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awkwardkindatries · 3 years ago

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Kinktober Day 3: Uniform

Have I ever said how much I genuinely love Celebrimbor? best boy.

Celebrimbor/reader

NSFW

Words:2347

Elves in Eregion didn't really have uniforms outside of military forces, they did however, have a standard of dress for their meetings in court. This dress code typically consists of a high collar shirt, a button down tunic, full length trousers followed by high polished black boots. One's hair must always be done and braided back and most jewelry is kept to the minimum at a circlet and possibly a ring. All fabrics are embellished in elaborate embroidery and buttons polished to a lovely shine, not a hair or stitch to be out of place.

These court sessions aren't exactly frequent so within your time there you hadn't had the pleasure of catching him in his authoritative garb until today. You caught sight of him walking back to his quarters, his shoulders weren't square they were dropped in exhaustion, his eyes were tired and his brow furrowed in stress. You couldn't help but to follow him a few paces as he walked past you before grabbing ahold of his cuff, softly calling his name.

He whips around to stare at you allowing you to take full advantage of your close proximity. He's tall and broad as he towers above you, his clothing makes him look sharp and important, as if he could command a room of people and they listen without hesitation.

In contrast, his disposition was soft, worn down by politics and stress bearing down on him with the weight of Arda. Though you couldn't relieve him fully of this weight you could at least make the load seem lighter.

You offer him company on the rest of the walk back to his chambers, the halls oddly empty as the hour was not yet late. You suppose this was for the better as the added traffic would only have exasperated his condition. Chatter was relatively light between the two of you, and though you two had grown close you didn't want to wear him down further with topics of importance.

When you had made it to his door, he hesitated frna moment before allowing you to follow him into his room. It wasn't something new to you however, it was deemed inappropriate by the court for an unmarried individual such as yourself to follow a member of said court into privacy, let alone while he was still in his professional attire. He opens the door and before you enter you glance to both sides once more and follow him on, lightly shifting the door behind you. You turn in search of him and find that he has fallen backward in a large splayed-out lump on top of his bed, legs draped over the side and head inches from the wall.

His arms rest bent over his head, hands atop his eyes as he lets out a deep sigh, letting the stress of the day leave his body as well as he could on his own. You couldn't help the light snort that left you as you took him in, yes he was tired, stressed, more than likely overworked but he was an up and coming leader and you understand that there's an adjustment period to these things that your partner might still be adjusting to.

While he mulls about with his head in his hands and thoughts elsewhere you take the moment to look around his room. It's neat, like normal but there are still things out of place that feel like disarray in the normally spotless, “not a hair out of order” Feanorians room. Books are pulled from their spots and left about on the table in the center of the room, discarded after reading. A half-empty cup of tea remains beside it. The towel he had used earlier in the day has not made its way back to the bathing chamber and sits in a little pool on the floor at his footboard. And lastly, the circlet he had been wearing earlier now rested on the floor, more than likely having been aimed for the table and not bothering to pick it up after hearing it drop to the carpet below. Odd, it was his fathers. He only ever wore it for formal occasions and typically treated it with more care.

You make your way in front of him before bending down to pluck it from the carpet, setting it in its intended place. Once finished, you turn to him.

His arms and hands slide from his face before his eyes reopen and he stares you down.

“Thank you, though you could have left it. I'd have gotten it eventually.”

You give a kind smile in return

“I couldn't possibly leave something so important to you.”

The smile he gives in return is tired and barrel there but it exists and you cherish every moment. Reaching out your hand you offer help, and say “if we hurry then we might still be able to catch supper, I heard they're serving stew tonight.”

It is his favorite after all.

He grabs your hand and attempts to stand before his knees give a weak wobble and he plummets back to the mattress. His body was obviously much closer to shutting down than the two of you had originally suspected.

He drags you down with him as he reconnects with the bed, you landing on top of his broad chest, subconsciously to the expensive fabric beneath your fingers, eyes shutting in anticipation of impact.

When it comes, the impact isn't too bad. The Ellon beneath you is as firm and solid as a wall below, opening your eyes you look up into his and you're surprised. His face is flushed a soft pink as he stares down at you, mouth suddenly filled with cotton neither really capable of speech. You're just about to get up and awkwardly excuse yourself to the hallway in order to take your embarrassment elsewhere when you feel it.

You're resting on something that grows hard against your stomach and as a result, are probably much redder than you were a few seconds prior. Since your eye contact stopped the next few moments would almost be comical as he realized the very moment you figured this situation out. You in turn realize you'd been found out and look away is embarrassment, not entirely sure what your next move should be.

He sits up, slightly shaking as anxiety begins to rack his body.

“I-im so sorry!” he quick to apologize

As you still rest in his lap, fingers tightly holding his velvet tunic you begin to consider a few things. How tired he has been lately, his body probably reacting in many ways due to this. How hard he has been working to do better for the people, his constant commute back and forth from the dwarvish colonies to improve relations, how on top of all of his duties he still manages to do the bare minimum to take care of himself and still sacrificing what little personal time he had for you.

You wonder when he gets time for care, he spends so much of his time caring for others, he does he receive any back.

Perhaps you could do this for him.

Taking the chance, you brace yourself against him and push back, grinding against him. His hands shoot to your hips holding you fast, looking all the more like a deer in sight.

“What are you doing?” he asks

You clear your throat and attempt the best steady voice that you're capable of at the moment.

“ Could I- if it's okay, uh. Help with that?” you ask, gesturing slightly down with your head.

You broke him, you're convinced of it, he hasn't blinked or moved in possibly a whole minute and at this point you're certain that you've just embarrassed yourself enough for the rest of your lifetime, you've ruined all of the time you put into forming this bond with Celebrimbor. You make to get off but his grip on your hips holds firm and he speaks, it's low and soft, barely there at all.

“I couldn't possibly ask..”

Immediately you perk up and backtrack your last thought process.

“You aren't!” you insist “I'm offering, I’d really like to help”.

Another moment passes and he nods in approval turning his head away, possibly embarrassed himself “Alright, if you so wish it..”

After receiving his permission you suddenly feel much more authoritative as you have this powerful looking Ellon below you, wanting your touch.your hands glide up from the fabric of his tunic to his neck stopping at his jaws, forcing his face in your direction his eyes meet yours.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question is simple but his reaction is almost like it was more intimate a request than touching anything below the belt. The answer isn’t as firm as the last one but he consents. Leaning in you apply soft pressure taking your time to make this count, to make him feel loved, appreciated. This cycle repeats until you slide your tongue along the seam of his mouth, asking for further permission. He shakes a tad but relents and squeezes your hips harder as you suck his tongue into your mouth and give a firm suck, the grunt that leaves him is intoxicating. Pulling away he already looks slightly out of breath and frankly you’re impressed with yourself.

You gently pull his fingers away from your body and move to kneel on the floor in front of him.

His hands now clench onto the fabric of his bedsheets as you take your time dragging up and down the sides of his thighs hoping to bring him more comfort. With a little more confidence your fingers trail over the fabric above his crotch, receiving a sharp inhale in return. Moving to the laces, unlacing them is quick then you make for the hem of his trousers. Looking up, he then understands and lifts up his waist allowing you to pull them further down to his thighs.

He's full and standing at attention, you glance up to him and you don't think you've ever seen his face any redder as he bites his lip in anticipation.

Taking him in hand you give a light kiss to the underside, his head falling back as a gasp leaves him. Continuing to watch his face, you grasped him tighter and began to stroke him up and down, a shudder leaving him at the motion.

In no time you've collected a fair amount of saliva and put it to use, giving a firm lick to the length of him. His breath chokes up for a second as he experiences this for the first Time. You repeat this a few times before taking a breath and wrapping your lips around his head. You hear the sheets stretch on either side of you as you work. Sucking in your cheeks as tightly as you could you swirl your tongue around the head, every so often flicking against the slit across the top.

Now that his noises have worked up to breathy sighs you take this as a sign to kick it up a notch. Bracing your hands on either thigh you push yourself up a little to give yourself a better angle. Tightening your hold on the bottom of his cock you took as much of him in your mouth as you could, barely making it to the top of your hand. Continuing your work and pace with determination you had barely noticed his hips following your pace chasing after the heat of your mouth.

His head is still tossed back as he breathes deeply occasionally gifting you with a groan and now you've given yourself a new goal. You want to make a mess of this man.

Removing your hand from his base you take a much deeper breath and begin to bob your hands as shallowly swallowing with every other bob. His hands shoot to your hair as a moan forces its way out of his throat. You have to try your hardest not to gag as tears prick your eyes and your jaw begins to ache at the size of your task. But you can do better, grinding the head of his cock against the back of your throat you begin to hum, alternating between bobbing and grinding your head in his lap occasionally scraping the tip of your nose against his pelvis.

You can feel his hands trembling in your hair as he doubles over above you, groans and moans trickling freely from his throat as he tries to contain himself from thrusting into your mouth and causing you harm. His feet can't seem to keep still as they slide against the floorboards below and his toes curl tightly under the polished black of his formal boots. The heat in his gut begins to bubble, ready to boil over as he gives a weak effort to warn you of his untimely end

“D-darling I *groan* I don't have much l-longer..”

Doubling down your efforts, you're determined to make his world crumble around him in rapture. Mere moments pass and relief washes over you and your jaw as his body locks, keeping your lips pressed firmly against his pelvis as he throbs out his finish down the length of your throat, a deep moan choking it's way from his depths .

Letting out a shuddered breath he lets go of your body before dropping back to his sheet, trying his damndest to regain his breath. His body feels like jelly and his head empty of all of his previous troubles as he basks in his euphoric high.

Pulling yourself from him you lick your lips in satisfaction as your loved one pants across from you. You make to grab his trousers hoping to help remake his decent before his hands gently cradle and hold onto yours. Sitting up a soft blush has resurfaced to his skin and he looks deeply into your eyes, you can't help but to feel warm as your arousal shoots back up.

“So then is it my turn?”

#lord of the rings #lotr #silmarillion #silm #celebrimbor #celebrimbor/reader #Celebrimbor x reader #spicy

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sunnyrosewritesstuff · 4 years ago

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Day 4 Birthday Plot Bunnies 2

If you want this to become my next WIP, be sure to shower it with lots of love!! 🥰 💖 All the story starters will be linked back to this masterpost.

Title: The Hoardless Dragon

Summary: Thorin has been waiting his whole life for something interesting to happen in Erebor, and when Tharkun arrives with a “dragon expert” to warn of Smaug’s survival he thinks he may have gotten his wish. However, Thror falling in and out of the gold madness its beneficial to Erebor’s defenses, and it may be that there is more than one dragon to fear.

Tharkun has always been a curious character. Thorin may only be twenty-three, but he knew enough to recognize at least this fact. First off, he carried himself as neither man nor elf. Thorin has always been amicable to the men of Dale, much to his grandfather’s chagrin. Even to a lesser extent, his own father seemed hesitant over his friendship with Girion’s son. Flawed they may be, Thorin would describe men as a race as being unchiseled rock. Rough, but hiding their true value deep within. He would never use this to describe Tharkun.

Likewise, the elves had an almost ethereal, and in Thranduil’s case, haughty air about them that also didn’t apply to the wizard. Tharkun carried the same wisdom and experience as the ageless race, but he was also warm and wizened like he came to expect of men. He could even argue that Tharkun was secretive and stubborn like his own people if his battle of wits with his grandfather was any indication. Yes, Tharkun was odd. However, he was also kind. He encouraged Thorin’s curiosity of what lay beyond the gates of Erebor with tales of stone giants and great eagles. Battles fought long ago, and hidden lands of green hills and little people.

Thror may look at the eccentric being and sneer, but Thrain and Thorin were in near agreement that Tharkun was a true Khuzdbâha (dwarf-friend). That’s not to say Thorin was blind to the fact that Tharkun was a meddlesome interloper who preferred to speak in riddles. Thorin was third in line for the throne after all, and he knew how to watch for a politician’s half-truths. Still, when the herald rushed into the throne room to announce the arrival of the grey wizard, Thorin found himself fidgeting beside his grandfather’s throne in excitement.

Thrain’s eyes were twinkling as he looked over his father’s head at him. Still his words were reprimantory.

“Thorin, behave.”

The young prince ducked his head trying his best to calm himself. He still wasn’t quite used to throne room behavior, and was constantly being reminded to behave. His mother was in fits that he had to attend open court at all thinking him still too young. He was proud of the fact that his father was already training him in his duties to the crown. However, he knew his father wouldn’t have sprung it on him at all if it wasn’t for his grandfather’s declining health.

It was something Thrain and Fris did well to hide from their children, but Thorin wasn’t blind. The days of Thror encouraging Thorin and Frerin in their mischief as they tried to sneak by his office or taking him into the forge to experience his first taste at smithing were far behind him. Now, he could barely catch his grandfather’s attention so absorbed was he in his gold. Even raised to appreciate the might and beauty of Erebor, Thorin had a hard time understanding why his grandfather spent so much time with his gold and gems. Even his smiles and laughter were now replaced with ice glares and harsh words. Thorin loved his grandfather, but he was not so sure that his grandfather loved him anymore. Whatever strange inflection has taken Thror, Thorin hoped Tharkun held the cure.

The doors to the throne room were thrown open once more as Tharkun was escorted down the path with four guards stationed inside. A new precaution his grandfather deemed important to take as of late. Tharkun made no motion that the blatant display of distrust bothered him as he swept his way to the bottom of the steps with a deep bow and wide grin.

“Hail Thror, son of Dain. Hail Thrain, son of Thror. Hail Thorin, son of Thrain. It pleases me greatly to see the sons of Durin in good health and prosperity.”

Thror was content to glare down at the wizard so Thrain took it upon himself to greet their guest.

“Hail Tharkun! If we had known you would be arriving, we would have already pulled out the good mead. As it is, if you intend to join us for dinner tonight, I would see it done.”

“You do know how to tempt me, dear friend. As much as I would like to revel in pleasantries, I believe business must come first.”

“Yes, what storm follows in your wake this time, Tharkun Amsâlakhzar (bringer of bad luck)?” Thror mused.

The room was immediately filled with tension as Tharkun’s eyes narrowed on Erebor’s king in tight scrutiny. He’s never actually seen it in action, but Cousin Fundin, used to tell Thorin stories of Tharkun’s raw power, and how you never anger a wizard. The dwarf prince was half-afraid he was about to get a firsthand account.

“Ha!”

The sudden noise seemed to startle everyone in the room as Thorin turned his head just noticing for the first time that Tharkun did not arrive alone. The strangest being Thorin had ever seen in his life stepped out from behind the wizard. He stood merely an inch or two taller than Thorin which was on the small side for a dwarf. His beardless face, large wooly feet, and slightly pointed ears hidden by bronze curls stood in stark contrast to what Thorin was used to with his own kind having never seen another species of their height. Even his fashion was bizarre with the short trousers, perfectly tailored vest, and a velvet jacket of all things. That’s when Thorin remembered Tharkun’s stories of the little people on the other side of the world. This creature must be a halfling!

“I suppose you had every reason to fear, Grey Wizard, I’ll give you that much.” The halfling snorted, deriving some sort of depravatated humor from the situation.

“And what is this?” Thror demanded.

“Not what, Your Majesty, who. You can be knee deep in a dragon spell, and still have some manners about you.” The smaller male mocked.

Thorin had a detached bewilderment as he watched the impending mine-collapse. His own father didn’t speak to Thror so brazenly, and by the tightened grip on the stone throne, this matter would not be taken lightly. Still he couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by ‘dragon spell’?

“How silly of me!” Tharkun forced the diversion even as his hands tightened on his staff. “King Thror, Prince Thrain, Prince Thorin, allow me to introduce Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.”

At this the halfling gave a small nod of his head raising the ire of his grandfather. The smaller male would be lucky to leave with his life if he continued on this way. However, Master Baggins' attention then swept over to Thorin himself, and the halfling seemed caught off-guard for the first time tilting his head just slightly as he blinked slowly. The halfling’s hand immediately went to the golden band on his right hand, and he began to fiddle with it while narrowing his eyes on Thorin.

“Why is Bilbo Baggins of the Shire in my mountain?” Thror snarled, pulling Thorin’s attention back to his grandfather and the wizard.

“Bilbo has been my traveling companion as of late.” Tharkun smiled, seeming to think the conversation was back on his terms.

“Not voluntarily, mind you.” The halfling grumbled earning a small whack on his back from the wizard’s staff.

Thorin had to duck his head to hide his mirth at the scene, but when he looked back up the halfling was watching him again. This time with more fondness, as he gave the prince a wry grin and a quick wink.

“You see, I asked Mister Baggins to join me because I noticed stirrings to the north.” Tharkun remarked casually enough.

“Stirrings of what?” Thrain asked curiously.

“That my Prince, is the right question.” Tharkun smiled brightly before his face and tone fell grave in the blink of an eye. “The fire-drake, Smaug, is awakening from his slumber, and he seems to be sniffing out a new hoard to bed in even as we speak. If you do not take precautions, I fear his sights may fall to Erebor.”

The wizard’s warning was met with silence. Thorin wouldn’t lie. There was a small part of him that thought this was fantastic news. Nothing exciting ever happens in Erebor! The entire time he’s shadowed his father, it’s been nothing but boring council meetings, numbers and figures, even their trips down to Dale had become tedious. Now, though, there was something exciting to occupy his attention, and he couldn’t deny that part of him that wanted to charge headfirst and face down a dragon to earn his epithet. Thorin Dragonslayer, they would call him!

Outwardly, he portrayed the same concern he could see on his father’s face. Then his grandfather burst into fits of laughter.

“You have told some tall tales, Wizard, but this one steals the prize! A dragon! Next you’re going to tell me Durin’s Bane itself is knocking on my doors.”

“It is no jest, King Thror.” Tharkun insisted with a tight expression.

Thror sobered up some, but still seemed to discredit the grey figure’s words.

“I have been chased from my home by a dragon before. I know the signs. Erebor is prosperous, it will not fall. Especially to a fire-drake that has been extinct for ages!”

“You ignore the signs.” Mister Baggins stepped forth once more. “They are all here, King Under the Mountain, and the fire-breather Smaug lives as well as a few that your people refer to as cold-drakes. Why, it wouldn’t shock me to find Eisigem still sleeps in Dain’s Halls.”

“Enough, you impertinent imp!” Thror cried, jumping to his feet.

Thorin’s hand fell to his sword at his waist along with the other guards even though he was conflicted about attacking Tharkun and his companion. Still, the hobbit offered his grandfather great insult, and he was not about to deny that.

“Who are you to question the word of the king?” Thror demanded.

Mister Baggins’ lips were pressed in a tight line, and once glance at the dark look from Gandalf sealed his sour mood.

“My apologies, Your Majesty.” Mister Baggins replied in a clipped tone. “I am but a simple hobbit, and it is clear that I overreached my station.”

“A simple hobbit, in the service of this ustar (interferer).”

“Gandalf is an...old friend. He called on me for a favor, and I found myself in the position of being able to fulfill his request.” Mister Baggins offered in response.

Thror gradually seated himself once more, and Thorin relaxed the grip on his blade. Tharkun stepped in at that point, half shielding the smaller being behind his person.

“Bilbo, you see, is something of a dragon expert.” The wizard offered. “I thought his knowledge would benefit Erebor well with the terrible news I’ve brought.”

Thorin stared at Bilbo with renewed interest. A dragon expert? How many of the beasts had he slain to earn such a title? Thorin found himself hungry for the halfling’s story perhaps more so than he ever yearned for Tharkun’s own.

“Aye, a dragon expert.” Thror huffed wryly. “Why he looks more grocer than warrior. Axe or sword, Mister Baggins, what is your choice?”

He smirked darkly in response to the king’s blatant mocking as he continued to fiddle with the ring on his finger in agitation. “Neither. I’m more fond of using my bare hands and teeth.”

Thror huffed, not impressed with the hobbit’s jest even as Tharkun shifted uncomfortably.

“Your Majesty, I have not brought Bilbo to advise you on how to slay dragons, but on how to prevent their arrival because Smaug is coming. Perhaps not any time soon, but the treasure beneath your feet will be far too alluring, I fear.”

A tense silence fell over the room, and Thorin wanted to shut his eyes against the storm he knew to come. If there was one thing he had learned very well, it was that you did not mention gold in Thror’s presence.

“I see.” Came the unexpectedly calm reply. “You have not brought a dragon expert, but a burglar in my mountain. And use your insane theories of dragons as a front to rob me blind!”

“Your Majesty…” Tharkun began before Thror cut him off, banging his fist on his throne.

“SILENCE!” Thror roared. “I ought to kill you now for such insolence.”

“DO NOT THREATEN ME, THROR SON OF DAIN!”

Like everyone in the room, Thorin shrunk away from the shadows that manifested outwards from Tharkun. Thrain broke protocol to place himself protectively in front of Thorin, and the guards stepped in front of the royal family. None approached Tharkun as they were quickly reminded the wanderer was in fact a wizard of great power.

“I’m not here to rob you!” Tharkun continued before the shadows suddenly died down, and his expression turned soft. “I’m trying to help you.”

There was no movement that followed as all eyes watched the king to see what he would do next. Thorin’s grandfather looked taut as a rope in a pulley. His eyes narrowed as if weighing his chances against the wizard in battle. Thrain’s hand squeezed Thorin’s arm in a reassuring manner, but his eyes remained on Tharkun just as his war hammer remained in his other hand. Thror finally got up and walked to the edge of the dais using its height to tower over Tharkun.

“Get out of my kingdom. You and your abrâfu shaikmashâz (descendent of rats).”

Tharkun’s chin jutted out proudly at the king’s order. Thorin’s eyes sought out the halfling to see how he would react to the slur. Only, the smaller being was no longer behind Tharkun’s cloak. He seemed to be the only one to realize this as his eyes darted over the chamber before finally landing on the halfling’s form. Thorin made a strangled sound in surprise as he jumped away from the throne. All eyes, including Master Baggins’, fell on Thorin as he merely stared in open mouth shock at the being standing on the king’s throne holding the Arkenstone close to his mouth. Almost as if he were speaking to it though Thorin couldn’t make out the words.

“T-THIEF! H-HOW DARE...AKLÂF MENU (curse you)!” Thror sputtered before coming to life and heaving his sword high above his head to smite the halfling.

Thorin could only watch in horror as Bilbo Baggins, dragon expert and friend of Tharkun, remained resolute in his execution, still whispering to the gem. Just when he was about to be struck down, the halfling’s eyes bore into Thror’s own, stopping Thorin’s grandfather in his tracks. It was as if time had been frozen around them. Thorin felt the itch to take a step forward, but Thrain still had his arm securely wrapped around the other. The guards also seemed uneasy about this strange spell being wove around their king and whether they could interfere. Tharkun only watched on with a narrowed, but unsurprised gaze.

Only a few seconds had passed, though they felt like a lifetime, when the Arkenstone’s light dimmed, and iron clattered against the ground. Thorin looked around wildly, but every adult had dropped their weapons and were staring at each other and the halfling with an awed fascination. Thorin looked up at his father as even he loosened his grip breathing deeply as if it were his first out of a long sleep.

“What did you do?” Thrain murmured softly.

The halfling merely hopped off the stone throne, straightening out his vest and jacket before approaching Thror. The king had sunk to his knees, but his blue eyes, the same eyes Thorin had inherited, looked brighter and troubled all at once.

“This is not a jewel, Your Majesty.” Master Baggins began still looking only at the king as he held out the Arkenstone. “This is a petrified dragon heart.”

Gasps rang throughout the room.

“While not as potent as a real dragon heart, it’s been weaving its spell over you all the same. The effects will lessen, though not disappear completely until it’s destroyed. At the very least, I wouldn’t advise putting it back above your head.” The halfling continued to explain as he shoved the stone into Thror’s hands.

“Don’t dragon spells come from locking gazes with the beast?” Thorin asked curiously.

Master Baggins flinched before turning to Thorin with a hard look. His voice, however, was soft and encouraging.

“No, Your Highness. That’s unfortunately a myth. It’s the heartbeat that lulls you.”

“Yes, but...what did you do?” Thrain repeated again.

“I spoke to it in its language and convinced the heart to sleep. Like I said, not a permanent solution, but I do hope it stops the irrational yelling and weapon drawing.”

Thror and Thrain just stared at him dumbfounded.

“You spoke to it…” Thror repeated.

“I did say our friend here was a dragon expert.” Tharkun used this moment to speak up, surprising many who had seemed to forget he was still there.

Thorin watched the hard glare that passed between the two before Master Baggins walked right past the wizard.

“Right, well, if you need me to silence any other madness-inducing gems, I’ll be down in the market. I’m famished.”

The halfling spun on heel, gave a deep bow to the royals, before disappearing out of the hall before anyone could so much as say a word in protest.

“Now, about Smaug…” Tharkun began.

Thror winced as he slowly pulled himself to his feet.

“Peace Tharkun, it’s been a rather...eventful morning. If you are willing to wait until tomorrow...Erebor would be proud to host you and Master Baggins.”

Thorin stared at his grandfather in shock before a small smile began to split his face. Could it be? Did Tharkun and Master Baggins truly fix Thror? Tharkun’s approving smile managed to give Thorin hope that they had achieved the impossible.

“As His Majesty wishes.” Tharkun bowed.

Thror looked to be trying hard not to roll his eyes as he stepped out through the side entrance. Thrain immediately followed, dragging Thorin along behind him even as the younger prince turned to wave goodbye to Tharkun. Once they were in the relative privacy of the royal halls, Thror wrapped Thrain up in a hug.

“Makkê, birashagammi (My son, I’m sorry).”

Thrain didn’t say anything in return. Just clutched his father a little tighter and if either of the dwarrows were crying, Thorin pretended not to see. Instead he was practically vibrating in his desire to be dismissed so he could tell Frerin, Narvi, and Falvi. Obviously something as amazing as meeting a dragon expert was too big to keep from his best friends in the whole mountain.

“I have no patience to keep up appearances for the rest of the day. I would like to retire and actually enjoy my family once more.” Thror’s voice brought Thorin back to the present conversation just in time for a large grin to split his face.

He may just get his wish after all.

#birthdayplotbunnies #bagginshield #thilbo #starterdrabbles #when the only dragon of Erebor loves dwarflings not gold

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theharellan · 4 years ago

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Written for Stories of Thedas Volume II. Pairing: Solas & Cole (platonic) Prompt: Library

Masks upon masks. The Winter Palace is strange to Cole, who attends at the Inquisitor's bidding and finds himself at a loss for how to help. Solas comes upon him with ideas for how to cope with the deadly Game.

Read on AO3.

Couples spin on the dance floor, turning and turning, going nowhere and everywhere at once. Their heads fill with daydreams, one gazes into her partner’s eyes through their masks, imagining the hidden corners they could lose themselves in. Another, all he sees is the faint outline of a knife in his companion’s skirts, so all-consuming he almost forgets the steps. A third, their eyes bore holes into the other’s heads, hate springs from love eternal. His eyes dart from one couple to the next, glimpses into minds fraught with thoughts of a Game no one ever really wins.

He breathes in and feels the air catch in his throat. Honeyed words mask the taste of poison, cold compassion, they understand only so they can hurt. It isn’t right, it isn’t fair, it isn’t–

In the blink of an eye he’s in the library, surrounded by pages that whisper the words of yesterday. Not so sharp against his skin. Below, a dead man in the shape of a Warden pretends to stare at a plaque, praying no one will look at him twice, fearing they might see his valourous wings are clipped. It’s still a hurt, a tangle, but he’s trying to help. Cruelty does not become him. He lets out a breath he forgot he was holding, hands coming together to pull at his sleeves.

Oh.

He had forgotten about the uniform. The fabric doesn’t come away at his touch, no matter how hard he tugs.

And he misses his hat.

Cole wonders how long he will wait here, alone with his panic clawing at his throat. In the Spire he spent months isolated, forgotten by all save the one who no longer cares to know him. Suddenly the soft, inviting lights which illuminate the halls of the Winter Palace seem as cold as the dark cells they had kept Rhys in, clapped in irons for crimes Cole committed. Anxiety squeezes every inch of him. He counts the beats of the music that drifts from the distant dance hall, just to assure himself only minutes have passed since he came here.

A door opens behind him, and he nearly jumps into shadow, the Veil waiting to envelop him, drawing him from prying eyes, but a familiar face waits on the other side. “Solas!” he gasps, relieved and ashamed that he had doubted, but grateful most of all.

Solas shuts the door behind him, turning the handle so the latch doesn’t make a sound. “I thought I might find you here.”

That gives Cole pause. He hadn’t known he would find himself here, until it happened. “But I don’t read.” The books here are newer than those kept in the Pit, some hum with the occult, others recount poems about the shape of a woman’s hips, but he still doesn’t read. There isn’t a question in his tone, but Solas hears it, all the same.

“This place can be overwhelming for anyone, even without accounting for your abilities. Books carry meaning, but without eyes upon them those meanings are static. Far easier to take in,” he answers as he walks towards him, gait stiffer than usual. His feet had forgotten what it was like to wear shoes. Solas has been quiet that evening, quieter than usual, the stem of a glass glued between his fingers, bottomless. He lets his hat do his talking for him, the Drasca’s dissent lived on atop his head. He stops beside Cole, leaning upon the marble rail, gloved hands bearing weight. His eyes turn upon him, no brimmed hat to hide behind. “Are you all right?”

He pulls on his sleeves, this time he thinks he feels a thread come loose. “Yes... No? There are two faces for every person.” The Left Hand smiles and laughs, she comes alive, but inside it’s cold and cruel. The rose withers upon the vine. He finds the thread with his finger and pulls, but it doesn’t break. It unravels, further and further, if he keeps going his whole sleeve will be an unspooled mess on the floor. “I don’t know which to look at. I-I don’t know how to help.”

Solas reaches out, subduing his worrying hands with a single, steady touch. A gentle gesture, despite the blood which stains them. Sometimes they do not seem so different from his own, they remember the bodies because forgetting would be worse. Killer’s hands, but there is no deceit in their tenderness. Solas wraps the thread around his finger, string bright white against his brown glove, and he tugs. It snaps, suddenly brittle, and falls to the floor to be swept away by a servant who will never know they were here. A comforting hand is placed deliberately on his shoulder blade, and Cole stills. He inhales, eyes snapping from the abandoned thread to Solas. There is kindness in his eyes, quiet assurance. He has seen this all before and he will make it easier to bear. So many tricks just to make it through a day, an evening, an hour. “You will not find much compassion in these affairs, any help you offer will be perceived as duplicitous, a means to get what it is you desire.”

“Then I… shouldn’t help?”

He hesitates, delaying his answer with a moment’s deliberation. “The choice is ultimately yours, but their comfort should not come at the cost of your peace of mind.” His hand slowly falls from his back as Cole turns his advice around in his head. “While we are waiting for the Inquisitor to call upon us, rather than mend the missing pieces in strangers’ lives, perhaps I may help you.”

“Help me?” He searches Solas’ eyes for answers, compassion seeking solace in pride. They are quiet, revealing only as much as intended. Cole chips at the cracks in the rock and hopes for water to spring forth, but he guards his sorrows like a wolf guards her den.

“Would you care to learn how to dance?”

A dozen thoughts pile into the spirit’s head, most too quick to catch, but he grasps one by the tail. “Do spirits dance?”

Solas claims spirits are people, and each day that belief is realer in Cole’s own mind, reinforced by the Herald and Solas himself. He need not change to be loved, or understood, he need only be himself. But if he is a person, then he is not a person the way Varric is, or Cassandra, or even Solas. There’s a touch of sadness in the corner of his smile, as though he is sorry the question needs to be asked. “I suppose it falls to us to answer together,” he replies patiently with an offered palm.

Uncertain how it will help, but ready to trust that it can, he takes Solas’ hand.

“Listen closely,” he says, but he declines to speak again. Cole’s instruction takes a different turn, a manicured glimpse through a window into Solas’ soul.

“Delicate hand folded like a paper crane between my shoulders, her eyes shine like the gold she deals in when I take to the dance.” Josephine had poured so much into tonight, all her smiles and favours, anything that will see the Inquisition prevail. “She didn’t think you would be asked to dance, but she was afraid if you didn’t learn, someone would.”

“Her time was likely better spent elsewhere,” he agrees, “though nothing would have given me more pleasure tonight than refusing one of Celene’s court. Listen again, parse the thoughts which cloud the memory and see how we move.” Cole nods, and concentrates. He remembers the palm tucked in the valley between Solas’ shoulders, and he moves his there. His feet, too, he moves in line with his hips. It’s strange, focusing upon his own body and the space it takes up in the world. Lighter now that he has chosen compassion, but still very much real, empty only in the seconds the air rushes from the chambers of his lungs.

He feels eyes upon him, questioning, searching for confirmation before the music dares move them. “I’m ready.”

When Solas steps forward, Cole steps back, like they’re two puppets on the same musical string. He clips his strides, travelling farther faster than Solas can hope to without magic to carry him there. Awkward at first, but with each beat he feels him join with the dance that exists in his head. Old melodies, half-remembered, play in distant memories. Like the sky he knew it, once, but made himself forget. Dancing wasn’t always this way, was it?

Solas remembers. Feet too full of motion to keep his thoughts safe in his head, they spill onto the fabric of the world where Cole breathes them like his own. Memories of moving on a dancefloor to a familiar tune, swaying with the stars themselves, spinning until they parted from the earth. He swells with pride, a beast alive beneath his ribcage, it thrives and fights and inspires. When they dance the heavens and the earth move, and an empire holds its breath. It fears what dread the dawn will bring, but his People find freedom in the impromptu steps.

“What are you two doing here?” A voice snaps the string. Halamshiral looks different than it did heartbeats ago, all the magic hidden in dark corners (all the elves, too). When Cole turns to see the servant who disturbed them, he’s surprised to see a bare face behind her plain mask, and a second later cannot recall why.

With silver eyes she stares at him, unblinking. “She can see me.”

“A consequence of our dance, I believe.” Yes, he can feel it. Solas fades with each passing second, growing distant as his hand falls from his waist. “It will fade in a moment.” He speaks as though she is not there, but he’s waiting. It’s another dance, only it’s Cole’s turn to lead.

Cut loose, he turns his attention to the woman. Fear flows through her veins, the dagger beneath her sleeve is ready to open theirs. Beneath the steel, her heart wavers. Stranded between duty and love. “I’m warning you-”

“There’s still time,” he says. “She waits for you beside the fountain where you wished away Your Lady’s collection.” There were wiser things to do with gold, but oh how they’d laughed with every dream plunged into the water.

Cole steps forward and she braces, but not fast enough. “Forget.”

Time is unmade behind her eyes, and she slips the mask from her face to rub the last place she’d been kissed. Gone as quickly as she came, with new purpose in her step.

“It seems you found a way to help someone, after all,” Solas remarks after the library door has shut behind her. “You never fail to impress.”

Something in him shines brighter, bolstered by his pride. “Thank you.” He falters, looking down at his feet, curling his toes inside their boots. “I’d like to try another dance, if you think there’s time.”

A laugh coloured wine red parts Solas’ lips, punctuated by a snort that makes Blackwall down below look around for its source. “I believe there is time for one more,” he says, outstretched palm seeking Cole’s hand. “Since you have devised a way to put off intruders, I daresay we have all the time in the world.”

It isn’t a lie, but neither is it true. Like the golden caprice coins that shine beneath the lovers’ reunion, Solas’ words glow like wishes.

#dragon age #solas #cole dragon age #cole #storiesofthedas2 #storiesofthedas #a pain you can't heal ( cole )#( my writing )#wicked eyes & wicked hearts ( quests )#[ this was actually started like a year ago as a warm-up for adding cole to my multi so i figured i'd finally finish it... ]#[ pls dont make me repost this tumblr ]

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pendragonfics · 4 years ago

Text

homebound

Paring: Thranduil/Reader

Tags: female reader, elf reader, plus size reader, set during The Hobbit, elf culture & customs angst and hurt/comfort

Summary: Reader, in the company of the Dwarves of Erebor, finds herself in the company of her One; King Thranduil

Word Count: 1,647

Current Date: 2020-09-12

Though the dwarves spoke Elvish, with you alongside the Company aided their efforts in more than translation. Though you appeared young, your heritage hid the passage of time well. At over five thousand years old, you had seen much bloodshed, hatred, pain and strife as the years went by. Though your whole life was not full of pain, there was the reason you were not with your people for so long.

After fleeing the circles of your society, Gandalf the Grey took you in. The wandering wizard had no paying profession. Yet you spent your time alongside him, learning and growing. But mostly, it was attempting to avoid the pain of being separated from your One.

The sight of the dwarves and Mr Baggins riding ahead of your steed day after day never grew upon you; each morning, they would mount, and you would all ride toward the Lonely Mountain. Perhaps it was the novelty of watching them clamber onward like children. It could be your allyship to their noble cause. But mostly, deep inside your heart, you knew it to be the knowledge that you were returning home to the woods where you were born.

Through all the obstacles the troop faced, you all persevered. But as you all neared closer and closer to the Mirkwood woods, the memories of your exile so long ago resurfaced. Neither the Dwarves nor Mr Baggins asked for your story, for which you were glad. But there was something painful for you in returning home.

You were five thousand five hundred years old, and while most Elves lived longer, none in the circles of the elite you lived in looked like you. Ever since you were a child, your body was different. Doubts of your lineage permeated your family, called into question to your status and the validity of your title. It seemed that the society that you came from was against you but not the King's son. Thranduil.

The memories came to you in dreams and wreaked your sleep with their subconscious power. When the land was younger, and you both too, his hair was braided, and he would smile more. He sang, and ran, and made mischief as anyone would.

But with the passing of his father, the world seemed darker, scarier. Forced to crown him young, the council of elders passed the title upon Thranduil's shoulders. Early into his kingship, he kept his facade of happiness, just for you. The mischief became intimate. He no longer sang, but recited poetry and legislation to your awaiting ears. He wore a crown made from the woods and wore his hair loose for your fingers to weave within. And when no one looked, his lips would find yours, and all the cruel fate in the world would fade away for fleeting minutes.

A proverb states that when an elf falls in love, their heart remains with their One. While you had resigned to a life without returned feelings, it shocked you when one night your chambers were entered by palace guards. The Elders had found out; you, the imperfect, could never be the sovereign by marriage. The guards, on order from the Elders, abducted you under the disguise of starlight and displaced you from your home.

At this point, you would wake, panting, and muffle your cries beneath your fist. The fire would be dying in the early hours of the morning, and the last on watch would be blinking sleep from their eyes. As your party neared toward the woods, with Gandalf fleetingly by your side, you felt the grief returning to your conscious self.

The moment you saw the spider, your blood froze. Though you had grown in these parts, never had you slain one of these native foes. Sword at the ready, you slashed at the behemoth before you. One felled, two, but the third beast reared, venom spurting from its fangs into a wound. Crying out, you raised your sword, prepared for death. But the blow never landed; Elvish steel rang against your sword, and quickly, the remainder of the Spiders fell.

The relief of your life remaining your own never settled, however. The presence of other elves meant only one thing. Carried out in shackles, you silently shared the sombre feeling as your companions. It was not long before you found yourself behind Elven bars, imprisoned from your compatriots. Throughout your years, you had spent innumerable hours thinking of a reunion with your One. But never had you, in all of your musings, think it would be like this.

It was not long before more guards came, and silently, they unlocked your cell and escorted you from your friends. Already down the hallway, you could hear their cries, pleas against your removal. If only you had spoken in confidence about your history with these woodland elves to your dwarven friends. But that was the past.

Soon enough, you felt the familiar hallways entwine the passage, as comforting as a womb. Brought into the throne room, you felt the memories resurface once more. Before they could fill your mind, however, the throne came into view; and atop it, sat a familiar face. Time had not ravished him. Thranduil looked the same the last time you had seen him; long white hair, his gaze distant, the elegant attire. Though your hands were shackled still and held behind your back by your escorts, you felt them well with a will to reach for him.

"As soon as I heard of your return to the forest, I cannot lie, I was intrigued," he broke the silence that lingered in the vastness between you. From on high upon his throne, he shook his head, "after all these years, here you are. Home."

"I have no home! For that, your people made sure of," you spat.

At that, the guards tightened their grip upon your shackles, and uncomfortable, you fought back. Instantaneously, they released their grip, looking to your King, you saw why. Descending from his throne, you watched as Thranduil waved a hand your way, with no words spoken. The guards, though not unlocking the manacles that bound you, released their hold upon you. As he made his way closer, you observed another signal, to which left you and you King alone.

You felt your heartbeat beneath your skin, beating faster by the second. Despite all the years thinking of this moment, never had you anticipated it like this; returned in shackles, like a stray animal to your home.

"My people?" he asked.

You tilted your chin his way, your anger getting the better of you. But as quickly as it washed over you, it receded. Breathless, you looked to him, hurt.

"Oh, Thranduil, my love..." you whispered. "You never knew, did you?" You feel a wash of shame now, and though still bound, you turned from his gaze. "The elders. I heard them speaking; I had destroyed your chances of love."

"But you were my love," he growled. "And you left me to wander Middle Earth as you pleased."

You still cannot look at him. He radiates such power, such poise, and you cannot help but feel like you are inferior, despite the feelings you have harboured for so long. Your breath catches, and silently, you feel tears fall against your cheeks.

"It was against my will to leave Mirkwood. To leave you," you whispered. "It broke my soul to leave your presence. The elders forbade my return."

"And yet, here you are." He states.

It is now you look to him. Your face is shining with tears. Yet you refuse to look away now. "Against my better judgement. I was travelling with a troupe, only to be abducted by your soldiers." You fight against the restraints, their clanking noises filling the empty air between Thranduil's lips and your own. "Release us, and we will no longer be a burden to your court."

"You are in no place to make demands."

"And you are in none to scold me for things I did not do." you retort hotly. "I spent so long doubting myself, taking myself apart for others. Hating my body and wishing myself to be better for others. I didn't leave. They expelled me." you looked at Thranduil. "Before you scold me, punish your council."

A beat passes. The sound of elves vocalising in the distant halls catches your ears, but Thranduil does not speak. Silently, he takes something from his sleeve and reaches for your hands. No words are said as the chains fall.

"So I am not your prisoner?" you ask him.

"You do not understand what I have gone through in your absence," he sighs, his fingers tracing around the marks on your wrists. "I was married, then widowed. I became a father, as well."

"Congratulations, my King," you half-bow, as tradition expects of you. "And I apologise for your loss."

His lips turn up at the corners, ever so slightly. "I might have gone through so much pain, as you have too," he says, his fingers now interwoven with yours. "...but it has led us here. Together once more."

"Fate is strange," you hum. "...but I cannot stay, Thranduil. I have pledged myself to the cause of the Thorin Oakenshield, the heir of the Lonely Mountain."

He flinches. "To remove the wretched Smaug from its clutches, I assume?"

You nod and bring his hands close to your chest. His skin is cold and smooth. "Yes. Until Thorin is crowned King Under the Mountain, I am bound to the cause."

"Well," he says softly, lips brushing against your brow. "I suppose that I too am bound to the cause, for the best interest for my people."

"Until then...I must bid you adieu, my King." you release your clasp on his hands, and step backward, from his reach. "I have a dragon to slay."

#Thranduil #King Thranduil #thranduil oropherion #thranduil x reader #thranduil/reader #the hobbit x reader #lotr fanfic #lotr x reader #lord of the rings x reader #chaotic--lovely #pendragonfics #Female reader

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andawaywego · 4 years ago

Note

I’m the anon with the question about my prompt. No rush! I was just making sure it went through as i know that messages don’t always go through on this site lol. Mine was that Dani and Jamie get stuck in an elevator. Dani freaks out like she does in the first episode when the kids lock her in the closet and Jamie does her best to calm Dani down. Thank you for being so kind and doing this for the fandom 💕

hello again, love. i really felt this prompt and i might have taken it in a bit of a different direction than you initially intended. my apologies for that, but i hope you like it and that it fits the bill all the same.

i had another prompt regarding how Jamie would handle Dani’s panic attacks after they got together, as well, so this goes out to that person too!

Life in America is taking some getting used to. Life with Dani is taking some getting used to. Sometimes, it feels like Jamie is drowning in the unknown, in the uncertainty of everything around them—tidal wave after tidal wave of newness smashing into her every moment of every day.

Living with someone—sharing your life with someone—is like taking a crash course in everything that makes them them.

Dani forgets to blow candles out sometimes. She leaves her shampoo bottle open in the shower. She folds towels differently and likes to make the bed every morning. When she gets hungry, she gets really grouchy and is always surprised when eating makes her feel better. She chews at her lips when she’s lost in thought, sometimes leaving them sore and a little bloody. When Jamie buys her gum from the supermarket, she’ll chew it for hours on end and then complain that the flavor is gone.

Her mother comes knocking on the door of their apartment about five months into the whole thing, teary-eyed and touchy as she hugs Dani and apologizes for the long weeks of silence after that last phone call. Jamie hovers in the kitchen, pretending to clean or straighten the cupboards while they talk in the living room. She would hide in the bedroom, but she would have to walk past them to get there.

It’s some time later that Dani catches Jamie’s eye and waves her over, standing up as Jamie approaches and taking her hand. A united front as they stand above Dani’s mother, seated on the couch.

“Mom,” Dani says slowly, like she’s testing the word out on her tongue, “this is Jamie.”

And, of course, Jamie knows about that phone call, about her mother’s reaction to the news—her daughter’s supposed “abandonment” in moving states and states away from home; her shiny, new lifestyle and living with a girlfriend and all those things that made her keep them both at arm’s length.

But now, Mrs. Clayton is only silent for a breath or two before she gets to her feet, looking Jamie directly in the eyes as she says, “The famous Jamie. Nice to finally meet you.”

She shakes Jamie’s hand and there might be some hostility there—some lingering feeling that maybe Jamie seduced and corrupted her daughter—but her smile is genuine enough. Dani squeezes the hand she’s holding and grins and grins.

She hadn’t needed her mother’s approval, of course, but having it is nice enough anyway.

The visit is set to last a week, going right up to Christmas, and then Angela Clayton will be flying back to Ohio. Maybe it’s wrong of her, but Jamie is relieved, wanting nothing more than to spend this first Christmas with Dani on their own.

That’s plenty of time, however, for Angela to invade their lives and inhabit every inch of their space. She cooks dinner every night, comes by their shop to steal Dani away for the afternoon—leaving Jamie to run things on her own. She pesters Dani endlessly with questions about her time in England and most of the answers she gets are lies. Blatant ones at that.

It makes Jamie nervous, Dani having to be constantly reminded of all those things they haven’t been discussing. She does her best to provide what comfort she can without going overboard—a hand on her knee for just a few brief seconds; a touch to her shoulder.

Saying I’m here and it’s okay, love as simply as she can manage without calling too much attention to it. This tentative truce and understanding between mother and daughter feels like a game of Jenga and the last thing Jamie wants to do is send the whole thing crashing to the floor.

But she sees the way Dani’s spine straightens with each question. The way she flinches at certain words or thoughts. These aren’t new things, necessarily—she’s seen them since they left Bly—but they start happening all the more frequently with Angela around.

Everything breaks on a Sunday, the last day of Angela’s visit. They’re at the shopping mall because Angela insisted on looking for Christmas presents for them—some overcompensation for her brand of mothering, perhaps, which actually involves less mothering and more smothering the longer it goes on. Jamie shoulders her way through two hours of trailing after her girlfriend and her girlfriend’s mother in silence, holding shopping bags and nodding whenever her opinion is needed, which is rare.

Towels and bath mats and sheets. Cutlery and a crockpot and a floor lamp. Things that they definitely don’t need Angela to buy piling up the longer it goes on.

But grin and bear it is Dani’s particular method of shuffling on, so Jamie does her best to follow her lead.

Eventually, they manage to break away for a little while—Dani citing a headache that might be hunger and wiggling out from beneath her mother’s thumb long enough to go to the food court. Angela is reluctant, but eventually waves them off, taking the bags from Jamie so she can continue looking in the shop they’re in.

Out in the bustle of the mall again, Dani shakes her head and offers her girlfriend an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” she says, “I know she’s not the easiest to deal with.”

Jamie shakes her head. “She’s fine,” she returns, not a lie exactly but a slanting of the truth. “She loves you a lot.”

Dani sighs. “Out of guilt, maybe. She’s never been very good at showing it. Could have used this mom back when I was still a kid.”

Here is where the conversation breaks. There are a few things that Jamie could say, all of which have been said before during any discussion of their respective mothers. A little comfort could be offered, pat on the shoulder, squeeze of the hand and all that. But she’s learning more about Dani every day and there are other ways to turn the conversation around.

So she grins, loops her arms through Dani’s, and turns them toward the other end of the mall where the escalators down to the food court await. “Let’s get some greasy mall food in you, Poppins,” she says. “Perk you right up.”

Dani laughs, leaning into Jamie a little as they go.

And maybe it’s the length of the day or the presence of her mother. Maybe it’s all those long talks where the truth of what happened was never mentioned. Maybe it’s some residual nightmare still flooding her veins with every beat of her heart.

Maybe it’s some combination of all three.

When Dani stops to look into the display window of a bookstore, smiling at the winter scene set up—two puppet-like elves reading books in the back of a miniature sleigh—something happens. Jamie isn’t certain at first what it is. But one moment, Dani is completely fine, halfway through a remark about the fake snow the shop used and the next she’s falling deathly silent, eyes wide and fixed on the window.

As if she’s a ghost. It’s possible, given everything, that she has.

“Dani?” Jamie asks, careful not to touch her, not to startle her. “Dani, love, what is it?”

Dani is silent, tears filling her eyes which are fixed at some specific spot in the window. Jamie surveys her own reflection, then Dani’s. Behind them is a group of people hanging out and looking down the balcony to the lower level. One of them, a woman, is wearing a pale white dress that brushes her knees. She has long, dark hair and she’s standing very still, probably listening to whatever the man beside her is saying, and Jamie understands.

“Dani, baby, come on,” Jamie says. “I’m going to touch you, okay? I need you to come with me.”

There isn’t a response to this, but she hadn’t exactly expected there to be. She reaches out and lightly grabs the material of Dani’s coat sleeve over her wrist, using it to gently guide her girlfriend away from the woman’s reflection in the window. She’s not quite sure where to go, where would be safe enough to bring Dani back into the moment, into the here and now. It’s like the blind leading the blind.

There’s an elevator just up ahead and it’s not the best choice, but Jamie doesn’t really have any others. She doesn’t feel safe guiding Dani to the escalators or stairs like this and she just wants to get them as far away from that window as possible. By some miracle, there is no queue of mother-manned strollers awaiting entry and they are the only two inside when Jamie gets them there.

She guides Dani in and releases her as the doors shut. The mall has three floors and the food court is on the bottom one, so Jamie presses the button labeled 1 and watches it light up. With a shuddering start, the elevator starts moving, sliding them down to the second floor.

Jamie is busy trying to figure out her next plan of action when another thing happens:

The lights above them flicker a few times and then darkness falls as the elevator comes to a jarring halt. The tinny Christmas music that had been playing from the speakers in the corners of the elevator stops playing and then there is only silence.

Silence and Dani taking quick and shallow breaths.

Jamie jabs her finger into the emergency alarm, wincing as a buzzing ring echoes around the small space. It’s a busy mall, she tells herself. Someone will be there soon to fix it and get them on their way. And, until then, they’re going to have to just be in the darkness.

“Dani,” she whispers, the blackness around her swallowing the word.

She can hear Dani’s breathing as it speeds up, followed by a pillowy thump that is probably her falling back against the mirrored wall. She takes a couple of careful steps forward, arm thrust out to keep from running into anything. Eventually, her hand meets the fake-fur lining of Dani’s coat.

“Dani,” she says again, but there is only silence.

This close she can feel her girlfriend’s stuttered breath against her face, can hear the little gasp at the height of each one. She, herself, is beginning to panic, just from the overwhelming dark and the idea of being trapped like this. She can only imagine what Dani is feeling.

“Dani, baby, it’s okay. Everything is okay,” she tries, knowing how silly and futile those words are against whatever it is Dani is trying to fight off.

There is a gasping sob next, Dani sucking in air, and Jamie recalls that moment out front of Bly all those months ago. They’d been strangers then and still so innocent to the shadows coming their way. But she can recall the tremble of Dani’s shoulders, how unhinged she looked. How it had taken everything inside of her not to pull Dani into her arms even then.

Now, it’s even harder. She can hardly stand it.

“Dani, it’s me. It’s Jamie.” For some reason, it feels so important to tell her this—as if Dani might have forgotten who she’s with or where she is. It feels so important to keep saying her name, too, to keep trying to ground her and keep her from floating away. “Can I touch you?”

There’s no answer. A few long seconds of silence pass and then she feels Dani’s hand grip her own, squeeze her tightly. Gently as she can, Jamie cradles it in both of her own and lifts it, presses it to the side of her own face. Dani’s fingers uncurl as she does this, cupping Jamie’s cheek, thumb brushing along her eyebrows and eyelashes. Tracing their familiar shape in the darkness.

“Just breathe, baby,” she says because Dani is still gasping, still hyperventilating. “All the way in. All the way out.” She demonstrates it, breathing in slowly and then breathing out the same way. Making it audible. “Breathe like me, Dani. Just breathe like me.”

Another hand comes up, this one resting on her chest above her sweater. Feeling the rise and fall with every breath Jamie takes. Dani struggles to mimic her, but it evens out after a minute, sounding more and more steady.

“There you go,” Jamie encourages. Her eyes feel hot and itchy and she knows she’s crying even though she can’t see anything. She can feel the drip of tears from her jaw. “That’s so good. Keep breathing. Breathe like me.”

This isn’t forever, she reminds herself. There are probably people working on getting the elevator running right now. Any moment, the lights are going to turn on and they’re going to be okay. They’ll get to the first floor and step out into the bright fluorescents and Dani will be alright. Breathing normally. Present. Okay.

“It’s gonna pass,” Jamie tells her. “I’m here. We’re here. We’re okay.”

Dani taps her finger lightly on Jamie’s chest. “Okay,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Okay.”

“Yeah, we’re okay. Where are we okay, Dani?” she asks. “Where are we?”

She read somewhere about this—in some magazine in a waiting room at a doctor’s office. Remembers reading about questions like that one. About what it means to ground another person.

“V-Vermont,” Dani answers. “The mall.”

“That’s right. That’s so good.” Another tap. Jamie presses Dani’s hand, the one holding her face, a little closer. “What’s your name? What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Danielle,” Dani says without hesitation.

“Who am I?”

A pause here and Jamie is worried for one second when she hears Dani’s breath stutter again, come out a little more pained. But then the hand on her chest lifts, curls around the back of her neck, fingers curling into her hair. “Jamie,” Dani breathes, pulling Jamie in closer until their foreheads are resting together. “My Jamie.”

Jamie nods against Dani’s forehead. Closes her eyes. “Your Jamie. That’s right, Dani. Your Jamie.”

“My Jamie,” Dani repeats and she’s crying still, shaking, but she sounds more and more like herself. “I’m okay. I’m okay. We’re okay.” Her fingers comb through Jamie’s hair as she says it and Jamie brings her own hand up, cupping the other woman’s jaw in her hands and wiping away her tears with her thumbs.

“We’re okay. Me and you.”

“Me and you.”

They stand there like that for a long time. Jamie isn’t sure how long, but, eventually the elevator’s lights are on again. There’s a voice coming through the speaker—a man telling them they’ve got it running again; apologizing—and then they’re moving again. In the time it takes to descend, Jamie pulls away and manages to wipe the rest of Dani’s tears away. Get her own as well. Straighten themselves out.

Two maintenance workers and a man in a suit are waiting for them at the bottom, apologetic and flummoxed. Jamie fields their apologies with Dani’s hand in her own and Dani comes back into herself all the way.

Me and you, Jamie thinks when they’re alone again, pulling Dani to the side of the elevator, out of the way, so they can get their bearings all the way.

There’s a beast in the jungle, yes. Lurking. Waiting. Sometimes it rustles in the bushes, makes noises at the edge of their camp. Rakes its nails down the bark of a tree, snapping twigs and leaving shadows in its wake as it slinks back into the darkness.

There’s nothing, really, that Jamie can do about that. But she can add logs to the fire, shine a flashlight in the darkest of corners. She can hold Dani close and press her mouth to her forehead. She can whisper quiet assurances to her and vow to never let her go for as long as she lives.

This is part of their life together. Jamie is learning that, too.

And, in the life she led before Dani—without Dani—there were so many things that she couldn’t handle.

But loving Dani through whatever storms that come their way is not one of them.

#tw anxiety #tw panic attack #tw flashback #just anxiety in general #be forewarned #dani x jamie #dani/jamie #jamie x dani #thobm #the haunting of bly manor #damie prompt #dani and jamie fanfic #andawaywego fanfic #i’ve been informed that Dani’s mothers name is Karen #and i’ve decided i don’t care

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wlw-lovestruck-fiction · 4 years ago

Note

May I request a hc or fic of Xenia finding out that mc’s foster parents psychologically/emotionally abused her while she was moved from house to house?

WARNINGS FOR; Emotional Abuse Child Labor/Extortion Physical Violence. Racially targeted violence (Can Elves suffer that?) Written by: @evoedbd ******

Xenia often worked hard, keeping all four hands occupied as she carved a path through her daily burdens. Keeping her hands busy let her get more done, let her ignore the simmering energy and tension beneath her ashen skin. Today, however, she did not occupy her hands with various documents. She held one solitary piece of paper between her uppermost hands, whilst her lower set gripped the arms of her chair with such ferocity one might mistake her for a sovereign preparing to declare war. And war she would indeed declare, if only it was within her power. That solitary sheet of paper trembled in her weakening grasp, crinkled whenever she forced her fingers to tighten.

Perhaps it was not the weight of the paper, after all, the page was the same as all the ones Xenia often handled. It was as immaculate as expected of a spy mistress, save for the sodden patches where her spy had evidently failed to keep the snow from touching it, and a rather telling incomplete circular stain which Xenia had no doubt would align perfectly to a flagon of Ale. No, as far as paper went, this paper was completely average. Average weight. Average colour. Horrible condition… even worse words.

Finally, Xenia had a living example for the weight of words. Words bore weight in the court, more so than amongst the common people, yet many would merely believe that a metaphor for the dangers of speaking out of turn. Many forgot the written word was far more damning, but even so, Xenia knew most could not understand how metaphor could become reality. She doubted many would read words as she did, words which made the parchment they were written upon feel like the kingdom a Monarch might hold upon their shoulders. The weight she schemed to put upon the shoulders of the true heir to the throne.

Aspia Cross. An honest woman, named for the trees around her and the crossroads she was abandoned at. A beauty, with eyes the colour of the evergreen trees beneath the snows, filled with the fire of the Sun Goddess. A woman who was raised in winter, with a heart as warm as summer, named for spring yet filled with the cunning of autumn. Truly, a woman embodying every house, every season. A wildling with rich skin and flaming hair and dustings of freckles across a youthful face. A wildling she may have been, but Aspia had won hearts across the court. Her genuine smile had enraptured the Bard, Lyris. The soft gleam of her eyes and her gentle words had Princess Piama of Spring sinking deeper into a trusting friendship. Aspia’s raw, uncultured wit had charmed Prince Sevastian of Winter, whereas her loyalty and hidden skills with a blade had earned the genuine respect of Princess Ruelle of Autumn. Pirate and Spy mistresses alike stood ready to swear their allegiance to the Queen she would become, however that was a future vision. At the moment, Aspia was an elevated woman from the wilds. A mystery. A woman with scars few in the courts had seen, Xenia among them. She had seen those scars when she laced a wildling into fine dresses, a tapestry of lash marks down a freckled back, each a strike delivered without any sense of finesse. A senseless beating.

This was the report which Xenia held in her hand. The tale of Aspia’s life amongst the wildling villages, things she had not rightfully exposed to anybody amongst the courts. Aspia had spoken about some of her trials, of certain bullies Xenia could not name for the sake of safety. Yet when it came to certain parts of her life, Aspia showed her cunning. Her ability to avoid giving direct answers rivalled Xenia’s ability to manipulate them free, to the point Xenia’s desperation had reached a level of betrayal that ate at her. A network of spies, the sacrifice of coin. In her search for answers for the crown, she needed answers for Aspia’s wounds. She needed to know if those who had hurt the heir were worthy adversaries.

They weren’t, Xenia found, but their cruelty surely was.

The words she saw were blurred, yet each stroke of ink was painfully clear. She could see where the spy’s hand had frozen, perhaps shocked by what he heard. Or where the quill had lingered a little too long, tip trembling, perhaps due to her spy swallowing back outrage. Each harsh stroke of ink depicted further and further depravity, the lack of information painting just as much of a picture as that which was documented. A list of foster homes, matching a list of injuries and jobs the child had held. Physical and demeaning labor which would not have been foisted on even the poorest child. Beasts had been given more respect, Xenia noted, than what was described for Aspia. It churned in Xenia’s gut, bubbling like the mucus and tar Aspia had been forced to deal with. The residue left in the cauldrons Aspia had been forced to clean. Already, Xenia knew that when she looked at the taxes of each business that she would not find listings of a wage for Aspia. No, Aspia had exchanged a childhood for her life, her labor for the meals in her belly. The pattern continued, jobs and trades, wage less days for a struggling child. A pattern of abuse and extortion, right up until the end of the page. A place where the quill had pierced the paper. Where ink splattered. Where the ale stain lingered.

Each letter was a grain of sand in Xenia’s stomach, chaffing and irritating her gut on its way to join the quicksand and boulders causing such a sinking feeling of dread. The events documented were clinical, graphic accounts of Aspia snapping at her caretakers who had chosen their other ward over her, only for the punishment to be such senseless violence a gasp broke free from the Spy Mistress. A senseless beating, one Aspia had fought back against enough to scar her attackers. Xenia had seen some of those scars, each time she brushed the flames disguised as hair aside, or buttoned up garments where Aspia could not reach. Now, Aspia’s insistence on known aid made perfect sense, it was not merely a simple wildling woman’s discomfort at the fawning, it was also a survivor’s armor against unknown attacks.

The final words across the page made Xenia gasp, let the paper fall from her hands as they rose to cover her mouth less further sounds escape.

Once beaten, Aspia had merely used words between her wounded sounds. Delivered insults enough that her attacker had grabbed tools of his trade, then he had nailed Aspia’s ear to the floorboards. She had been left there to bleed out, to rot, until a neighbouring family found her. The family which had ultimately given her shelter. Amongst the list of injuries, one stood out to Xenia, stark and crude, much like a stroke of blood across the snows. Someone had attempted to sever the ear pinned to the floor.

Xenia gagged, unable to hold back the sob at the realisation. Someone had tried to cut Aspia’s ear off. Possibly Aspia herself in her dazed desperation to escape. The reports stated Aspia did not remember the events, only waking after a beating, dazed and confused. Xenia had doubts. Whether Aspia remembered or not, her body did. In the way she moved, in that endearing erratic curl of hair which never seemed to stay in place. Something so innocent, which now held a darker meaning. It was hair regrown, concealing the tail end of a scar. It was hair as defiant as Aspia herself. Even displaced, it refused to die, refused to do anything save grow. Even as it grew against the crowd, it somehow fit. It was somehow a radiant completion to a glorious whole.

The Spymistress was unsure how the parchment had returned to her hand, only that she found herself sliding it neatly amongst her most personal stack of papers. The reports she would either destroy or encrypt further. Files she would never allow to see the light of day. Her betrayal of Aspia’s trust would be buried, kept in the dark, a place where she would whisper her confession and beg forgiveness. A place she would allow Aspia to decide the fate of said report. If the heir wished to read it, it would be Xenia’s cursed gift to her Queen. Should Aspia wish it destroyed, then Xenia’s fireplace would burn brighter than the Sun Goddess herself. Would burn with the righteous fire Xenia wished to cast upon those named for such a heinous crime. For now, Xenia had a court to dance amongst, and a prayer for forgiveness to compose.

#Anonymous #lovestruck #angst #heavy angst #xenia of the autumn #xenia x mc #reigning passions #reigning passions xenia #emotional abuse #psychological abuse #tw: blood #tw: physical violence #tw: racial violence #tw: child extortion #woeful wednesday

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mordoriscalling · 4 years ago

Text

The Shrike and the Lark (pt. 2)

Jaskier and Renfri are disaster twins ruling Creyden. When the Warlord of the North knocks at their door, Queen Renfri and King Julian are at an advantage - they know him. As in, they know him. (Inspired by the Warlord AU and “the heart is a winged beast”).

(Pt. 1)

Creyden, 1237

It does not start as a usual feast. Although all the elements of a good celebration have been provided – food, drink, music – the mood is anxious rather than festive. The court of Creyden is apprehensive of the witchers and one sorceress seated at the high table; no one but the King and the Queen talks to them.

King Julian chatters with the witcher sitting at his left, whose face bears terrible scars. His name is Eskel, of the Wolf School. The White Wolf’s right hand and second-in-command has an agreeable countenance; King Julian seems to be perfectly at ease as he speaks to him. The two are, in fact, so engrossed in their conversation that they scarcely take note of what is happening around them.

Julian and Eskel do not pay attention when Queen Renfri addresses the White Wolf – who is seated at her right and has been silent thus far – loud enough for many to hear.

“I must say,” she begins, “to the naked eye, you don’t seem to have changed at all since we last met, yet they're many things that are different about you now.”

“Is that so?” the Warlord inquires.

“Oh indeed,” the Queen answers, “The last time I saw you, you were a man who adamantly refused to choose between evils. No evil was greater or lesser to you.” She regards the witcher closely and he watches her in the same manner. “And yet,” she goes on, “choosing what you deem the lesser evil is all you do now. Killing those in power to free the oppressed. A noble cause in a way, I admit –”

“But it’s still evil,” the White wolf finishes the thought.

Many ears are now listening in, and the white-haired witcher seems to be aware of it. He looks around, yet no one but Lady Yennefer sitting at his right dares to return his gaze.

Finally, he replies, “I must say I never expected to hear criticism of killing from the mouth of the Shrike. You seem to have changed your ways too.”

“Only slightly,” Queen Renfri retorts, “I’ve never stopped seeking revenge, but now I find that reclaiming my birthright is a much sweeter way. I triumph every day, not just once.”

The Warlord considers these words for some time. When he speaks, he remarks, “Your Majesty leads an empty life, then. If revenge is all you breathe for.”

The Queen’s eyes flash with icy ire. “I am not some kind of monstrous creature that finds fulfilment in vengeance. Though the blessings of my life have been few and far in between, it is they that give me the most joy.”

The White Wolf inclines his head but does not say anything to this. Queen Renfri’s anger appears to have lessened now; as she reaches for her goblet of wine and lifts it up, her lips are quirked up in a gentle smile.

“Shall we raise a toast?” she asks. “To life’s blessings. To the good moments we experience, to the good people we meet.” She looks to her brother, who is now listening to her with a soft smile of his own. “To friends and family.”

“To life’s blessings,” King Julian toasts.

After everyone drinks to that, the Kings raises from his seat, which causes the musicians to stop playing. Eventually, the whole room hushes, waiting for him to speak.

“The Queen, in her wisdom, reminded us all of what we should cherish,” he says. “Following her advice, I would like to count my blessings. Thus, I wish to honour her... with a song.”

The court of Creyden raises a loud cheer. King Julian grins and leaves the high table, a skip in his step. As he joins the musicians to be given a lute, the White Wolf’s entourage looks upon him with bemusement.

It is not a fact well-known that King Julian used to go by another name. Even his own subjects can only guess what person he passed as, although to some, it is not a challenging riddle. Around the time Jaskier – a winner of the annual bardic competition, a troubadour renowned in all Northen Kingdoms for his craft – mysteriously disappeared, King Julian was crowned. Seeing the mastery with which the King wields his words, voice and lute, the puzzle is not hard to solve for those who know all the pieces of it. The Lark simply has never stopped singing; the difference is that now, he does so for fewer people.

When King Julian begins playing The Ballad of the Black Sun Princess, he quickly has his audience captivated. All eyes are on him as he dances around the tables, smiling and winking, telling the story of how Queen Renfri defeated the mage Stregobor.

With everybody’s attention on the King, no one takes note of how the Warlord leans in close to the Queen.

“That’s not how it happened,” he grunts.

Queen Renfri chuckles. “Jaskier has the advantage of being the author of the ballad. He likes making use of it.”

“That he does,” the White Wolf grumbles.

After the song ends and the applause dies down, King Julian asks, “Shall I sing another?”

A chorus of eager ayes answers him.

“All right then,” he decides, playfully surprised. “I’d like to dedicate this next song to our honourable witcher guests. They are, after all, friends of humanity. Though I think that we should refrain from tossing some coins.”

At this, the court of Creyden cheers uproariously. With a delighted laugh, the King starts singing Toss A Coin. Simultaneously, the White Wolf curses under his breath.

“Fuck,” he spats, with quiet despair.

The reaction draws a laugh from Lady Yennefer. “Don’t be so grumpy, Geralt,” the sorceress tells him, “the song is not that bad.”

“Yeah, it’s not bad,” Geralt replies, “it’s fucking terrible.”

Lady Yennefer shakes her head but does not chide her lord any more.

“I’d advise you not to insult my brother’s work,” Renfri warns, “not when it’s not deserved.”

“My criticism is not unfounded,” Geralt retorts, “Jaskier chose to portray the elves in an unfairly negative light.”

Renfri does not deny that. Instead, she says, “Now I understand why he called you his harshest critic.”

The White Wolf only hums in response. After a moment, the Queen fills the silence, “My brother talked about you. He mentioned your shared travels... and more.”

“I see,” Geralt replies.

“To be fully transparent,” Renri carries on, her tone hushed, “I also told him of our past... relation.”

Upon hearing that, Geralt’s gaze snaps to her, his eyes wide and his mouth parted. Renfri bursts into delighted, whole-hearted laughter.

“Don’t worry,” she reassures the witcher once her giggles do not take her breath away, “you’re in no trouble. It caused no quarrel between us. In truth, we only find it entertaining. Really, Geralt, you should see yourself! It’s a joy to tease you.”

“I’d appreciate if you stopped with your jest,” Geralt grumbles.

“We shall see about that,” Renfri answers.

“Renfri,” Geralt grits out, “let the past stay in the past.”

The Queen and the Warlord stare each other down for a moment. Neither seems willing to yield but in the end, Renfri relents.

"Very well," she agrees, and they speak no more of it.

King Julian’s performance does not end with Toss A Coin. The audience wants him to continue, so he goes on to play some jigs. A few pairs begin dancing to the music, and many others soon follow in their footsteps. Eskel and Lady Yennefer join the dancefloor, and so does Queen Renfri. The White Wolf remains seated, watching everyone make merry, his golden gaze often straying to the singing Lark.

When King Julian tires of playing, he leaves the musicians to provide entertainment while he himself rejoins the high table. Since his sister is still dancing, the seat next to the White Wols is empty, and Julian seizes that opportunity.

“Hello, the Warlord of the North,” he greets as he sits down at the witcher’s side.

The White Wolf grunts but does not deign the King with a reaction. Julian gives a disbelieving chuckle.

“You, a warlord,” he says, “I still find it hard to believe. You used to be such a peace-loving creature. One of the most passive, pensive men I’ve ever met.”

“And you, a king,” the Warlord counters, “You used to be a bird who fled at the slightest mention of taking any kind of responsibility. One of the most selfish, reckless men I’ve ever met.”

“Well, look at us now.” The King smiles wryly. The White Wolf does not respond to that. King Julian heaves a sigh. “What happened, Geralt?” he asks quietly.

For some time, Geralt is quiet, not sparing Julian a glance. When he answers, at last, he only says, “It’s a long story.”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Julian inquires.

Geralt seizes him with a heated look, as unforgiving as the surface of the sun.

“You know enough of my stories, Jaskier,” he growls.

Not waiting for a reply, Geralt gets up and goes to take part in the dances, partnering with Lady Yennefer. Hurt twists Jaskier’s features but he masks it quickly. When his sister returns to his side a few minutes later, he greets her with a smile that clearly has no humour in it. Renfri does not comment on it.

Read the rest on AO3

#myfic #geraskier #the witcher fanfiction #the accidental warlord and his pack #renfri & jaskier are disaster twins

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arianaofimladris · 5 years ago

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My contribution to @tolkiengenweek, day 6 - group dynamic. I returned to an old idea of exploring the dynamics between the elves coming from Valinor for the War of Wrath and the remaining Feanorians. The first chapter was published some time ago, now I’m adding the second, focusing on Maedhros and Finarfin relationship and cooperation in war times.

The whole story is available here, though as it is a set of images, it is not necessary to read the first glimpse: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13352907/chapters/30573915

The land of fallen dreams, chapter 2

"That wasn't necessary," Maglor muttered quietly as his brother leaned heavily on him, no longer quite able to hold himself upright.

"Leave it, Kano."

Maglor sighed. The council had lasted too long. His brother could mask himself well, but even he had his limits. The majority of the Vanyar officers, he knew, had not even been aware that something was wrong. Their uncle had seen right through Maedhros's pretence, of course he had. But Finarfin had said nothing and had let the council go on as if everything was fine. A part of Maglor was grateful for that, for sparing Maedhros pity and attention on his wounds when there were important matters to discuss and decisions to be made at once.

The other was furious at the sheer stupidity of this farce, yet he knew better than to argue with his stubborn brother. Not when he was this close to collapsing in the middle of the encampment. They had left the King's tent as soon as the council was over, Maedhros first, straight as usual and perfectly calm, as if he had been at their grandfather’s court. Maglor followed, he always did. But half-way through, his brother swayed and it became obvious he needed help.

They somehow made it to their tent and as soon as they came inside, Maedhros sank down with a muffled grunt, not even bothering to reach his bed. His eyes were shut, his white face covered with sweat as he shivered and heaved, even though his stomach had been long since empty. He sucked air in pained gasps and almost cried out when Maglor gently put his hand on his shoulder to steady him, lest he lost balance.

"Let me see, or shall I just fetch Alcarino?" Maglor asked, though he already knew the answer. There was no point in trying to fix the problem himself, when they had the luxury of calling a healer, one that he knew would come no matter what.

"Give. me. A. Moment," Maedhros managed to hiss through his gritted teeth.

"Not here." Careful not to touch his back again, Maglor grasped his brother by the arms and lifted him. "Come on, Nelyo. Just a few more steps."

"No, wai-" Maedhros bit back a cry, but managed to get up. Hand locked in a crushing grasp on Maglor's arm, he made a few wobbly steps and nearly fell face flat on his bed. It was as usual Maedhros's will that had kept him collect through the meeting, but now gone was that composure, leaving him shaking and exhausted.

"Alright. Just lie down, I'll be back in a moment." Maglor slipped through the half open entrance to the fire before the tent, where Dinessel had been repairing a torn jacket. Having heard them, she was already waiting in alarm. Without further delay, he sent her to bring Alcarino as soon as possible, not having believed for a moment that this was something to deal between the two of them.

Maedhros had not moved, still lying the way he had slumped. The fresh jacket he had put on when he had returned from the patrol masked the extent of the injuries well enough, but Maglor had seen what was left of the old one, as well as the bloodied rugs of his brother's shirt. Now he wondered just how wrong he had been not insisting to have someone take a look before leaving for the council.

"Sit up for a moment, would you?" Maglor sat at the edge of the bed. "I'll help you undress."

Maedhros tried to push himself up. He bit back another cry and after a few raspy breaths, managed to hiss, "I've had enough skin ripped and torn today, you don't need to worsen it."

Maglor froze, concern gnawing on him. "I haven't touched your back yet. It's only your jacket I'm trying to get off. Unless you want me to cut it?"

Maedhros flinched. "I ruined one today already." Hissing, he shifted his arms behind and with his brother's help slipped the garment from his back. “My head’s spinning,” he muttered and shut his eyes.

"You've soaked through," Maglor sighed as he brushed his fingers against the sorry remains of Maedhros's shirt. “Alcarino will be here in a moment, it’s best we wait for him.”

***

Alcarino was not thrilled to learn that he was being summoned only after Maedhros almost collapsed from blood loss. He was even less pleased when, after the painful process of removing the soaked bandages, he uncovered long gashes crossing on his back, running from the right shoulder blade down to the waist. The wounds were deep and the skin around them puffy and swollen after long hours of being tightly covered with damp clothes. Some of the cuts were still oozing, while others started bleeding again once the clots had been torn with the bandages.

“Wargs?” Maglor growled more than asked.

“Mmmhm.” Maedhros tensed, his fingers gripping the side of the bed, while the healer gently wiped the blood, then pressed a clean cloth to dry his back.

“How much did you take?” There was no reproach in Alcarino’s voice. He placed his free hand on Maedhros’s shoulder to keep him steady as he worked on a particularly deep gash.

“Enough,” the reply came as a moan and the wounded buried his face in his pillow, shaking. “But. It’s. Not. Working. Anymore.”

Maglor didn’t even comment. He knew of course that his brother carried with him very strong pain relieving herbs to use in emergencies like this, just so he could be tended to without any unwanted incidents or return to a safer place. The medicine could make wonders, but once the effects had worn off, it left the wounded even more drained and exhausted. Alcarino was always reluctant to use them at all, but in Maedhros’s case, they were sometimes necessary.

“I know.” Alcarino sighed and touched his forehead. “But you know well that if you are bad enough to take it, you need to come to me as soon as possible.”

“There were more important matters." Maedhros muttered into his pillow, not even bothering to turn towards the healer. "The wargs were too near the camp, we needed to come back and warn the oth- Argh!"

Maglor didn't comment that either. He shared Maedhros's opinion when it came to the usefulness of the Vanyar soldiers in the matters of assessing the danger and choosing the right course of action. Still, he wished he hadn't had to watch his brother being stitched and patched up while lying and shaking, hadn't had to see the water in the basin turn red with the blood of his only remaining kin.

Alcarino closed some of the wounds with neat lines of stitches after giving Maedhros a generous portion of herbs mixed with mulled wine. This proved to be troublesome as the wounded was drained and dizzy and objected to any suggestion of moving. In the end Maglor made him drink through a straw and held him steady during the whole unpleasant process.

Finally Alcarino put some ointment on the wounds and left them uncovered to let them dry and breathe. He urged Maedhros to try and eat something before retiring for the night, but didn't push him, allowing him to rest first. The wounded muttered incoherently in agreement. Seeing Alcarino's meaningful look, Maglor only nodded. He would send for him if necessary.

The healer left, but the heavy scent of blood and herbs remained. Maglor considered letting some air in, but Maedhros shook occasionally, so there was little point in inviting the evening chill inside. He laid unmoving, not yet asleep, but too worn to sit and fill his stomach. He seemed to calm, though, so Maglor didn't welcome a motion outside by the entrance.

“What is it now?” he snapped. Seeing that it was only Dinessel, his expression softened. “Come in.”

“The king wishes to speak with you, my lord,” she said formally after slipping inside, though she often skipped the titles when they were alone.

“Whoever is asking, send him back with reply that it is currently impossible,” Maglor waved her off. His hands were still bearing trails of his brother’s blood; he was not going anywhere.

But Dinessel shook her head and whispered, “He’s here.”

That explained her nervousness. “Very well,” Maglor sighed and rose. “Go get some warm food for my brother,” he told her and followed her outside.

Finarfin was indeed there, waiting by their fire with two guards nearby. He regarded with polite interest whatever else Dinessel had been doing by the fire, whereas his companions kept their expressions completely blank. Had they been alone, there would have been scorn instead of indifference on their features.

"Sire," Maglor inclined his head stiffly, careful to let the curtain slip behind him.

"I wished to have a word with you and your brother in private," clearly no longer at duty, Finarfin wore much simpler clothes. Gone was the heavy robe he had been wearing earlier at the council, yet his garments still looked overly decorative and absurdly improper in a war encampment.

It was a detail that still amused Maglor. Once they too had cared more about the looks at the official meetings and during councils. In Himring Maedhros would wear a copper circlet, one made by their grandfather Mahtan, and the robes of a lord. But now? They were long since past caring about such trivia in the world where surviving was a struggle.

Which could not be said about the army of Valinor.

"Kanafinwe?" Finarfin’s voice broke his trail of thoughts.

"Pardon me. Now is not the best time."

"Do come in," Maedhros called from the inside before his brother evaluated his decline.

"As you wish." Maglor shrugged and flipped the curtain to the side, letting Finarfin in. He half expected that Maedhros had used the time he was given to sit and make himself a little bit more presentable, or at least cover himself with a sheet, but as he turned, he found that his brother had not moved.

Finarfin followed, only to halt as the stench of blood and herbs hit him. Eyes widened in alarm, he looked around the tent and gasped as he saw Maedhros lying flat on the bed, his mutilated back uncovered.

"Forgive me if I do not rise," Maedhros said dryly.

"Sweet stars, Nelyafinwe!” Finarfin didn’t quite manage to hide his horror. He stared openly and made a move as if to retreat.

“I warned you,” Maglor pointed his uncle a seat. Perplexed, Finarfin sank down, still at loss of words.

“That’s what warg claws can do to an elf,” Maedhros explained, turning his head towards their guest. Exhaling, he added, “If you wish to know when I could be of service to you, Alcarino said a week."

"A week off from any duties," Maglor muttered under his breath. His brother all but ignored him.

"I should be able to mount a horse by then, though I'm afraid I will not be in my best fighting abilities," he added matter-of-factly, his expression blank.

Finarfin shook his head and sighed, having recovered from the initial shock. "That was not why I came here. I felt something was amiss and simply wanted to inquire about your health, as a kinsman would," he said and the concern in his voice seemed genuine. Had the time not taught Maglor to be wary and suspicious, he would have thought it was really their uncle and not the High King of the Noldor from Valinor sitting there.

Maedhros made a move as if to shrug, then thought better of it. "I've had worse," he simply answered. Seeing the look Finarfin gave him, he evaluated, "Do not think I underestimate the enemy, or overestimate my strength, I am far from that. But trust me to know my limits. I should be fine soon, unless the wounds get inflamed. Or, as my brother so nicely put it, unless I let myself bleed to the point of collapsing."

Finarfin didn’t look convinced and kept glancing at the wounds. His grey eyes were clouded, as if some disturbing thoughts or memories burdened his thoughts. Maglor found himself too irritated by his presence to bother asking.

But Maedhros noticed it as well. “My looks bother you, I can see."

“It saddens me to see you like this, yes,” admitted Finarfin. “I wish not to see you suffer and I wish you said something earlier.”

"I passed all the information about the numbers and the place of the ambush, and the suggested course of action. Now you have a full view and, I hope, can act accordingly. And,” the eldest son of Feanor glanced sideways at his brother, “I can get some rest.”

"I would have got that from my men too," Finarfin pointed out.

Maedhros huffed. "They lack experience. You have the numbers, uncle, but your people need to learn and quickly if we want to stand a chance against Morgoth.”

Maglor dearly wished his brother would think before speaking so bluntly, but he knew that the herbs he had taken were to be blamed for the loosening of his tongue. There was little he could do to now.

Dinessel chose that moment to slip into the tent unannounced, a bowl in her hand. Seeing the king, she tried to back off and glanced helplessly at Maedhros.

"Do not be alarmed by my presence," Finarfin offered her a kind smile. "Tend to your lord."

Maglor realised what she was seeing. Him, wearing his normal, practical clothes, with a Feanorian brooch at his chest as an only visible jewel, and Maedhros - lying half naked, still in his bloodied pants he hadn’t had the strength to take off. And then there was Finarfin - a foreign king from the land from stories, in all his fairness and glory, in bejewelled clothes befitting a hero from stories - sitting in their tent on a storage box they sometimes used as a stool.

“Just leave it there,” Maglor waved at the narrow table. “Thank you.”

There was hardly any space there, but Dinessel piled up the documents on one side. She left the bowl and all but fled, taking the basin with bloodied water with her. With her gone, Finarfin turned back to Maedhros. "I inquired about your state. None would speak a word about you. Not to me, nor to any of of my men. But what I heard was disturbing, hence I came to get the whole picture," his eyes wandered to Maedhros's back and he flinched at the wording.

"You have us followed?" Maglor wasn’t overly surprised, but neither was he pleased.

"I have the situation watched at all times, to avoid... Incidents." Finarfin held his gaze. Maglor nodded slightly in acknowledgement. The last thing any of them needed now was some disagreement between the elves from Valinor and the Feanorians.

Maedhros pushed himself to sit. "My men will answer to me only and you have agreed to that. Do not expect them to reveal anything about me or my brother. Even at your direct order," he said coldly, then groaned and swayed, eyes shut. He managed to support himself before he fell forwards, but couldn't hide pain tightening his features. "I'm fine, Kano," he rasped, the king momentarily forgotten.

Maglor put a steadying hand on his shoulder while Maedhros tried to regain composure. Though neither of the brothers said a word, Finarfin needed none. "l shall not disturb you any further. Rest, Nelyafinwe," he rose and motioned Maglor to remain by his brother. "We will talk tomorrow if your state allows it."

***

The following day was a busy one, with messengers flying back and forth, bringing news from scouting parties. New patrols were arranged, the guards around the camp reinforced and before Finarfin knew it, it was already past midday when he finally found some time to return to his tent and catch up with the most recent letters he had received two days ago and hadn’t had a chance to read.

Wrapped up in his work, Finarfin snapped mid-sentence from the letter at hearing something falling outside. Since he didn't hear any of his guards reacting, he rose from his chair to check what had happened.

"What is the meaning of this?!" exclaimed Finarfin as he noticed the familiar silhouette of his older nephew lying motionless in dust, and the two Noldor whom he kept close at his disposal leaning over him, but otherwise not helping.

"He just fell, my king," one of them replied, not even bothering to check on the unconscious elf.

Finarfin rushed past him. He knelt by Maedhros and rolled him to the side, searching for traces of blood on his back; luckily he found none. Placing his hand at his neck, he felt unhealthy warmness, but the pulse was steady.

"Don't trouble yourself with the kinslayer, my king. I will fetch a healer if that is your request," offered the guard stiffly, not even hiding his displeasure at the thought.

"Nonsense," Finarfin snapped, his irritation growing. "Help me get him inside." He knew he shouldn't expect much of them. Those who served him had little love for the sons of Feanor. Yet Finarfin couldn't help the anger at their unintended cruelty. Not when he had seen his nephew the previous evening.

Before they moved him, though, Maedhros stirred and moaned. "No need," he muttered, his eyes blinking. Having noticed Finarfin kneeling by his side and the two other elves standing awkwardly over them, his expression went blank and he pushed himself to a sitting position. A muffled hiss was the only indication that something was amiss.

"Easy," Finarfin warned him, then looked up. "Help him get off the sun. My tent."

"But Sire..."

"Now." Finarfin stood up to make them some space.

The guards dared not question him, but they were far from gentle. Grabbing Maedhros by the arms, they pulled him up and steadied. The motion was too much and the son of Feanor swayed, so the guards held him firmly as they followed Finarfin inside and led him to the chair the king pointed.

“Fetch him some water,” said Finarfin, but seeing the guards’ reluctance as they looked around in search of a cup, he grasped his own goblet from his desk, still half full, and passed it to his nephew. “There.”

“Thank you,” Maedhros rasped and took a generous sip. Then he realised someone was still holding him and tensed. For a glimpse, there was a flash of something wild in his eyes before he locked his gaze with his uncle.

“Bring more,” Finarfin ordered and motioned the guards to leave. “For me and for my guest,” he added pointedly. He didn’t like their look of contempt at Maedhros drinking from his goblet. But more importantly, he did not like the madness and terror lurking from under the calm pretence of his nephew. He hoped he was the only one who had seen it.

Sensing the warning in his voice, the guards let go of Maedhros’s arms and left. Finarfin followed them and sent one for water and for some refreshments, appointing the other to stay close by, lest there was a need of a healer after all. Setting his mind to talk with both of them later, he slipped back inside.

As he entered, Maedhros rose carefully. His face was no longer so ashen grey, only pale, but the unhealthy flush did not leave his cheeks. Two upper buttons, now unfastened, were the only liberty he had allowed himself.

"I thought I said we would talk when you are well enough?" Finarfin looked pointedly at his nephew. “For goodness sake, sit down before you fall,” he couldn’t quite hide exasperation. "I didn't expect to see you today nor in the next few days."

"I can walk, so I am well enough to talk to you" Maedhros shrugged it off. He crooked his head and a shadow of grim smile appeared on his thin lips. "Unless you keep me up and waiting all day," he snorted. He took the offer and very slowly lowered himself on the chair. His shoulders slumped a bit and he leaned forwards to place his elbows on his knees.

Finarfin frowned. "I have not been informed of your presence here."

"This is partly the reason I came to speak with you," Maedhros sighed.

"I shall be at your disposal in a moment," Finarfin went to his desk and bent to pick a sheet of paper that fell, tossed by the breeze coming from the outside. Turning back again to his guest and sitting, he added quietly, "Take off that coat if it is bothering you." He didn't miss that the long jacket Maedhros wore seemed a little tight on him, doubtless because of the dressings hidden underneath. He was surprised to see him at all, let alone fully dressed in formal clothes. But perhaps he shouldn't have.

When he was among his people only, Maedhros bore himself more casually, always armed and ready. But when he attended councils or other meetings with Finarfin or Ingwion, he retreated to the protocols of old Finarfin remembered from his father's court. He had thought he had in time abandoned some of the formalities as he rebuilt his own court, but seeing how his nephews acted around their people, he had to revise that view.

Maedhros didn't move. "I won't be able to take it off on my own," he admitted dryly. "Nor will I put it back on later, for that matter."

Finarfin winced inwardly, but didn’t press on, since Maedhros clearly wished him to drop it. Before he could say anything, the guard returned with requested refreshments. He left them on the desk and retreated outside.

“Your guards would not bat an eyelid if I died at their feet, so I doubt they deemed it necessary to notify you immediately of my presence." There was no contempt in Maedhros's voice as he returned to Finarfin’s earlier statement. He used the same even tone like when he offered his counsel at the meetings.

Finarfin hesitated. He didn't like the image emerging from the offhand remarks. “What happened yesterday?” he asked carefully, his voice low. There was little he could do to keep a conversation truly private in a tent with walls of thick fabric and little else providing that privacy, since osanwe was out of options.

Maedhros rubbed his forehead in a tired gesture and reached for water. “My patience is thin today and I believe we can save ourselves needless talk, uncle,” he said and straightened.

It was the first time since their arrival that Maedhros called Finarfin that way. It was also the first time they met alone, save for the brief talk the previous evening. He knew there would be displeasure among his councillors, but as the king he needed to get information from all sides.

“Before you ask, no, I do not come to accuse anyone of anything, for I experienced no ill will. If they wished me dead, they would have left without us.”`

That was an idea Finarfin liked even less and hoped it was but a theoretical example. He waited until Maedhros emptied his glass and continued.

"You asked about yesterday. I’m not going to repeat myself, since we discussed it already at the council,” Maedhros started. “Eccesindo is a skillful and promising captain. But when the attack came, there were two parties and two leaders instead of one, for he would not heed my advice at once. I can be a guide and despite what you may think, I can bear following orders, but I will not stand by and see ill commandment cost my people their lives. And sometimes a second of hesitation is all that it takes for things to go awry. We got separated for long enough to allow the wargs to attack both groups and it cost us needless blood to get back together."

"I see." Finarfin wasn’t really surprised. He expected trouble and clashes, but if they were to pay for them with blood or life, some actions had to be taken. “You seem to have come to me with some ideas formed already,” Finarfin leaned back on his chair. “I would like to hear them.” Only a fool would ignore Maedhros’s experience.

But the eldest son of Feanor shook his head. “I am not as blind as to think that I am in a position to make demands,” he answered with brutal honesty. “I gave up the crown once to ensure that our people would stand as one. But you have that already and I have nothing to offer you save for my sword and my hatred towards the enemy." The burning eyes of his nephew lit up with passion despite his weariness. "For the first time in decades I look around, I see an army and I have hope, more hope than ever, that we stand a chance against Morgoth. And I will anything to see him destroyed, even if it takes the very last drop of my blood, for all the pain he has caused us all."

For a briefest moment Finarfin saw his eldest brother and he realised that had Maedhros not been so destroyed already by his oath and by his wrongdoings, he could have swayed the people and convinced them to follow his lead, like Feanor had. His spirit burned just as brightly, but the inner fire was tamed and channelled with determination and steadiness that could only come from Nerdanel. Yet his deeds cast a long shadow and no skill could cover them.

“I doubt not your hatred,” Finarfin answered finally. In these lands, the grief in his heart for his fallen family awakened again. “Nor your desire for revenge. Yet I cannot leave you in charge, if that is what you suggest.”

Maedhros only nodded. “I know. Your people have little cause to love any of us and my people are a mere drop in your army. But what I said yesterday is no less true, even though you may find my words harsh. And if you would hear me, perhaps it would be wiser for us to take patrols that go farthest north, with a few of your men to show them what we know. When it is possible to move in smaller groups, of course.”

“I will consider it,” replied Finarfin. What Maedhros proposed would give him much more liberty, but also could dissolve the problem of two larger groups in one party, who would follow their leaders in dire situations. If it was to work, he would have to pick soldiers willing to accompany the Feanorians with them as the commanders. But this was something to be discussed with Ingwion and their counsellors in the nearest future.

Maedhros nodded and stood up slowly, retreating back to his formal bearing. “Thank you. I will not take more of your time.”

“We will talk about it on the next meeting,” Finarfin rose as well. Though the air of familiarity was gone, he allowed himself one last remark. “I expect you to be back on duty only when you are fully healed, Nelyafinwe.”

There was a hint of amusement in Maedhros’s eyes as he nodded again and left.

A/N: Good or bad, please let me know what you think :) There is still much to explore.

#@tolkiengenweek #tolkiengenweek #Maedhros #Finarfin #War of Wrath #group dynamic #angst #whump #my fic #The Silmarillion fanfic #Alcarino

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schleierkauz · 5 years ago

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The Color of Revenge: Chapter 5

Because I’m an insomniac fool and because you’re all beautiful and deserve it, here’s chapter 5 featuring the gang and Reckless references so blatant even I caught them. Enjoy the love, everyone!

Chapter 5: An Engagement in Ombra

They had all come. By the time the church bells signaled noon the house that everyone in Ombra knew only as the Bluejay’s workshop was already full. Resa had even opened her chamber of wonders for the special occasion, a little room right behind Mo’s workshop where she displayed truly wonderful things.

Scales of nymphs and water-sprites that she had collected at the nearby riverbank could be found there, two honeycombs made by fire-elves (a gift from Dustfinger) and a strand of hair taken from a glass woman. Bowls of healing herbs and dried flowers, tree bark that could dye clothes, but also the page with Fenoglio’s handwritten words that had brought Cosimo the Fair back from the dead – and the book that had killed the Adderhead, bound by her husband.

Meggie was sure that any guest who wandered into her mother’s treasure chamber would immediately forget that they had actually come to celebrate the engagement of her daughter.

Resa’s chamber of wonders also contained two of the flying machine models that Doria had built. Meggie’s mother treated him like a second son by now, but Mo made no secret of his disapproval of Meggie’s and Doria’s plan to move out into their own quarters.

“Don’t be angry with him. Fathers don’t like anyone who outranks them in their daughter’s favor,” Resa had whispered to Meggie when Mo had asked her just a few days ago if she wasn’t a bit too young to be engaged.

Too young… Meggie didn’t feel young. Sometimes she felt so old as if she had lived a dozen lives already. She remembered so many Meggies… The one who had lived alone with Mo in the old drafty house, the prisoner in Capricorn’s village, or the Meggie who had crossed worlds and who had been in love with Farid.

They all seemed to have lived their very own lives. Sometimes Meggie imagined them as little figurines standing in one of Resa’s treasure chests. She remembered each one of those Meggies fondly, but she wouldn’t have traded any of them for the version of herself who was by Doria’s side.

The love he filled her heart with was like a coat she felt around her shoulders. A warm blanket in a cold winter night. She had always believed that no one would ever know her better than Mo did. But Doria saw so effortlessly into the most hidden corners of her heart as if he had always lived there. Some she hadn’t even known herself until he showed them to her.

It was easy to fight with him, to laugh or to sit in silence, and every day he surprised Meggie with a new outlandish thought or plan and lured her deeper and deeper into this world with his insatiable curiosity. Sometimes they would borrow Fenoglio’s stubborn horse and ride for days into some faraway village because Doria had heard of a blacksmith who created wings of gold or a cobbler who could sew seven-league-boots.

“Nonsense!“ Fenoglio shouted any time Doria spoke of such wonders. “There is no magic in my-, I mean, in this world!” he corrected when Rosenquartz shot him a warning look.

But there was. Doria found it every day. And so Meggie wanted to spend all her days with him, even though they had both only just turned 18. Even Dante loved Doria. Wasn’t that proof enough that she was choosing the right one?

“Do you need proof, Meggie?“ she asked herself while accepting another engagement gift. She knew exactly why she was asking herself this question. Before Dustfinger had disappeared to join Mo in his workshop, he had mentioned that the Strong Man had told Farid about her engagement to his younger brother.

What if he showed up?

Meggie hadn’t seen Farid since he’d left for Lorraine two years ago, after the jugglers of the Prince told him about the pathetic fire-breathers who performed at those distant courts.

Did love ever really disappear? Or did it leave its seeds like a flower which would bloom anew once she saw him again?

Meggie’s heart gave her the answer an hour later when Farid suddenly appeared next to Elinor. He had a beard and she barely recognized him at first, but then he looked over at her and -

No.

Her heart did not beat any faster. It filled up with warmth, familiarity and loving derision when Farid pushed his shoulder-length hair out of his face – shoulder-length like Dustfinger’s hair.

Meggie was sure that despite all those princesses, Farid still loved his teacher more than any other person. And he was still vain and eager to be loved and admired. He needed that admiration like the air he breathed.

As he stepped towards Meggie he wore the half-mocking half-enticing smile on his lips that she remembered so well. A fiery rose grew in the hand he held out to her. It left a heart of ash on his skin when it disappeared.

“Engaged?“ he whispered in her ear as he kissed her on the cheek. “Have you lost your mind? The same meal for the rest of your life?”

“This meal tastes different every single day,“ she whispered back, but of course Farid didn’t believe that. He would never believe her that she loved anyone more than him. But his eyes were already searching for Dustfinger. The one love he would never betray.

“Dustfinger is with Mo in his workshop,“ Meggie said.

“Ah, good. How is he?“ Farid turned to look at a girl who had pushed herself past them. Lucinda, the daughter of the miller who helped Mo make paper.

“A sheep loses all its skin and its life for just six pages!“ her father had said to her and Resa one day. “I’m tired of working with parchment. I’m going to accelerate progress a little bit – after all, it’s said that there are already paper mills in Spain and farther north.”

“He’s doing very well,“ Meggie said. “The whole city loves him and he has two new students.”

Farid frowned.

“They’re probably not half as good as I am, right?“

He was hopeless.

“Come on,“ he said and took Meggie’s hand. “I have to have a serious talk with your fiancé. He should know the risk he’s taking. If he makes you unhappy just once, I will turn him into the finest gray ash that this and any other world has ever seen.”

He probably would.

They couldn’t find Doria anywhere and the house was still so full that they barely made it up the stairs. Meggie and Dante had their chambers on the second floor and there was one bigger room that they all called the “living room”, even though the word came from another world. Mo’s and Resa’s books were kept there, very few compared to their collection in the other world. They cost a fortune in this one, but luckily Mo was able to fill the shelves himself.

Doria stood at the window – with a girl. Farid still knew Meggie well enough that he could feel her antipathy towards this girl. Doria bought the wood for his flying machine models from Filippa’s father and she usually brought it to him. Meggie had walked in on them once, just as Filippa had asked Doria why he hadn’t chosen a girl from Ombra instead of a stranger whose past was unknown.

No, she didn’t like Filippa Bafone. The fact that she was considered the most beautiful girl in Ombra didn’t help matters.

“Ah, the bride!“ she exclaimed when she saw Meggie and Farid standing in the door. “I just showed Doria my gift for you two.”

She shot Farid an appraising look and offered Meggie a bracelet. It was beautiful. Black, painted with tiny flowers. Doria held the matching one in his hand. He smiled at Meggie and pulled her at his side, not without a cautious glance towards Farid.

The glance that Filippa gave Farid was an invitation and Farid was happy to accept. But before he followed Ombra’s most beautiful girl, he whispered something to Meggie.

“You shouldn’t wear those bracelets. Witchcraft,” he added when he saw Meggie’s confused face. Then he and Filippa disappeared in the crowd. Meggie stared after him in disbelief but Doria had already pulled his knife and scratched the paint off of his bracelet.

“He’s right,“ he said. “I’ve heard whispers that Filippa doesn’t just rely on her beauty. I should probably feel flattered.“

He took the other bracelet out of Meggie’s hand and threw them both out of the window.

“Witches?“ Meggie looked down at the street where the bracelets rolled across the pavement.

“Oh yes.“ Doria took her hand and touched the ring he had put on her finger that morning.

“Not here. A few years ago the light witches fought so fiercely with the dark ones that they all disappeared. But farther north there’s still a lot of them, even though the priests of the new religions really hate them. Here in Ombra there are two merchants who sell their items. They say it’s only light magic but everyone knows that’s a lie.”

Witches… Meggie shivered. They were something that belonged only in storybooks. She laughed at herself a moment later – she lived in a book! At least Fenoglio still liked to see it that way. Did he know anything about witches in this world?

“Eastwards there’s said to be a country where princes ride silver dragons,“ Doria whispered to her. “The women in Lorraine turn into foxes. And up in Prussia, an uncle of mine saw people who have skin made of stone. This world is way bigger than just Ombra, Meggie.”

“I know,“ she replied – but what did she know? In all those years during which Fenoglio’s world had become her home (yes, she admitted, she still called it that), she had barely travelled 50 miles from Ombra. Travelling was arduous and she was so happy here in the city! Doria was here, and Dante and Mo and Resa, Elinor and Darius, Dustfinger, Roxane, Brianna and Jehan. What else did she need?

“Do you know what the Black Prince likes to say?“ Doria fed her one of the tiny cakes that Rosenquartz had bought for them from a bakery that specialized in such delicacies made for glass men.

“‘If you try to hide away from the world, it will come to find you one day.‘ I’ve told you so many times: We should travel! Samarkand, Constantinople, Edo – doesn’t that all sound wonderful?”

He started spinning with Meggie. The guests made room and clapped in time with the beat. Two more couples started dancing and Meggie forgot about witches and Filippa’s bracelets. Yes, they would travel! It was time to explore this world outside of books. She twirled in Doria’s arms and couldn’t tell what made her dizzier: Being in love or dancing.

(Next chapter)

#the color of revenge #inkworld #cornelia funke #ly dont look #i have nothing to say for myself #except: THEY KEPT?? THE BOOK???#gross #oh and anon are you seeing this?#cosimo is mentioned!

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aenwoedbeannaa · 5 years ago

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Forest Fires || Geralt x Reader || Pt. 8

Summary: Now that you’ve made it to the Temple of Melitele, the hunt for the Princess Cirilla begins—with an unlikely team at its head: A Witcher, two and a half sorceresses, one Huntress, and a Priestess of Melitele.

Word Count: 2,645

Warning(s): None for this chapter.

A/N: Alright, so I know this chapter is a lot of setting up for the next few chapters, but I actually really had fun writing it, so I hope you all enjoy it!

If you enjoy my work and want to check out more of it, you can check out my masterlist, and if you’d like to be added to any of my taglists, comment or message me and I would be happy to add you 😊. Also, I do have a ko-fi page now, and I would really appreciate if anyone is able to give a little; it would really help me out with this whole transitioning careers and still pay off medical bills thing. But of course, the best way y’all support me is just by reading and sharing my work. I appreciate it more than I can say.

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7

The Hunt Begins

You are surprised when you wake up to early morning light filtering through the windows; it had been afternoon. You don’t even remember the last time you’d slept so long. There was always so much to do back at the cottage—there was never time. Well, that, and the fact that even hunting all day and then taking care of everything else when you got home was less exhausting than opening one single damn portal. All those years of being a sorceress—of it being your entire identity—and you’d still forgotten how damn exhausting using magic truly is.

You sigh, kicking back the covers. Even with the evening damp still lingering in the air, you feel too warm. The Witcher laying beside you is likely contributing to that factor, but you wouldn’t dream of kicking him away. For some reason, you are surprised that he is there, even though you realistically shouldn’t be. Perhaps you just imagined him staying up all night planning things while you were lazily sleeping away, but you are happy to see that he is sleeping. You have no idea what the future will bring, but you are certain that you’ll all need the rest.

“Good morning.” The Witcher’s soft, low morning voice pulls you from your thoughts. You smile slightly, turning to look at him, eyes drinking in the familiar sight of the white haired Geralt of Rivia. His hair is pulled loose, and his eyes are heavy-lidded and sleepy. You’ll never get enough of the sight, you’ve decided.

“Morning,” you mumble back. You are frustrated at the way your voice sounds; all tired and scratchy and haggard. While you certainly feel much better than you did the previous day, your body is still catching up.

“Did you sleep well?” Geralt asks, his amber eyes all warm and full of concern. You are simultaneously touched and annoyed by it. Though, you suppose, there are worse things than someone being concerned for you.

You nod, blinking slowly. “Yes. I hardly remember falling asleep at all.” You’ll have to remember to thank Yennefer later. The tea must have worked wonders. You don’t remember waking up covered in sweat, trapped within a nightmare, either. Finally, you ask, “What time did you go to sleep, Witcher?”

“Late,” he grumbles a response. You raise your eyebrows in a question, which he picks up on right away. “We’re not the only ones trying to track down the girl.” Obviously.

The girl. You sigh at the use of the phrase, even though you couldn’t bring yourself to call her anything else.

“Do we know who else?” You ask, pushing yourself up into a sitting position but making no move to actually get out of bed. But you’re already prattling off possibilities before he can answer you, “Nilfgaard, obviously. And I bet the bounty on her head is pretty high. I’m sure the elves are looking, too. Lara Dorren’s blood and all that.”

Geralt just nods gravely, confirming your suspicions. “There’s also a mage,” he adds, “Vigelfortz.” You don’t bother to ask how he is certain of this specific information. Yennefer would know, you suppose, even if she had turned away from the Brotherhood years ago like you had.

“Nilfgaard wants a marriage with the blood heir to the Cintran throne. The bounty hunters just want money from the highest bidder—which I’m guessing is also Nilfgaard. The elves want Dol Blathanna back the way it was… So who is this mage working for?” Honestly, it was too early to be having this conversation, but you brain won’t let you focus on anything else.

“That’s the thing,” Geralt mutters, lifting a hand to play with the ends of your hair idly as he continues, “Seems like he’s working for himself. Yennefer is with the Brotherhood—Vigelfortz cut ties a few weeks before Nilfgaard sacked Cintra.”

You can already feel a headache coming on. None of it makes any sense—you only remember Vigelfortz from your late days at Aretuza. He hadn’t stood out much then. He was just another mage—not even a court mage, if you remember correctly. You look at Geralt, “He used to study antiquities, old civilizations and buried secrets or whatever.”

“Buried secrets?” Geralt asks, propping himself up on his elbows. Your eyes scan his scarred chest for a moment before finally meeting his eyes.

Definitely not the right time, you tell yourself.

“Yeah—he’d work on archeological digs and things.” The memories start to flow back faster than you expected them to. “And he taught at Ban Ard,” you add. “Probably about the same subjects.” Your mind is spinning at a dizzying speed. What the hell would a scholar want with the girl?

And then it snaps into place.

“The gir—Cirilla is supposed to have the blood of Lara Dorren.” Geralt looks at you, confused, as if he is still trying to catch up. “An ancient bloodline that supposedly possesses great power.” To be honest, you’d thought the whole thing was bullshit; some made up fairy tale. It might be just that; but to someone like Vigelfortz, you are certain that it isn’t.

You watch Geralt’s face harden as realization washes over him, “So he’s just trying to collect another ancient secret.” His words are tinged with the same disgust that you feel. It hurts, thinking about the young girl being pursued by several parties, all wanting someone from her—wanting something she may or may not have and certainly didn’t ask for.

“Fucking mages,” you hiss, voice dripping with venom. Granted, this was just one mage and however many worked with him. Though, you are certain the Brotherhood has its own reasons for hunting down the girl. If you know one thing, it is that the Brotherhood hardly does anything out of good will.

“Treating a human like a fucking old vase,” the Witcher’s warm amber eyes have turned cold as he stares off toward the window.

Silence settles over the two of you for a moment, broken only by the sounds of people speaking outside and the wind blowing through the open windows. When you saved the Witcher’s life in the woods that day, you had not expected this—some crazy suicide mission across the Continent to find a missing princess and, what, save her from the grasps of evil?

“Maybe Yenna’s found something,” you say, mostly just to fill the empty space. If the woman you reunited with yesterday is anything like her past self at Aretuza, it was unlikely she’d slept at all. Once she was focused on something, there was no deterring her for any reason. “She’d know more about Vigelfortz than me. I haven’t had contact with the Brotherhood since before I left Nilfgaard.”

And now, the thought of facing them again filled you with dread. You’d failed your duties as a court mage, failed to protect the girl when you had the chance, and failed to report to the Brotherhood about any of it—letting them think you were dead for the last eleven years.

You stand up and stretch, grimacing at how sore your muscles are for no particular reason, and also at the fact that you are still wearing yesterday’s clothes. “Before we go ask, though, I need to bathe.”

“No time,” Geralt grumbles, glancing out the window at the sky. “We’re to meet down in the hall at seven.”

You huff, running a hand through your tangled hair and looking down at your filthy clothes.

“They brought up clean clothes.” Geralt points to a neat little pile folded atop one of the old dressers. You sigh, as you pad over to the dresser, wishing you’d have woken up an hour earlier. You’d like nothing more than to scrub all of the last few days off of you. But, you suppose, clean clothes will have to do for now. Thankfully, upon further observation you see that they are not much different from the clothes you were already wearing.

You’re the soft material of a shirt rumple in your fingertips, studying it for a moment before offering Geralt a small smile “At least they aren’t making me dress like a nun.”

You are shocked by the soft seriousness in Geralt’s gaze as he looks at you for a moment before finally saying, “You’d look beautiful in anything.”

Despite the circumstances, the response still makes color rise in your cheeks. You offer him a soft smile, before deciding to finally slip out of your clothes and pull them on. You don’t bother to go behind the dressing screen—it’s not as if Geralt hasn’t seen all of you already.

Just as you are tucking the loose tunic into the high waisted, you feel Geralt creep up behind you, wrapping a strong arm around your middle. You sigh, tilting your head back to rest against his shoulder as he presses his lips to the place where your shoulder meets your neck. The kiss is slow and careful, as if the two of you have all the time in the world to just stay in this room with one another.

Unfortunately, you don’t.

Geralt gives you a small squeeze as he presses his lips to the side of your forehead with gentleness that conveys an unspoken promise—everything will be okay. We’ll figure this out. We’ll do what must be done. We’ll live.

At least, those are the thoughts that flood your mind, even if you don’t quite believe them. It seems a little foolish for the two of you, Yennefer, and whoever else is involved in this particular search party to go up against all of those others; especially the Nilfgaardian Empire. It seems stupid for anyone to go after Nilfgaard—and yet here you are.

***

Despite the fact that hunger had been absolutely clawing at your stomach for some time now, you are finding it difficult to make yourself do something as mundane as chew and swallow. The food looks and smells delicious, but everything seems to turn to ash in your mouth.

The table, though quite large, is empty save for yourself, Geralt, Yennefer, and the woman that you’d been introduced to a half hour before—Mother Nenneke. You can’t help but feel dread creep up on you even stronger as you pick up the mug of hot coffee with fresh cream and swallow it down. There are entire armies looking for Cirilla—not to mention scary mages and at least a few bounty hunters. All of those people, and four of you.

“Triss Merrigold has also promised aid,” Yennefer says, cutting into the silence. You catch yourself wondering at how it was as if she’d read your thoughts for more than a few seconds before you remember that she likely is.

You’d read Geralt’s mind yesterday, for only a moment, and yet you’d forgotten that many sorceresses did that all the time. You didn’t tend to do so much—mostly because you were afraid of what you’d find in those thoughts. It wasn’t as if you were well-respected in any circles; you’d rather not hear about it.

Mechanically, you put up the magical barriers they’d taught you about all those years ago, a wall around your thoughts. And yet, when you do, you do not feel anything pushing against the barrier. Perhaps she hadn’t been reading your mind, after all.

“So that brings the grand total to five.” The worried words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, drawing three pairs of eyes to you. You chew on your bottom lip nervously.

“Less people means less of a chance of someone turning on us or letting something slip,” Geralt points out, in the middle of devouring some sort of omelet.

“Exactly,” Yennefer remarks.

“Three sorceresses, a Priestess, and a Witcher—seems like a find team to me.” Mother Nenneke is much warmer than you’d imagined. She even says the words with a small grin. It just… was not how you imagined a Priestess to be.

“Two and a half sorceresses,” you mumble, taking another large sip of your coffee.

Yennefer laughs, tilting her head back as she does so. “Oh, Y/N, you act as if you’d really died.”

You find yourself smiling lightly as you look back at the raven-haired sorceress, shrugging. “I may not have died, but I certainly haven’t used magic,” you sigh. Brief flashes of the previous afternoon threaten to bubble to the surface of your mind, but you push the thoughts down.

“Alright, then we’ve got two and a half sorceresses, one archer, a Priestess, and Witcher,” Geralt says, a sly grin also appearing on his face. “Even better.”

You suppose it is true—you learned to hunt silently and efficiently. Though the thought makes your stomach turn, you suppose those skills would be equally useful against people… And perhaps better. As evidenced by the fact that you literally had everyone convinced you were dead, it was a lot less… attention grabbing.

Despite feeling relatively reassured by this, you still find yourself anxiously drumming your fingers on the table.

“But how do we even know where to start?”

At least you are feeling more comfortable, so talking doesn’t make your throat want to close anymore.

Your eyes land on Yenna first, for some reason expecting that she was the one who had the answer—but it is Mother Nenneke that smiles. A slow, almost mischievous smile that has you watching with bated breath, waiting to hear what she is about to say. You can tell by the gleam in her eye that it is important.

“We ask Iola the First.”

Geralt’s eyebrows tick up in recognition, and Yennefer nods gravely. You, on the other hand, have no idea who this, apparently very impressive, woman is. That fact is evident on your face, but the other simply carry on with their conversation, earning an annoyed glance in Geralt’s direction from you.

“Doesn’t she need something that belongs to Princess Cirilla? If she’s going to… you know?” Geralt asks, eyes narrowed in thought as he looks intently at Mother Nenneke.

“Yes,” Yennefer cuts in, “And we’ve got it.”

“What is it?” You are surprised at how quickly the words slip out, and how eager you are to learn exactly what it is. Some of your annoyance has melted away, as you’ve figured out at least something about the mysterious Iola the First. She must have some sort of visions—you’ve heard stories of Priestesses being gifted with things like this. Though, you have to admit, you thought it was mostly bullshit. But if Yennefer and Geralt both trust her, you are suddenly finding yourself putting more stock into the rumors.

Yennefer turns, gingerly pickup up a green cloak that you hadn’t noticed draped over the high back of the chair next to her. You don’t bother to ask how they know its hers—you suppose that isn’t important, but Geralt seems more curious than you yourself are, because he asks precisely that.

“She was seen at two refugee camps following the attack on Cintra, always wearing this cloak.” You can’t seem to take your eyes from it, extremely drawn to the clearly very expensive and well-made cloak.

“The cloak was found in the forest, just outside of Brokolin,” Yen continues, “And Triss confirmed with the dryads that Cirilla had been there and stayed with them for a time.”

Everyone at the table has their eyes thoroughly fixated on the cloak in Yennefer’s hands, likely all thinking the same thing—there is no sign of blood on the cloak, meaning the chance that she is alive is quite likely. Though, the thought that the girl is now out wandering without even a cloak to keep her warm makes your chest tighten uncomfortably.

It is Geralt who finally breaks the silence, turning his attention to Mother Nenneke.

“Right,” he clears his throat, “Let’s go speak with Iola.”

***

To be continued.

Taglist: @fairytale07 @geeksareunique @jesseswartzwelder @haru-ririchiyo @unnamedmaincharacter @lazilyscentedwerewolf @valkyriepuff @dark-night-sky-99 @pantrashtic @lilred254 @cilorawr@blackravena @keithseabrook27 @danielarlington @salmonbutter @godsaverosemary @little-miss-emmalie @hookahpop @ayamenimthiriel @toenailclippingz @ultrahviolent @afterthenightprevails @kathhdd @squirrel-saloli @afittingdistraction @holyhumorliteraturelight @curlyhairedandconfused @nikolanna @dontforgetthepieh @superconfusedandreadytorumble @keithseabrook27 @p3nny4urth0ught5 @sinnamon-bunn @sallyp-53 @superconfusedandreadytorumble

#geralt x reader #geralt imagine #geralt fic series #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia #fanfiction #geralt fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #series: forest fires

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sarahjtrash · 5 years ago

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Best Christmas Ever

Jurdan, 1K words, Rated T

Summary: Cardan tries to show Jude that he’s been learning about human traditions.

A/N: I wanted to sneak in one holiday fic for Jurdan but also make it a little funny. Enjoy and happy holidays!

-o-0-o-

Jude had had enough.

The council drove her insane after the war, and if everyone made it out of the room alive for the past few months, that was purely a consequence of Jude’s self restraint. Everyone wanted word with the Queen or had words about the Queen, and while she would listen to there complaints til nights end, the idea of curling into Cardan became a greater idea.

Disregarding some etiquette, she’d excused herself early from the room without a word tonight. She really could not be yelled at by the Court of Termites any longer, and as the regent of the land, she stood and exited without further notice.

After ruling together for a few months, her and Cardan agreed that some days required only one of them to attend these menial tasks. It created a system for them both to take time off. Jude usually took her time to train, but Cardan recently wanted to know more about humans and took every opportunity to do so. Over dinner tonight, Jude expected a full on report and questioning about her species. It wasn’t something that she wanted to handle, but she found Cardan’s efforts to be endearing nonetheless.

She nodded at the guards stationed outside their door and pushed it open, faintly registering the scent of greenery. It caused her stomach to churn in a dramatic fashion. When she looked up; however, she was dumfounded.

In the middle of their suite, decorated with candles, ribbons, glass, wood, and a million other trinkets stood a 10 foot tall pine tree. It looked destroyed and chaotic. Standing in front of it, back turned, was her husband. Cardan quickly spun to look at her, surprise painted across his face.

“You weren’t supposed to return for another hour and a half,” he said.

Jude replied, barely hearing herself. “I got off early.”

Cardan nodded, before finishing wrapping the scarf in his hands around the tree as if it were cold.

“I added something to the room,” he said, nonchalantly.

There were already pine needles on the floor, and a rather significant trail from the entryway to the tree’s current location. Even if they had maids to clean them up, it built onto the frustration she developed over the day.

“I can see the tree, Cardan,” she said.

The two stared at each other for perhaps a bit too long. It reminded Jude of when they first were interested in one another. Neither of them quite knew how to react, hoping that what they said would not irritate the other too drastically.

Cardan looked at his handiwork, pride filling his voice. “Do you like it?”

Jude did not, in fact, like it. The tree was a mess and was barely recognizable as a tree. It seemed that Cardan had raided both their closets in an attempt to dress it in the most ostentatious thing he could find. It was absolute chaos, and it was a conundrum as to why he would even pretend that it was a good idea.

“Why is there a tree in our bedroom?” Jude finally asked.

Cardan looked affronted. “It’s December 24th.”

If that was supposed to be of importance to Jude, she had no idea. “And tomorrow will be the 25th?”

His face lit up. “Exactly!”

Jude grimaced at him and gestured for him to continue. His face seemed to fall a little.

“Tomorrow is Christmas, is it not?” He asked, worry painting his tone.

She felt like she could laugh. Looking around the room more, she noticed the way he’d enchanted little lights to float around their room and encouraged garland-like plants to drape from the walls. Above their bed, she noticed, with some chagrin, hung mistletoe. When she looked back at her husband, she noticed that he was wearing some awful faerie rendition of a Christmas sweater.

“Tomorrow is Christmas,” she indulged.

“Then I put up this tree in commemoration,” He turned back from the tree to look at her. She clearly had been smiling too much. “You find this amusing.”

She noticed cookies and what was most likely eggnog by the fire. She most certainly did find this all amusing, but no in the way her husband hoped.

“I do,” she said. “You’ve clearly done a lot here, and it looks great—"He puffed at that—“but one detail escaped you.”

Cardan looked around at his handiwork. “Was it the Santa costume? I found that to be slightly ridiculous and couldn’t force myself.”

“Cardan. I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

He whipped back towards her. “I thought all humans did.”

“I appreciate your efforts, but it is a holiday for Christians, which is a human religion.”

“And you are not one of those?”

She grabbed his hands, trying to convince him with her eyes that she didn’t mean to offend. The grin still couldn’t leave her face. “For all intents and purposes, I grew up in Elfhame. There are a lot of bits of human culture that I do not understand. You could have decorated this room to celebrate Hanukkah, and I would have no idea.”

He seemed to deflate at her words and chose not to ask what Hanukkah was. “So no Christmas?”

She squeezed his hand. “Yeah. No Christmas. This holiday is as foreign to you as it is to me.”

He glanced longingly at the little assortment of cookies. “I thought that it would be nice to show you that I’d been reading about human culture.”

She leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I appreciate the thought.”

He still looked off and seemed downtrodden that his efforts were wasted. It felt like she kicked a puppy.

“I may not celebrate Christmas,” she began, “but I would love to learn about it.”

He seemed to light up at that. “Truly?”

She nodded and walked them over to the couch where she nibbled on cookies and listened to her husband passionately tell her tales of chimneys, reindeer, pagan traditions, and elves. Throughout the whole speech, she never once mentioned that there was some religious component to the whole spiel because Jude honestly didn’t care. She loved that he wanted to show her he cared about her. Somewhere throughout his speech, she snuggled close to him and felt the love in her chest erase any frustration from earlier. In the warmth of his arms and the fire, Jude felt too things very intensely. The first was that maybe eggnog was not that bad. The second was that even if she didn’t celebrate Christmas, this was surely the best one ever.

-o-0-o-

Thanks for reading!

Masterlist

#jurdan #Jude x cardan #tfota #the folk of the air #holly black #twk #tcp #qon #jurdan fanfic #my fanfic #jurdan christmas #Jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #high king of elfhame #high queen of elfhame #taryn duarte #court of shadows

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imagine-loki · 5 years ago

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Pride and Prejudice

TITLE: Pride and Prejudice CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 40 AUTHOR: wolfpawn

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki was raised on Jotunheim as Laufey’s son after the war, but an agreement was then made that he would wed Odin’s daughter so Odin could secure the alliance of Jotunheim through the marriage. Loki, in turn, was raised to be king of Jotunheim, but how he views Asgard is far different from how Odin’s daughter is raised leading to a clash of cultures as well as uncertainty between the pair of betrothed youths. RATING: Mature NOTES/WARNINGS: Forced Marriage, not all fun and games. My first real step back into the Loki scene in over a year.

Tags - @skulliebythesea @asimovethroughthisworld @blackcherry26-blog @we-shadowhunter2901

Ella sauntered through the palace, bored and not in any form of mood for discussion. She hoped that she would not have to deal with anyone for the day as Laufey had felt tired and not wished to deal with the exhausting matters of court in such a state so the palace was not as busy as it tended to be on the occasions he did have court in session.

The fighting was still going. In one respect, it was soothing to know the lines of defence were strong and readied by the border with Alfheim should they be required. She, herself had added to it by going there and using spells she knew protected the Aesir palace as well as others to assist if they needed to destroy the crops that were growing in the area. It broke her heart to look at the now full and worked fields and know that there was a chance that they would have to be destroyed but she knew that they could farm more if required. If an enemy came, tired and hungry and ate, therefore replenishing their strength, it could be what would end their lives.

The requests were made to Asgard and Vanaheim for food supplies. Vanaheim sent what they could but they were shipping anything they had directly to Alfheim for troops there, something the Jotnar respected. Asgard, on the other hand, had been storing food for if it was required to assist Alfheim should the war take all of their food but Ella had written to her father herself, she knew how to word it and how to ask and sure enough, Odin prepared immediate supplies with a solemn promise of more should one single foe arrive on Jotunheim. She had a reply sent stating that nothing would be used unless required and if the war ended before it was needed, the Jotnar would ensure every morsel would find its way to Alfheim to those who required it there.

It felt like it had been going on for a year if not more. She felt as though everything was changing in Jotunheim, better as a result of having the power of the Casket once more, the longer it had to assist the realm, the better the realm bloomed but it seemed so odd, most of the men were gone. It was lonely. She enjoyed Greta’s company as often as she could but she found herself wanting to just stay in Loki’s rooms more and more, though she found it did not feel quite as it did before. The smell he seemed to have was long gone from the room yet she felt wrong not staying there. She tried one night but found herself quickly using her seidr to magic herself there again.

Men came back every so often, wounded or worn in some manner by the war. Most injured, it seemed, were being treated in a special facility on Alfheim being headed by Eir, the chief Elven Healer and Magnar, the most senior healer of Jotunheim, all three working to assist any being from any of the realms that required them there. Only those with issues that could be dealt with easier on Jotunheim were sent back. She had listened to what they or their families told the court of what was occurring on Alfheim. More than once, Loki, and indeed Byleistr and Helbindi were mentioned by those who returned before even Laufey could ask after them. Ella felt pride in hearing that Loki was both a competent and strong leader, ensuring he would ask no other to do something he would not willingly do himself but she found herself fearful that that risked him being hurt. She could only hope he kept his wits about him so that he would return. She had been relieved to have been wrong on Byleistr and his allegiances. But it was one matter she rather that she would be wrong about. Everything was odd with the situation regarding angrboda but it was salvageable. She knew that going to war and seeing that a matter such that, though hurtful and somewhat backhanded was nothing when you see the brutality of war. When the brothers returned, and she truly hoped that when and not ‘if’, even if Byleistr was not someone she was overly fond of because of his behaviour and actions to Loki, they would put everything behind them and continue forward for the betterment of the realm and their bond as brothers.

Tired, she avoided others and went back to the rooms, sitting amongst the items that littered the different surfaces of Loki’s personal space. She never touched a single item since he left, nor did she snoop any of the written items. The only items she ever touched were the books that were on the reading shelves he had more than once offered her the choice to pick from. Everything else was exactly as he had left it and she would maintain that if he was gone for a week, a month or a year more. Feeling somewhat down in herself, she walked into the bedroom and went to curl up in the bed yet she found herself not feeling comforted by the idea of getting into it. She walked over to the area where Loki kept the very few items of clothing he owned. Ceremonial robing and armour being the only items he had there as well as the armour he was supposed to bring with him but she had magicked better, stronger armour instead. Amongst all of it was a long robe, dark and fur-trimmed. She had noted it before but never thought much of it. Walking over, she touched the soft material for a moment before bringing it closer to her, noting that it smelt of Loki. She subconsciously brought it with her to the bed and wrapped herself in it, taking in Loki’s smell, using it to relax her into a sleep better than she had for a significant time.

Loki’s limbs ached. He felt as though they would never feel rested again. He could see the palace in front of him. He could see his home but it felt as though he could never be able to speed himself up to get there.

The war ended. After eight hard and brutal months of constant fighting, battles daily, their foes realised the Light Elves, Vanir, Aesir and Jotnar refused to bow or break and would meet them on the battlefield each and every day and with Thor coming to a breaking point and his Berserker side being unleashed, decimating a whole battlefield of foe in the process, the enemy conceded defeat. Luckily, Loki had noticed Thor as he lifted the body of an Elven child the enemy had brought to the battlefield to taunt them with. He noted the anger in Thor’s eyes but most importantly, he saw when the anger and other emotions began to leave them and when they became blank and his nostrils flared. With a bellow to get out of the way, the Jotnar and their allies did exactly that leaving Thor to destroy everything around him. When he came to again, it was Loki standing closest to him.

“My sister told you my warnings?” “She did.” Thor nodded solemnly. “Good. Well, not good. I have not done that in a long time. I thought I was beyond it.”

Loki could see his shame. He realised then that Thor did see the ramifications of his actions, even if it was only afterwards. “What we saw would provoke any bring into anger.” He consoled. “I will admit I killed with more willing than I have before today after seeing that child.”

“That gives some solace to me.” Thor inhaled deeply. “It does not stop me wondering if I will ever control myself. But thank you.” He looked at Loki. “For protecting our allies and for braving coming closer to me than even my friends to see if I had returned to myself.” “Just do not tell Ella. She warned me specifically not to.” “I will say nothing,” Thor promised.

Thinking back at Thor’s actions, however grateful he was that he did go Berserk, it scared him how strong and uncontrollable it was. But they were home now, so he needed to get on with life even with everything that happened. Assist his father with running the realm, and deal with everything that occurred as a result of the war. Vanaheim had planned to do deals with them, now Alfheim was adamant that they too wished to trade post haste with Jotunheim. They needed assistance getting back to normal after the war that terrorised their lands, they had so much that they needed to fix, Jotunheim was somewhere that could assist them so they wished to start talks immediately. He wanted nothing more than to hide from the realms. To go to his rooms and not see anyone for days, he wondered how long he would get. He did not think his father would ask too much of them for the next few days, or so he hoped. He knew they would have to explain everything but he still needed rest. He wanted solitude and silence.

“I can smell my bed.”

Loki looked over at Helbindi.

“I can smell it and I will not leave it for a week bar to find Greta and bring her to it.”

“What if she has found another in your absence?” Loki asked.

“I have little to fear, Byleistr was with us.”

The oldest Laufeyson growled at his youngest brother’s comment.

“Live with it,” Helbindi scoffed. “You will be the butt of such jokes for the rest of our lives, even if Loki is too decent to say it.”

“And you’re not?” Byleistr growled.

“No,” Helbindi looked him in the eyes as he spoke. “He may let it go but not me.”

“Enough, both of you. Don’t you think we have seen our fill of fighting? I never wish to see any fight again, especially over something so menial.”

“Exactly,” Byleistr agreed.

“If ‘Leist want my leftovers, then he can have them.” Byleistr stared at him in shock. “I am not bothered anymore. I have my mate, her race allows for more frequent offspring and I don’t care outside of that anymore. I will focus on what I am required to do for the realm and I don’t care who mates who outside of that. Take two mates, take twenty, I don’t care. I don’t care about pathetic menial matters any longer. One thing all of this has taught me is that there is too much petty arguing over non-issues. Between us, in court, between realms. We need to focus on more actual issues. Solidifying the ties we have now formed so that we are never forced to face something like this by ourselves, that is all I care about now.”

Helibindi sniggered to himself at Loki’s final comment on the matter, knowing that Byleistr would not say any more on the matter for fear of having Loki snap at him. He knew Byleistr and indeed his mates wanted to return to the palace with the rest of court, so too did he know that Loki knew this. One suggestion from Loki to send him back to the outskirts of the realm and there was a high probability of Laufey doing so.

The palace was nothing but dark shadows in the pale moonlight. The realm was asleep and personally, Loki was glad it was. He did not want a large number of Jotnar there for their return, he just wanted to go home, he wanted his rooms, nothing more. He was so relieved to be back to the cold and normal temperatures of Jotunheim and back to everything that was ordinary.

The palace was in silence and darkness.

“Where is Father?” Byleistr growled.

“In bed, like I suspect your mates are,” Loki replied. “As I suspect everyone is.”

“We should have been announced.” “There is nothing to announce. We are back.”

“We won.” “And to do that, we had to kill the most beings on the opposite side, that really winning ‘Leist?”

“The Brute did the most killing.”

“Prince Thor may have done the most killing but so too did he show the most remorse.” Helbindi pointed out. “I spoke with the portly one, Volstagg when we were both at Gravel Ridge. He told me that for all his bravado, Prince Thor does nothing but sit in solitude and contemplate his actions after a fight. He tries to condone the actions he has to do and if we are to be honest, we would still be there if he had not done the ‘most killing’ as you put it. He scared them into stopping and I am grateful for that. I am grateful to be home. I am going to take Greta as my mate, I am going to try and have a family and I am going to try and only have daughters so they never have to go through that, that is my plan for the next three thousand years. Maybe another mate or two as well, if I find any that suit Greta and myself.” “And if Greta has found another?” Loki asked.

“No, she won’t, I know it.” Helbindi shook his head. “She said she would wait. I know she will.”

Loki could only smile at his brother’s certainty.

“What about your mate?”

Loki frowned at his younger brother. “What of her?” “You have not mentioned her.” “Should I have?” “She is a duty, Loki is all about duty. Always has been. What is there to even talk about?” Byleistr commented. “I am grateful every day that it was you that the Allfather found and not me.”

Loki said nothing. He thought often of Ella but he knew she would not stray in his absence. Her sense of duty rivalled if not out-competed his own. “I do not need to worry about her seeking company elsewhere, she is honourable.” He commented. “With regards to mentioning her, I will repeat, should I have? Nor do you particularly care.”

“I like her.” Helbindi declared unapologetically. “She is jovial and there’s a streak of something you can see in her eyes, like she would be smiling at you while also learning the best way to strike you down without even noticing it until you see her next to you with a blood-covered blade and you realise she has slit the throat of a being who tried to wrong you.”

Byleistr stared at him in horror while Loki eyed him suspiciously. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

Byleistr looked appalled at Loki. “How are you not disputing such a statement?” “Because it is entirely true. Have you not realised my mate is incredibly adept at such things? You told me yourself that she entered the palace without alerting you until she was in it by calling your name and that she swore to force you to come back if you did not do so willingly. I have seen her do things that would very much confirm that to be an accurate analysis, what worries me is how ‘Bind knows.” “As I said, I spoke with the Aesir when we were waiting.” Helbindi shrugged.

With references to Ella, Loki felt even more in want of going into the palace. His pace hastened slightly and he made his way to it, relieved when it was no longer soft snow but hard ice of the steps to it under his feet.

They made their way through the halls swiftly enough before coming to the royal wing.

“Will we tell Father?” Helbindi asked.

“No, let him rest. We shall see him in the morning.” Loki stated, knowing from the reports through their time away that their father was weary. “Go, get some rest.” He urged before heading to his own rooms. He inhaled deeply and opened the door.

On walking in, it felt peculiar. Similar but different all at once. Everything was exactly as he left it the day he left, except there were a few pieces added too. Walking through everything, he noted that there was something else different in his personal space, something felt slightly off. He opened his bedroom door and noted that there seemed to be a momentary green spark as he did so. He was unsurprised when Ella sat up in the bed looking concerned. For a moment, she looked at him tiredly before her eyes widened.

“Loki?” “Hello.”

“You…”

If he was honest, Loki was slightly taken back by the genuine smile on her face. “It’s over.” With a small laugh of relief, she beamed back at him. Loki shed off the armour on his body and got into the bed on his side. “Why are you in my cape?” “I am cold.” “You never get cold.” He eyed her worriedly.

“I am not as good at regulating my body temperature recently so I get cold from time to time,” She explained. “And it reminds me of you.” “Have you even seen me in it?”

“Twice.”

Too tired to care too greatly, Loki sighed and lay back before groaning. “I missed this bed.”

“Get some rest,” Ella urged settling to get comfortable again.

Loki noted the peculiar night garment she was donning, it looked ridiculous and shapeless, but since she stated she was cold, he thought little of it. He had honestly thought he would be bothered or at best, simply non-plussed with having to share his rooms with her again after such a situation. He had been thinking that he would ask her to give him some space for a day or two. But now he felt entirely different, as though it felt unnatural to not have her there, as though he needed to protect her. He could not help but feel like the only place she should be was beside him, under his watchful eye and it felt peculiar to him to think such.

#Loki #others #submission #submitted fic #chapter 40 #Pride and Prejudice #wolfpawn

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himluv · 5 years ago

Text

Indulgence

Oh, well, hello there! Would you like some Solavellan? Yes? Well, me too! *offers fic on silver platter*

Set a month or so after Excuses. Enjoy!

Riallan stood in the gardens of the Winter Palace, trying to decide if she would rather vomit on the rhododendrons, or punch the nearest Orlesian in the face.

“Do try to look less murderous, my dear,” Dorian said from beside her. “You might not notice, but behind those hideous masks, you’ve frightened every noble in attendance.”

“Good,” she growled. “They should be afraid of me.”

He patted her shoulder. “Well, I do love a good political suicide. Let me know if you want any pointers.” He shot her a salacious grin, and then moved off to mingle with the gossiping Orlesians. She watched as women tittered and men scowled at the mage. They were curious about him; it was so rare to have a Tevinter at the palace. He was a novelty, something dangerous and exotic.

She was just a rabbit. And a savage one at that.

“He has a point,” Solas said from behind her. That would be his place this evening, and she hated it. She knew he was just playing his role as her ‘serving man’, a title she had staunchly refused when Josephine had proposed it. He had overruled her.

She turned her face just enough to meet his eye. “Ame tel’nuvena’ea min’an.” Not like this, not in some shem dress playing some stupid shem game. She wanted to burn the palace to the ground and take back what had been stolen from her people. This was Halam’shiral. It was supposed to be the end of their journey, the start of the elves’ new sovereignty. Instead it was a monument to some shemlen empire that built itself on the backs of her people.

“I know, vhenan,” he said. His voice was low, and the tenderness in it soothed her. “You are right to crave justice. And the surest way to attain it is to defeat the Orlesians at their own Game.”

She nearly groaned, though remembered not to at the last minute. He was right of course. She and Josephine had trained for weeks for this event, teaching her to carry conversations in lilting, cyclical patterns, never providing a straight answer. It was exhausting, but she had to admit she found the challenge satisfying.

And she had proved a quick study.

The harder lessons had been the dancing. Shemlen dances were so… boring. Every move was calculated, adhered to some rule. There was no carefree lifting of the spirit, no joyous leaps or claps, no pounding feet to the rhythm. Just lifeless twirls and limp hands touching across great distances. She was not looking forward to that aspect of the evening.

“Show them you are a woman to be feared,” he whispered, suddenly so close she felt the heat of his breath at her ear. “Find me later.”

And then he moved on, walking by as if they hadn’t spoken at all. She watched him go, so tall and upright in that ridiculous red suit coat, and though the humans were oblivious due to the shape of his ears, she saw the threat in his walk. In the way his hips moved as he wove between shem after shem too careless to see him. But it didn’t matter, the message wasn’t for them.

It was for her.

It had been a foolish risk, but the Orlesians were too self-involved to notice the whispered pause at her ear. If it hadn’t been for the ridiculous coat and sash, none of the party guests would look at him at all. He would have preferred it that way.

He had business that evening.

Once the Inquisition had been formally announced, he removed the hat Josephine had insisted on, then found a quiet alcove where he undid his sash and turned his jacket inside out. Without the glaring red fabric he had a better chance to walk through the palace unnoticed.

The Winter Palace was a lovely enough building, and the rumors he heard as he paced through the halls were delightful. He was certain Lady Nightingale would appreciate anything he could share, even if many of the names were meaningless to him.

Though he was an elf, and no human seemed to note the differences in his appearance from the other servants, the city elves knew he was not one of them. They kept their distance and cast distrustful, yet curious glances. They could not fathom what he truly was. To them his people were little better than a myth. A legend of a time when the elves had been the dominant race in Thedas, a fairy tale to tell sleepy children. But there were a few who knew him for who he was.

Of course he had his own agents within the palace. Not many, only two were working the ball, but it was enough to leave a door open here, ensure a window was unlocked there. It took less than fifteen minutes for him to leave the main party, duck through the servants’ quarters, and then climb a trellis to a second floor balcony. Once on the second level he found the third door on the right unlocked.

Within was what he’d searched for since he awoke from uthenera. An eluvian leaned in a corner of the room, a sheet thrown over it haphazardly, so that only a portion of the glass was covered.

Even without approaching it, he felt its power. The gentle thrum of magic called to him, as if it wanted him to touch it. Of all of the ancient artifacts left from Elvhenan, the eluvians remained the most intact. Though many of them were dormant or destroyed, those that were whole functioned no differently than they had before he’d raised the veil.

It was miraculous, and incredibly fortuitous for him.

He stepped up to the mirror and pressed his palm to the glass. Instantly the magic reacted, the glass liquifying under his touch and roiling with power. He focused, listening to the hum of energy and channeling his will into the mirror. He did not think Briala would come up with a strong enough password for the mirror to prevent him from overriding it, but he was weaker than he had ever been before.

He stood there with his eyes closed, nudging the magic of the eluvian, for much longer than he would have liked. But when the mirror flashed a bright blue in answer to his call, he grinned. Then he heard the echo of Briala’s password in the mirror’s power and laughed.

A blessing indeed.

After asserting his control over the eluvian once more, it was a simple thing to rejoin the party at large. Don the foolish cap, turn the coat right side out, and find a nice, inconspicuous spot from which to enjoy the festivities. By the time Riallan found him leaning against a statue with a view to the courtyard, he was on his third glass of wine and had just eaten a delicious little frosted cake.

Needless to say, he was in high spirits.

“There you are,” she said as she joined him. She was resplendent in a gown of gauzy white and sea-foam green, with silver beadwork on the bodice. What little there was of it. Unlike many of the gowns in the palace tonight, this one was cinched at her waist, but left loose to flow about her legs like fog. It made it seem as if she were gliding everywhere she stepped. The plunging neckline and high slit at her left thigh gave daring glimpses of her figure, glimpses he was all too happy to appreciate.

Judging by her blush, his attentions had not gone unnoticed. “I hope you’re being treated well,” she said. A servant with a tray of wine glasses went by, and he snagged one for her before the elf vanished down the hall.

“Reasonably,” he said and handed it to her. “The nobles ignore me, though I notice their curious glances. And the servants seem happy enough to fill my glass.”

She gave him a knowing smile. “Solas, are you drunk?”

He snorted. “Hardly.” Then he considered it. “Maybe a little.” A slow grin claimed his lips and he let his eyes linger over her. He waited until she took a sip of wine to say, “I do adore the blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events.”

Riallan choked into her wine, a sound startling enough that several pairs of eyes turned to look at her. And while she was the Inquisitor and a source of curiosity for the Orlesians, she was speaking to her ‘elven serving man’; surely nothing interesting could happen between them.

It was a sort of dare. How close could he get, how salacious his looks, before the humans caught on? Before rumors started in earnest? On another day he would have avoided such complications, but tonight, after his success and his indulgence?

What was one more?

He was gratified when Riallan recovered, took another sip of wine, and smirked at him. “Been to many such events, have you?”

He was lucky, and he knew it. She trusted him, believed all his tales of adventures in the Fade. And while not wholly untrue, it wasn’t quite the truth either. And yet the excuse poured from him as if by second nature. “In the Fade I have had many opportunities to witness such splendors. Throughout time the powerful remain the same, only the costumes change.”

The bell rang, calling the attendees back to the main ballroom. She looked over her shoulder, and then back to him. “Do you have any interest in dancing?”

“A great deal,” he said. Then, because he knew he ought to, added, “but dancing with the elven apostate would grant you few favors with the court.”

She rolled her eyes and took another sip of wine. She seemed hesitant to leave him, as if being close to him anchored her in the sea of masks and lies. It made his heart ache in his chest, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to dance with her in front of each and every human there.

“Perhaps once our business here is done?”

She smiled at him, a slow secret thing that promised something much more tantalizing than a simple dance. “I’d like that,” she said, and then turned away to march back up the stairs and to the ballroom.

He did not bother hiding his interest in her retreating figure. He wouldn’t have been able to keep his eyes off of her even if he tried.

Riallan was pretty sure there was blood on her dress. She had tried to keep from making a mess, but the evening had other plans. She leaned against the balcony railing, taking solace in the solitude, and downed another glass of wine to settle her nerves.

She had done it. She had outed Florianne in front of the entire court. She had forced Celene, Gaspard, and Briala to work together. And she had uncovered that no one in this whole Void-damned country was truly innocent. Each noble she’d met, even the Elven Ambassador, had done terrible things in the pursuit of power.

And now the question must be asked, was she doomed to become one of them?

She almost had that night. It would have been so easy just to let Celene die and clean up the mess after the fact. She had almost agreed to the plan. It was Briala’s deceptions that changed her mind. Not because she particularly thought that Celene deserved to be saved, but because she didn’t think her other options were truly any better.

Maybe all together, they would cancel each other out.

Music came through the door behind her as it opened. The silence of the footsteps on the marble gave him away. She smiled at Solas as he joined her at the railing.

“I thought I might find you out here.” He had that silly hat on again, and she couldn’t help but laugh. She snatched it off his head and threw it off the balcony. Let someone find it in the gardens tomorrow morning and they could speculate what had happened. Something untoward no doubt.

“Good riddance,” she said.

He laughed, and it was the open, free sound like when he was in the Fade. “I doubt Lady Montilyet will agree.”

“You let me deal with Josephine.”

His chuckle faded as he watched her, and then concern tinged his expression. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Yes, just tired. It was a very long, very trying day.” Well, night. It had been daylight when they arrived at the palace, and now the sun tinged the sky, promising a new day.

“You did well,” he told her. “I suspect very few would be able to convince these three to work together.”

“I’m not convinced it will work, but it’s enough for now. Orlais is stable. Corypheus will not gain traction here.”

His hand reached out to rest on her ribcage. The gown left her sides and back mostly exposed, and the warmth of his palm on her skin set her blood alight. “Come,” he said. “Dance with me, before the band stops playing.”

She let out a huff, part laughter, part exhaustion, but said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He swept her into the middle of the balcony, her gown swishing across the stone, and for a moment she felt as if only his hand on her low back kept her from floating away.

He spun her in slow circles, his posture formal and upright, his arm held high as he led her along with the lilting strings from inside the ballroom. She hadn’t expected such practiced ease, and at first she was disappointed. She didn’t want to dance another stiff and cold shem dance, but as he spun and twirled, his hand firm on her back, she finally understood the appeal.

It felt like flying. Her feet moved but she didn’t know how, she just followed him, went where he guided. It was a complete surrender, an act of trust that made her head spin and her heart soar. The song faded away, but he didn’t let go of her. Instead he pulled her close, his arms around her waist and swayed with her, dancing lazy circles on the balcony.

Riallan draped her arms around his neck and lay her head against his chest. She was tired, physically and emotionally, and in this tender moment she wasn’t sure what feeling would win out. As the weight of the evening crashed down from her shoulders, she took in a shuddering breath, battling senseless tears. Solas ran a hand up and down her spine and hummed one of Maryden’s slower songs, soothing her.

The moment overwhelmed her, and there was only one thing to do. She took his face in both hands and kissed him, hard. She didn’t have words for him, at least not any that could do all her feelings justice. So she poured it all into him the only way she knew how.

Solas accepted her every confession, his lips and tongue moving with hers just as easily as he’d led her through their dance. She lost herself in the heat of his mouth, in the wine-sweet taste of him, and the press of his arms around her.

They’d stopped dancing, and her nails scraped at the back of his head. His hands began to wander, his fingers exploring all the skin the dress left bare, until they were both gasping.

The music was louder for a moment, but Riallan didn’t think much about it. At least, not until she heard Dorian’s voice.

“I thought I’d find— vishante kaffas!”

She pulled away from Solas, both of them staring at the door to the ballroom. Dorian stood there, a wine glass in each hand, and a horrified expression on his face. He looked from her to Solas, then back again. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, and then, “ah… I’m interrupting. Obviously.” He cleared his throat. “I was going to suggest we celebrate,” he lifted the wine glasses as evidence, “but it seems you already are.” He shot Riallan a glare that said she would have to tell him everything. Soon. Then he stepped back into the ballroom, taking both glasses with him.

Riallan looked at Solas and burst out laughing. For once his cheeks were just as pink as hers, and the sticky gloss Josephine had insisted she wear glistened on, and around, his mouth.

He gave her a half-hearted glare and wiped at his mouth. He pulled a face at the gloss on his fingers. “So much for keeping this secret,” he said.

That only made her laugh more, and he couldn’t keep from smiling at the sound. She pulled him back to her, shared another, brief kiss, and sighed as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“Can we go home now?” She asked, but a yawn interrupted the words.

“I think that’s reasonable,” he murmured into her hair. But already his heartbeat at her ear was lulling her into the Fade. “Come, vhenan,” he said. “Before we cause another scene.”

She hummed, but stepped away from him. “I still think these humans could use a proper, elven scandal.”

His laughter followed her back into the palace, warming her when the marble walls left her cold.

#Riallan Lavellan #solas #solavellan #dragon age inquisition #dai #long oneshot #sorry not sorry #I missed them #fluff? did I write that?

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michelleleahhh · 5 years ago

Note

Hand kisses with Loki please!!! 💋

Anon Request: “Comparing! hand! sizes! by! pressing! palms! together!” Loki and OC plezz.

Happily!

This is an outtake from Broken Crown, from Loki’s POV, but does not need to be read before this.

Pairing: Loki/Reader

Word Count: 1800

Loki Odinson never wanted for anything… except affection.

True affection.

His whole life was a gift, but the catch was that it was presented in the shadow of his brother. How could he despise his life when the only thing missing was a spotlight?

He had everything he could want at the end of his dexterous, long fingers. A book, a relic, jewels, gold. Everything.

Except for pure affection.

Yes, he was loved by his mother and though his father preferred his brother, he wasn’t loathed

Loki lived a plush life and he knew that, though it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Sure, Loki had women warm his bed and had delighted in experiencing the cravings of any viral man. He was blessed to have sampled the women from all of the Nine Realms. (Except Midgardian women… though one day that too would be crossed from his list.) Being a Prince of Asgard still had its benefits.

But he had never known the feeling that his brother had when people just looked at him with love. Blindly. The witless glance of adoration is what Loki feared he’d never know. That mindless type of adoration.

Then everything changed when you stumbled through the Bifrost. No, not stumbled, glided. You were regal and radiant and magnificent. Loki lost his breath the second he saw you.

He knew right then, you would be his downfall.

When you looked at Thor for the first time with skepticism instead of that robotic-worship, Loki’s heart thumped wildly.

When you considered his brother’s hand instead of indiscriminately taking it, Loki’s lips quirked at the corners.

And, when you wrinkled your nose as Thor kissed the back of your hand, he fell madly in love with you.

He had to have you.

He walked forward and bowed, welcoming you to Asgard. Loki did not miss the way that your father’s hand clasped your shoulder, holding you in a vice grip. But he paid it no mind. His eyes instead focused on you.

On your eyes. He did not reach for your hand.

And for the first time in Loki’s long life, you peeled back his layers. Glanced into his eyes and shredded his soul until only empty remnants remained.

You saw right through him.

xXxXx

“Hello.”

Loki looked up from the manuscript to find you staring down at him.

He leaned back in his chair. “Hello, Princess.”

He was impressed, not many people ever came to Asgard’s library and those who did never ventured far enough to find where Loki hid.

Your eyes dropped, faultless lips turned down, and hands fisted a behemoth book in your tiny grasp. Tiny compared to his hands at least. He wondered just how they would feel in his grasp. Soft? Calloused?

He had to know.

“Would you care to join me?” He asked, careful to keep a blank face though his heart sent silent prayers to the Norns.

“I wouldn’t want to disturb you.”

“Thank you, I am very focused.” he agreed, tilting his head and letting his eyes rove over your silhouette. “Reading about the landscaping techniques of Muspelheim is most interesting.” His voice reeked of sarcasm.

You stifled your laughter by coughing into your shoulder. Though, Loki did not miss the smile, nor how your teeth shone from between your painted lips. Loki’s eyes sparkled back at you.

You nodded, “I’m sure the fire-realm has fascinating gardens.”

“Their shrubbery blazes with a certain type of beauty.” He waved his hand to the chair, inviting you to sit.

You pulled back the seat and fell into it, less graceful than a princess should have been. You heaved your thick book onto the table, it’s cover smacked against the wood.

The Complex Treatises of Midgard

Loki raised an eyebrow as he read the title, wondering why anyone would ever care to know about human’s laws.

You quickly opened it to somewhere in the middle, smoothing out the pages with careful passes of your fingers. Again, so dainty in comparison to his. Not a blemish could be seen. Or, not like his hands, which were marked from a childhood of combat training.

“I apologize,” he said, realizing you were speaking to him and pulling his eyes from your hands.

“You reading.” You ducked your head, finger toying with the page’s corner. “I asked if it was interesting, my Prince.”

And the way you said ‘My Prince’.

In truth, he was reading about Muspelheim’s torturing techniques – not their landscaping– but he doubted you would want to hear about the way Muspell flayed victims alive. “It is terribly… droll.”

“Droll?” You asked, “I didn’t realize shrubbery could be droll.”

“You’ve never been to Alfheim then. The greenery there have the most dazzling personalities.”

Everyone in the Nine knew that Light elves were appallingly serious.

“I have not been to Alfheim,” you admitted, biting your lip.

“You are not missing much,” Loki lied.

Alfheim is beautiful, though its people are far too proper for his tasting. The realm is a wonder, with structures built inside rolling heaths. And the food is heavenly. Truly. The delicacies are light and the wine strong without causing headaches the next morning.

And the women… While they were proper at court, would degrade themselves in the most prerogative way on top of a mattress. Yes, Alfheim was a realm to not be missed.

You smiled tightly and instead let your gaze fall to the book in front of you.

Sensing the conversation was about to die, Loki seized for any topic to keep you engaged, “Where have you been?”

“Vanaheim,” you offered, beaming at Loki’s eye roll. “And Asgard.”

He waited for you to continue, but you shrugged after that. Loki sat up in his chair, his hand finding its way onto the table. “That is all?”

You defend yourself quickly, “I am to rule Vanaheim, not the Nine Realms.” Your chest instantly inflates, “There’s no need for me to gallivant throughout Yggdrasil.”

Surely those were not your words.

But, he enjoyed you like this. With fiery pupils, dilated and ready to fight. You were like a small animal, preparing to defend yourself at any given moment. Your minute claws, nails, would leave the most salacious trail down his back’s alabaster skin.

“You must have had the most boring upbringing.”

Your nostrils did this cute thing when you let his words soak in. “Why would I? I know my people, my lands, my trades. And I’ve studied about other places, knowing that Alfheim’s main trades are vegetables, silk, and-”

“How could Vanaheim survive in such a way?” Loki wanted to see how you’d react if someone disagreed with you. He had to know. “You have made no alliances outside of your tiny court.”

“Tiny?” You visibly shake, leaning forward and fingers crumbling the pages of your book. Well, it was his book, but those were just minuscule details.

He could feel your blood simmering with rage from across the table. It made his eyes sparkle with amusement.

Then you looked at him, in that same regard from your first meeting. The way that saw inside of him, knocking an arrow and shooting him through his heart. You’re seeing through him again. You visibly deflated, “You are teasing me.”

He’d have to hide his emotions better. Yes, he would need to be much more careful around you.

“Perhaps.”

You bit your bottom lip again, they were soft, he could see from across the table as you worried the plush skin between your teeth.

“But it’s still tiny.” Your eyes turned to daggers and he almost smiles. With dimples. That would not do. “Like your hands.”

You lifted your hands, looking at them. “My hands?”

“Yes.”

“My hands are not tiny,” you argued, fidgeting with your stunted fingers for measure.

“Care for a wager?”

Your gaze turned to caution, with a lifted eyebrow and scowling lips. “I have a feeling that would be a bad idea.”

“Oh, it would.”

You stare at him from across the table then bring your feet beneath you, kneeling in your seat to make yourself taller. “I’m listening.”

You were perfect, weren’t you?

Loki leaned forward, “If I can fold my fingers over yours as our palms are pressed together, you will owe me something.”

“What would I owe you?”

“I haven’t decided yet, but you cannot deny me when I ask for it.”

You squint your eyes, then stare at his hands on the table in the most calculating way. Without speaking you lift your hand, your palm facing his.

Loki swallowed, his mouth drying as you offered your palm.

He lifted his hand and pressed. When he touched you, an emptiness inside of him swelled like a tide. It filled. He had never experienced anything like it in his life. And he wondered if you felt the same way. He studied your serious expression.

Your tongue pressed against your lip, as you stretched your hand to its full capacity.

Loki never liked to lose a gamble. He would do anything to triumph. Partially because his brother was always the one who was victorious when it came to life’s small battles.

But seeing you like this, with wide eyes, and an engaging smile, made him second guess his need for victory.

For the first time in his life, Loki Odinson wanted someone else to win.

His fingers far surpassed yours, they were much longer, and you tried wriggling your fingers, but it was no use.

So instead, Loki grasped your hand, quickly sliding his thumb to the back of it.

(For the record, your hand was soft, much softer than he could have anticipated. And your claws were blunt and sharp at the same time, it helped give shape to his fantasies.)

Then, before you could protest, he pulled your hand to his lips. He kissed your hand, the same way he would bestow a kiss to your lips. Chastely. Your eyes, while wide before, turned to the size of planets. Your mouth fell open and a small blush, if it could have been described as that, warmed onto your cheeks.

He maintained eye contact as his lips pressed against your warm skin.

Other people’s skin were always warmer than his.

And then he let go. You remained still for a moment, before pulling your hand back to your side of the table and falling back to your seat.

“You tricked me,” you spoke seriously, though there was still a warmth on your skin.

“Yes,” Loki nodded. “Many call me the trickster.”

“Well, there is nothing I enjoy more than revenge, trickster.” You promised, turning down to the book in front of you.

Falling was a wonderful feeling, Loki decided as he watched you became fully engrossed in your book. “I look forward to it.”

xXxXx

Then, weeks later, you were given to Thor like some goat.

You were given up as a sacrificial promise for Vanaheim and Asgard to create a seeming armistice. He never hated his brother more. Particularly when he saw the two of you nearly kiss. When he interrupted that moment.

But, it was then Loki knew that it was true.

Yes, you would be his downfall.

Taglist: @fairlightswiftly , @javelinamilk , @wannabebr1t , @joyofbebbanburg , @schmidten17 , @winterisakiller@addyliners, @iamverity

#loki #Loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki friggason #loki fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #loki imagines #loki imagine #tom hiddleston #Tom Hiddleston imagine #michelleleahhhh #shit I write #reader insert #loki/you #loki/reader #loki x reader #loki x you #fanfiction

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