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rita-repulsa-ke · 20 days ago

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Ritual of the Rose - Ch2

Agatha crossed her arms, but Rio could see her evaluating, calculating, deciding how she was going to get herself out of this one. She softened, ran her fingers through her hair in a way that, despite herself, caught Rio's attention, made her press her teeth into her bottom lip. "Come on," Agatha said, eyes downcast, pouting ever-so-slightly. "You don't really want to hurt me, do you?"

Fic Summary: Changes the events of the last episode. Instead, Agatha swears a vow and prepares to go on one final adventure with Death.

Part 3

I feel like I should say at this point that I know next to nothing about the mcu, so this fic will be taking only the events of Wandavision and Agatha All Along as canon and then just making things up.

Chapter 2 - Rio Bites

Death returned. She did not come on black wings or holding a scythe. She was neither robed nor skeletal. Between one breath and the next, she was simply there.

"Hi, baby," she said, sprawling in Agatha's yard, looking around with interest. "You know, I kind of like it? It's a little overgrown, little wild, clearly tended by someone who has no idea what they're doing, but that makes it feel so much more authentic. Like a real person lived here, though of course, that hasn't really been true for a while, has it, Detective?”

Agatha gave her a deeply unamused look, and she laughed, too sharp, too loud, not even particularly amused, and then twisted her head around at a wholly unnatural angle to meet Agatha's eyes with hers. "So what's the plan, Agatha? Where's the catch?" She reached out, started to prod Agatha's cheek and the other woman came to standing before she could make contact.

"No catch," Agatha said, not looking at her and that was so funny that all she could do was snicker.

"There's always a catch," she said, as she watched Agatha. She never stopped watching Agatha, except for a very unpleasant time when Agatha had used the Darkhold to hide from her. She had still looked, of course, looked and looked and looked. She would never give up on Agatha.

And eventually she had found her, in trouble as always, and freed her. Did she get any thanks for that?

Of course not. Agatha Harkness didn't know how to say thank you. It simply wasn't in her vocabulary. "Out of curiosity, how are you planning to wriggle your way out of this one?" Rio asked, coming to her feet without bothering with knees. She’d never quite gotten the hang of knees.

Agatha glanced back at her, head tilted slightly, a smile tugging at her lips like it wasn't sure whether it wanted to stay. "If you're so sure I'm going to wriggle out of it, why'd you agree?"

Rio closed the distance between them in less than a breath, her hand cupping Agatha's cheek. "Because I love you," she reminded the other woman. And then, because she did love Agatha, but there was only so much anyone could take, cruelty spanning centuries, she added, "I love you enough to gift you time."

The blast of purple magic that hit her in the chest was honestly nostalgic, and she skidded backwards without ever quite making contact with the ground. "I do like you more like this," she admitted. "I've missed your powers. It makes you feisty. So what did you tell the kid?"

"Oh you know," Agatha said, waving her hand through the air with lazy, dismissive contempt. "Sentimental stuff. Be good, don't do anything I wouldn't do, that sort of thing."

"Wow. That is not even a good lie. You aren't even trying," Rio said and she's surprised to find that she's a little annoyed about that, too, that Agatha didn’t feel the need to put in any effort in her lies.

"Why should I? You wouldn’t believe me regardless,” Agatha said, turning and strolling into the house. "Anyway, forget the kid. We've got a year to find and defeat one of the most powerful magic users alive so I can get my book back."

Rio followed, as she had for many years, Death always one step behind Agatha Harkness. "And then what? You run again?"

"The ritual doesn't work like that and you know it. It will kill me even if you can't. And then I'm all yours," Agatha said.

That was how it should work, on paper, in magical theory. There was no way Rio was trusting that. Agatha always lied. "So where's the catch?" she repeated, perching on the arm of Agatha's couch.

"Believe me or don't, but you agreed to it and your part is null and void if you don't help," Agatha snapped. "So can we get on with it, please?"

For a moment, nostalgia threatened to choke Rio. This was Agatha as she remembered her, impatient, demanding, moving from one objective to the other, always seeking power, always hungry for more. She found herself caught by it, leaning forward, and remembering one more of Agatha's endless series of manipulations, Agatha's bleeding fingers across her lip. "When I left you with the boy…"

"Hmm?" Agatha said, pretending innocence. Rio stared her down and she held up her fingers, trying and failing to look even slightly regretful. "Oh, the bleeding stopped. What a shame."

Rio's knife was instantly in her hand. "I could fix that."

Agatha's fingers crackled with power. "Try it," she crooned. "I'm not so vulnerable anymore."

Rio slipped to her feet, sauntered forward. "Do you really want to do this, Ags? Without the Darkhold, you know you can't beat me. We can play it out though, if you like. I owe you, after all. Maybe one cut for each year you disappeared on me?" She spun the knife in her hand, comfortable, familiar. She very much did want to hurt Agatha, to seek weregild in blood for all the suffering her beloved had inflicted on her over the centuries.

"No, Ags, I don't really want to hurt you. What I really want, you won't give me. Hurting you isn't a terrible consolation prize, though."

Agatha huffed, her arms going tighter around herself. She was afraid, a coward as always. She'd never liked anything that could touch her, get past her defenses.

And, more simply, she didn’t like pain.

Well, neither did Rio, but that hadn't stopped Agatha from wounding and scarring her for centuries.

"Can we maybe talk about it?" Agatha suggested, always her way out. Agatha's battlefield was words, endless words, all of them lies.

"What else is there to say, hmm? What different, exciting new ways of saying you hate me have you come up with this time?" she'd stopped in front of Agatha, and she could feel herself smiling, a big grin she noticed Agatha didn't seem to want to look at for too long.

Agatha hesitated, shrugged, then stepped forward, reached out and here was Agatha's most potent weapon, the way her fingers brushed through Rio's hair and her hand closed on the back of Rio's neck, tugging her closer. And of course, Rio could have used the knife here, with so little space between them, but Agatha's other arm had looped around her waist and she was so close, so alive, so warm, so much herself, that instead of stabbing the other woman, the sensible, sane decision, she found that she was nuzzling against Agatha's neck, trying to bury herself in this sensation before it went away again.

Agatha tilted her head back, moaned softly and that sound undid Death entirely, a soft whimper escaping from between teeth she seemed to be clenching. Agatha petted her soothingly—

And then yelped as Rio's teeth bit and twisted hard enough to draw blood. Rio ran her tongue over the wound, gathered her beloved's lifeblood, the familiar, intimate taste of Agatha in her mouth, copper and magic and relentless will, then pulled back to smile humorlessly up at Agatha. "There," she said. "Price paid."

Agatha glowered at her, hand clapped to her neck even though the wound had already healed. "Savage," she murmured and Rio burst into shrill hysterics.

"You. Should. Talk," she said, sprawling on Agatha's couch, tossing her knife from hand to hand. "So. The book."

Agatha nodded, pulling up a kitchen chair with magic, perhaps to remind herself that she could. "Wanda has it."

"The Scarlet Witch. Destroyer of worlds," Rio murmured. "So where is she?"

"I was hoping you would know," Agatha admitted.

"She's not actively destroying any worlds, I'm afraid. I don't keep track of most mortals, they generally come to me." She gave Agatha a smile. "Mostly just you."

Agatha faked gagging and that, too, was painfully familiar. "All right, so first step is we find her."

"Didn't she kick your ass last time?"

"Yes, but I didn't have Death on my side," Agatha said, favoring Rio with a smile of her own, a smile that hinted at a promise Rio knew she would never fulfill. "Still, even for both of us, she's going to be a lot to handle, especially with the Darkhold."

"So where's the kid figure in, Ags?"

Agatha didn't flinch, but it was there, a tightening of her jaw, a tug at the edge of her lips. "Insurance. If everything else fails, we can always trade the boy."

"Very you," Rio approved. "But you let him go. Why?"

Agatha considered, then got up and paced over to sit next to Rio. Rio felt herself go overly still, less certain how to handle Agatha in such close proximity, even more so as Agatha's hand settled on her knee, intimate and nostalgic. "Because, Rio, my darling, if you need someone to trust you at a critical juncture in the future, sometimes you have to pretend that you’re on their side."

Rio rolled her eyes, but it was a weak response, all of her attention fixed on that hand and that word, darling, rolling off Agatha’s lying tongue. She knew exactly what Agatha was doing. It still worked every time. "Nothing to do with the fact that you're attached?"

Agatha snorted loudly. "Me? To that boy? No. He's useful, though. The son of the Scarlet Witch."

"Still an abomination," Rio said, and thought, I bet you want me to forget that. I bet you want me to forget that there's another one. I haven't.

But I don't need to play my whole hand at once either.

"Sure, sure, but can we deal with what's more important here first?"

"Your plan?"

"That's right. My plan," Agatha said as she leaned too close, her smile wicked and crazed and so, so beautiful. Self-centered as always, Rio thought, unable to suppress the wave of affection that accompanied that thought.

With Agatha so close. Rio couldn't resist, she darted in to steal a kiss, then howled with humorless laughter as Agatha jerked away, her expression that of someone who'd turned the corner and made eye contact with a dead mouse. "You, you, you," Rio singsonged. "Who else would Agatha Harkness think of, other than herself?" She tossed her knife up, caught it too close to Agatha's face and wasn't sure whether to be happy or sad when it made the other woman scoot back, putting more space between them. "But you know, there isn't only one Darkhold."

"Of course I know that," Agatha said. "But the others are lost to—" she paused, realized where this must be going. "…Rio, you wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

"Not about this," Rio said, amused at the implication she'd ever been the one who lied. "I agreed to help, didn't I? Aid given freely."

"…You never mentioned this before."

"I didn't know when we were together. After that, I had a vested interest in not giving you powerful artifacts filled with dark magic. …Also, it is rumored to drive people mad."

"Weak people," Agatha said instantly. "Sheep. Do I look mad to you?"

Rio didn't try to stop herself from laughing. "Nooo comment."

Agatha fixed her with a long-suffering look. "Yes, yes, you're very funny."

"You know you love it," she said and Agatha did the fake-gagging thing again, which only made her giggle. "You already used that one twice," she pointed out and Agatha—

It wasn't fair of Agatha to smile like she meant it, a reluctant tug of her lips into a very pretty shape. "Oooops. I'll have to vary it up. Wouldn't want you to get bored with my disgusted reactions."

For a moment, their eyes met and no time had passed at all.

I love you, Agatha Harkness, Rio thought. And I know you still love me.

Then Agatha's lip curled in a sneer and she looked away, settling with her head on her hand on the far end of the couch. "Another copy of the Darkhold? Really?"

"Really. If you don't want to tangle with the Scarlet Witch."

"I'm not scared, you know," Agatha clarified, suspiciously like someone who was scared. "But she's not going to be easy. So, if there's an easier way—"

"Of course. You're the bravest person I know," Rio said, sprawling across the couch toward Agatha, fully expecting Agatha to run, because Agatha always ran.

Then, somehow, her head was in Agatha's lap.

She stared up and Agatha glanced down, gave her a twisted grin and a shrug, then looked away again, still brooding. "Tell me about it. The other one."

Right. Words. Rio knew how to do words. "The usual. Cursed cave in a treacherous mountain protected by ancient guardian spirits from some long-dead order."

Agatha's glance at her this time was brimming with disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me," she said. "Come on, really?"

Rio shrugged. "I don't make the rules."

"Seems too easy."

"How'd you get it the first time?" she asked and was surprised when Agatha went too still. There was a story here, one she didn't know.

From the way the other woman’s pulse flicked in her throat, one Agatha didn't want to discuss. More and more interesting.

"Something very similar," Agatha said, a little too fast. "Ancient crypt, all these terrible magic traps…"

"Riiiight," Rio said, doubtful, but not inclined to push yet, because—

Well, because her head was in Agatha's lap.

"Anyway, doesn't matter now. You're sure it's there?"

"No," Rio admitted. "But several people told me it was, after they died trying to reach it. …This will be dangerous, you know."

Agatha's fingers carded through her hair and she couldn't stop herself from exhaling, eyes falling shut. "You'll help keep me safe, won't you?"

Manipulative monster, Rio thought, with something akin to pride. "Mm, I have to. But I can't say I'll be devastated if anything happens to you." Her eyes flicked open and she smiled humorlessly. "After all, I get my prize either way."

Agatha stared down at her, then tugged her hand out of Rio's hair and wiped it perfunctorily on the side of the couch before standing up, spilling Rio off her.

"Oooh, touchy," Rio said, giggling from her new spot on the floor.

“You wish,” Agatha snapped. “Fine, we have a year. We’ll try it your way first.”

“Our last big adventure.”

Agatha gave her a crooked, vicious smile that would have made anyone doubt the other woman’s sanity. “Don’t say it like that,” she said, pretending to sulk, but the tone too obviously mocking. “You might get what you want yet.”

Rio came to her feet, too close. “What I want, Agatha, is you dead.” Almost as much as she wanted Agatha's fingers back in her hair.

“And what happens after that?” Agatha asked, a question she'd asked a hundred times.

Rio answered the same way she'd always answered. "Come and see."

"Not yet," Agatha said, dismissive. "I'm not done yet. Now, tell me where this cave is."

If you'd like to read more stuff I've written for Agatha All Along, I'm just going to link to the tag on my blog, there's a bunch at this point.

#agatha all along #agatha x rio #agathario #I think the dialogue here is closest to the show dialogue so I'm pleased with that #Also modern-era Rio is big mad but also as always so into Agatha #I have seen some of the MCU movies obviously but I just can't be bothered to know that much lore #I will be making things up freely #ritual of the rose

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jackalmeat · 2 years ago

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One of my favorite little understated illustrations of the pains Viktor takes to keep others at a distance when he's struggling is his way of addressing Sky Young.

He says her name on only two occasions over the course of the season: the first when he bids her good night in the lab, and the second when he calls out to her in a panic as he realizes that she's been consumed by the Hexcore. The first time we hear him say her name, it's polite but impersonal -- 'Miss Young'. The second time though, it's an instinctive, hysterical 'Sky!'

And it only becomes clear that 'Sky' is probably how he usually addresses her, as opposed to 'Miss Young', when we see him default to it in this moment of tragedy and scrambled emotion. Which in turn retroactively suggests that his earlier use of 'Miss Young' was a more purposeful snub than might have been evident at first glance.

It's easy to handwave, "Well, 'Sky' is shorter and less formal, so it makes sense that in a panic he'd just blurt out whatever name was faster to say!"........except for the fact that that doesn't really make sense. Or rather, that's simply not how stressed, disoriented brains tend to work. If you're accustomed to calling someone "A" in your usual dealings, it's unlikely that you'll spontaneously be compelled to switch to the less familiar "B" in a moment of extreme emotion, precisely because that's the kind of finnicky little decision that our brains really suck at making under duress. Instead, the brain (and subsequently the mouth) is much more likely to leap to the name that's the most familiar and natural.

Point being: 'Sky' is likely the form of address that Viktor is most accustomed to using with her, since that's where his mouth immediately defaults when the chips are down.

Follow-up point being: if the above is true and 'Sky' is his typical way of referring to her, then that also suggests that it was a wholly conscious decision on his part to instead address her like this--

--in the earlier scene where she encouraged him to step away from his work for the night and spend a little bit of friendly, low-stakes time with her. The dismissal here is two-fold, emphasizing both physical distance (declining her invitation to walk home together) and emotional distance (referring to her in a polite but decidedly less personal way than is suggested to be his usual). If we assume that he indeed usually addresses her simply as 'Sky', then his choice to revert to 'Miss Young' at this particular moment would have been all the more marked to her, and would probably have had about the same effect as if he'd literally closed a door directly in her face.

(Which would also explain why her eyes immediately go distinctly tearful in response to this line. She isn't merely disappointed that the man she admires and cares about is choosing to keep working rather than walk home with her. She's hurt because, in just a couple of pointedly polite words, Viktor has essentially drawn a boundary around himself and let her know, 'I'm not interested in getting personal in the way that you're asking me to do. Back up. Stay behind the line, please.')

Regardless of whether you believe that Viktor is aware of Sky's romantic feelings for him or not, he's absolutely aware of the fact that she's inviting him to spend a little time with her not simply as a coworker, but as a companion. She's inviting him to make a human connection -- and he refuses it by rejecting both the invitation itself as well as the basic intimacy of even using her name. Not just ignoring the figurative outstretched hand, but actively pushing it away from him; and doing so not because he's cruel, lacking empathy, or dismissive of her, but because the walls are closing in on him, and 'alone' is what he knows when it comes to dealing with his own problems.

#Arcane #Viktor #Sky Young #Arcane meta #there's a conversation to be had too about how visible disability and chronic illness could play into his need for a sense of control #not only over his own body but over how others perceive him and bear witness to his vulnerable parts; literally and figuratively #so used to needing to PROVE himself and not show 'weakness' that it's hard for him to accept ANY help or kindness even when it's NOT pity #but that's a whole other thing for a whole other time

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ghxstlly · 11 months ago

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Ego Death

I've decided I worked too damn hard on this to not share it publicly, so here's a tidbit of story related to our good friends, oblivious Mr. Poole and temperamental Mr. Becker :')

Warning for swearing, and for Mr. Becker overall being really mean

“Wait, Mr. Becker— Ira, please—”

Nearly tripping over his own feet as he scrambled along the polished courthouse floor, Mr. Poole reached out in desperation to catch the arm of the prosecutor, who was all too quick to jerk himself away, halting and turning fast enough that Poole nearly crashed into him.

“What, Poole, what more could you possibly have to say?” His tone sharp as a blade, his eyes sharper, Becker fixed the other lawyer under a glare that made him flinch.

Swallowing hard against the dryness in his mouth, Poole took a quick step back, clasping his hands together in an attempt to hide their trembling.

“I—I just… I wanted to apologize. For— For what I said, I didn’t mean to make light of an… uh, exhausting trial, I was just trying to be lighthearted, you know, I didn’t mean any offense—”

“You don’t have a clue what you’ve caused, do you?” Becker’s words suddenly cut like a knife through his words, and Mr. Poole found his voice dying in his throat, his face paling.

“S… Sorry—?”

“I needed to win that case.” Becker’s voice was low, dangerous— it set a shiver crawling up Poole’s spine. “He was guilty, Poole. You know he was. And you let him walk.”

“Mr. Becker, I—I don’t… Th—there was no way for you to prove that, not beyond reasonable doubt—”

“He was guilty.” Becker repeated, interrupting him. The look in his eyes was nearly murderous, his jaw set tight as his words came through clenched teeth. “And you let him fucking walk.”

“I didn’t let him do anything.” Mr. Poole quickly retorted, though his tone was hardly assertive, wavering subtly as he fought to hold Becker’s gaze. “The jury declared him innocent. My duty is to protect the rights of my clients, and I did my job. That’s all. That’s all.”

“Oh, spare me, Poole, I’m not a fucking idiot. You think I don’t know what this has all been about?” Becker took a step forward, and Poole instinctively took one back. “You think I don’t see right through you, through your fucking charade?”

His stomach twisting into a knot, Poole’s heart skipped a beat, his mind racing as he tried to find the right words to respond.

Becker didn’t give him the chance.

“I don’t wanna hear you talk about your duty. You don’t give a shit about your clients.” The prosecutor spat, his eyes blazing. “You don’t give a shit about justice. All you care about is yourself, and the little power trip you get from winning over me, from taking every goddamn opportunity to undermine my work and make me look incompetent.”

“What— incompetent?” Poole sputtered a nervous sound that was something between a scoff and a laugh. “Ira, please, it’s not like that at all—”

“No, ‘course not. You’d never admit it if it was, but regardless of whether you’re willing to say it out loud, you know it’s true. And that murderer got away with what he did because of it. Because you were too damn focused on beating me to give a shit about anything else.”

“I wasn’t— Ira, it’s my job. If there was evidence to convict him, you would have presented it— but you didn’t. So he was acquitted. End of story. I-I don’t know what you want from me.”

Poole didn’t miss the way Becker’s eyes narrowed, his jaw working tensely as he regarded the other in a small moment of bitter, uncomfortable silence, a storm brewing just behind his eyes.

“...Is that how you ease your fucking conscience, Poole? Is that what you tell yourself— that the blood is on my hands? That I should have tried harder?”

“W-well, I mean…” The defense attorney hesitated, a few seconds too long. “You were the prosecutor…”

It was a simple statement, nothing more than a fact, and yet in the moment immediately following, he saw Becker’s expression darken to something wholly unreadable, the tension in his shoulders building as his fists clenched at his sides, and felt that it might have been the most foolish thing he’d ever said.

“That’s— I didn’t—” Poole stammered quickly, the words spilling from his mouth before he could catch them. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Then how did you mean it?” Becker hissed, the question almost accusatory, as if he were daring Poole to answer. “Enlighten me.”

“I—I only meant, uhm—” He took a quick breath. “Sorry, I just— All I’m trying to say is that it… it isn’t my fault that you didn’t have enough evidence to convict. I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t— uh, doing your best, or anything like that, you just— you had no case. It was my job to make sure the jury knew that. And that— that’s it.

“All I can do is represent my client to the best of my ability, and I did. I’m sorry you didn’t get the outcome you wanted, but, uh… you know, that’s… that’s the job. It’s nothing personal.”

“It’s nothing personal.” Becker echoed him through a mirthless chuckle. “And yet you had the balls to gloat about it to my face after the fact. To make a goddamn joke of it and act like it didn’t fucking matter.”

Poole opened his mouth, a weak protest already half-formed on his tongue, but before he could speak, Becker continued, his voice rising slightly.

“And now you have the fucking nerve to stand here and lie to my face, like I didn’t see the look in your eyes every time you thought you caught me slipping, like the pleasure you get isn’t so obvious. You’re an embarrassment.”

Staring at the other lawyer in stunned silence for a moment, Poole wasn’t sure how to respond, a flurry of indignant protests swirling through his head, his mouth dry, the lump in his throat keeping him from making a sound.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Poole.” The prosecutor spat the other’s name like a curse. “What you’re doing isn’t justice. Not even close. And if you think that I’m going to just... let you pretend that it is just because you’ve convinced yourself ‘it’s just a job,’ then you can go fuck yourself.”

And with those words, Becker sharply turned and started down the hallway, leaving no room for Poole to protest, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the polished tile as he stomped away.

It was all Poole could do to not collapse where he stood just then, his legs weak and unsteady, his chest constricting painfully around his thudding heart. He felt nauseous, his stomach churning with a kind of hollow, numb dread.

He wanted nothing more than to curl up and disappear.

But there was something else, too— something that kept him grounded in that endless moment that burned in his throat much hotter than shame or guilt, rising in his chest like bile and choking the air from his lungs, saving him from the urge to come apart at the seams. It was unfamiliar, ugly— it left a foul taste in his mouth, made him cringe— but he was all the same entirely consumed by it in that moment, possessed.

And as he stared blankly after Becker’s retreating figure, his thoughts racing nearly as fast as his pulse, the feeling bloomed in his heart and erupted, searing his tongue as it did.

“I—I—I don’t get you, Ira, you know that!?”

The words rushed from him almost involuntarily, and the sound of his own wavering but defiant voice piercing the tense silence nearly made him flinch.

Becker stopped. Tensing as soon as he registered the words, he went rigid, the faintest hint of movement in his shoulders the only thing giving him away.

But he did not turn.

Even so, the fact that the other had heard him was enough for Poole to blunder forward, stumbling over his words as an angry warmth rose in his cheeks.

“All I’ve done, all I’ve ever done is try to be on good terms with you, to try to be friendly, and I— I can’t understand how you manage to take even that and… twist it into some sort of personal attack. I’ve tried so hard to understand you, to make peace with you last, but you won’t have it. You don’t even want to try. I-it’s like you’re determined to hate me no matter what, like in your eyes, everything I do is somehow wrong when all I’m guilty of is doing my job the best way I know how— just like you.

“I m-mean— why is it so wrong of me to want to succeed, to put my clients best interests first, but it’s perfectly fine for you? Why is it so immoral when I try as hard as I can to win when that is exactly what you do, what any lawyer does?”

Poole stopped for a breath, a momentary pause during which Becker still did move nor speak, standing eerily motionless, as though he were carved from stone.

“A-and you know what, Ira, while I’m on the topic of hypocrisy— you say that I’m the one obsessed with winning, but maybe you should take a look at yourself! You lose one case to me and—and all of a sudden I’m an embarrassment, I’m the scum of the earth and I should be ashamed because it’s somehow all my fault instead of yours. Like I went out of my way to make sure you’d lose, just to spite you. For what? What exactly do you think I stand to gain from making an enemy out of you? I admire and respect you! I always have! I’d never deliberately do anything to humiliate you or sabotage your work or— or anything else like that.

“I m-mean— yes, I’ll admit, what I said to you after today’s verdict was inappropriate. I was excited, and in hindsight, I shouldn’t have tried to joke with you. But you know, I don’t think that’s what got you upset, no. Y—You want to know what I really think? I think you’re just a sore loser.”

Poole fell silent then, trembling, a little out of breath. His eyes stung, tiny beads of frustrated tears going unnoticed as he stubbornly willed himself not to fall apart under the pressure of his own boldness.

He would come to regret what he’d just said— it was the one thing he knew to be certain in the long, fragile seconds that followed. Before him, Becker was perfectly still, the air surrounding him thick and heavy, tense. It was impossible to tell how he was taking the words Poole had carelessly flung at him, how damaging they might be to their already shaky dynamic, to any future relationship they might hope to have.

“A sore loser.” When the prosecutor finally spoke, he repeated Poole’s words slowly, his tone empty, dull, devoid of any inflection. Within it, a concealed darkness. “Yeah. You’re absolutely right.”

Poole felt his stomach lurch, and held his breath, watching stiffly as slowly, very slowly, Becker turned, facing Poole with a stare so empty that for a split second he was unrecognizable. Then, unpredictably, he laughed, a low, mirthless rumble, carrying an audible edge of resentment, of grief, lifting off his lips like a whisper.

“You still don’t get it, do you? Tell me, Poole, are you the one who had to apologize to the victim’s family? Are you the one who promised them justice, only to have a jury of good, smart people decide to free a killer anyway? Do you have any idea how that feels?”

Poole didn’t have an answer, staring in stunned silence instead, feeling his face grow pale. Becker shook his head, the barest hint of a smile still ghosting his lips, rueful, sardonic.

“A murderer walked free today. You understand that? I gave everything I could to try and stop that from happening. I went after him as hard as I could. And it still wasn’t enough. He got away. Every goddamn effort I made, everything I worked towards, it was for nothing.”

“Ira—” Poole began softly, instinctively.

“So yeah, I am a fucking sore loser.” Becker ignored him, almost as if he hadn’t even spoken at all, his voice rising as he took a sudden step forward. “If nothing else, that is exactly what I am, because I do nothing but fight my damned hardest to help make the world a better place, to keep this shithole from getting worse, only to constantly fail and have you treat it like a fucking joke.

“I’m fucking sick and tired of it, Poole, I’m sick of all my hard work being constantly thrown back in my face by a spineless dickhead who can’t be bothered to grow the fuck up and take anything seriously, a piss-poor parody of a lawyer whose head is so far up his own ass he can’t see the damage he’s done— can’t even begin to understand, or care.”

“That’s…” The defense attorney murmured, and nearly choked on the words, feeling his face grow warm with indignation as he fought to keep his composure. “Th-that’s hurtful.”

“Hurtful? You wouldn’t know hurtful if it came up and spat in your smug fucking face. You want to know what’s hurtful? Do you have any idea how painful it is to have you constantly up my ass, pretending you give a shit about me when after all the work I do, all the sacrifices I make trying to bring a scumbag to justice, you fuck me over and then celebrate when I fail?”

“I didn’t celebrate—”

“You did!” Becker roared, the rage hiding just behind his tired, bitter eyes suddenly breaking free as he took another step closer and shoved Poole as hard as he could. In that precise moment, stumbling back, Poole could smell smoke. “I saw you today, after the verdict. I saw the way you looked at me, with that cocky glint in your eye, and I know that I wasn’t imagining the self-satisfaction in your voice when you ran your mouth at me, because you somehow think it’s funny to look me in the face and act like this is all just a stupid game, knowing that my work is everything to me. That is what’s fucking hurtful.”

“Wh—what do you want from me, then?!” Poole cried, a raw, wavering sound. “I tried to explain, to apologize, but you made it rather clear that anything I could possibly say means less than nothing to you!”

“And why shouldn’t it?” The prosecutor shot back. “Why the fuck should I believe a single word out of your pathetic mouth when all you have ever done is string me along?”

“B—Because…! Because o-of our hist—...”

Poole silenced abruptly, as though he’d caught himself on the cusp of saying something unspeakable, something he couldn’t take back, color rising in his cheeks before he quickly looked away.

Eyeing him guardedly, a fleeting confusion passing over his face, Becker found himself perceiving in the other’s expression what had gone unsaid after just a short moment of search, and immediately scoffed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Poole, I know you’re not that stupid. What makes you think I give a rat’s ass about our so-called history?—”

“S—Stop it—” Poole quickly said, his tone sounding a little more defensive than he intended. “Whatever you’re going to say, you’re wrong. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything to you, maybe you want to act like it doesn’t matter, but I know that it matters, and so do you.”

Exhaling a shaking breath, Poole risked returning his gaze to the others, and found that Becker’s steely gaze had narrowed slightly at him, studying him almost warily. Behind his eyes, a strange flicker of emotion, an unnameable turmoil, betrayed itself, and in the very same moment, something else took the place of rage in his expression. Something equally unpleasant, but subtler, harder to understand.

“I can’t forget what happened between us that night,” With another quivering breath, Poole went on, squirming vaguely under Becker’s eyes working to dissect him as he spoke. “I tried to— I know that’s what you probably… w-wanted me to do— but I just can’t, because what you and I had for just those few hours was real, whether you want it to be or not.

“What I feel is real. And I know you believed me when I told you that night, I saw the look in your eyes when I said it, Ira, y-you knew it was the truth. How does that not lend any weight to the sincerity of what I’m trying to tell you now?”

The prosecutor averted his eyes. As if reluctant to acknowledge even the memory, there was a brief period in which he stared wordlessly down the hallway behind them, his mouth set in a hard, stern line.

“Look, I... I know you don’t… really understand me.” Poole ventured, his tone softening, his heart aching in a way it couldn’t bear to name. “But if nothing else, after what happened that night, you at least know that the last thing I’d ever want is to hurt you.”

A heavy silence fell over them then.

Where anger had once been was now a tense, palpable void— a mutual reluctance that settled in the space between them, thick with something bittersweet and unfinished. Though it shook his resolve, Poole did not look away.

Before him, Becker had grown stiff where he stood as though the other’s words had physically pained him— his gaze sharp and cold, a hollow quality to his face that made it impossible to know for certain what it was he felt, if anything at all.

He was silent for what felt like a long time, his jaw set, his stare fixed intensely on nothing as the storm behind his gaze raged on, hidden, sapping the fire from his eyes until nothing was left but a terrible coldness. And when he finally spoke again, Poole wasn’t sure which he hated more— Becker’s rage or the emptiness that had replaced it.

“...You know something, Poole?” He asked, his voice almost toneless as it rumbled between them. “What good does knowing your feelings do me now, after everything you’ve done? What good is your sincerity to me when you and I will never be on the same side?

“Maybe I did understand you, once. Maybe I even trusted you. Maybe I believed you were capable of doing the right thing. But I sure as hell don’t anymore, because I have no idea who you are, or what the fuck is going on in that head of yours. All I know for certain nowadays is that you only care about yourself, and you can’t even begin to imagine how sick that makes me feel. I really do wish you could see that through your fucking naivety, because every word that comes out of your mouth means fuck all to me when you’ve proven time and time again that you’re a goddamn walking contradiction.

“You’re a fraud and a coward, Poole, a selfish, spineless liar with so much damn gall that you can stand there with a straight face and pretend I ought to be moved by anything that you have to say after all the ways that you have trampled over the last shredded fucking scraps of respect I may have had for you. And yet that still isn’t even the worst thing you’ve ever done to me, is it? Is it?”

An awful, wrenching moment passed in which Poole did not— or perhaps, simply could not— respond to those cruel words. His heart twisted, a familiar stinging welling in his eyes against his wishes.

He held his breath.

“No,” Becker said quietly, a subtle pain coloring the sound of his voice. “The absolute fucking lowest you have ever stooped, Mr. Freddie Poole, was somehow getting me to actually care about a shameless, two-faced prick like you.”

“Ira…—” Poole pleaded desperately, fighting a losing war to choke down the lump that now ached painfully in his throat.

“Save it— you need to listen to me very fucking carefully now, because I’m only going to say this once. Don’t come near my office, don’t come near my cases, I don’t even want to see your sorry ass in this fucking courthouse. I want you out of my goddamn life for good. Do you hear me?”

Shakily exhaling, struggling against the tears gathering in his vision, Poole found himself in that precise moment going wholly numb, as though something within him had just then given out, had died. It was a moment of unreality, an abrupt shift as the weight of those final, decisive words washed over him and took hold.

“Y... You don’t mean that,” Poole whispered tremulously, a feeble denial. “You can’t.”

Becker, however, did not humor him, did not even hesitate, delivering his next words with a cold, unfeeling finality as he turned and began to walk away.

“Try me.”

#wesperwrites #wesperart #inside out au #inside out fear #inside out anger #attorney au

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permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 · 13 days ago

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The Wanderer * Halbrand (Sauron)/OC (part 6)

Summary: In spite of her mother's wishes, Tilda wanted to see the world beyond their village. She wanted to know its secrets, and to find her father as well. But when orcs attack, she will soon be swept off on an adventure far different than the one she imagined. And it will lead her not only to unanticipated discoveries about her heritage, but about her own heart, as well.

Warnings: original female character, multi-OC fic, angst, potential for toxic relationship, unrequited love

Other: Please let me know if you'd like to be added to a tag list!

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

(The Southlands)

"Bronwyn is not—she is not here?"

"Left a few days ago with that elf that's always comin' 'round," Waldreg replies, his attention only half-focused on the woman standing before him, given that up until her untimely arrival, he had been entirely absorbed in cutting a hunk of meat into pieces for stew, "Somethin' about a sick cow."

Freida's brow furrows at that, but she refrains from offering any comment, far more concerned with the reason for her presence in the village to begin with than anything else. She had hoped, in truth, to find her friend here. To be able to rely on Bronwyn's influence among the others to secure a place for her, and the rest of the survivors, minimal though they might be, to stay. To be safe from further attack, at least for the time-being.

To be confronted with Waldreg, instead, was a blow that she had been wholly unprepared to face.

The man had never been a friend to her. Not even all those years ago, when she had arrived in the village, shaken, exhausted, and alone. Bronwyn had been her ally then, as much as she had been in the years after. It had been Bronwyn who helped her with her newborn daughter, when the people of her own village had turned her aside.

Waldreg, by comparison, had never once spared a moment to voice his displeasure on the matter, and over the years, had done so all the more vehemently as Bronwyn's own involvement with Arondir had grown. Get friendly with the elves, or any other being not of their own kind, and reap the consequences, were the words he so often threw their way.

For her part, Freida supposes those words were true. She had known, even in the moment, what she had been getting into, and she had done so, regardless. But Bronwyn and Arondir were different. They had always been different.

Not that a man like Waldreg would care to recognize that difference, either way.

"A sick cow?"

The question is hardly a judgment of his assertion, but Waldreg clearly interprets it as such, if the sour expression that takes over his features is any sort of indication at all. In truth, Freida supposes, she truly ought to have seen that reaction coming. Any sort of question directed towards him in the past had been met with skepticism. Resignation, and oftentimes, outright scorn.

Scorn, it would seem, is the option that the man appears to be favoring, now.

"Not my concern what they was doin', or what they was after," He scoffs, attention once again riveted fully upon the hunk of meat beneath his hands, a clear dismissal of her apparent desire for more information, "Reckon it's not really your concern, neither."

"Was there any indication of when she might return?"

"Think you already know the answer to that."

A frown mars Freida's features at the response, though she would be a liar to pretend she had not anticipated it. Whether Waldreg truly knew of any estimate of Bronwyn's return, he was not exactly likely to say.

For a moment, Freida is near to giving in to the worry that has been plaguing her since their flight from a village that had been wiped off the map. She is so very close to succumbing to a fear she had never thought to know, again.

That Waldreg should be the one barring her path, now, or at least coming close to it, when he had done much the same years ago only augmented that fear, but if nothing else, Freida has never once considered herself to be the sort to give up without first attempting a fight. She was no coward. A fool, perhaps, but never that.

Drawing herself up despite how apparent it is that Waldreg wishes for her to do the opposite, Freida remains mindful of those in the tavern behind her. She remembers those in her own party who had been unable to summon the strength to venture inside, and thus remained out of doors, as well.

If nothing else, they are depending upon her ability to secure for them a safe haven. A place to stay. And that is enough to allow her to put aside any lingering fear, or bitterness towards Waldreg himself, in an effort to swallow her pride.

"We are in need of a place to stay, Waldreg."

"Oh? An' what happened to your own place?"

"We were attacked and overrun."

"Attacked an' overrun by what?"

He already seems to know the answer to the question, or at least so it seems, the glint behind his eyes something that Freida truly does not wish to acknowledge at all. He'd always been unnervingly intrigued by her past. By anything that would tie a single one of them to an enemy long believed to be dead and gone.

Those in Tirharad who knew of his obsessions seemed mostly to dismiss them, but Freida had always wondered if there was something darker behind them. Something the rest of the village simply did not wish to see. And although she hardly wishes to give the man even a hint of what he seems to desire, Freida is already equally aware that there truly does not seem to be any other way.

"Orcs."

"S'not been sight nor sound of orcs 'round these parts in years."

The words are spoken with apparent surety, but Freida can read the fervency behind them. It is a fervency that is, truth be told, rather poorly concealed.

Though his expression remains stern—unwelcoming—Waldreg's eyes betray him, as she has always known to be the case from years prior. The meat upon the table before him rests, forgotten, while the sheen to his gaze takes on an almost frenzied glow.

He may deny the existence of the orcs that had attacked her people, but that was but a smokescreen for the avid desire he possessed to know if their attackers maintained any connection to him. To Sauron.

To the one who had already claimed so many of their people for his own during the great war.

Anger flares within her, then, over the memory of all who that war had taken from them. Over those who, a mere day ago, still drew breath. Over her daughter, who she prays is not as lost to her as she fears.

That anger steals her response before it can ever be brought to life, but Freida does not have long to wait before another is taking the task from her shoulders altogether.

Even if that particular someone had been instructed to remain outside with the wounded.

"They are here, now. Look to the people huddled outside of this tavern if you do not believe us."

"You were to remain with them yourself, Bain."

"I felt you might require assistance," Bain shrugs, moving to stand at Freida's side, a half-smile toying at one corner of his mouth before his attention shifts toward Waldreg, instead, "It would seem that I was right on that score."

"You should return to the others."

"And let you have all the fun in here on your own?"

"Bain," Freida warns, voice pitched low as her anger over Waldreg's words and actions is momentarily replaced with a resigned sort of amusement over the antics of a young man she has long considered a son, "Your aid is needed outside. Not here."

"Does he intend to give us the aid we seek, or not?"

"You're a bold one, lad—"

"Perhaps it is you who is not bold enough."

Waldreg bristles over the remark. That fact would be plain enough even if Freida were not looking the older man directly in the eye. And although she would be a liar to pretend that she is not at least somewhat amused by Bain's retort, whether or not she chooses to show it, Freida knows that they can hardly afford it if they want to secure Waldreg's aid.

"Forgive him, Waldreg. He is over-tired. We all are."

"Over-tired, and hoping we'll clear out a place for your lot to stay."

"There is nowhere else for us to turn."

"Plenty of places, seems to me," Waldreg muses, his gaze shifting from Bain to Freida as he offers the latter a grimace that is clearly intended to be a smile, "Long as you're willing to look for them."

"The wounded among us will not survive a longer journey," Freida persists, moving to step before Waldreg as he attempts to get around her to join the others in the tavern at large, "Please, Waldreg. I beg of you, show mercy. Those of us who are not injured will earn our keep."

Though it is more than plain he does not wish to, Waldreg considers the proposal. His mouth turns down at the corners, while both arms fold almost defiantly across his chest.

Freida watches, as his gaze darts around the dim interior of the tavern, as though suddenly mindful of the attention their discourse has brought about. And although a part of her hates that it is their attention that seems to shift his course, rather than any genuine consideration for those who have been through unimaginable horror, she holds her tongue, and waits as patiently as she dares for him to reply.

"Earn your keep, or you go," He says, favoring Freida, Bain, and those standing behind them with what is clearly meant to be a look of stern warning, as though he alone intends to be the one to throw them out, should they fail to uphold their end of the bargain, "I'll not have you takin' resources others can't afford to give."

"Whatever we take, we will give back as best we can."

The grunt Waldreg provides is a dismissal as much as it is an acknowledgement, and Freida finally allows him to sidle past her, his shoulder bumping almost harshly against her own along the way. Though grateful for his relenting, she cannot help the frown that overtakes her features, knowing that none of them are likely able to afford remaining here, for long.

It could not possibly be long before the orcs that had come to raze her own village attacked others. The only question would be in what direction they would travel next when it came to determining how long they might have before such an event took place.

The idea of trying to convince the inhabitants of Tirharad to depart in haste is something Freida hardly believes will be easy. But regardless of how fervently she may appreciate being taken in among them, there is one singular fact that she knows to be true, whether she would wish to avoid acknowledging it or not.

If they tarry here for very long, it is likely that they will all pay the price with their lives.

(The Sundering Seas)

While thunder rumbles, and lightning cracks across the sky, the trio on board the battered raft that pitches amongst the waves find themselves soaked to their very bones.

The sky has rapidly darkened, rendering it nearly impossible to see in between flashes of lightning that only seem to augment the turmoil raging all around them. The thunder all but deafens them, and renders any hope of conversing over a plan impossible.

The more the waves crash against the boards of the raft, the more difficult it becomes to remain standing. More than once, Tilda has already crashed to her knees, the contact jarring enough to rattle her teeth. But as she clings to one of the pieces of wood that jut skyward, her fingers curling around it as though seeking to bind it to her very skin, she is forced to own up to a feeling she never wanted to face.

Terror.

She had known something similar, of course, when the orcs had attacked her village. When she and Bain had fled from them in the woods, only to find more, already invading their home. She had felt it again, when she woke to find herself aboard a ship, with her mother and Bain nowhere to be seen.

Something about this seems different, though. As though it poses a greater threat to her than orcs, or losing her family ever could. And the longer she tries to discern exactly why this might be, the more certain she is that the answer will condemn her, should she ever make a confession of it out loud.

It was true she still mourned for her mother. For Bain. The prospect of never seeing either of them again is a thing that is more painful than she cares to admit. But now that she rests secure in the knowledge of their loss, no matter how it might chafe against her, the idea of this storm bringing about her end throws another distasteful possibility in her path.

The chance that she might very well meet her end without ever having a chance to return to Middle Earth and find her father.

It is incredibly selfish. She knows this. To care so much about the identity of a man who had left her—left her mother—when there are plenty in her life who had stayed renders her nothing more than a fool.

Still, as the waves continue to rock their meager raft, she cannot shake the feeling that rises in tandem to accompany her terror. It snakes its way around her heart and tightens its grip, in much the same way as her fingers tighten their hold upon the beam she clings to.

The next in an innumerable count of crashes of thunder rains down around them, threatening to rattle her very bones. And in its wake, Tilda does what she can to tamp down on that insidious feeling rising within her, the bitterness and anger that rest behind it something she truly does not wish to face.

That feeling terrifies her, as much as the waves. The lightning and thunder. The prospect of never seeing her family, and never finding her father.

Perhaps it is that terror that enables her to finally act when she recognizes the elf's voice calling to her across the negligible distance between them, despite the sound being dimmed by another crash of thunder rolling overhead.

"Give me your hand!"

Gauging the roiling of the waves, Tilda attempts to discern how best to do as the elf had asked, without the bucking of the raft sending her to her knees once more. With one hand still holding to the beam she had been clinging to, she slowly begins to move.

Her fingertips brush against Galadriel's as she moves closer, already gathering that the elf intends to attempt securing their presence on board the raft with the rope she has wound about her waist, and the beam that rests behind her. Despite the smallest fractions of uncertainty, Tilda recognizes that this is likely their best chance to avoid being tipped beneath the merciless waves.

A slight lull in the rocking of their raft presents her with another attempt at reaching for Galadriel's outstretched hand, but before she might make a satisfactory connection with her grasp, she is confronted with the sight of the beam holding the elf upright tilting sideways, fractured by a bolt of lightning that topples both the wood, and the elf secured to it into the sea.

"Galadriel!"

Her cry is drowned by another crash of thunder, but Tilda is hardly swayed, her feet carrying her forward in uneven fits and starts until she stands in the place where the beam once rested, secure to the planks beneath. She can see no sign of Galadriel attempting to resurface, and her heart twists within her chest, another lurch in the wood that rests beneath her feet prompting her to reach out for something to steady herself, only to come up empty not long after.

Heart jolting inside of her chest, Tilda's arms snap out in a desperate bid for balance, the rain that comes down in sheets throwing some of her sodden hair in front of her eyes to obstruct her vision almost completely. And even as she retains her footing, if only barely, she is suddenly possessed by a singular thought. A thought that must clearly mean whatever is left of her ability to behave rationally is long gone.

She cannot simply stand aside, and wait for the elf to drown. Particularly if she is the only chance that remains of returning to Middle Earth, and finding the orcs that had destroyed everything Tilda had ever known.

Gritting her teeth, and trying as best she can to avoid succumbing to the renewed surge of terror that threatens to paralyze her at the thought of diving beneath the churning waves, Tilda closes her eyes, and drags in a breath. She slips a fraction closer to the edge of the raft, and swallows past her dread while gazing down at the water below.

Beneath another rumble of thunder, she thinks she can hear a call of protest from behind her, but it is simple enough for her to ignore.

Or at least it is, until she attempts to move forward, only to find her upper arm seized in a suddenly iron-clad grip.

"You seem to have a habit of making foolish decisions," Halbrand growls, the words spoken so closely to Tilda's ear that they can be heard, even over the cacophony of roiling waves and thunder that surrounds them. In truth, she had nearly forgotten about his presence, having been so absorbed in her own inner turmoil, and in Galadriel's sudden disappearance beneath the waves, as well.

Regrettably, that presence is now something that seems to be standing in her way.

"My decisions are my own. Let me go."

"So that I will be required to save your life a second time? I think not."

"I do not require saving," Tilda protests, turning her gaze from the waves at her feet so that she might look Halbrand in the eye, instead, "But every moment you hold me back sentences Galadriel to death."

"The elf is hardly my concern."

"Then why am I any different?"

Able to see precisely when her retort strikes true, Tilda is not blind to the darkening of Halbrand's expression. The lightning that flashes across the sky throws it in sharp relief, in much the same way as it highlights the flare of something unrecognizable—something almost frightening—in his eyes.

Recoiling, Tilda is aware of the precise moment in which Halbrand releases her arm from his grip, but she remains frozen in place, reluctant to seize upon this opportunity to do as she had initially intended when instinct all but screams at her that something else is at play here. A thing she could never possibly understand.

Her hesitance seems to be the very thing that tips the scales, however, and before she can react in any way, save for gaping in astonishment, Halbrand is diving into the water himself, and disappearing from view.

Panic seizes her in its grip, then, as the moments tick by with no sign of either of her companions. With no proof that either of them will survive. Though their chances of navigating their way through this storm had been abysmal to start, Tilda rests in no uncertainty regarding the sure decline of her chances attempting to do so on her own.

She cannot discern whether she ought to dive in after her companions, or remain where she is in hopes that they do surface, and as the knot of panic that had started to tighten around her heart begins to climb its way to her throat, she recognizes the unmistakable sensation of tears falling to join with the raindrops that already stain her cheeks.

Sinking to her knees on the raft, Tilda places her hands flat upon the boards. The rain continues to beat down upon her, and her fingers curve against the wood until her nails dig into the surface.

Desperately, she calls the name of her companions, the sound almost immediately forced into an ineffectual silence as it is drowned out by the raging of the storm. She scans the waves around her, her heart seeming to lurch in time with every rocking motion of the raft beneath her. The moments drag by, and still, there is no sign that Halbrand and Galadriel will survive.

It would be a lie for her to pretend that she does not wish she had been the one to act as Halbrand had. That her hesitation had never stalled her enough such that he was the one to dive into the waves in her stead.

For a moment, she reconsiders making that dive, again. Though she may not stand a chance at saving either of her companions, perhaps it would provide her with a means of departing this life on her own terms, rather than waiting to see what fate would befall her, on her own. But before she can act on that foolhardy desire, the sound of something breaking the waves pulls her attention toward it. A choked cry of relief escapes as she watches not only Galadriel, but Halbrand as well, surface, and begin to swim toward the raft.

Scrambling backwards, Tilda extends a hand to the elf, first, pulling her on board, and then the two of them turn to do the same for Halbrand, all three of them collapsing in a heap to the boards in response to the heady mix of exhaustion, and the continual rocking of the waves. None of them seem capable of making a move, as the storm continues to rage down on them from overhead.

Uncertain of the precise moment in which she closes her eyes, Tilda now seems only capable of keeping track of the ragged edges of her breathing. Of the crashing of more thunder, and the flare of lightning against her eyelids while the waves continue causing their raft to pitch amongst the waves. And although she is well-aware that abandoning alertness to accommodate her own fatigue is hardly a wise choice, she cannot seem to resist the heady pull of oblivion.

Particularly not when she is aware of the presence of her two companions, safer, at least, than they had been mere moments ago, at her side.

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humbugghere · 1 year ago

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Going insane over P:EG - Eva Tsunaka’s imitation「模倣」piece.

Okay, so my previous post seemed to scratch an itch for some of y’all so I figured while I’m working on the big video I should post my other analysis (if you havent seen Diana's btw its here). So I’ll be hitting on Nifast’s _imitation

「模倣」_series again with Eva’s piece, as seen below:

(Credit to Nifast hi Nifast)

Alright let’s start, I’m copypasting this from the google doc as per usual. Prologue spoilers are in this one btw

Introduction

Eva Tsunaka is among the more enigmatic members of the cast, with many of her basic details obscured by the staff, her very own bio referring to her as a “Truly quiet and mysterious figure”, and the enigma that is her behavior in the prologue, Tsunaka has been set up to be this games “black box”, and while her essential characterization is out in the open, her deeper motives and psyche are likely to stay obscured for a while within the story.

However, via the Imitation「模倣」series, we get another glimpse into Eva, with her being given a portrait in a series of 9 covering the female cast, giving an abstract view into their place in the story.

Unlike my previous essay on Cara, however, this piece has a massive asterisk: Eva is alive. While Cara, Tacticum in death, and the information handed to us being absolute in summing her up, can be analyzed in full, there will be certain aspects of this art that can only be fully digested upon either Eva’s death or upon her survival of the killing game. Eva is a character who strikes me as one who may die incredibly early, or make it into the annals of the killing game.

Regardless, there is no doubt that her presence, in rebutting Wolfgang’s hope in the student's titles, and in the distrust sowed thanks to her talent and nonchalant behaviour, will have a profound impact on the cast, whether or not she may continue to live and act within the story. As it stands, Eva is alive. So while we may not do a true autopsy, we may begin to sterilize our tools and set the scene.

Eva Tsunaka - Within Reality

This section, more than anything, is meant to remind the reader of key moments within the prologue, that both act to define Eva’s character and help inform a calculated analysis of the piece.

The first thing of note is how Eva refers to her talent. After being pressured on how she came to be the Ultimate Liar, she waved such concerns away, simply saying it is what she is.

This use of the word what lines up perfectly with the whole of the Imitation「模倣」series, as each portrait is framed as a response to the question “What are you?”. The response assigned to Eva, being “a lie” again lines up perfectly with her response. All of this is capped off by the end of the art book, which poses a question, almost identical yet strikingly opposite: “Who are you?”.

This question goes unanswered, at least for now. At least for some.

N doing this, we can see a very clear dichotomy between her talent, and her. While Eva has been awarded the title of liar, it is merely what she is - not who she is. It it wholly separate from her identity as a person.

Another thing worth mentioning is the contrast between how Eva handles herself, and how the rest of the cast does. While much of the cast is apprehensive (aside from a few like Cassidy who don’t actively suspect Eva for her talent), Eva is wholly dismissive of their accusations, inviting them to believe whatever they wish to believe. While there is no direct correlation to be drawn, having this part of her in mind will serve us well.

Finally, Eva’s prodding is another key feature of her character. Being the first person to ask the hard-hitting, perhaps harsh questions to characters such as Ingrid and Cassidy about their talents, as well as serving as the principal voice against Wolfgang and Damon in the trial. While she is willing to concede if given a sufficient answer, or hopelessly outnumbers, Eva is still someone who wishes to play an active role in any conversation she has, in order to extract as much information as possible. Again, this is something to keep in mind moving forward.

We can conclude as such that Eva is a single-minded woman, one who is guided by her own questions and observations and is more than willing to disregard any ire she may attract in doing so. While this essay does not discuss her ultimate goals, we may understand the person who has set these goals in the process of doing this analysis.

Eva Tsunaka - Imitation 「模倣」

The portrait of the two Tsunaka’s, henceforth referred to as Black and White, after the colors of their respective hair, is the first one we see within the artbook, and serves as a striking establishment of the mood and rules that define this artbook. By featuring two “versions” of Eva, both that seem to look like her, yet are distinctly not Eva on closer inspection.

This establishes the explicit theme of imitation, as these two figures imitate Eva, but also highlights how these “Imitations” can’t be considered a true reflection of Eva, both in their obvious differences to her design, and the portraits themselves framed as a response to the question “What are you?”.

This question, while tackling many aspects of a person such as creed, nationality, and perhaps characteristics, can never truly capture the cadence of the question “Who are you?”, which directly addresses a person's Identity.

As such, we can establish these portraits serve to outline the public perception of each character, and indeed how this perception latches onto them and molds them in some regards. With this established, we can focus on Tsunaka alone.

The first feature of note is the dichotomy between the two figures, Black and White. While White seems to be wearing Eva’s iconic outfit, Black is not - in fact, the outfit itself seems to be a direct inversion, with Eva wearing a black suit over a white dress shirt, topped off with a bow tie. However, despite this glaring difference, it is Black who has any reference to Eva’s animal motif of a raven, with White’s jacket glaringly lacking the button normally seen.

Not only does this reinforce the idea that neither of these two figures is truly Eva, but it also makes the reader realizes that with their monochromatic hair and the inconsistencies between their designs in regards to being a copy of Eva - the combination - or perhaps reunion - of these two figures is the only way to truly “find” Eva again. Throughout the prologue, it is very obvious that Eva, while being a major force in navigating the strange circumstances of this kidnapping, is still someone who is withholding information. Furthermore, Eva is someone who, despite wishing for the cast to survive, pushes firmly against the idea of open cooperation.

In order to properly elaborate on how the introduction of these dichotomies helps inform our view of Eva, we must look into Black and White properly. What makes them different? For one, the exclusion of crow symbolism, while staying faithful to Eva’s outfit is no coincidence. The animal motifs are consistently a defining part of a character, especially in informing their personality. By stripping this feature from White, it by extension strips Eva of her humanity, which is extenuated by the lack of sheen in her eyes. Together, this makes White seem like nothing more than a model or a doll.

In doing so, this reflects how the cast perceives Eva, being suspicious of her talents and her behavior throughout the prologue and likely throughout the game following the prologue. This objectification of Eva present in white is further supported by the lack of gleam in her eyes as if there wasn’t anything behind them.

As for Black, there are several details to pick up on. For one, Black features Eva’s feather, which demonstrates how this stand-in, to some degree, is a more accurate representation of Eva, the person.

However, this falls apart upon even a surface-level inspection. Black’s outfit is quite literally an inversion of Eva’s usual outfit, with a black suit, white shirt, and a bow tie. This could symbolize the fact that, under her visage in the killing game, Eva is very much different from the stoic cynic we’ve seen.

Furthermore, her hair is notably cut short and not allowed to grow properly in places, in contrast to white long, practically unruly hair. While White’s hair may symbolize the cast's fears that Eva may run wild in the killing game, the short hair may represent Eva’s potential being stumped, perhaps by her own fear to act, perhaps by the pressure of the cast around her… or perhaps by death.

There is also the obvious distinction that Black does have a gleam in its eyes, unlike White, lending credence to the idea that it represents the human part of Eva.

In summary, White represents the image the cast has of Eva, and how their fear and distrust of her strips her of her humanity and personality. Black, however, represents the self-image Eva has of herself, and how it both differs and is ultimately affected by the killing game around her.

Now that we have an understanding of what these two figures represent, we can now answer this analysis’ pivotal question: What is the point of comparing the two figures?

The explicit purpose is simple: It establishes the futility of defining Eva in a black-and-white manner. Her design so far has highlighted this by being a mix of black and white, in particular with her hair, which blends these two colors vivaciously. The separation of the two figures, especially in their monotone hair, symbolizes how both of these views of Eva, both the distrustful one of her classmates and her own self-image, can not truly reflect who she is. Only by understanding both of them, can we truly know who Eva is.

This rebuttal of a black-and-white view of Eva is also supported by the mixture of colors in the figures. White wears a black shirt, Black wears a white one. Both of them carry a part of the other in their designs and ergo their beings, and can be seen looking at each other's halo, used to shed light on the both of them and make them visible in the otherwise pitch-black environment. This simple gesture shows that the two acknowledge each other - showing how over time, it is likely Eva will not just ignore but accept her class's views on her, and the class will recognize that Eva is not merely a suspicious figure, but a person and potential ally in ending this game, in a manner reminiscent of Yinyang.

Furthermore, there is also the introduction of a “wild-card” Color: Red, visible in the bowtie/necktie and headbands. Red is a color with much history behind it, being the color of blood and as such attraction connections to courage, bravery, and sacrifice. On the other hand, it has also represented revenge, danger, domination, and anger. While both neck accessories are visible, Black’s headband is obscured by the light, perhaps showing that Eva does not wish to act on any principle of domination or revenge, despite what the class thinks.

For a final detail, the page after this image, the one directly answering the question “What are you?” The answer “A lie.” is given. This again reinforces that lies, and by extension lying, are not a part of Eva’s identity, both in being a response to a question of What Eva is, as well as the raven’s eye being obscured by the letter “A”, symbolizing how Eva’s talent does nothing but obscure her true nature under a thin visage of perjury.

Eva Tsunaka - Conclusion:

This piece serves to both introduce the concept of the Imitation 「模倣」series, as well as symbolize the conflict between Eva’s perception within her own mind and within the minds of the cast as a whole.

This is done by underlining the flaws within them. The cast’s idea of who Eva is is only a surface-level understanding (with Eva having a rudimentary version of her outfit on) - that practically objectifies her (seen by her glazed-over eyes on the right). Meanwhile, Eva’s self-image is more truthful to her, though still not reflecting her circumstances (as symbolized by the incorrect outfit) and obscuring her deeper behaviors (as seen by the red headband being obscured by her Halo).

Furthermore, by highlighting these flaws, and the differences between these two perceptions of Tsunaka, calls attention to how a genuine understanding of who she is can only be attained by considering both the public perception and self-image of Tsunnaka, as her own self-reflection may result in her cowering from parts of herself that only a neutral crowd would be willing to discuss. However, this same crowd would find it near impossible to truly comprehend her mind - like with anyone.

Indeed, this is something that can be applied to any of the students - the idea that they must make peace with their own self-image and their public persona, to truly understand themselves and each other. This, however, is a central theme of Tsunaka and suggests that her role in the story will be one that, rather than directly inspire change, will force the cast to reflect on their views of her, and in time, their classmates… and themselves.

#Project: Eden's Garden #project edens garden #Project: edens garden #P:EG #project eden's garden #Eva Tsunaka #Tsunaka Eva #Fantheory #Theorycrafting #I really like this game as you can tell #Thispost isover 2000 words long LMAO

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under-the-aspen-tree · 1 year ago

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A Moth To You (Chapter 10 - Bloodshed and Bounty)

Series Summary: After a year travelling abroad, you have been called home to Kingslanding by your mother, Rhaenyra. Turns out your family has grown in your time apart.

Word Count: 10.4K

Jacaerys' name day celebrations came as a welcome diversion to the dull repetition of the Red Keep, and the gods had blessed the people with clear skies and miraculous weather at the perfect time. There had been some concerns the morning before your leave, as your mother looked upwards with pinched brows, that all the preparations would be for nothing. Thankfully, it seemed, they were not.

The cobblestone streets were still wet when your carriage was pulled, and you could feel the wheels slipping along the ground as you set off through the narrow streets of Kingslanding, but they quickly turned smooth and dry. The downfall had left a luxurious glimmer to every bush and tree as you left the city in favour of the countryside, pottering down the Kingsroad with the taste of pollen on your tongue, and the foliage shone in brilliant shades of evergreen and emerald wherever you looked.

"We couldn't be luckier," The king would remark with a wondrous smile at every stop, beholding the skies.

"The Seven are merciful," Alicent would agree with a courteous nod before leading him to a shaded seat.

Your arrival was no less spectacular. To celebrate Jace's nineteenth name day, the King had declared the necessity for a fresh hunt, as had been done for his own boys several times over the years. A royal hunt was an occasion like no other, commemorated with seven days of feasting, drinking, and killing. Lords and ladies came together from all over Westeros, often travelling for days, to join in the festivities, and a grand week was to be expected.

The Kingswood chosen to host the celebration was a fine one, and well-known for its bountiful hunting grounds. Thick layers of foliage circled a well-sized field and great tents of crimson and black had been erected to house the royal party comfortably. At the centre of the green stood a fresh, wooden podium to sit your family, while lighter tables dotted the grass before it, easily moved to equip for the nights of dancing to come.

Four days had passed since your arrival to the Kingswood, and you had made the most of every one of them. The afternoons in the fresh air with the sun beaming down upon you, drinking cooled wine in the shade of oak trees, and your Septas left far behind in the Keep brought a skip to your step. It helped, of course, that sullen behaviour was not tolerated at such an event. For almost a week, not a single person had so much as grimaced, and you could have sworn that at the end of a morning hunt, you had almost seen Aemond smile at Jace, who bore a small deer over one shoulder. That alone was cause for celebration.

Even Aegon had kept to his own devices, only stumbling out of his tents occasionally to drink or join his brother, who was usually holding his shoulder quite forcefully. You doubted wholly that Aegon particularly enjoyed such affairs, but whether that was due to the festivities being for your brother or simply because he didn't have the patience for hunting, you did not know. It didn't quite seem to be his forte regardless. Aemond had trained extensively in every weapon you knew of, from sword to spear to crossbow, and his aim always ran true. His brother, on the other hand, had bested the basics and done little else. Though you knew Aegon's skill with a blade was as ferocious as any royal knight or guard, he never felt the need to learn the intricacies of archery, and that left him with very little to do while hunting. Regardless, Aemond seemed keen on keeping him involved in the fun, much to Aegon's dismay, and so you were quite gladly rid of him.

While Princes, Lords, and knights alike trundled into the heavy foliage every morning to drink and slaughter, you had the pleasure of doing whatever you wished. Your greatest concern with this holiday was the suitors that would grace your presence at every turn and, with the men effectively gone, you had nothing to worry about. So, every morning, you would loop arms with Helaena and simply enjoy the solitude. Even your cousins, Baela and Rhaena, had travelled from Driftmark with your grandparents, and you had delighted in the opportunity to finally reacquaint with them, as well as your grandmother, Rhaenys. It had been a month since you had returned, and after a year with the woman, you had sorely missed her.

Today was one of the quieter afternoons as servants prepared for the feast to come, and the hunt had ended early to allow everyone time to ready themselves. Jace's name day itself had passed on the second day, but the men had finally gathered enough venison to feed the entire gathering, so it would be a party like no other. You had taken the quiet opportunity to walk with Jace through the maze of tents that built up your camp, having found you had spent very little time together with all the mania that spread thickly through the air.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself," Your brother remarked as you walked and you looked up suddenly, realising you had lost yourself in thought. The taste of pollen was sweet in the air, and the grass brushed your skirts with fresh dew at every step. It was often difficult not to lose oneself in the tranquillity of it all.

"Just thinking," You shook your head smiling, but Jace missed the action, pulling his arm from yours as an unfamiliar face approached you.

The man must have been barely five-and-twenty, with a hint of youth still painted across his features, yet he had the figure of a man grown. His dark hair was a mane of curls cut to his chin, and a peppering of stubble kissed his jaw from a few days' growth. He looked like a warrior, even in his finery, but his eyes were of a spring pond green that revealed what you could only have considered to be a gentle nature.

"The Tully's drain their cups to you this fine week, Your Grace, and wish you good tidings for the year to come." He smiled, lifting a gloved hand to shake your brothers. You could only watch on, smiling politely. It was often that Jace was interrupted to greet strangers, and came with the territory of so many travelling so far for him. You never quite knew how he handled it so well, always having a smile to give, a hand to shake, a name to remember.

"Thank you, my Lord, that is most kind." He replied with a charming smile.

"And you, Princess. You are as beautiful as my sister described, it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance," The man continued, turning to face you with a palm extended. You took it with a smile and tilted your head as he bowed to place a gentle kiss upon your knuckles.

"How courteous of you, my Lord." It was strange how you couldn't keep the warmth from your face as he lifted himself to his full height, easily surpassing both you and your brother. You had gone through the motions of this dance with many a man, and yet you couldn't keep your eyes from his. They reminded you of the forest, of the first leaves that blessed the branches of a tree at winter's end. "You say your sister and I met?"

If he noticed your staring, he ignored it, his smile only widening at your words. "Yes, Your Grace, during your tour last year. I was most sorry to have missed you. I had spent many moons travelling to and from Casterly Rock to represent my father and missed you there as well. My sister, the lady Ceryse, had nothing but kind tales of your visit, as did the rest of the Riverrun, from what I've heard."

You remembered the Lady Ceryse, if only faintly, from the first months of your adventures around Westeros; a kind woman, if not a little shy, who delighted in the sight of your dragon nipping at the fields. "You spoil me with your compliments, my Lord, though I must apologise. I'm not sure I know your name?"

"Colren Tully, if it pleases you."

"Colren..." You tasted the word on your tongue and it sounded sweet, like the gentle lapping of a stream. "Well, then I am pleased to finally have the chance to speak with you personally. My days spent in Riverrun were beyond comparison."

"How kind of you to say," Colren chuckled, his green eyes glimmering in the afternoon sun, before nodding curtly to the both of you. "Well, I thank you both for your company- and to you, my Prince. I wish you all the best."

You didn't take your eyes from his large figure as he departed, disappearing amongst a sea of red and gold tents, and only began to walk again as Jace slipped his arm through yours. "Well he was very nice," He said knowingly, sparing you a glance that you refused to return.

"Don't start-"

"What?" He interrupted, grinning. "You would think it was your name day, with how these Lords all fawn over you."

You couldn't keep the mirthful smile from your face as you eyed him, pursing your lips. "Don't work yourself into jealousy, brother, lest they come after you next."

Jace pulled his mouth into a mockery of a frown, glance darting from you in an instant. "I am more than content without."

You threw back your head and cackled at his tone, ignoring the heads that turned your way as you did. Jace had always been your closest ally, an extension of yourself perhaps, and you could never suppress the smile on your face when he was around.

For a while you simply walked, arm in arm, the previous conversation forgotten as you asked him about his time hunting and he asked about your time not. You hadn't realised just how much you had to catch up on after a few days distanced, but it seemed a lot went on in the woods out of your reach. You were thankful, however, that he left out the parts in which he actually killed anything, something you couldn't typically avoid when he came back with a belt full of rabbits.

It wasn't long before you were interrupted again, but it was a welcome face that greeted you from below, with honey-stained hair in the golden sun.

"(Y/N)!" Helaena cried, standing at once from a thick blanket she had laid upon the earth. You hadn't even noticed her there until right beside her, but you laughed as she pulled you into a hug. "Jace," She said much quieter, bowing her head lightly as she brushed off her pale blue skirts. He smiled in return, something small and brief and sweeter than sugar berries. "Would you like to sit? One of the girls brought a tray of lemon cakes."

You turned to Jace expectantly, but his usually light face turned into one of gentle solemnity. "Regrettably I must offer my company to the houses attending the hunt," He said, looking like there was nothing he would have rather done less. Ever dutiful, ever courteous, and ever the one to go without lemon cakes. You knew where you would rather be.

"I would love to join you, Helaena," You grinned, pulling up your skirts to sit beside her on the blanket. She giggled but waited to join you until your brother had nodded his departure. "Enjoy yourself, Jace," You called out, waving your arms as he looked back with a smile.

"Here," Helaena sat delicately beside you as you settled, pulling a bunch of wildflowers into her silken lap. "Do you still remember how to make the crowns?"

Your lips twitched as your beheld the assortment; icy blues and brilliant yellows. She had always possessed a talent for finding the most perfect buds, never wilted or crushed from her grip. She twirled the stem of a small peony as she spoke, her touch as light and graceful as a dancer. "Never as well as you, but yes. Or, at least, I can try."

She smiled as she passed a bundle into your hands and watched you weave, your fingers thick and inexperienced compared to hers. It had been years since you had made crowns together, but the memories came flooding back at the floral smell that greeted you. Helaena had taught you the method in your childhood, helping you perfect the art as best you could, but she had a talent for beauty you hadn't been graced with. All the same, you rejoiced in the soft stroke of petals against your fingertips, the stems still wet with dew.

It was so peaceful here, so calm. Even the passersby seemed to lower their voices as they walked, as though mindful enough to be quiet in your presence. The sun was comfortable and warm against your skin, and you noticed it had brought up the faintest of freckles on the tip of Helen's pale nose and cheekbones.

"It's all a bit much, don't you think?" You hummed as she spoke softly, looking up at the city of tents that surrounded you, and shrugged.

"Well, it's not like they would ever host such a celebration for us," You said, as though you would ever truly wish for such a thing. It was no lie that the crown held its greatest celebrations for the men of the house, but you didn't mind much. It was all a little overwhelming, and you lacked the patience that Jace had for such affairs. "In all honesty, I think I prefer a simple ball. All of this killing that men seem to enjoy is far beyond my understanding."

"Mine as well..." The woman sighed, looking up as her fingers still moved flawlessly. "I suppose it is not such a bad opportunity, though."

Frowning, you tilted your head at her words and saw the barest of grins as she peered downwards at her flawless crown. "Well, I saw you speaking with the young Lord Colren, and the Hightower boy yesterday. Then there was the Redwyne before him, who I think is a little too righteous for his standing, but to each their own..."

"Stop it!" You giggled, pushing her gently and eliciting only a laugh in return. "They're all the same anyways. We are fitting entertainment and an opportunity for them to raise their own bloodlines."

"Hmm," She hummed with a knowing smile. "Well the Tully's already have a good standing at court, and he's not so bad on the eyes..."

Your cheeks burned slightly. How ridiculous it felt, to be brought to such a state when you had barely spoken with the man. You decided to swiftly change the course of the conversation. "What about you, dear aunt? Have any of these 'fine young men' caught your fancy?"

You didn't need to ask, already knowing the answer, but she graced you with one all the same. "None so far."

Thoughts of Jace came to mind, to the way she blushed a gentle pink in his presence, to the way he always held himself a little straighter in hers, and smiled knowingly. It was so bittersweet to think of what they could have been, could still be, had her mother only looked past her predetermined notions of your family. Jacaerys was the kindest soul you had met, and Helaena the gentlest. In your eyes, no man could have ever hoped to take care of her the same way he would, if only given the opportunity.

You sighed as you looked at your flower crown, more tangled than woven, and then at hers. It was a fine bloom of petals and leaves that softly shone in every colour of the rainbow; a diamond, perhaps, if yours was coal.

"How do you do it? Mine looks like children play in comparison," You huffed, breaking the silence between you.

"Here," Helaena smiled, fixing a knot before shifting to face you fully. With surreal precision, she placed it upon your head, twirling locks of hair around your face as she did so. You couldn't fight the image that came to mind. Of your aunt, though much younger, freckled and giggling as she nestled her perfect crown upon your curls. "I crown you princess of the flowers!"

And you, equally small, giving her your own. "And I crown you the finest maiden in the lands." She never once minded that your crafts were far inferior to her own, always letting you have the one she made herself and still wearing yours with pride. The memory warmed you from your bones and it was an effort to break yourself from the childhood that seemed so long ago, enough at least to listen as the musicians began to play. You discarded your work in an instant, tugging her upwards so suddenly she let out a yelp.

"Oh, I know this song! Come dance!" She laughed, bending slightly to pick something up as she fought off your grip.

"I don't know it!"

"I'll teach you, just come!"

It didn't take much effort to drag Helaena into the circle of dancers, arm looped around hers as you began to spin. When you looked up, you saw your pathetic attempt at a crown sitting proudly upon her silver hair and grinned. She had pulled it on without your notice, and her face below it brought a newfound beauty to your pitiful attempt.

"Where did you learn this?" She said after a while, easily picking up the steps you taught her and clapping with the beat of the song.

"It's Pentoshi- the boy I met there taught me," You replied, twirling around her with your best attempt at the moves Illestrio had taught you months ago.

"He must have been a fine dancer."

"He was," You said quietly, but it was lost in the music. Gods, it had been so long since you thought of the boy, of his hand in yours as he guffawed at your awful attempts at a dance. He had worked with you until you landed each turn perfectly, then danced with you for many days after. How much life had changed since those simple days.

The song faded out and your bodies brushed to a halt, interrupted with panted breaths as you noticed the crowd had begun to thicken. It didn't take long to pick out Jacaerys through them, stepping before your aunt with a smile and a hand extended.

"Helaena, would you like a dance?"

She looked at you for a moment as a new song picked up, and you laughed at her wordless question of permission, motioning with your hands to go. The smile upon her lips was one of pure joy, and you didn't mind so much that you were lost a dance partner as you watched your brother spin the woman in a graceful circle, laughing.

You had prepared yourself to sit this dance out when a gentle tap upon your shoulder had you turning, coming upon a figure much larger than yourself. Spring green eyes smiled down at you from beneath a wild wave of curls.

"You looked lonely, Princess."

"Lord Colren," You greeted, fighting the blush you could feel against your cheeks. You were not so far from the steady fire burning, that must have been why your cheeks were suddenly aflame. "One can never be lonely at such an event."

"I could be," He suggested, almost shyly, as he held out a large hand. "Offer me this mercy, Princess. I'll be in my father's favour for weeks if he sees me dancing such a fine lady."

Truly, you didn't need an excuse. "Well, only to save you from your father's wrath should I not."

Perhaps it was the wine that was getting to your head, or maybe the fact that the man before you looked like both a warrior and a poet at once, but you enjoyed the weight of his hand in yours as you took it. You were used to these interactions; the affections of men were never far away for someone of your lineage, and yet he seemed different from the others. His smile was genuine, not sly. He didn't drip honey from his lips, but instead perhaps something fresher, something truer. He spun you around with the nimble grace of a man who had trained in the art of dancing all his life, yet his muscles felt powerful beneath your hands from years of swordplay.

"I do believe we have somewhat of an audience," He said lowly after a time, motioning his head to the high table upon the podium where you would later sit. You instantly recognised your mother, a chalice of wine in hand, nodding respectfully to a man beside her. He was older than her by a far few years, but with the way he spoke so animatedly, looking down at the dance with every other word, you wouldn't know it. It didn't take long to place him at Colren's lord father, having met him yourself once.

"I told you," Colren continued with a shameful sort of smile. "He gets excited at these sorts of things."

You laughed aloud as he spoke. "Surely you have no difficulty in dancing with women, my Lord. I hardly expect this is a surprise to your father."

"Aye, but none so beautiful or fair as you, Princess."

Your tongue brushed your lips, your mouth suddenly dry at his words, and you forced yourself to look away from his glimmering eyes for a moment. You feared if you stared upon them too long, you would get lost in that sweet spring pond.

Searching for anything to distract yourself, you came once more upon the table, though it was a different pairing you were drawn to. Your uncles stood to the far end, speaking idly as they looked out upon the dance, seemingly oblivious to you. Yet staring up at them, you met Aegon's gaze in an instant. It couldn't have been more than a second that you looked upon one another before you spun, redirecting your focus, and still it sent a wave through your body, sparking against your fingertips in such a way that your mind reeled. You were thankful, then, that he was lost in a sea of red, black, and gold as Colren twirled you around with one arm.

The feeling was gone as soon as it emerged and the music began to fade into silence as the dancing slowed to a halt. It took a moment to remember yourself, exactly where you were, and you twisted to face the high table again, where King Viserys stood, a cup in one hand and Alicent in the other. The quiet he demanded was penetrating, but his expression was one of warmth as he took in the crowd.

Helaena's hand brushed your shoulder, and you gave a nod of farewell to Colren as she took your arm, leading you up to the podium to take your place. You realised, with a dull pang, that she had led you to the King's side of the table, not your mothers, and with her stood beside Otto Hightower, her grandsire, the only other seat was beside...

Aegon.

Of course. You stilled a breath as you stood next to him, detangling yourself from the girl as you did your best not to so much as look in his direction. The tension still felt thick and heavy between you two, even despite almost two weeks having passed since your last interaction, and you weren't eager to engage him again.

"What an honour it is to see these houses united for my grandson's name day." The King began, effectively distracting you from your thoughts. "None could be prouder of such an able young man. To Jacaerys Velaryon!"

The crowd raised their cups in unison, standing about the tables that graced the grass, and you joined them, relishing in the bittersweet taste that warmed your throat.

"Let us feast."

The people collapsed at once, chairs pulled and bodies seated as steaming trays of food were brought out in hoards. The table itself was designed with a slight curve so that you could clearly see everyone in attendance. Jace gave you a sympathetic look from the other side, safely tucked between Daemon and Baela, and you raised a brow in return. It was a typical affair for the both of you.

"So you're certain you have no liking to the Lord Tully? I do believe you looked quite sweet together."

Twisting back in your seat, Helaena looked upon you with a wry grin as she helped herself to a serving of venison. The smell was truly divine, but you couldn't help but think back to the small deer slugged over your brother's shoulder, certainly an unwelcome image.

"I'll speak to you about Lord Tully when you speak to me about my brother," You replied quite snootily, grinning when your aunt merely scrunched her nose, going slightly pink as she took a sip of wine. Otto leaned in to say something to her that was lost on you, and you were forced into your own conversation in time.

"A match designed by the gods, don't you agree?"

"Hm?" You questioned as Aegon tilted to face you, a cup at his lips.

"Jace and Helaena."

You had spoken this conversation weeks ago and, quite frankly, you weren't interested in repeating it. Your voice was dry as you replied, almost suspiciously. "I believe they would be a fine pairing."

"Yes, fine indeed," Aegon chuckled lowly, sawing a chunk of meat with careful deliberation. You couldn't be certain as to why you already felt grated. Perhaps it was the fact that the only contact you had shared in days was in the form of cold glares, or perhaps you sensed when he was about to say something rude, like a cat senses rain.

"Do you intend to speak plainly with me, Aegon, or will we go around in cryptic circles as always?"

You were graced only with that same, low chuckle, and for a moment it seemed he was done with the conversation. A brief relief, if any. He effectively ignored your question. "Did you? Enjoy your dance with the Tully, I mean?"

"Yes, actually, he's a fine gentleman," You hissed with emphasis, a clear contradiction to your thoughts on him. You were letting him under your skin again, and you weren't quite sure why. He hadn't even done anything yet, at least more than leaving your question unanswered, but he left you with an uneasiness that had your guard closely up.

Aegon smiled, but it wasn't one of any kindness. It was cold, calculating, and felt like a pinch to your skin. "Is that the way women are taught to behave nowadays? Publicly fawning over men beneath their station? Your mother must be very proud."

You scoffed, turning to your plate as though you had much of an appetite now. You had danced as any woman would and, quite frankly, it was none of his business regardless. "Why you care so much about who I 'fawn' over is truly a mystery to me, Uncle."

"Do not mistake my actions for caring, Princess. It is of no consequence to me how you conduct yourself."

His words had your hands tightening ever so slightly around your knife and fork and you had to set them down in favour of your cups.

Perhaps mistaking your silence for a cause to continue speaking, Aegon continued.

"That being said, I must agree with my sister for once, you suit each other rather well." He leaned closer to you at that, setting his hand down upon the back of your chair as he did so. It would have looked like a friendly gesture, but it felt suffocating to be so close, to almost feel his breath on your neck. "He's a sort of brutish-looking man, wouldn't you agree? Though even speaking with him must be a step up from the company you usually keep."

Your jaw clenched of its own accord, and you turned to face him only to find he was much closer than anticipated, violet eyes boring into yours with cold passion. His words reminded you of that night in Kingslanding, of the way his hands fell upon Boras with pure savagery. "If you're-"

"Perhaps it runs in the blood." He pursued cruelly, drowning out your voice. "One's taste, I mean. Lord Tully's not a far cry from our beloved ex-Kingsgaurd."

You felt your blood run colder at the mention of Sir Harwin. Most didn't bring up his name, and if they did it was in a whisper, typically far away from your ears. His lips twitched up into the barely of smiles. If he was bringing up Sir Harwin, it was only for one reason. "Perhaps you have more Targaryen blood in you than you look, following so closely in your mother's footsteps."

It took a moment to attempt to breathe, to attempt to think. He was all you saw, he was all you could think of. Smoke and sage felt overwhelming in your lungs, and he seemed to realise he was affecting you because his smile grew into a pearly beam. It took everything in you not to lash out, not to let the fury overcome you at the word he said without speaking. "Are you quite done?" You hissed. "Have you had your fun yet?"

"Not even close, sweet niece," He replied with a wicked grin, but relented, drawing back his hands to return to the table. The relief was sweet, and you relished in the opportunity to look back out upon the crowd at anything but him. It took a moment to find your voice again, but you couldn't hold your anger in. Aegon had plagued your mind more often than not these past weeks, and you were tired of him looming over your head like a storm cloud.

"If this is about what happened... in Kingslanding then speak the matter plainly or let us leave it in the past," You said curtly, taking a long sip of wine.

Aegon scoffed, though thankfully didn't turn to face you. "What happened the other night only served to reaffirm what I already thought of you."

"And that would be?" Your voice rang with plain steel.

The grin in Aegon's voice was apparent, even if you weren't looking his way. "What were you doing with that boy, Princess? Simply... enjoying a song?"

The world around you turned to a blur as you peered his way, and the spark in his eyes was one of testing, of cruelty. He was pushing something he ought never to push, and it lit your skin aflame. "You are walking a dangerous line, Aegon. Do not be so bold as to assume we are so alike."

There was an accusation in your words now as well, a thin line of fire that went both ways and your meaning was evident. If Aegon was spending time in Kingslanding, it was for one indulgence, one that you would never dare to step foot towards. Purity and honour were still subjects that mattered in your eyes. "In what way? Our shared enjoyment of the... simple pleasures to be had in the streets?"

"I do believe our ideas of pleasure are vastly different."

"I wouldn't be so certain," His voice lowered to a hum, one of insinuation, of condemnation, and it took Helaena's hand upon yours to bring your senses back to reality.

"Ignore him," She said, quietly. "You're falling straight into their trap."

You finally looked away from the man, taking her in with a frown and relishing the feel of cold air in your chest. "What trap?"

She said nothing more, almost as though she had said nothing at all, before looking upon your plate.

"...Are you not going to finish your meal?"

You grimaced, doing your best to forget her words. She often said the strangest of things, and you weren't in the mood to debate their meaning tonight. "Meat is less appetising when not a day ago I saw the animal as it was."

"Then shall we dance again?" She smiled softly, giving you a way out if you wished for it. For a second, you spared a glance at Aegon, who had invested his attention once more on his meal.

"Gladly," You breathed, letting her pull you to your feet and then the grass, where a group had already begun to form. The tables had been pushed back slightly to allow for room around the great fire and bodies twisted around one another in a circle that surrounded it. The music had quickly turned jovial and you urged Helaena as far into the crowd as possible, obstructed from your uncle's menacing gaze. It was silly, truly, that you let him get to you the way he did, unnecessary even. Aegon was bitter and you were letting him repeatedly taint you with the same brush already painting him. It was disrespectful, of course, the way he alluded to vile things, but that was simply in his nature. You had to remind yourself of this, that you were above that sort of thing, and yet you pushed yourself as far from him and possible all the same.

For some reason though, with a smile plastered on your face as Helaena jumped in circles about you, you couldn't tear your mind from what he said of Sir Harwin. It was true in a sense, that he bore some resemblance to Lord Colren, but as did half the realm. As did most lords and knights of any strength. 'Perhaps Aegon is jealous,' you thought sourly. 'That he isn't half as fierce or kind as Lord Colren'. Then you had to consider that you were defending the honour of a man you did not even know and that you were acting like an air-headed girl. Seven hells, Kingslanding was messing with your priorities. At what point had you come to care about suitors?

It was as though the gods themselves had been listening to your thoughts, and decided to be mirthful, for it wasn't long before you spun to a stop before the Lord Colren himself, smiling with that awful, lovely smile that captivated you in an instant. All concerns over Aegon disappeared in the blink of an eye as he took your hand in his, almost as if your conversation had never taken place, as though it simply didn't matter.

"Have you come to ask another dance to appease your father?" You said, collecting yourself as he looked down upon you with a gleam in those green eyes.

"Actually, I was hoping to dance for my own pleasure this time, Princess, if you'll accept me?" Colren's voice was low and earthy, with a softness to it that reminded you of fresh soil after rainfall. You couldn't fight the smile from your face.

"Well only because you asked so kindly."

At that, you were away, just faintly catching sight of Helaena looking on with a grin. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered, you decided, as Colren lifted and swung you. Not Aegon, not your family, and not your own fears of looking like an air-headed maiden. You had never allowed yourself to care for suitors, never been a simple girl who saw the world through a pearly rose tint. What did it matter to allow yourself one night of caring? Of fun? Of feeling a man's hands upon your shoulder and waist, of clapping in time to music you weren't truly paying attention to, of losing yourself in a pool of spring green and fresh soil? For one night, you deserved not to be a princess, not to be a Velaryon either for that matter. You wanted to be a stupid little girl drunk on summer wine with some hope for love, for a future beyond duty and honour. You did not suppress the smile on your mouth, the laughter on your tongue. It tasted sweet, and you cared little for where your uncle looked, for what he thought of you. Perhaps, if this was a tavern, he would be doing the exact same thing. The thought gave you courage, and you giggled as Colren lifted you entirely into the air for a moment, watching as petals fell from the crown Helaena had nestled onto your head and into his curly hair.

The world felt alive in a chorus of colour and song, the music was heaven upon your ears. Angels sang in a choir of drum and fiddle and the tinkling of bells.

Bells...

The song had come to an end, the musicians were filtering from their spot in place of new ones. A frown came to your brows as you panted, your body still alight, and your eyes shifted from Colren's and towards the small podium the bands played upon.

"Is everything alright, Princess?"

Colren's voice brought you back to the present, and you forced a gentle smile upon your face as he removed his hands from your waist. You felt cold in the summer night as he did so, like a blanket had been pulled from your shoulders.

"I am fine, thank you, my lord. If you'll excuse me?"

He gave a courteous nod, stepping backwards into the crowd, but you granted him not a second thought as you pushed through the bodies surrounding you. You couldn't have imagined it, that tinkling, it reminded you just of-

"Boras!"

The air was stuck in your lungs as you looked upon him, swinging his small guitar over his shoulder by a worn leather strap as he strode from the podium, face flushed from performing. A blue tunic hung loose over his chest, faded with time and wear. His head swung to the side, recognition clouding his eyes in an instant.

"Boras, you're here, you're-"

Your words were cut from your throat as came before him, and the flush on his cheeks dropped in an instant. Boras had already been a sickly boy, but he looked as though he had seen a ghost when his large eyes fell upon you. You had almost forgotten, almost ignored what had happened in Kingslanding days ago, but he looked as he did when Aegon's dagger brushed against his throat.

Your lips started moving in an instant, apologies falling from your mouth faster than you could think them as you beheld the horror on Boras' face. "What happened the other night, with the prince, you must know you have my sincerest apologies. Truly, I had no idea he would be there, or that he would conduct himself in such a way..."

The boy only took a step back, his angular jaw tightening slightly. He looked rugged, as though he hadn't slept in days, and your concern grew even heavier. "If you'll excuse me, princess."

"I'm sorry, Boras, really I am." You pushed forward, blocking his path. "I- I never meant for things to go as they did, and I know I put you in danger by befriending you at all and not telling you who I was. Please, my friend, forgive me," You pleaded. Your previous happiness felt like ashes on your tongue as you stared at him, willing your apologies into the air, into his sickly skin.

But he did not seem to listen. As Boras' lips parted in reply, his gaze flitted to your neck and he turned slightly green. Words seemed caught in his throat as something beyond horror, beyond fear crossed his eyes, and you frowned at the reaction, wondering if you imagined something. Your hand brushed your collarbone, wondering what could have possibly caught his attention, but found nothing.

"I'm sorry, Princess," He said dully, as something set itself heavy across his features. In a second, he had turned away, practically running from you into the maze of tents. You looked around for a moment, taken completely by surprise, but found his bandmates had disappeared themselves long ago. Not even the tinkling of bells remained, and the new musician's song felt dull in your ears as you stared at the spot your old friend had disappeared, a numbness spreading across your skin.

"Disgraceful, isn't it? Running away from a royal woman such as yourself? A shame, that you've lost such a dear friend."

Aegon's dry humour had you whipping around in an instant, shocked that he could have approached without you realising. Was that why Boras had been so desperate to flee? Because the man who attacked him was approaching once again? Your hands shook slightly as you took your in your uncle's appearance. From his combed-back hair to the black finery that had him blending into the shadows if not for his alabaster skin. His eyes were cold and mirthful, and your blood rushed through your veins in a hot wave.

"You!" There were almost tears in your eyes as you stepped towards the man. "This is your fault."

"My fault?" Aegon chuckled, a smile coming upon his face. "You should be thanking me if I'm the cause of this."

"Thanking you?" His words were like pure ice, ice and fire and obsidian when they collided, and it enraged you. "If you hadn't conducted yourself in such a manner, if you hadn't nearly killed him, perhaps he wouldn't feel the need to run from my company."

His eyes narrowed cruelly, that awful smile still upon his face, as though this was but a joke, as though he hadn't terrified one of the few friends you had into running from you. "I've done you a kindness. Spending your nights with him do you no favours. You think your reputation can handle another blow?"

"My reputation?" You spluttered, almost laughing. "You dare speak to me of my reputation? From what I've heard and seen, you are in much greater need of some self-control than I."

"This isn't about me, though, is it?" The grin was wiped from Aegon's face in an instant. His expression was statuesque and as cold and silken as marble. "You think yourself so high and pious? All Westeros knows of you is that you've spent over a year doing whatever you wish with whoever you wish. If they knew you were sneaking into the streets of Kingslanding in the middle of the night?" He laughed then, breaking through that layer of pale rock. "Can you imagine the whispers at court?"

You could feel the muscles of your jaw tightening, a scowl heavy on your face. "Stop implying I would lower myself to the standards of some-" The words were on your tongue, yet you couldn't say them, and that only seemed to bring more joy to the man before you. Taking a heavy stride forward, he lowered his voice to a murmur, barely digestible over the music.

"Some what?" His eyes were like a winter storm. Cold and purple and ferocious. His teeth gleamed white in the firelight. "Go on, say it. I don't know why you shy away from the accusation so much, it is in a bastard's blood is it not? They don't follow the same rules as the better born."

Your blood ran cold in your veins, the word striking through you harder than a slap to the face. Aegon could have lashed out and struck you, and it would have been kinder, less painful. You couldn't speak, couldn't refuse it, you were so shocked that he had spoken so plainly, so close to lords and ladies beginning to tire from their dances. The song had ebbed into the night, the festivities dying down. Aegon only smiled and continued.

"Are you going to deny it, what everybody knows to be true? I mean, your plain features can be dusted away to an extent with the Baratheon blood in your lineage... but do you know what truly sets a bastard apart from the rest?" He leaned in closer, his hair falling forward to brush against your cheek, but he kept his cold eyes upon you. It would have been considered near scandalous should anybody look your way, yet you were frozen. "Their behaviour. They will always resort to anger, to violence, to lies. You can't trust them."

The dull whipping of wood on leather, a flash of silver hair.

He pulled away at that, yet you felt no less cornered in his gaze, no less paralysed. In this moment, you truly wished you were more like Jace, more like your mother, who would have brushed off the insult as though it was nothing, yet his words stung. Tears pricked your eyes and, if he noticed, they did nothing to dissuade his attack.

"The only thing that can follow in a bastard's wake is betrayal and suffering. The men chasing at your heels would do well to remember that."

The tears finally fell and you were too angry, too upset to care, to feel shame at the weakness they showed. You tried to will venom into your tongue as you spoke, but the words came out shaken and pitched as your voice rose. "And you're so noble, so righteous in comparison to myself?"

"I do not pretend to be something I'm not," Aegon replied curtly. "And when I engage in matters unseemly for someone of my station, I keep it to myself. You, on the other hand, well you can't seem to miss the opportunity to flaunt yourself at every opportunity."

You could only stare, trapped in his gaze. From the corner of your eye, you watched as a small daisy finally came loose from its stem and drifted towards the ground.

"So yes, I think you would lower yourself to the standards of a whore," You flinched at the word, the ending to a sentence you had left unspoken. "For you have done nothing to prove otherwise."

His gaze wandered upwards to the flower crown that had wilted upon your head before his eyes met your own once more.

"And those flowers look ridiculous."

The spell was finally broken, and you could say nothing. Aegon was as stoic and cruel as ever, smile gone from his face, purple eyes as grey as mountain stone in the light of the now dying fire. Barely anybody was still outside of their tents. The festivities were over.

You took a breath and then another, willing some bite to your tongue, wishing to find anything to say in retaliation, but his words had driven you mute. Without another word, you turned on your heel, leaving Aegon where he stood.

Perhaps you were wrong, you thought, as you brushed the tears angrily from your voice, breaking into a run as soon as you were out of his line of sight. Perhaps you were as stupid as those air-headed women who saw the world through that pearly rose tint.

The maze of tents was constricting, hedging inwards with every step as you barrelled past them, only truly breathing once more when you hit the foliage that surrounded the camp. It was there that you finally cried, truly cried.

It was ridiculous to believe that the week could have honestly been a breath of fresh air, that the taunts and cruelties that plagued you in the city wouldn't follow you away. You had tried for so long, so very long, to build a bubble around yourself that was impenetrable. You had carted yourself out around Westeros, had refused to listen to the insults that lined the tongues of onlookers, and yet you failed. One glare from Aegon, one snide remark, and you were a child again, clinging to her mother's skirts, wondering why people were so cruel.

It was inescapable, you had always known that. You would never be looked at in the same way that your silver haired family were; with respect, with dignity. You would always be seen as a bastard, a mistake. A lying, treacherous, evil thing that plagued the lands of Westeros. Staring into the trees as sobs wracked through your body, you yearned for Pentos. For sun-bleached stone and dry grass beneath your feet, of the smell of sweet berries and cinnamon on the wind and Illestrio's gentle hand upon your own.

A noise alerted you from your pity and you shuddered a breath, wiping the offending tears from your cheeks with one hand as you looked about you. There was nothing but darkness here, you realised, wedged between an empty tent and the line of thick trees and bushes that marked the entrance to the Kingswood. You frowned into the void, wondering if you were simply being paranoid in your sorry state, and then something caught your eye.

A flash of blue, barely visible between the branches shifted, and your limbs froze as you peered into the foliage. You couldn't move, couldn't think, your mind hazy with wine and misery.

Relief hit you harder a ship against rocks when the person finally emerged, and it almost brought another wave of sobs to your body as you realised who it was.

"Boras?" Even despite your mood, a smile tugged at your face as you once again wiped your eyes. The boy stood before the treeline, barely a meter from yourself, with his rugged hair and pale skin. Yet it was him, not some rabid animal nor a raged lunatic. Just your sad, scared friend.

Boras didn't seem to share in your solace, looking at you with that same strange look in his eyes as before, and a frown pulling his mouth into a thin line. He shook his head slowly, swallowing. "Why couldn't you have just worn it, (Y/N)?"

"What are you talking about?" You sighed, still reigning control over your breathing. Your sprint to get as far away from Aegon, combined with your pitying cries, had exhausted you somewhat. You felt almost silly now, bearing the appearance of your misery. Boras' bright eyes looked dull, resigned almost.

"They said if you- if you just showed that you cared then you-"

"Boras, my friend, what are you talking about? Are you alright?" He was concerning you now, more so than before. That look on his face, the way he appeared so sad he was almost angry, had you reaching out a hand to place comfortingly on his shoulder. Had Aegon truly gotten to him so badly?

"Don't touch me!" He suddenly cried out, before looking around fearfully. You practically jumped back, your hand flying to your side as though burned.

"Boras I said I'm sorry about what the Prince did. I never meant for it to happen... I- I would never let any harm come to you."

"This ain't about that! Don't you see?" He looked like a madman, his eyes wide and terrified. As your vision adjusted to the darkness, you could see the tracks of tears upon his sunken cheeks. The sight nearly brought fresh tears to your own eyes, that you had hurt him so badly, that you let him feel so alone. "Don't say kind things to me, don't"

"Boras, let me help you. Whatever it is, I can help." You searched desperately into him, as though you could pull the fear and misery straight from his chest. A part of you wondered how he could possibly be so afraid of Aegon, yet play music at a Targaryen hunt. That part of you remained quiet, however, as you reminded yourself of his station. He was as poor as a man could come, with a desperation to succeed in his music. Of course he would bite back his fear for the opportunity to play for so many nobles. "Is this about Aegon? I won't let him touch you again, I swear it. You're my friend-"

"Stop!" Boras' voice was hushed, but it bore the same weight it would have if he had yelled the word. Something burned in his body, something that had you stumbling backwards in an instant, and you barely saw the flash of steel in the darkness before you threw yourself to the dry, hard ground. For a moment, you could not make sense of anything as your head crashed against the cold floor. Then, his weight was upon you, nearly forcing the air from your lungs. Your vision moved slowly, your eyes fighting to catch up with what was happening around you.

Your first instinct was to scream at the sight, but a calloused hand came upon your mouth with frightening strength. Hot tears fell upon your cheeks, but they were not your own. You were too shocked to cry. Boras' face hovered inches above yours, eyes red and sunken, but you could barely look at him in your terror, in the sick feeling suddenly dawning upon you. Your attention was stolen purely by the gleaming knife in his hand, shaking in his pale knuckled grip.

"Forgive me, (Y/N), please," His voice shook as he said the words and before you had the chance to understand what was happening, the knife came upon you with threatening speed. Your body acted of its own will. With your waist and hips pinned beneath his weight, your arms were still free. You had not the time to debate his actions, to do anything more than shoot out your hands to take hold of the steel, screaming useless cries against his skin. The knife was double-edged, and you cried out even harder as it bit against your flesh, forced to use both of your hands to hold it back. It tore into your palms in seconds, droplets of blood running from the wounds as he pressed ruthlessly at your resistance.

His hand dug harder into your mouth, your fight bringing a fresh wave of tears to his eyes as his body shook. You felt sick, sick beyond anything you had ever felt in your life.

"Stop resisting! This is hard enough," Boras begged through clenched teeth, forcing his muscles to fight harder against your desperate grip. The blade sliced even deeper into your palms, slipping through your flesh like butter, yet you did not relent. "Why couldn't you have just worn the fucking thing? That's all they wanted, to know you cared. I didn't have to do this!"

The knife was inching ever close to your chest and with every breath it seemed to grow closer. You couldn't take in his words, couldn't begin to understand his meaning as your own blood dripped from your hands and onto your skin. His lips trembled, his eyes lined with agony as he fought against you.

"I'm so sorry," He whispered.

You were going to die. You could feel it as your arms shook and your hands stung. You were going to die with tears on your cheeks and bile rising in your throat. You were going to die by your friend's hand.

You screamed with all your might against his palm, unable to close your eyes for even a second as you felt death wrap its arms around your shoulders, pulling you deep into the earth, yet you did not hear it. The thundering of your heart in your chest was too powerful, the rushing of blood in your skull too strong. Your ears were ringing a church bells song. You couldn't breathe as his hand pushed further against your face, and your heart beat so quickly you wondered if it was trying to fulfil a lifetime of purpose in seconds. Perhaps it was compensating for the years you were to lose.

Boras' weight fell heavier upon your waist, as though he could scarcely hold himself up, and then shuddered. For a second, you wondered if he was relenting, as the blade lost the momentum he had been building, and then you saw it.

It was in his eyes at first, the shock. They had gone from a determined sadness to pure horror and confusion. He spluttered above you and you felt something warm and wet land upon your face, yet you couldn't close your eyes. They had wandered downwards, settling over the flesh of his pale throat, and the dagger that poked out from the tender place.

Boras gurgled something and it was as though you were not existing in your own body, as though you were merely watching from the eyes of another. The tip of the blade vanished from his neck as quickly as it came and the blood that spilt from the wound flooded against your chest in an instant.

'It was supposed to be my blood.'

He was suspended there for a second as the horror left his eyes, pouring his life's blood upon you in thick waves and spurts. It warmed your cold flesh, bathing your skin in a deep red, a glistening red. You could only watch as he shook, as his lips moved wordlessly. He was trying to speak, you realised with a dull pang.

His eyes didn't leave you as something pushed him from your body. You hadn't realised his knife's blade was still clasped into your hands until he took it with him in the fall.

Boras landed on the ground with a noiseless thump, still spluttering, still staring at you. There was pleading in his eyes, a desperation for forgiveness.

'Forgive me, (Y/N).'

Your chest heaved, but you couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't scream. His hands twitched and shook and you watched at his chest went still, his eyes wide and dull. They bore into you ceaselessly, accusingly. There was so much blood.

A hand came upon your face, tilting you away from the scene, and it was as though you had been electrified.

Aegon's face was that of pure, unadulterated terror as he looked upon you, crouched in the damp grass. It had not been damp before. The rains had passed days ago. You let out a shuddered gasp as you realised it was blood that he knelt upon, blood that you laid upon. Boras' blood.

'Forgive me, (Y/N).'

Air flooded your lungs as though you had never tasted it before in your life. Aegon's eyes were almost black in the darkness, black and white and purple, like foxgloves. He shook you and you could tell he was trying to say something, trying to urge you to speak, but the church bells were so loud in your ears, so unforgiving. You could only gasp for breath, only cry dry tears as he peeled your body from the ground, holding your shoulders in his arms. His hands were bloody, you realised dully. His dagger was on the ground beside him.

"Are you hurt? Did he hurt you? Where are the fucking guards?!"

You couldn't make sense of the words, couldn't make sense of anything. What colour had your dress been? You could only see red. Crimson on your clothes, crimson on your skin. Was it your blood or his? You couldn't feel any pain, couldn't feel anything. Aegon shifted you and you felt his grip close around your palms. His hands were shaking. There was so much blood.

Something caught his attention in the distance but you couldn't see what. When he tore his gaze from yours, you could see only the sky. The moon was almost invisible in the night, barely a slither. A new moon, you realised.

"Call for a maester and Rhaenyra, now!"

"Your Grace, my- Seven Hells."

Aegon's hands clasped harder against your shoulders, waking you from the trance. You blinked as the church bells grew softer in your ears. Was this what dying felt like? You could have sworn Boras' blade hadn't touched your chest.

"NOW!" His voice was a screamed command, a threat if gone unheard. His voice was hoarse.

The sounds of footsteps beat against the earth, of cries and swears and Aegon's body was shaking from where he supported yours. Why was he holding you? The world was a blur.

A pressure came under your knees and you felt the ground fall away from your back. Your clothes were beginning to feel cold against your skin. The moon slipped from your view.

A scream, louder than any of the others, a shudder against the body that held you. Where had the moon gone? You wanted to see the moon again. It was a new moon. You tried to speak, to tell somebody. 'Look at the moon,' You plead, but your voice did not comply. Your hand came up upon someones chest, your fingers brushing their pale neck, leaving a smear of blood in your wake.

"It's okay," Somebody's voice broke through the haze, low and gravelly and shaken to the core. There was a metallic smell in your lungs, fierce and hot and furious, but there was something else. Smoke and sage and leather. You breathed in harder as though you could fill your whole body with the scent and wash away everything else. It was heavy against your flesh, it made you feel clean. A whisper of silver hovered above your line of sight, a dim glow of lavender.

You closed your eyes.

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acourtofquestions · 6 months ago

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A long running list of Rowaelin moments that give me life (cause the pining is too much in QoS & things HAVE CHANGED so much since HoF; some spoiler alerts for both):

For all I hated at the start it is also all I grew to love…

They have never been black & white; good stories & characters never are. They are both sides of the coin for better & worse.

There is a reality & humanity to them (surprisingly so within the fantasy series of magical fae) because regardless of that fact; in good or bad they are seen, accepted, & known (in love or hatred). Something crucial for two characters who spend so much time invisible all the while desperately lonely despite their attempts to “try” & stay in the shadows wishing needing someone anyone to stay.

There is a natural ease of understanding within them, even from the beginning (when it was not easy). Rowan still manages to know her better than anyone, to the point of creating cruelty (on occasion) when his words were such sharp weapons poised to hit her exactly where it hurt most (without knowing the full why behind it); at this time he understood her but did not know her yet; even though he is not speaking to her as often as he is to himself, they are such of the same it has the same impact on them both. Then there is the beauty of when they do know & understand; how it helps them understand & see the other side to the coin for themselves, & choose to give them both kindness or at least pull a punch for the others sake; because they understand beyond the surface what it meant, because even the assassin & warrior who never shoot second will take a burn for the other or avoid the fight in the first place. They act as a mirror to each other.

They are also able to handle each other: something none of Aelin/Celaena’s relationships had before him; actually the opposite, it was a large fear of hers that led to everything feeling very fragile (or recklessly self-sabotaged before). She was afraid of herself, afraid as she had been taught to be, afraid as they were, & afraid for them & of them & their fear. — Dorian never fully understood her; though he was the first to admit it & try to know/love her better as a friend. — Chaol epically failed at this, & is trying to hopefully epically apologize. — Sam is the one who would have; he would have waited & been honored to hear her story just as he said, & when she was ready she would’ve told him knowing without doubt he would not turn away, it would’ve healed an unspoken wound in seconds if they’d had the time… though Sam didn’t have to know everything to know her & love her wholly (as he did); she never got the time to experience it, she may have known it but she needed that time to say the words & not see him change to her because that fear always echoed; especially after… but Rowan, Rowan was different. Rowan held her as it singed him & did not drop her once, Rowan watched her burn a forest & did not flinch, Rowan pushed her to let out the monster & not once forget who she really was or stop reminding her; not when she played meek, not when she made threats; he can handle the best worst & in-between, he can even handle proving it. And so can she; she may have drawn a line in the sand for herself after he shut her down, but she lets him back in, opens the conversation. They do not turn away. They are unafraid. They can handle it together.

In being so truly brutally known they feel loved, the only way they could; because they are known, there is no skeleton or lie or imposter syndrome to inevitably catch up & come true. They know even if they do not feel worthy, even if they are terrified of losing it (whether it be a mess up or twist of fate), they cannot outrun or outfight it or find sense in denying it, for whatever reason they are loved. & they meant it, for they had every reason not to; for the times they hurt each other they had meant it & knowing what they could do meant they chose this too & that their I love you is just as true. They both needed that; something so solidly built on such trust. —

Above all they are honest; it is all they have left, all they have ever been, what Celaena desperately needed especially as she accepts Aelin, what Rowan desperately needed in a reality check & cause to believe in. The other point being: they need each other, whether they like it or not (& it is not for a while; love terrifies them for good reason, but for each other they are also brave & learning to be braver in the safety of it).

As Aelin herself said best ‘no wonder they loathed each other’ & as I’d say to their yin-yang thing “no wonder they loved each other”

P.S. note (on the note of brave & meant to be; esp. as I love the multiple soulmates in a lifetime for all the things we grow to be & sometimes have no choice but to lose): I think Sam & Lyria would have wanted Rowan & Aelin for each other… I think they would’ve been thankful to know the ones they loved most would find someone who loved them so well too… I think for all Rowan & Aelin are, there is all Celaena & Sam, and Rowan & Lyria were. There is something healing in the way their relationship doesn’t take from that which was, nor them as they are, it just is. And I think for them the fact they both loved & lost like that means a lot; she needed someone who could go to the grave with her, who could hear her whisper of another love & know they are not less then, who could leave a stone because even if they never met he was grateful she had someone who loved her like this; he needed someone who could love him like this who could face him after he turns away, give him steps & breath & pace, brush the tears away & trace the marks knowing what they meant without worry of what it means. They are not a replacement or a replica or a better off, they are what they are, just as they were what they were. And that is a very real kind of love & understanding of grief & how intermingled these things can be while remaining somewhat wholly seperate; one that goes deeper than fiction; one that meant a lot to me to see represented.

(In new light of little recent-re-reads) 1st meeting with Maeve Celaena falls back into Rowan; that’s what keeps her standing… while it also keeps her from running… gotta give the guy credit for having the whole “tall dark handsome stranger” thing down.👌

He goes after her into the woods. He keeps his distance, he lets her go, but he did not let her leave just to run to her death. He would not let her leave like that, he would not leave her like that. His anger did not overpower his humanity, nor did it ruin his further understanding to knowing he missed something (he knows right then he was wrong & so slowly he starts figuring it out) & helping her know too.

He lets her fight him. He knows she needs to say it, needs to get rid of it, needs to be a wildfire; so he takes the burns. He lets her say the terrible true words of how she feels left without Nehemia. Because he knows her rage better than himself.

The “we’re not friends” don’t friend zone me undertone.

He thinks more of her before she does for/of herself. He sees a queen from the start, he never asks her to be it, but he always believes she is capable. He never doubts that.

Even in her anger she gives him credit for what he is. For the leader they look up to. For the punches she asked him to throw. For the life he would lay down for any of them. For the hero he is & she wishes she could show him so he’d see.

Though they never fear each other they do fear for each other. Instead of paralyzing or reckless within it they find ways to care for each other in it. He stays to care for her, she lets him. He lets her ask too many times if he’s okay after he gets hurt & lets her check for non-existent fevers, so she can sleep soundly too. They know they need to know that; & their hearts are in the others hands.

He tells her. He tells her about Lyria, about the baby, about Maeve, about him. Because he knows she needs to know him; because he needs her to know him. … She listens because she knows he needs to be heard. … Right there is a huge lifeline, as he decides to build the bridge of trust (even if he gets burned) & she decides to not hurt him with it. They begin to cradle the others vulnerability instead of using it as a bullseye. They earn each others trust.

He also later asks to hear about her because he truly wanted to know & doesn’t pretend to understand more when he does not (cannot); so he asks. And she tells him; because she wanted him to know. They get better at talking about things like that too.

In the matters they also don’t excuse the issue there in the first place: they do mess up & they know it, so they do better. … They keep trying & growing together. … She does not burn him again. He never uses those words again. The honesty is not complacent… it’s just, well, honest.

Minus the fact “there is only one bed” & despite his “one night only” warning they keep ONLY one bed.🤭😉

He pauses. He lets her pause. They pause. He wishes he’d have known before she burned, & she begins to tell him the next time. She wishes he’d have explained the words first, & so he does that night & again the next time. They go to other continents to deal with the pieces, they take the others pace. And they come back anyway because they need this; a chance to breathe. They take a day around Rifthold. They fight & still rest. … They are built to survive & last, the deep well, (slowly & they learn it together).

They are a very slow burn (pun intended?) & there is beauty in this of course but also a very very needed stand against time. Because they take their time, among a war; because they know there must be a life beyond it & they will not ruin it because of this. They will not let fear of the past & desperation cloud them into mistakes, they will not build this upon that; they will do it right, because they will not simply exist to exist they will live to live… It's why he never crosses that line & it's good because it would have been wrong; he never takes advantage of his command & her as a soldier, that would not be their beginning. It's why she never wanted the oath; she would never ask him to leave it all; she would never ask him (even if she needed to beg to save her own heart from breaking) she would not make him do that; she would not make that their beginning. They take the time to love each other as people first, not for anything more than that. To do this right. They are friends; and they are good true friends; even when it is a silly “just friends” moment, the truth is they are always friends on some level (something neither of them quite have or have had… not like this at least & I don’t mean romantic, I mean in the honest dear closeness they give without need for anything else).

— And in that note:

He stays on his knees ignoring his own burns for hours to give her the slightest relief in drips of water across her face. He sends her breezes. Even the wind carries her to him. THEY ARE FIRE & ICE!!!

“The Old Language word was beautiful on his tongue--and if she'd had a death wish, she might have begged him to speak only in the ancient language, just to savor the exquisite sounds.” — HE HAS AN ACCENT & he speaks MULTIPLE languages *Celaena agrees; swoon*

He bought her chocolate on her birthday🥹

SHE KISSED HIS CHEEK

He brushes her hair😭

He gives her a dagger; a sign of both respect & old fae heroics, but also trust not only from him to her & for her to feel safe with him. … It goes both ways.

He trusts her enough to give her the ability to kill him & burn the world knowing she will not; also trusting without doubt as he knows she is his carranam; and she can & will save them & the world… and she DOES. (She also just knows they are carranam too, she KNOWS)!

He does make the oath.

Gavriel knew Rowan would not want her hurt, he tries to save her for him & to save his friend (he knew); & when he cannot do that, he stops Rowan, because he knew he would die for her. Rowan screams for her, fights them for her, runs into war without a care, because it was her. And she faces the Valg, empowered to claim her title, terrified to let these people die, & unwilling to have him die; she would have died to save him too just the same, & she actually tries to.

They also fight for their lives knowing it is the others life as well (he felt her wound). Knowing what they have to lose & to live for. & still living beyond it. ‘He makes her want to live again. She makes him want to live again too.’

T H E N I G H T G O W N 👀 (even Lysandra knew lol😂 there is no casual way for Aelin & her to have had THAT “borrowing” conversation)😂

He knew who Sam was, he knew why she had that shirt, he knew why she went to the grave. He carried the pebbles too.

He outsmarted Arobynn. A little way, but he used the oil too, he didn’t let Arobynn have that over her. Just for her, to remind her, not because she needed it but because he needed her to know she was not alone. He challenged him. & also CHALLENGED😏 cause was I the only one who thought he gave some implication of how exactly the almond oil got onto both Aelin & him?🤣

He stands with her in the rain (I don’t care how the scene ended IT MEANT SOMETHING)!

Even Aedion knew not (for obvious reasons) including for the little ones; from the second it took to know why Aelin ran smiling “Rowan” or how Rowan held her🥹😊🥰 ‘looked at her the way she deserved to be seen’ THEY ALL SHIP IT

She let him use the expensive lavender soap😭

He understands✨fashion💖 (dragon dress 😉)

He’s happy when she finds a friend in Lysandra; never possessive (a common issue in this genre).

He loves Aedion FOR her (knowing what it meant to her) & becomes his brother (I mean it’s giving “call me brother-in-law” vibes😆)!

He helps her tell her story but always in her time.

She noticed the tiny tear in the cloak😅😭

They plot together… cause couples that plot together… stay together? *& on Lorcans list*😅

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