring the mild scowl of the man by her side.

“I bet, must’ve been difficult to keep it to yourself for so long,” with a cheeky grin Annabel reaches for the scrambled eggs which he brother snatches away like a sullen child. Pouting lightly, she eagerly accepts the toast rack which Kelandris slides across the ivory tablecloth.

The setting is a far cry from the breakfast’s Cullen had been used to growing up, although the behaviour between siblings at least seems familiar. They’d never had a linen tablecloth with embroidered edges, or such a rich selection of meats, bread, fruits or cheese, but even still some of his fondest memories were from being sat around the oak table in his family’s kitchen. His lively siblings exchanging banter and teasing while his parents tried hard to hurry everyone along.

This morning’s meal, however, smacks of courtly intrigue, and already his posture is stiff because of it. He’d presented less than an ideal first impression yesterday and is on high alert to ensure he doesn’t repeat the mistake.

“You’re late,” Bryan’s tone is decidedly cold as he fills his plate. “I wanted to start without you, but apparently that is not suitable etiquette, even between close family, so now we all have to have cold eggs.”

“And you’re extra grumpy,” Annabel leans over, tugging the bowl back. “So, if you’re going to bring up etiquette I suggest you look in the mirror first.”

Bryan scowls further and Cullen’s stomach knots. Ah, nothing like noble politics and sibling rivalry to start your day.

��Apologies, I didn’t sleep well, then was woken up by an awful racket this morning,” Bryan’s eyes drift subtly to his, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly in suggestion.

Maker’s breath! So, he had heard their amorous acts this morning. Cullen’s heart stutters in his chest.  He feels his skin heat, despite all his will to prevent it and he knows its prickled red under the cold stare of the Lord.

“Strange, I didn’t hear anything,” Annabel continues setting out her breakfast, although from the corner of his eye he notes that her’s glint with a hint of mischief.

“The apologies should be mine, I kept him up into the early hours,” Kelandris's nonchalant tone and dismissive wave of the toast held poised between two delicate fingers makes Cullen falter. Are they all discussing the same thing? He blinks, cheeks and neck flushed red and tries to focus his attention on the meal in front of him rather than anything that may embarrass him further.

“Wedding planning is proving to be a complex task,” she continues, sipping her tea, keeping her expression aloof. Cullen promptly decides to give up trying to understand what’s going on, although he’s figured out one thing, the two opposite are most certainly well suited.

“Wasn’t for us, was it Cullen?”

“Huh?” Blinking he’s forced into the conversation, a place he really doesn’t want to be, and it shows in the way his eyes dart while his mind scrabbles to catch up. “Oh, right, well no, not really. I mean, I did have a plan, but then there was Prince, and Mother Giselle was there. And. So, no, not really. We didn’t need a plan.”

“Sounds rather romantic,” Kelandris lifts her gaze to meet his, bright violet intrigued. “Did Bryan tell you how he proposed?”

“I’m sure they’re not interested-“ Bryan interjects with his hand over hers and a soft smile that apparently wins him no favour.

“Speak for yourself! I’d love to hear about how sulky here went all romantically soppy,” Annabel giggles and Cullen can tell it means trouble. Trouble he best avoid.

“Hmmm, yes, your brother can be quite the old romantic at heart. We were in the secluded flower garden, in the very spot where we shared our first kiss. Only this time we were under a sky full of stars, surrounded by the flicker of candles, and he delicately bends to pluck a single red rose,” Kelandris mimics the action with her tiny silver spoon in her cup. “The next thing I know he hands it to me and I spy the glitter of gold around its stem. Before I can even speak, he’s down on one knee and asking for my hand.”

Annabel actually squeals beside him.  “Kew you were a big old softie! Wait until the other lords hear about this, they’ll love it,” grinning broadly Annabel adds honey to her tea and Cullen dares glance at Bryan. To his surprise, the Lord isn’t glowering. In fact, he seems to be wearing a rather faint, but distinctly warm smile.

“Yes, well, they can say as they please, at the end of the day, it is I marrying the most beautiful lady in the entire court, not them and they’d do well to remember it.”

Huh. Perhaps there is a softer side to that cold exterior. Slowly Cullen thinks he’s beginning to understand. After all, how would he have survived in a world of nobility, of gossip, intrigue and rumour? He’s not sure he would’ve, but one thing is certain, he would have spent a great degree of his time scowling, and in a foul mood, so perhaps he has more in common Bryan than he first thought.

His day is spent exploring the keep with Annabel, hearing various tales of her wild childhood adventures, sparring in the yard, falling off horses and running amuck over the castle's defences. Cullen can’t recall a more perfect day. No reports, no officers, no meetings, no schedules… just him and his wife wondering around a stronghold which seems to bring joy to her eyes every time they pass a new corner. Every statute has a story to tell, every painting, every person in fact as he finds out she knows a great deal of the guards and staff, many of whom are greeted with hugs and questions about friends and family.

It’s no wonder she’d excelled at the role of Inquisitor. A natural born people person, able to sense what someone needed and with more than enough compassion to go around. Even if she was lousy at paperwork and meetings, having the ability to win hearts and minds was undoubtedly a more useful skill. Or so he thought. He smiles at each and exchanges pleasantries, chuckling along with their jokes, but before long he finds himself starting to tire and wane. Although he is briefly reprieved and revived by Bryan showing him the trebuchets along with a rousing discussion about their correct calibration. That's more his strength, one on one, detailed, practical discussions about useful things, even as he noted Annabel wonder of halfway through. He knew she’d return and ask him all about it, and pretend to show an interest until she got distracted once more at least.

Thankfully, however, they break for lunch alone, he’s not sure he can handle round two of the game so soon. Settling on a bench in the gardens two sets of sad eager eyes peer up as they unpack a panic.

“Oh, go on then, but don’t tell cook I gave you the good meat,” pointing her finger sternly Annabel then tosses the two hounds each a sizable chunk of chicken before wiping her fingers delicately. The last piece she pushes to Cullen. “You should stock up, it’ll be fancy food tonight, but we can always sneak into the kitchen… If you’re brave enough… Cook has been known to chase even royalty away with her pan.”

Chuckling Cullen hopes she’s joking, although the expression on her face suggests otherwise. Calm settles over him once more, the fresh air and hearty food a soothing balm, although the rest of her head against him is even better. Soon it would be best polite smiles and idle chatter amidst vipers. Something he dreads with every passing moment that brings it closer.

When Annabel swiftly leaps up from nowhere, he follows her moves with curiosity and frowns as she begins to pluck several roses. He never would understand what went through her mind, although it must be a whirl of activity.

Within a moment she’s back, four different colour roses in her hand, still confused he watches as she presents them to the hounds. Prince sniffs at the burnished yellow one, so she lays it at his paws with distinct grace, while Fion, her family mutt, takes a liking to the white one. The dog's slender muzzle picks up the stem, seemingly unbothered by the prickles and with a dainty little trot jogs back to the keep with its tail wagging, leaving the mabari to cock its head after the apparently upper-class creature.

“So, that leaves pink and red…and I think you shall have the pink,” she declares with a polite little bow as she hands Cullen the rose like he was a lady at a tourney.

“And why the pink?” With one eyebrow raised he runs calloused fingertips over the petals, unbelievably soft when compared to the stem beneath.

“Because it suits you,” she smiles. “If you blush at the ball tonight like you did this morning, you’ll match!”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” shaking his head he bops her on the nose with the flower, a waft of its fragrance reaching him. She always did smell like roses, and now he supposes he knows why they’re her favourite, they must remind her of home. “You sure it’s not just because red is your favourite colour?” He asks already smiling softly at how she brushes the petals over her lips and cheek with a barely audible hum.

“Hmmm, well it is the colour of passion,” she smirks, full lips half hidden behind the vibrant petals. “Here,” she kisses it gently then swaps their roses with ease. “Your right, red is my favourite colour, and if you’re wearing it, I get to enjoy it more.”

“Selfless as ever,” he chuckles, one eyebrow lifting as she stands, tucking the rose through her buttonhole and extending her hand to him.

“Come on, we need to practice…”

A heavy sigh falls from him as he realises what she’s getting at. “Fine… but I make no promises tonight to not stand on your toes, knock anyone over or become hopelessly lost…” reluctantly rising he feels his drop in mood lifts with the soft curl of fingers around his.

“Oh Cullen, I thought you were always hopelessly lost in my presence?” Annabel smiles and flutters long lashes up at him, and he can’t help but wrap an arm around her waist to tug her in close.

A smirk lifts the corner of his lip again, raising and arching his scar as his honey drenched eyes melt on sight of hers. “Oh, Annabel, you have no idea,” with that his mouth cups hers to share the kind of slow, steamy, kiss only true lovers could.

Stepping into the hall of her childhood home filled to the brim with stringed music, chatter and the scent of cooked meats sends a rush of excitement up Annabel’s spine. Cullen feels warm and steadfast beside her, although she can sense the subtle ebb of tension in the stiffness of his arm under her fingers.

“You’ll be fine,” she reassures him with a bright smile that follows her gaze around the room picking out people she hadn’t seen for years. Some welcome, others not so much. Politics was not her favourite thing either, but at least she had a wealth of a experience to help her cope, something she only hopes Cullen will develop over time.

“Hmmm, so long as no one asks me to dance,” he grumbles, but when she shots him a sideways glance he’s quick to rectify his error. “Other than my wife, of course.”

Chuckling she squeezes tight against his side. “They’re all here to celebrate us, remember? Ok, yes they’re snakes and will try to trip you up or get a rise out of you, but just smile and nod politely…”

“I’m not sure nobility understand the concept of ‘celebration’…”

She taps his arm at the gripe, but can’t help but snicker. He’s not wrong. Although at least they did put out a splendid selection of wine. It’s just a pity her brother had already warned her to ‘take it easy’ with the drinking… For good reason, she may have embarrassed him and herself on several notable occasions in the past. Noble ladies didn’t take kindly to being puked on, knocked over or insulted loudly, and fighting was something it turned out many nobles didn’t have a clue about. So she’ll just have to make do with grazing the buffet and dancing the night away.

“Ah, there you are,” Bryan’s smooth nonchalant tone greets them as he sweeps over, looking splendidly handsome in his doubletted formal attire, although clearly not a patch on her Cullen. “Just in time for the first dance.”

“Perfect,” Cullen grits out and she squeezes his arm all too tightly.

Bryan clearly notices the sarcasm and coldly stares for a moment, eyes searing into the other man’s in sharp warning. Best behaviour was called for and he apparently won’t tolerate anything less. “Hmm, don’t worry Commander, I’m sure your wife’s elegance will make up for your floundering… besides, I’ll wager all eyes will be on Kelandris and me.”

The single chime of a bell announces the dance and Bryan is swift to depart with an all to smug smirk. It seems as if the chatter that had filled the lofty space suddenly grows still, and as she leads Cullen to the dance floor people actually part to make way, casting their eyes up and down, some in admiration but most in scorn. She had married a common Fereldan after all, no matter his Inquisition title or his former templar rank, he would still be viewed by many as simple farming stock from a backward land. Something she hopes might change after tonight, after speaking with him, after hearing of his tales of leadership and valour, of support. Of course, many would never shift their opinions, far too set in their ways, beside it provided too good a source of ammunition to bring scorn against a prestigious rival house. Annabel only hopes that for a few perhaps his calm demeanour, solid polite form and effort may impress.

Kelandris glides over, the lilac and gold of her dress catching her eye with the swish of full-length fabric, all set off by a familiar white rose in her hair. As Bryan bows deeply Annabel spies a genuinely warm smile on his face, one that matches the lady who accepts his hand with a soft murmur of approval from the crowd. For once, however, Annabel feels no need to compete with him, it seems they both have found what they needed, and although his dance partner is superior to even her in skill, it doesn’t matter in the slightest. She’s found a man who had promised her a dance, despite knowing he’d struggle, despite despising the limelight, and despite the nerves which must be making him feel sick to his stomach. She’s found perfection and couldn’t be happier.

“I’m not sure about this,” Cullen’s murmur is hot against her ear as he lays one hand over her hip. “Everyone’s watching.”

“Of course, they are,” she looks up at him with a playful smile lighting her eyes. “It’s called jealousy, Commander.” Their fingers intertwine and he cracks a tiny half smile, she can tell he doesn’t believe her, but that only makes him all the more perfect. He squeezes her hand this time and nods, amber eyes set in determination as they meet hers along with the lock of his jaw. Just as he did before any battle, she notes.

The melody starts up, slowly and hypnotic with soft harps and she prompts him with a nudge of her toe, and he begins to slowly sway them. Annabel's impressed that he’s able to put all the staring eyes to one side so promptly, and when the tempo increases, other stringed instruments joining the fray her heart flutters in her chest. With a tap she urges him to shuffle back, then forth, until they perform the small ungainly routine they’d spent hours learning. A clumsy foxtrot which is slightly out of time with the couple to their right and the flow of music, making it even more difficult, but they continue. Maker how she loves this stubborn man.

After a few repeats Cullen seems to grasp the moves and to her surprise holds out his arm to spin her round in a twirl of burgundy and sparkle. She giggles as she whirls, the party and other nobles forgotten as her skirt flurries around her. Clumsily he pulls her back and she stumbles into his chest with a laugh, the display for the visiting nobility already forgotten as she lifts up her eyes to meet his.

A twitch, a hint of a smile crooks his lip and she suspects he may be starting to enjoy himself too. Her heart swells with pride and endearment, even as he kicks her in the shin by accident. Following the error in his step, he seemingly loses all abandon and throws her in another twirl, narrowly missing a whirl of purple as the two ladies almost collide in a glitter of fabric and sparkle. Even if she’d had the sense about her to care, Annabel wouldn't have looked over, certain her brother’s scowl would be harsh enough to wound, instead, she lets the moment capture her for what it is. Beautiful.  

Laughing, Annabel spins back into arms that wrap around her. Delicately she lifts her head to find him wearing a heart-warming smile which she returns before resting her head against his chest, beyond grateful. His warm, distinct musk underlies his sandalwood scent, and she finds herself hum contently against him. Feeling truly happy as their bodies entwine and sway while the tempo slows, their movements growing ever slower, ever subtler until the music fades.

“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” she asks, still buried against him.

“Hmm… well, I had a good teacher,” he murmurs against her hair. Leaning up she moves to kiss him but a round of applause catches them both off guard. Sharing a peck instead of the smouldering kiss one she’d desired she snuggles back against him. The cheering was most likely for the other dancers, but it's nice to bask in it regardless. The music starts up once more and others begin to fill the space around them. Cracking open one eye she spots Kelandris with her arms wrapped up around Bryan’s neck and watches as he leans to press their foreheads together, lightly smiling and still swaying to their own tune, that fills Annabel with fresh happiness once again.

Fancy gowns and dancing always agreed with Annabel, no matter how horrid the noble gathering, those things, plus the wine, usually made any event bearable. She’s quickly discovering however that the lavish food on offer tonight does not agree with her. Not in the slightest.

Resting her palms and forehead against the frozen marble the cold provides a soothing respite to the flush of heat which has followed after being sick. She’d at least made it outside and into a more discreet corner of the gardens before being violently ill. Although it seems she won’t be spared the by the gossips as she spies several guests whispering while they meander along of the sparsely light pathways. Great. They’ll probably think she’s drunkenly disgraced herself again, although nothing could be further from the truth. Stupid sea food.

Tugging up her long silken gloves she tries to fan her dress and settle out the creases, offering a polite smile to the passers-by which abruptly fades when they’re out of sight. She should never have tried pickled cockles. What had she been thinking? Slimy shellfish on an empty hyped up stomach was surely asking for this kind of disaster. Her stomach churns, beyond bloated and angry, the corset dress making it all ten times worse by digging into her ribs unbearably tight. So much for a joint celebration…

“Annabel, are you alright? You ran out like-“ Bryan breaks off when he spies the state of the poor flowers and her calmly skin. “Ah, it seems not…”

“I’m fine,” Annabel shakes her head lightly, eyes resting as she leans against the pillar, trying to settle the roll in her stomach, it’s almost like being back at sea as it churns and babbles away.

“The fact that my flower beds are covered in sick says otherwise,” Bryan is quick to hold his hand up. “I’m not going to drop this lightly, so you may as well go to your room while I call for the doctor… and your husband.”

“=No, I’ll be fine in a few minutes… just fetch me some water and-“

“He shall do no such thing,” Kelandris appears from thin air with a delicate but precise sway to her plush gown. Sighing Annabel tries in vain to at least fix her hair by tucking back loose strands, or she does until the other woman’s hand clasps over hers anyway. “You’re not well, come, I’ll escort you, I imagine you're dying to get out of that dress and it would be a shame to ruin it if you should have another, episode.”

That much is all true… and Annabel has no doubt Cullen will be grateful to retire early, especially since she’d abandoned him at some point by mistake. “Fine,” she relents with another sigh, they were making rather a big fuss over a simple tummy blip. She dreads to think how they’d behave if they’d seen some of the states she’d returned to Skyhold in. “I’m sure it’s just all the travelling, the seafood must’ve brought back bad memories of the ocean…”

“Then go get that confirmed,” Bryan nods politely although his eyes are stern. “Please see the doctor, I have enough to worry about with the likes of Lord Tristan and his lot. Besides if it is contagious, I have no desire to spend my engagement party evening throwing up, thank you.”

She chuckles faintly and lifts one eyebrow almost crudely to her older sibling. “Let me guess, you two have other plans?”

“Go,” sternness vibrates in his voice, although Kelandris smirks darkly as she links their arms to start leading her away.

Cullen arrives at their private bedroom quarters panting and flushed. “Are you alright?” shutting the door behind him, he hurries to the window seat where Annabel is haunched, looking decidedly more pale than usual. Make up gone, hair a mess and her body wrapped in a fluffy dressing gown her appearance is a far cry from what it had been the last time he’d seen her this evening and only fuels his worry further. “Bryan said he’d sent for the doctor…” panic has widened his pupils which now search her up and down.

“There’s nothing wrong,” she gives a small smile, clearly attempting to be reassuring, but its meekness makes it fail.

“You're certain?” His brows furrow. “You don’t look well. You know you don’t have to pretend…I mean after everything-“

“I’m fine, Cullen, honest,” she interrupts and taps the space next to her, but his muscles are wound too tight to sit so easily.

“People are not sick for no reason, especially at balls being held in their honour,” he’s suspicious. She’d not been drinking. Unless she’d been doing so on the sly, which while it wouldn’t surprise him doesn’t seem likely given her demeanour. She was usually a rowdy and randy drunk after all. Poison perhaps? Either accidental or worse on purpose…

“I think you should sit down,” she shuffles a little to one side, apparently trying to encourage him, but all it does is make his stomach churn tighter. Whatever it is, it’s serious and a lump wedges in his throat while fear clutches his heart.

“No,” he folds his arms, determined to not be swayed by her false stoicism. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“You need to sit down-“

“No, Annabel, not-“

“Just sit down!” She snaps, flashing her teeth in a fierce snarl which blazes heat in her eyes. The expression quickly dissolves and is followed by a feeble apology. Whatever she needs to say it’s evidently important and the pressing anxiety he’s been trying to keep at bay thunders his heart and slicks his palms. Rubbing at the tightness in his neck he shakes his head, Maker’s breath, if she is sick, truly sick… he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He’s almost lost her so many times… to the snow, the fade, the darkspawn magister, the anchor… the thought of going through it all again is enough to make despair sting the back of his eyes. With reluctance, he perches stiffly beside her.

“Cullen, I…” she trails off and nibbles at her lower lip, a sure sign she’s holding back. He must be patient. Whatever is wrong they will get through it, together, or so he tells himself, for the hundredth time. Besides surely if it was that grave the doctor would be here? She’d been passed out? Or worse…

“I’m pregnant.”

The words knock the sense right out of him. Blinking, utterly dumbfounded, he sits up and stares at her. He must've heard her wrong, but she merely sits there, eyes earnest and hopeful, although betraying a shimmer of fear. “You… you’re pregnant?” he repeats the words although his voice cracks, he needs to hear them, needs to be sure he hasn’t imagined them. His breath hitches as she nods, her eyes starting to fill with unshed tears while his heart flip-flops in his chest.

Disbelief clouds his mind. It isn’t that he thinks she can’t possibly be pregnant, he knows well enough that the moon tea potion wasn’t always effective, no, it’s the notion that he deserves such a gift that he finds unfathomable. A precious tiny infant, him and her combined into a small and innocent bundle… How by the blessed Andstrae has he earnt such a thing?

“Cullen?” Her tone is one of concern, her hand tentative as it reaches for his but when she does he latches on tight. His grip only grows tighter as a pure smile, natural and unabashed grows to fill his face and chase the darkness from his eyes.

“Annabel, that’s…that’s…I can’t…Maker’s breath…That, it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard!” His almost boyish excitement spills out in the widening of his grin and the way he grabs hold to pull her close. “I can’t…Maker…” he utters a few words of jumbled of prayer, a mixture of gratitude and disbelief, all mumbled into the scent of her hair. A giggle sounds from her and it is the purest, most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“You had me worried for a second …” she retorts. Pulling away she toys with his fingers. “I know it wasn’t planned…and we haven’t discussed it, not seriously…I mean I know you, we, wanted children, but right now? With the Inquisition changing so much, I wasn’t sure-“

He cuts off her nonsense with a kiss, lips moulding and melding over hers to shh any such talk far away. As if he could ever not want to be part of something so divine with her…A son…Or a daughter. Andraste preserve him. His thumb traces over her cheek, the rosy hue returning under his touch as solid conviction stirs his soul.

“Some of the greatest gifts the Maker bestows on us are unplanned, unfathomable, unforeseen… like meeting you,” his reverent words are followed by the press of his forehead against hers to share the blessing he feels radiating through his core. It feels… surreal… but wonderful..

“How… I mean… when…” Cullen loses his sense and sentence as he reaches his hand down, hovering over Annabel’s stomach, not daring to touch it, to taint it. A tiny babe, untarnished by the world, innocent, and defenceless, and theirs, to protect, to love and nurture, and with the Maker as his witness, he will do just that.

“If you need to ask how, I might have to question your chantry upbringing Mr Rutherford,” she snickers, taking his hand with both of hers and laying it on her bloated stomach. He can’t help but give his own small snigger at her comment, although his eyes never leave his hand, his touch so gentle it must barely even register.

“I meant…When…How far along,” gingerly his thumb rubs tiny circles over her robe, still uncertain he’s even allowed to touch something so pure…

Annabel deftly unfastens the garment and tugs at his calloused fingers to press his hand firmly against her tummy. “The doctor said about four months…about the time I lost my hand…He thinks maybe the potions I was having may have stopped the moon tea? I don’t know… Although he seems to think you must have strong seed in you,” she chuckles again, her free hand reaching up and cupping his face to stroke down his stubbled jaw.

He can’t believe she’s been carrying their child all that time and neither of them knew. Four months. Maker’s breath! They’d been across the Waking sea! And to Kirkwall! Such dangers he’d never have undertaken if he’d had even the faintest idea… “All that time?” He shakes his head in disbelief.

She nods and curls her feet up under her so she can snuggle into his lap, an action he gratefully welcomes. It really has been quite a day. One he’s certain he’ll never forget. As her warmth spreads through his chest, he’s hit with a sudden memory that snaps the air from his lungs with a hiss.

“Maker’s breath! In training, I hit you with a shield!” he exclaims, generating a bark of laughter from her curled form.

“Cullen, I get hit by shields all the time!" she exclaims, still laughing, although it fails to make him feel any better about it. Apparently sensing his worry she peeks up at him from under thick lashes, the brilliant blue of her iris’s shinning with all the love and certainty he’s ever dreamed of. “This is no ordinary baby, it has the blood of two warriors, two survivors, two leaders, tinged blue with nobility and scarlet with Ferelden… it's no ordinary baby,” she rubs their joint hands lightly over the small swell of her stomach. “This is our baby, Cullen.”

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Thank you for reading! Likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! <3 

I hope it surprised some of you out there but I have been dropping hints for a while so i suspect not lol. Also please note this is set in a time when little was known about what was good or bad for you in Annabel’s condition so please don’t think I’m trying to promote drinking or eating  shellfish ect! Also look I made a banner!

[princerhodri-blog]

Full Name: Rhodri Artair Glyn

Nickname: Rod

Age: 19

Species: Werebear (Formerly Human)

Gender: Cis-Male

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual

Class: Prince of the Thytian Empire, Nobility

Rhodri began life as the third son of a minor lord in the southern provinces of the Empire. Being born so low in the succession of such an insignificant house meant that his prospects in life looked very bleak from the start.

During his childhood he proved to be an adventurous, free-spirited boy, forever skiving off lessons to go wandering in the forests surrounding his father’s estate or practice his swordsmanship - the only area of his early education in which he truly excelled.

He was bitten shortly after his ninth birthday, after venturing too far from home and stumbling across a woman living in a cave. Being a rather haughty lad, puffed up with his own importance, he spoke to her dismissively, angering the woman who (to Rhodri’s immense surprise) turned into a large bear before his very eyes and bit him, apparently trying to teach him a lesson of some kind.

Newly changed, he became lost in the unfamiliar animalistic instincts, wandering the woods in his new skin for weeks until a search party headed by his father stumbled across him fishing in a river. Recognizing his father through the fog of the bear’s mind, his human side reasserted itself and he shifted back, much to the surprise of Lord Glyn and his soldiers.

After being brought back to his father’s estate, it became apparent that his animal side was asserting a great deal of influence over the young boy - he became prone to violent outbursts and fits of rage, which only became more pronounced as the months went by, culminating in a violent attack on his older brother Eadric during arms training. By the time the men-at-arms managed to pull Rhodri off of his brother, Eadric was unrecognisable: his face a bloody and broken ruin; and although the healing magic of a local Enchantress helped save his life, Eadric was left permanently impaired by the injuries, completely unable to take care of himself.

This incident caused a great strain between Rhodri and his family - he was confined to his rooms except during official occasions, and even then he was only allowed out for long enough to pay the necessary courtesies before being ushered out of sight once more.

This imprisonment chafed on Rhodri, and it was not long before he began to take every opportunity to escape his confinement, travelling deep into the forests to shed his human form and let his true self run free - because that was what he came to see his bear form as: who he truly was and always had been. During these excursions he learned to hunt and bring down prey, learned to fight against opponents older and tougher than himself, and indulged his every instinct - especially the violent ones.

It came as something of a relief to his family when the Empress took him away: they gladly took her coin to rid them of their disgrace, and the silence suited them well - being able to pretend that Rhodri had never existed in the first place was, as far as they were concerned, a blessing from the heavens themselves.

During his years at court, Rhodri has learned to master his baser instincts, and has in fact found a way to make peace between his two warring halves, no longer either man or bear, but something greater than the sum of the two. Although he does have the occasional outburst during times of great stress, he is by and large a much calmer, happier young man who has truly grown into his own skin, no matter which he one he currently wears.

And whilst he might occasionally slip away into the countryside to hunt in his bear-skin in order to quench the raging fire within, very few at court say anything about this behaviour - even if what started with half-eaten deer and elk carcasses being strewn about the forest now more often than not includes the odd human corpse as well...

Rhodri is a generally soft-spoken and courteous young man, well-versed in courtly manners. He prefers direct action over intrigue and political manoeuvring, and does whatever it takes to attain his goal - for him, the ends truly justify the means.

He is skilled with the sword, however in real battles he prefers to shift to his animal form - he finds that nothing slakes his thirst for blood quite so much as tearing a man apart with his own hands (or paws, as the case may be).

His daemon, Griff, is a creature of few words - although that was not always the case. As Rhodri’s Human and Werebear natures have merged more fully, he has found little need for a conscience, preferring to act on his gut instinct rather than ideas of ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. Griff now more often than not sits perched on Rhodri’s shoulder, staring unnervingly at any who get close.

[arielkrupnik]

pur-girl-tory

I came from a world of things i loved to be disappointed here.

So far in my stay, Ive unenjoyed the bimbo-limbo of women, Ive unenjoyed the limbo of entertaining poetry, Ive unenjoyed the company of many, Ive unenjoyed lingering and risking on deletion oblivion, Ive unenjoyed the bad comments this will probably palm-nail me with, Ive unenjoyed the crucifixation people have had with me, Ive unenjoyed not being able to write this on their faces instead of here, for this needs to be contained everywhere. Its already written all over your faces, and Ive unenjoyed looking into them.

I feel how Mickey Rourke’s face looks now. I feel guilty for those who sport a smile, recite an inside joke, upload a photo, insert a quirk, write their writings, miss their borefriend, expect to be loved, don a crisis make over, chastise for power, critic to death, name a hypocrite, expect an email, expect a text, expect jealousy, con’knives in the back, adoration, paychecks, sex, loyalty, and respect for being cold. But yet, and better yet, they have no soul. Drama mia! They have a lot of room, minus a soul.

Ladies with gentlemen, pedestal your gentlemen while you can. Better still, marry your man! Don’t leave a man like me questioning the genuosity of your love. You can be ignorant now to bliss I gave you beforehand. Its easy to rid the ones who love you, in favor for lucifers human flesh and his kind words. But thats not the way to get into heaven. He’s a wanna-be macho cheese, taco supreme, muchacho!. At least, my flesh is all natural. In the land of Ariel Krupnik, it keeps me from ever warming up to the idea it'll be unenjoyed.

We all shit out the same asshole for the same fate. Enjoy your version of love while supplies last. Rub shit in my face, and make me wonder

what gosh! It must feel like to be the most important someone in your life. Love is for those that dont want to be found; to leave loyalty behind. Since when did love become an excuse to get rid of me?. I cant just say fuck them - my heart is too big to fit through that door. It seems as though every girl i know in love - really know how to fail under the radar, dontcha unsweethearts?. Might as well start unacknowledging our history, and start heading back on your kind

words.

Your lucky you got away. I have to work everyday. No one has compassion, soul, heart, empathy, love angel music, baby. I feel like Im the only one trying. I feel like the only one whose gotten neurotic for it, and any girl to complain along with me, will agree, then retreat back to their borefriend, and lie life. If you can retreat to love after reading this, your say in the matter is no go. Take your comments with you to farcity blues.

I don’t expect any miracles for being this conduit of expressing things we're scared to say. Thats how the right poem gets made. Thats how the real person does reality, minus a love, added by soul. Bless me for me! and who are you suppose to be?. And what for?!.

I don’t have the same nature as a lot of you do. I have this unbelievability factor hunting down on me, for until my dying days. You see poetry has found me, sister dear, brother dear. And Ive stuck its language all around me;

every corner in my mouth. I sacrificed the english language and those who speak it, to speak le dangerous!. Lets hear you say this.

My life is the secret told, the full-fledged victory for not having someone to share this with. He is sad to hear, naive, he is mad-mindedly beautiful in his telling of the story. He does justice to decency by speaking these. Oh but Im speaking way ahead of myself, its the rest of the world that has catching up to do. This writing here today is indeed born of its rightful melancholy, and the one you might be missing out on. Im sure theres a great writer even now whose convinced you great writing exists otherwise. They are writing my work. They are using my skills to get to you, to get you too. Poor little fellows, who were born dicks - and legs and arms, and torso and heads grew from it!

No I haven’t enjoyed my stay, the rooms been full but the company has been empty. I don’t feel right not reaching enough soul. I don’t think someone willing to be a minor messiah for your everything should be shunned, no matter what he wears, or how he cuts his hair. Do you honestly feel okay not being happy to happiness' full-pull potential?. You are the ones in shock, over awe, over oh no, over his courtly love

staring out in the open dawn. You are the ones that want to disappear among rooms, clubs, dorms, bars, upstates, drugstores, house parties, homes, vacations, classes, jobs, and dates, and dirty laundry. All to get further ahead in life, pushing me aside.

What are you guilty of at the moment? Im sure your ignoring someone for a stupid reason, and I am not ever. I can be bought for free. Im talking bout me - the incredible friend of yours incredibly unacknowledged. If theres anything I can die and leave you with, it would be to please not fall into the cliche of these self-righteous, below the ground-nosers, who think too high and mighty of themselves to hang with anyone the least bit disingenuous. If you cant accept everyone and their faults, unwelcome yourself to society.

I don’t feel so comfortable waiting so long to see people again. The idea of pretend-friends hasn’t always been a favorite of mine. ‘ We should hang out', fake,

every word is for false people. Someone has to be somewhat decent. Thank god for me, i guess. Im the only last will and living testament of those who don’t break the rules. Im too cool to be outside of school. I shit upon all who believe they cant compensate for being bad. People who attend halloween parties, thanksgiving dinners, christmas dinners and new years parties, claiming around, being good to their relatives, just so they can be bad in reality. Thank god for me being real my whole life. I haven’t been faking it.

I don’t expect miracles with anyone. I don’t expect anything - no one has any real heart to put up a fight. No one wants to find out why I consider myself talented.

Im so disappointed we cant get past stupid little individual problems we make, just to avoid the truth. We have improvised anything that might be evil, to steer clear of me. Goodbye proper imagination, hello fake fuck-face smiles.

Its nice to see you again in everyone. May you shatter all your mirrors and preconceptions one day. One can only hope.

Oh what me worry, I'll die for any spot in heaven,

I can always fulfill that expectation. I'll be the first and last to understand what Ive written here. First and last, and anywhere Im hoping the in-betweeners wont make the end so hard if they've been following me this whole time. No one I know is someone to have gotten to know all of me. If they were looking for redemption out of something bad i did, I hope they find that here. I hope I was more than just myself today, and something unseen carried over. I hope that makes her, whoever she is now, that much more intrigued on my mystery. And I hope that she whoever, forgives me my daily dread. Forgiveness is important to me, not yourselves.

I wish you all the best in stopping yourselves from me getting to know you. I wish upon a dark star.

I hope on that star, I wasn’t your friend, but thee friend, afterall. In the end, Im friends with your heart, not yourselves. And you can tell your others; significant others and friends, an angel says fuck them for not reading this. Fuck you if you don’t get it, and fuck us if you never will. And fuck you all with love,

Ariel.