#river seamstress

[headphonemouse]

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!!!

lineart under the cut

[bookishlyvintage]

A Fire Endless, Rebecca Ross [thoughts]

outfit made by me

[pherelesytsia]

Who did this to you...? 1

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x female/Reader

Summary: Bruised and broken, Y/N, trapped in a loveless marriage, arrives at her best friend's house, desperately hoping someone will help her, aware she cannot return to the estate of her husband.

Warning: fear, anxiety, Angst, Fluff,

Word Count: 2.2k

a/n: Requested by anonymous.

Part 2

A deep silence descended upon the land. The ocean was calling, singing, and chanting. Oblong clouds obscured the waxing moon. Creatures cried out and escaped the shelter of the rising shadows. The door was shut and a low prayer escaped her quivering lips.

The wounds pained terribly, crimson oozed, a narrow river and the stabbing pain in her side made it impossible to form a clear thought. Helplessly, Y/N banged on the door. Peggy must be in the house, Y/N thought to herself, saw a faint light flickering in the living room and, listening closely, she thought she could hear the sounds of a sewing machine.

Footsteps echoed again, and the flame of hope awakened. The light was blinding and Y/N squinted her eyes, stumbled back, and cursed like a sailor.

Peggy whispered Y/N´s name. Her eyes were wide, threatening to fall out. Hands clawed into the holey material of the filthy coat, pulling Y/N into the depths of the house. Peggy gulped, and closed the door, locked it, had looked earlier to see if anyone had followed her best friend. Her lips parted, could not speak, dared not to ask questions, feared the worst, the answer. The young woman swallowed and stared at her hands. A liquid clung to her trembling fingers, and cursing, Peggy realised it was crimson. Y/N's blood. It was warm and dripping down onto the carpet. A cry escaped her, pacing, wondering what to do, had never seen so much blood. It was too much blood, Peggy thought to herself, knew it.

Guiding Y/N towards to living room, Peggy tried in vain to get information from the beaten woman, but Y/N stayed in silence, unable to answer, to speak, to pray nor to curse. Carefully, fearing to hurt her even more, Peggy guided Y/N to the sofa and pushed her down, ignoring the fact the reddish liquid would soak into the pale material of the sofa opposite of the table with the sewing machine.

            "What happened? Y/N talk to me! Who did this to you?" Peggy asked hysterically.

Mud, dried, and fresh, stuck to shoes and coat. The red lipstick was smeared and a horrible blueness spread over the flesh, like ice, shining faint but Peggy saw the wounds clearly in the dim light. She prayed again. Warily, she placed her trembling fingers on Y/N´s and repeated the question she had asked hundreds of times.

            "Why are you here? The Shelby's can help you more with this. I am not a nurse! I am a seamstress, Y/N/N.", "No." was all Y/N found strength to say.

Promptly Peggy understood, remembered the stories shrouded in shadows. No questions escaped Peggy and helped her good friend out of the ruined garment, once a beautiful coat. Peggy turned hesitant, freed Y/N´s arms and narrowed her eyes. Shocked, she noticed Y/N was not crying, but staring into the void, not reacting in any way when she accidentally brushed against the gaping wounds.

Eyes grew. Marks pale as the moon, hoary footprints spread across the torn blue dress, and Peggy could not believe her eyes, thought for a moment it was a terrible dream from which she would awake, but then as the sticky crimson dried on her skin, she realised it wasn’t a dream. Urgently Y/N looked up, didn’t look at her fingers, feeling the awakening pain in her chest yet she felt empty, couldn’t scream, having screamed too much, pleading for mercy.

            "I won't call anyone, I understand, you can stay with me, they won't look for you here, no one will find you. No one followed you, I looked. I'll take care of you; you don't have to worry." Peggy breathed, trying to speak as calmly as possible.

The torn fabric fell to the ground. Peggy knelt down and played with the laces of the shoes, freeing Y/N's feet from the clutches of the uncomfortable looking shoes.

Suddenly eyes shot up.

            “...did they?" Peggy couldn't finish the sentence.

            "No.", "I told you from the beginning that this family would bring you nothing but pain. I would kill your parents; they should be ashamed of themselves and if I were them, I wouldn't even leave the house. They sold you out. Shame on them! Bloody pigs." Peggy yelled indignantly.

Swiftly she rose but Y/N did not answer, glancing after her as she disappeared with hasty steps through the open door into another room and after a few moments in which the only sound filling the room was her heavy breathing she returned cursing with a first aid kit in her possession.

            "Talk to me.", "Tell me what happened." Peggy urged in an almost imperious yet loving tone.

Peggy needed to hear what happened, but again Y/N shook her head, wishing to stay in silence, fearing the words resting on the tip of her tongue, trying to ban the memories from heart and mind. Y/N clawed her fingers into the ragged dress, felt the fibres threatening to cave in, the fibres tearing. The memories rolled in waves, overtaking her like an army, but Y/N knew she had to be strong, that she didn't have a strong shoulder to lean on.

Firmly, she pressed her lips into a line. Sickening sensations spread through her mouth. The nasty taste of copper spilled into her mouth, but Y/N suppressed the urge to spit, to puke.

            "They were waiting for me. They know who I belong to. I couldn’t do anything. They didn't want to kill me, but I think I'm about to die. I won't make it through the night. Today was my last day at work, they waited across the street, followed me and then chased me down like an animal, a deer." Y/N whispered.

Y/N felt like a fool and took a deep breath. White dots danced. The reek was sickening, but no complaint crossed her lips as Peggy wiped the crimson with the damp cloth away. She breathed a low excuse and continued to clean Y/N´s arms and legs.

            "I have seen them once or twice, in a bar with Thomas. I know them.” she continued.

            “What happened after?” Peggy asked hesitantly.

She knew the answer, saw it clearly, the cuts and deep traces.

            “They dragged me into an alley. There were five of them. I didn't stand a chance; they were too fast, too strong, I tried to fight, I really tried, but they." Y/N mumbled.

She closed her eyes, saw the men lunge at her like ravenous barbarians, laughing as tears escaped, hands clenched into fists, cursing and shouting, and when the man noticed more and more blood oozed, they stopped and fled as quickly as they had come.

Peggy glanced up. Flashes of flame blazed, seeing the memories Y/N's eyes reflected, but she continued with her work, disinfecting the deep wounds with the cloth, applied ointments and bandages, hoping it would be enough.

            "Why hasn't anyone picked you up. I would. Why did nobody pick you up? You are a woman, you need protection. I hope you know how I mean it. Yes, you are strong but not strong enough to fight with your fists. I rarely leave the house alone and I am not associated with the Shelby’s. What will you tell your husband? Won't he be looking for you?" Peggy asked.

Y/N laughed dryly. Her head fell back. She bit hard on her lower lip as Peggy apologised for the pain she was causing.

            "Thomas Shelby may be my husband but he doesn't love me. His heart is hard as a rock. He married me because I'm a good catch. His family, every one of them hates me, even the women but the children are nice. They like me, I think or they feel sorry for me." Y/N gasped as the ointment burned into her skin.

Laughing, it sounded bitter, full of pain, Y/N looked down at the ring Thomas had given her, a sign of loyalty, endless love and trust, but Y/N knew as well as Peggy that this was not the case.

            "But what can I do. If it was up to him, he would throw me out of the house. He doesn't need me. My father is a good lawyer, he doesn't care about me and I won't talk about my mother." Y/N breathed, so softly, unsure if Peggy had heard the answer.

She closed her eyes, felt tears travelling down her cheeks, but she didn't wipe them away, let them flow in narrow streams.

            "That's why I came to see you. What am I supposed to do there?" Y/N laughed bitterly.

Y/N imagined the situation when she would enter the house, she couldn’t call home.

            "I might also be told that it's my fault. I shouldn't have been on the streets. Maybe they will say I need to dress differently. Can I stay at your place tonight? I don't feel like walking to the Shelby's nor my parents, they probably wouldn't even open the door for me." Y/N said.

She did not doubt her words for a moment.

            "Of course, you can stay here Y/N, you can stay as long as you want, you can move in for all I care. Don't you want me to call him? Won't he be surprised if you don't arrive tonight?" Peggy said.

Carefully, she placed her hand on Y/N's knee and slowly lifted the hem of the dress to inspect the blueness more closely. Y/N shrugged her shoulders, knew the answer, knew it well, but the words didn't escape but she was sickened by her own thoughts, by the truth.

            "I don't care, you don't have to call the Shelby's, it's not necessary, but I won't stop you, I want to protect you, don't be surprised if no one cares, but maybe the kids will come to see me. There are days when he doesn't even come home. Maybe he visits local houses. I don’t know, but I suspect it.” Y/N answered.

            “Y/N/N, if you want you can stay for the rest of the week, my parents won't mind and if you don't want to be alone, you can help me with my work tomorrow, you can help me with the dresses." added Peggy, almost joyfully.

Weakly, Y/N nodded, already looking forward to spending time in the presence of a friendly person. She had almost forgotten the pain, but whenever she thought it had faded into nothingness, an unpleasant twinge spread through her chest, bearing hundreds of arrows.

            "Would you like to come to my room? My bed is big enough for both of us, and I'll have a better conscience than leaving you down here alone." Peggy asked, looking up and immediately noticing the tiredness spreading across Y/N´s features.

            "No, I'm staying here and I don't think I'll be able to make it upstairs. Don't worry about me and as you said, no one followed me and I know no one will look for me. At the end of the day, who am I? They don't need me, if I disappear my father will continue to work for them, he never liked me, I'm not his blood after all, I'm just a replacement and my mother, I don't even know when we talked together in peace. And even if I were lying there in the alley, it would be more likely that a dog would find me and lie by my side than one of them fearing for my safety." Y/N spoke.

Satisfied with her work, Peggy placed the ointment and the plasters on the table and rose from her place on the cold wooden floor. Her hair was curled in rolls and a long bathrobe in shades of dark green covered her long frilly nightdress. Peggy took a few steps, picked up the blanket folded on the dark armchair, and lowered it onto Y/N, covering her legs and upper body and placed a soft pillow at her side. Y/N breathed words of thanks and smiled weakly.

            "It will be best if I drive you home tomorrow. It will be better. When do you want me to take you home? Probably not until the afternoon. I'll cook us something delicious for dinner and I'll make you a new dress. I have a very lovely fabric, the colour will suit you well.", “I don't have a home. Thank you, Peggy, I don't know how to thank you, I'm very grateful for what you do for me. Go to sleep, I'll rest too." Y/N whispered brokenly.

Stillness descended and Peggy wanted to embrace Y/N, hold her tenderly as she witnessed the pain blazing in her broken eyes and it was at that moment Peggy realised the woman, a few steps away from her, was only a shadow of her dear friend.

[asongoficeandfiresource]

MARGAERY TYRELL OF HIGHGARDEN

Her informers were very good about keeping her apprised of Margaery's movements. Such a restless girl, our little queen. She seldom let more than three days pass without going off for a ride. Some days they would ride along the Rosby road to hunt for shells and eat beside the sea. Other times she would take her entourage across the river for an afternoon of hawking. The little queen was fond of going out on boats as well, sailing up and down the Blackwater Rush to no particular purpose. When she was feeling pious she would leave the castle to pray at Baelor's Sept. She gave her custom to a dozen different seamstresses, was well-known amongst the city's goldsmiths, and had even been known to visit the fish market by the Mud Gate for a look at the day's catch. Wherever she went, the smallfolk fawned on her, and Lady Margaery did all she could to fan their ardor. She was forever giving alms to beggars, buying hot pies off bakers' carts, and reining up to speak to common tradesmen.

[queenaryastark]

Margaery, Alysanne, and Arya: The People's Queens 👸

I know where you were, the queen thought. Her informers were very good about keeping her apprised of Margaery’s movements. Such a restless girl, our little queen. She seldom let more than three days pass without going off for a ride. Some days they would ride along the Rosby road to hunt for shells and eat beside the sea. Other times she would take her entourage across the river for an afternoon of hawking. The little queen was fond of going out on boats as well, sailing up and down the Blackwater Rush to no particular purpose. When she was feeling pious she would leave the castle to pray at Baelor’s Sept. She gave her custom to a dozen different seamstresses, was well-known amongst the city’s goldsmiths, and had even been known to visit the fish market by the Mud Gate for a look at the day’s catch. Wherever she went, the smallfolk fawned on her, and Lady Margaery did all she could to fan their ardor. She was forever giving alms to beggars, buying hot pies off bakers’ carts, and reining up to speak to common tradesmen.

---

But the king was deaf to sense, thanks to his little queen. “If we mingle with the commons, they will love us better.” -- Cersei VI, AFFC

*****

It is written that the young king and queen were seldom apart during that time, sharing every meal, talking late into the night of the green days of their childhood and the challenges ahead, fishing and hawking together, mingling with the island’s smallfolk in dockside inns, reading to one another from dusty leatherbound tomes they found in the castle library, taking lessons together from Dragonstone’s maesters (“for we still have much to learn,” Alysanne is said to have reminded her husband), praying beside Septon Oswyck.

______

The last years of Alysanne Targaryen were sad and lonely ones. In her youth, Good Queen Alysanne had loved her subjects, lords and commons alike. She had loved her women’s courts, listening, learning, and doing what she could to make the realm a kinder place. -- F&B

*****

Sansa knew all about the sorts of people Arya liked to talk to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody. This Mycah was the worst; a butcher’s boy, thirteen and wild, he slept in the meat wagon and smelled of the slaughtering block. Just the sight of him was enough to make Sansa feel sick, but Arya seemed to prefer his company to hers.

----

Back at Winterfell, they had eaten in the Great Hall almost half the time. Her father used to say that a lord needed to eat with his men, if he hoped to keep them. “Know the men who follow you,” she heard him tell Robb once, “and let them know you. Don’t ask your men to die for a stranger.” At Winterfell, he always had an extra seat set at his own table, and every day a different man would be asked to join him. One night it would be Vayon Poole, and the talk would be coppers and bread stores and servants. The next time it would be Mikken, and her father would listen to him go on about armor and swords and how hot a forge should be and the best way to temper steel. Another day it might be Hullen with his endless horse talk, or Septon Chayle from the library, or Jory, or Ser Rodrik, or even Old Nan with her stories.

Arya had loved nothing better than to sit at her father’s table and listen to them talk. She had loved listening to the men on the benches too; to freeriders tough as leather, courtly knights and bold young squires, grizzled old men-at-arms. She used to throw snowballs at them and help them steal pies from the kitchen. Their wives gave her scones and she invented names for their babies and played monsters-and-maidens and hide-the-treasure and come-into-my-castle with their children. Fat Tom used to call her “Arya Underfoot,” because he said that was where she always was. She’d liked that a lot better than “Arya Horserace.” -- AGOT

[kingsmakers]

The Children of Demelza Dayne + Dance of the Dragons

Elyana Sand (b. 113AC) was the eldest of the Dornish Diamonds and was renowned for her beauty and intellect. Elyana’s talent for the fiddle was matched by her prowess in combat, most notably with a flail. Though pursued by Aegon II Targaryen in her teenage years, Elyana eventually became the lover of his younger brother, Aemond. Known as the Sword of the Evening, a dark nod to her uncle’s title and a jape at her wicked deeds. Elyana was perhaps the most cruel of her siblings, and certainly the most protective.

Rhyanon Waters (b. 116AC) was almost certainly of Targaryen blood. Suspecting her heritage young, Rhyanon was a ferocious and determined girl, though an unlikely seamstress as well. It was oft claimed by those closest to her that Rhyanon dreamed of having a dragon. Through correspondence with Daemon Targaryen, Rhyanon was invited to Dragonstone, ostensibly to claim a dragon. She never made the journey, meeting her untimely demise at Aemond Targaryen’s hands during the False Wedding.

Ceridwen Rivers (b. 118AC) was more quiet and subdued than her two older half-sisters, preferring not to spar in the training yard and spending her time creating jewellery. However Ceridwen was quite proficient in poisons, and was even rumoured to have been responsible for Aegon II’s fate. Following Rhyanon’s death, Ceridwen ventured to Dragonstone, where she claimed Grey Ghost and became known as the Red Rider due to the colour of her armour. Grey Ghost was killed in combat with Vhagar during the Battle of the Trident, though Ceridwen survived the encounter.

Tycho Lannister (b. 122AC) was Demelza’s first trueborn child, the legitimate heir of Jason Lannister. Fun-loving and boisterous, Tycho was immensely fond of his siblings and would not hear a bad word about the Dornish Diamonds. He was not yet of age when his father passed and he became Lord of Casterly Rock. Aided by his family, Tycho repelled the Greyjoy coastal raids for years until Dalton Greyjoy’s death.

Selina Lannister (b. 125AC), Dommiel Lannister (b.129AC) and Merryk Martell (b. 136AC) were the youngest of Demelza’s children. All under the age of ten when the Dance began, they therefore had no noteworthy accomplishments.

Forever tag: @joaquinwhorres @jvstjewels @starcrossedjedis @akabluekat @a-song-of-quill-and-feather @asirensrage @noratilney @bravelittleflower @villain-connoisseur @alicent-hightcwer @booty-boggins @sentineljedi @decennia @hiddenqveendom @bisexualterror @arrthurpendragon @foxesandmagic @cantfighthemoonknight @raith-way @drbobbimorse @dio-nysvs @m1ke-wheeler

Demelza tag: @kitkat-writes-stuff

[thegloweringcastle]

Home for the Cold Spell - Part One; December 21st

For our one and only @the-lonelybarricade​ as part of her gift for the @acotargiftexchange​! My dear, I owe you an apology - I really wanted to make it better but I eventually ran out of time and didn’t want to keep you waiting. Still, I hope you love it and can stand to read another few parts :)

Warnings: none (I think)

word count: ~3.9k

The first time Feyre left town for her birthday was not supposed to be a happy occasion. After months of working three jobs while continuing her studies at the community college, Feyre was looking forward to a cozy celebration with her sisters and friends. It didn’t matter to her that tensions were strained, it didn’t matter to her that they were all alone in the world. She was just happy to be making an effort, to belong somewhere in such an uncertain world.

Her sisters, apparently, did not feel the same.

Feyre’s knowledge of the English language was not advanced enough to know of any words that could adequately describe the city she had just arrived in.

Stunning could be one. Breathtaking could be another. But even those didn’t do it justice.

Old fashioned light posts lined the walkways, red metal benches could be found every dozen paces, and vast, snow capped mountains loomed over the bustling city. Like a cherry on top, holiday decor dripped from every surface; banners with the city emblem - three stars hovering above the Illyrian mountain range - hung beneath wreaths from each light post, silver and navy banners swept between awnings and windows, and bright, sparkling lights dripped from branches of every tree lining the main street. It was like she stepped out of the modern world and into a postcard.

And it was perfect.

Feyre felt as though she were walking through a dream, an entire world devised solely of what she had always wanted. A busy city that felt like a small town, towering mountains mingling with a winding river, and sparkling lights that put it all into a kaleidoscopic glow.

As if this wasn’t enough to hook her, the first thing Feyre stumbled upon was an entire section of the city dedicated to the arts. Immediately, she was drawn to a fabric shop on the corner with vast windows leaking a warm glow. She didn’t even like sewing as much as she liked painting, and yet her hands were itching to run along the shelves of material she spied from the outside.

The bell on the door made mention of her presence, but there was no one to be found behind the till or lurking between shelves. Tentatively, Feyre began exploring.

Bolts of fabric lined the floor to ceiling shelves; pine garlands were strung from the rafters and bordered the windows. Menorahs were placed in both front alcove windows, and a Christmas tree stood proud and shimmering at the front of the room. The shop smelled like cardamom and jasmine, and Feyre couldn’t get enough. Something about it felt so homey, so warm and calm and safe, that Feyre never wanted to leave.

What was most impressive about the interior were the gowns hanging from seamstress forms lining the bare pathways, a pale, shimmering one immediately catching her eye. She touched it reverently - almost hesitantly, as her work-worn, calloused hands brushed along the chiffon and beading. She halted at the price tag, figuring it would do no good to ruin a dream like that by turning the card over. Feyre had no doubt it was worth every penny the artist was asking, but simply by looking at it she knew she couldn’t afford it with her measly salary and underwhelming savings. Reluctantly, she moved on, eyeing a pair of silk dancing slippers she knew Nesta would love.

Lost in the shelves, Feyre pulled bolt after bolt of fabric and spent far too long sifting through an assortment of silk threads hand-spun in Velaris.

After nearly an hour of being lost in the shelves, she stepped up to the counter and set her items down with a thud, only to come face to face - or face to chest, really - with the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Honestly, he looked like a Greek god. Feyre was not proud to admit that her jaw actually dropped.

Autopilot took full-throttle of the situation as she told him how much of each fabric she wanted, and she was pretty sure she asked for the wrong amount more than once. But she couldn’t really bring herself to care.

The man's hair was so dark it seemed to drink the light; it swirled around his temples and curled at his forehead in tidy cowlicks. His entire physique was that of a sculpture, as if every toned muscle and elegant bone hidden beneath his sweater had been carved by Michelangelo himself. But truly, it was his eyes that had Feyre so mesmerized. His eyes were so blue they were nearly violet; so blue she wanted to swim in them, sketch them, paint them.

It was a shame he had to open his mouth.

His gaze flicked back up to hers as he wrapped the slippers - far more affordable than the dress of starlight. “There you go, darling.” His voice was smooth as velvet, practically a purr. “Is there anything else I can get for you? Buttons? Pin cushion? Clothing patterns?” He folded the last panel and leaned over the cutting mat, the epitome of suave cockiness. “A date, perhaps?”

Just like that, the enchantment broke. Feyre shook her head and rolled her eyes, handing him a wad of cash to pay for her purchases.

The man took it, brushing her hand as he did so. “No? Then, what about a kiss?

She scoffed. “Bite me.”

“Is that an invitation, darling? Surely you know I wouldn’t even dream of doing something like that. At least, not without knowing your name.” He winked one mischievous, violet eye at her, and Feyre flushed. She told herself it was from anger.

“Prick.”

He quirked one perfectly manicured brow. “Prick? Really? I find it hard to believe your parents would choose such a crude name for someone as beautiful as you.”

She glared daggers at him; he knew exactly what she meant. “You.” She growled. “You’re a prick.”

The man only grinned wider and stuck out his hand. “No, I’m Rhysand.”

Feyre hated his sly smirk. She hated his weird eyes. She hated his symmetrical face. Really, every last detail about this man was obnoxious. And it was ruining her vacation.

She batted his hand away. “Not interested. Happy holidays to you.” Without another glance, Feyre brushed past the counter and left the shop, stomping down the snowy stoop so harshly she nearly slipped.

The nerve of men. So arrogant. So smug. So egotistical. She truly couldn’t believe the audacity of people.

It wasn’t until she was blocks from the shop - grumbling and cursing the entire way - that she realized she left without her purchases. A fat stack of gorgeous fabric she intended to use as holiday gifts, left in the clutches of the prick. Of course.

Feyre’s overnight holiday was not turning out to be quite the escape she had planned.

She stomped her feet where she stood, trying to keep blood circulating to her toes. Feyre figured she could woman up, turn around, and take the walk of shame back to the shop where she would surely be greeted with that heinous grin. Or… she could keep exploring and make the most of her time in the city, picking up her purchases before leaving the next morning. Feyre felt there was only one obvious answer.

And so she proceeded, poking around in art shops, walking along the river, and strolling through parks. She captured the beauty of the mountains through the lens of her camera and began dozens of mental sketches depicting the people she saw and places she went. Before she knew it, her day was nearly over, and Feyre was sorely regretting making reservations for only one night. Her mind overflowed with shapes and colors, ideas and images.

Her train didn’t leave until early the next morning, and already she missed Velaris. Something about the city, bustling yet peaceful, felt like home. For the first time in years, Feyre felt like she truly belonged. And she wanted to cling to the feeling with every bit of strength in the hopes it would make everything else fall away.

As the sun began to set, Feyre finally made her way to the building she had most anticipated: Velaris Museum of Art.

The stairs were icy, and she traversed them slowly and carefully, until she hit the very last step. She threw her hands out for balance, but it was too late. Feyre slipped on a patch of ice-covered snow, only to be caught by large, strong hands at the last second. When she regained her footing enough to look up at her savior, her smile dropped.

“There you are,” A voice softer than velvet, right in her ear, made her shudder despite the warmth of the person. “I’ve been looking for you.”

***

The woman had caught his eye across the street as she made her way towards the Velaris Museum of Art. He would notice her anywhere, anytime, in a crowd of millions. Especially after searching for her the entire day. Her honey brown hair, her constellations of freckles, her piercing blue eyes, her attitude. You’d have to be a fool to not notice it all, to not love it all.

Up close, these qualities were even more magnificent. And perhaps to anyone else, her attitude would be a nuisance, her ice-blue eyes nothing more than that. But to Rhysand, that attitude drew him in like a magnet, and those ice-blue eyes seemed to watch the world in an entirely different way. To say his curiosity was piqued would have been understatement.

“Have you been stalking me this entire afternoon?” She pulled away, and Rhysand watched her straighten her coat and smooth her hair. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“But darling, how else was I supposed to return your purchases to you?” He held out a paper bag with the shop name printed across the front, a peace offering. “And if I weren’t here just now, who’s to say you wouldn’t have gotten hurt from slipping on the ice.”

She took the bag from his hand. “Thank you, Rhysand.” She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear before tentatively going up the last step. “I hope you have a good holiday season and New Year. Take care.”

“Hold on, darling.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and stepped around her, smoothly avoiding the ice and cutting her off. “I still don’t know your name.”

“Why does it matter?” She crossed her arm, and though the bag on her wrist banged her in the side it didn’t ruin the effect her stare had.

“I figure a name for a name sounds fair.” Rhys shrugged.

She rolled her eyes but stuck her hand out nonetheless. “My name’s Feyre. Now would you please move so that I can see the museum and get out of the cold?”

“Of course, darling.”

“It’s Feyre.”

“Of course, Feyre.”

But still, he didn’t move, just stood there with an impish grin. She stepped around him, and Rhys heard her mumble Prick, under her breath. It only egged him on.

He made it fifteen feet into the museum lobby before Feyre turned suddenly. “Why are you following me?”

Rhys made a show of looking to the side, then behind him, then to the other side. Wide eyed, he placed a hand on his chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Why are you following me?”

“Darling, surely you understand this is a public place. I just happened to plan on visiting the museum today. Is there something wrong with that?” They both knew that wasn’t true. His smile dared her to call him out.

“You. Need. To. Stop. It.” She poked him in the chest to emphasize each word. “I am not going on a date with you. By the Mother, would you please let me go about my business in peace?”

“Of course,” He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not stopping you. Enjoy yourself, Ms. Feyre.”

He waited a moment as she stepped into the queue, then stepped in himself after a rambunctious family with many children separated the two.

It was after he made it into the exhibits, when he was admiring the Mother’s most beautiful work of art, that something hit him square in the face. It snapped Rhys from his reverie, and he could only imagine what he looked like as he glanced around with wide eyes. A silk slipper lay at his feet.

He’d been staring right at Feyre and not even flinched when she had pulled a silk slipper from one of her bags and thrown it right at him.

“I told you to leave me alone!” She stormed up to him, a second slipper in her hand. “Why are you following me? Go away, you prick!”

“Feyre darling, there are children here.” And security. A woman in a dark uniform with a radio on her belt quickly approached them.

“Ma’am,” Her voice was soft but firm, careful to not draw attention to the situation. “May I ask what’s going on here?”

“Forgive me, miss.” Rhysand spoke before Feyre could, somewhat guilty for their predicament. He figured he wouldn’t earn points for getting her kicked out of the museum. “The name is Rhysand Moreno.” Her eyes widened and he continued speaking before she could interrupt. “You see, I was being… What did you say, darling? A prick, I believe? And she was certainly correct and handled it accordingly. I am entirely responsible. But I promise you, we’ll be much more considerate from here on out. Won’t we darling?” Rhys figured a wink wouldn’t hurt the situation. Behind him, Feyre huffed, and he could practically hear her eye roll.

“Ah, I see.” The woman’s cheeks flushed. Triumph flickered in Rhysand’s chest. “Well, I’ll let you off with a warning, but I’m afraid I will have to escort you both out if you can’t control yourselves.”

“I understand. Thank you, ma’am.” He turned to Feyre. “Now, that wasn’t very nice of you.”

“You’re-” Feyre began, then took a breath. “Rhysand. I appreciate you returning my purchases to me. But now you have completed your mission, and I would like to move on. I am only here for my birthday and would appreciate it if you let me enjoy myself.”

“It’s your birthday?” She nodded. “Of course, Feyre darling. I would be more than happy to grant you your birthday wish.” He leaned in closer, and he saw the resolve in her eyes gutter. “But as I said earlier, I already had plans to visit the museum today.” Her glare chilled Rhys to his very marrow. He knew he’d never get enough of the feeling. “I suppose the most beautiful things in life are better when experienced with friends, and nobody should be alone on their birthday. Please join me, darling. I look forward to seeing Van Gogh’s work, but would be so lonely without you.” Without another word, he looped her arm through his and led the way.

***

Feyre didn’t know what to think. This beautiful man was the most infuriating person she had ever met. Relentless, obnoxious, entitled. None of those were good qualities. But his one saving grace was not his looks; it was the fact that he didn’t feel… wrong. There was no sleazy persona to him, there was no malicious glint in the depths of eyes. His grip was loose, so loose they barely made contact. Though their arms remained looped together, he was careful to not touch her anywhere else, and she didn’t once catch him peeking down her shirt. Even Feyre couldn’t claim innocence to that.

She found herself looking at him just as much as the artwork, a truth she would never confess as long as she lived. She ought to have been appreciating the historical, one-of-a-kind pieces surrounding them, pieces she had only ever dreamed of seeing in person. But… Michelangelo. Up close, she could see the perfect, sharp edge of his jaw, the tendons in his neck, the veins in his hands. The tips of his collar bones peeked out from his black sweater, and Feyre couldn’t stop her mind from wandering further south.

Perhaps it was the colors and shapes of the art that surrounded them - a language Feyre truly understood - or the comfort of having someone by her side after so many years spent alone. Either way, she felt far more relaxed than she expected.

When Rhysand broke their silence with a question, Feyre surprised herself by answering.

“I assume you like art?”

Feyre chuckled. “That’s an understatement. I love art. I love it so much that I’m studying it at the community college back home.”

“Ah,” His eyes sparkled, and Feyre had never wished she had a camera more. “Impressive. How long? I study political science here at U of V. I graduate in the spring.”

“Lucky,” She laughed, suddenly self conscious. “I’m just starting; I’ve got two years to go. But I’ve been painting since I was little.” When there was nothing else to do, no one else to be around; when her family had fallen apart and she was left in the crossfire with nothing but art as a defense.

“Could you show me some of your work?”

Just like that, the arrogant prick was gone, replaced with… a man. A gorgeous man. A man who, despite keeping his arm looped through hers, respected her personal space. A man that was showing interest in her art instead of blowing it off as some pipe dream.

“I…” They stopped, and Feyre moved her arm to face him fully. There they were, stopped in front of a Frida Kahlo, and he was asking to see her artwork? “It’s.. Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? You’re so beautiful, I can’t begin to imagine what your art must look like.”

It was bad. It was so bad, even he couldn’t keep a straight face. Feyre tried not to laugh. Really, she did. But she just couldn’t help it.

“That is one of the worst pick-up lines anyone has ever used on me,” She gasped out. “And my ex-boyfriend thought calling my hair ‘clean’ was a compliment.” She dug through her purse, opening her phone to a picture of her favorite painting. “But here you go. Don’t judge. As I said, I’m a student. It’s nothing as good as…” she gestured around the entire room. “This.”

“I think I will be the judge of that,” He winked at her as she handed over her phone, but quickly sobered when he focused on it. “That’s…” he trailed off, not taking his eyes from the picture. Feyre nudged him out of the way of people who were there to look at real art, and he hardly even noticed.

His silence was unnerving. “I do promise it looks better in person,” Feyre wrung her hands. “The lighting at the time just wasn’t very good, but-”

“This is perfect.” FInally, he looked up at her. Feyre waited for an impish grin to take over, or for him to start laughing and shout ‘gotcha!’, but he never did. He just handed her phone back to her and asked, “Can I buy a painting from you?”

“I don’t-”

A staticky voice came over the speakers, announcing the museum would be closing. Something sank in the pit of Feyre’s stomach as the end of her stay began to feel all too real. Her train left early in the morning, and she didn’t have the means to visit again for a long time.

“Let’s walk and talk.” Rhysand said, proffering his arm once again. “I’m intrigued. Your work is beautiful, and I would love to gift one of your pieces to my mother next Hanukkah or christmas.”

Now they stepped out into the cold, and as a gust of icy mountain wind blew around them, Feyre pressed closer to Rhysand. For warmth, she told herself.

“I have a proposition for you, Feyre darling,”

Feyre pulled her arm from his and began putting her mittens on. “It better not be another invitation to a date.”

“That was part of it…” When Feyre sent him a death glare, he only winked. “I will make a deal with you. You create a painting for me to give to my mother - any style, medium, and design you deem appropriate - and I will do whatever you wish in return. Be it a date, a tour of the city, or perhaps a nude modeling session. I work out quite often, you know. I’m a perfect specimen.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Rhysand-”

“Rhys is fine, please.”

Feyre huffed. “Rhys-”

“Oh,” His smile turned wicked. “And you personally have to deliver the painting directly to me.”

Feyre gaped at him, and she spoke the first thing that came to her mind. “I have never, in my entire life, met anyone as arrogant as you.”

“Why thank you. I do try, you know.” That smirk again.

Feyre knew she wouldn’t do what she was about to do if she was wholeheartedly against it, but she still chose to feign reluctance. Perhaps it was from a childhood where she was given no choice, or perhaps it stemmed from previous relationships where her input had mattered little. Whatever the case, it was safer to be annoyed and distant than to look the truth in the eye.

“I will agree to your deal on one condition.” Feyre huffed and placed her mitten-clad hands on her hips.

“Oh?” He drew the syllable out, raising his eyebrows in sly curiosity. “Do tell.”

“I agree to personally bring you your commission, and you will do…” Feyre considered the possibilities. “Whatever I decide I want you to do, as long as our exchange will take place 365 days from now.”

Rhysand’s grin, which had been growing ever more confident with each word she uttered, fell flat. The satisfaction Feyre felt at the sight burned bright.

He cleared his throat, and tried to plaster the smile back on. It was amusing. Even slightly endearing. “An entire year? Darling, surely you don’t want to wait that long, especially if it means seeing my face again.”

“Not everyone can afford to travel that often, you know.” And she wanted a trip to Velaris to become her own birthday tradition.

“Well, darling, if that’s the only thing preventing you from gracing our city with your presence, then please let me pay for your train ticket.”

“Ah-ah,” Feyre moved to wag her finger, but remembered the mittens and thought better of it. “You’re clever, Rhysand, but so am I. I’m not letting you do anything else for me, lest you use it as leverage for another silly bargain.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. There was no trace of mischief to be found on his face. His eyes were clear of that sly spark, his mouth was not turned up in that smug grin. He simply looked thoughtful, his smile small and genuine.

“Well then, I suppose I will just have to wait three hundred and sixty five days.”

***

The next morning, when Feyre’s train departed, she was not thinking about the glowing city or looming mountain range. Rather, it was Rhys’ violet eyes that crept into her mind and stayed with her long after she arrived at her destination. Those eyes followed her back home, all the way to her studio, her kitchen, her bedroom. They stayed vigilant in their watch. During late nights with her sketch pad and lazy weekends in front of her easel, she would zone out for indiscernible periods of time and jolt back into reality, only to be met with those endless violet eyes.

…

Master list for this fic :)

[i-did-not-mean-to]

You write our favorite elven king so good though! 😱. I want to request for maybe Celebrity/Royal meeting normal citizen? Legolas introducing the reader, his courtee who is human and from the modern world to his father. He met her during the journey to destroy the ring when she literally fell into middle earth and is stuck here? Shy reader who hides behind legolas -🌙

Dear Nonnie, I am so sorry I got this wrong the first time around...

(Here's the discarded story)

But...here's your story <3

Dresses

Words: 1,7 k

Warnings: none

Characters: Legolas x Reader, Thranduil

“I should be wearing a dress,” you sighed, looking miserably at the reflection in the weirdly cloudy stream of the river.

Since you had practically fallen into a magical world with dragons and dwarves, you had been clad in hand-me-downs and borrowed garments that were ill-fitting at best and outright unflattering at worst.

“Why?” Legolas cocked his shapely head like one of the birds native to this enchanted forest – keeper of the history of the land – in an expression of his utter astonishment, “Whatever do you need a dress for?”

He thought about it for a moment and then, a slight hint of heat crept into his high, pale cheeks.

“Of course,” he exclaimed hastily, “you are uncomfortable in my breeches. Once you’ve seen my father, I shall send for the seamstress and you may have anything your heart desires!”

“Love,” you laid your hand on his forearm to forestall the flood of loving words about to pour forth, “it is not vanity that ails me. I…I just don’t think that dirty leggings are the right apparel when meeting a king.”

Your beloved – with whom you had braved dangers you could never have imagined in your previous life – smiled softly at that.

“Thranduil is a vain creature but he will never fault you for bearing the marks of an honest fight,” he assured you, waving – graceful as ever – at his own stained travel clothes. As if he wouldn’t be put in a bathtub and wrapped in silk and velvet before going to meet his eminent father, the king.

You walked on, the trees whispering around you as if they knew who was moving among them.

As the destination of your stroll came into view, your breath hitched in your throat; you had fought and scrambled – you had been forced to hit the ground running to avoid dying in a world where nobody would even know what name to put on the gravestone – but this was different.

War was the same in every universe and in every realm: it was a narrative written in blood, and – as a mere commoner, so much more common than the peasants in this world even – you had done as much as you could, never resting, never wondering why, never even taking the time to settle into this new place.

The only anchor you had was this ethereal creature almost floating by your side, a languid smile on his lips upon seeing his father’s halls once more; a part of Legolas – this much you knew for he had told you – had not expected ever laying eyes upon his home or his king again.

“I am a foreigner,” you whispered, every breath you drew more laboured and shivering than the one before.

“Everyone is,” Legolas replied lightly, “Thranduil is a breed apart, so to say, and you will not be stranger to him than a dwarf or a hobbit.”

“You say that,” you mumbled, not entirely convinced.

Of course, by now, you wore the clothes usual in this realm, you had a notion of the most important languages and could distinguish them even if you did not master them, you were used to the food and the weather, but that did not mean that you were ready for societal challenges such as meeting an elusive and mystical king.

“He is not only my king, ruler of my home realm,” Legolas impressed upon you, his warm hand grabbing yours and holding it gingerly, “he is also my father and so, he will be overjoyed to meet the one who stole my heart.”

When you didn’t reply, Legolas went on: “And he has seen battle…My sweet love, Thranduil has seen more of war than you could ever picture; he does not shrink from the sight of blood and dirt.”

He sighed.

You knew that his life had been a long one – compared to the average lifespan of those living in your world – and that, despite the centuries alive, Legolas was still ‘young’ to his own kin; the things you had seen, the skills he displayed, the knowledge and lore he had shared, all of this made it very hard for you to fathom how he could be considered green or inexperienced by his people.

Instead of assuaging your anxiety, the thought of his status as a sapling amongst trees, when he was a mountain amongst pebbles to you, only heightened your apprehension; his beloved father and venerated king would take one look at you and throw you out on your very mortal ass.

“I wish you were not afeared of Thranduil,” Legolas said, his soft tone interweaving with the rustling of the leaves and the sighing of the wind, “he is not a bad person; I had hoped your faith in me would be stronger.”

Exasperated, you blew up your cheeks and let the air whoosh out in a wordless expression of your helpless frustration; Legolas understood your reticence as some kind of strange racism, unable to understand – pampered prince that he was underneath it all – that some people would balk at the idea of having to be scrutinised by a royal.

“I have faith in you,” you exclaimed, louder than was appropriate, tearing the tapestry of delicately muted sounds around you, “I love you!”

“Well, then?” Legolas stopped and turned to you with the softest expression in his sky-blue eyes, “what is the problem? Thranduil has styled himself king, but…you remember how I told you that Elves – as a people – are very old and basically all come from the same bunch of Firstborn?”

You nodded tentatively.

“Hierarchy has a purpose, my love, it’s a system established to be functional not ornamental. Thranduil is the one who leads because someone has to be the focal point of efforts but, my sweetest summer bird, he does not stalk around bashing others for fun. It would make him a bad king and cost him his crown faster than the seasons can change.”

In theory, his words made sense to you, but you had paid attention during your history lessons, and you knew very well how enamoured people could become of themselves, drunk on their power, and what terrible doom could follow in the wake of such despotism.

People…you thought, yes, people such as you were, after all, but human. What if Thranduil – and by extension Legolas – were really nothing like every other living creature you had known in your life? Were they immune to the siren song of pride and greed? Were they truly as pure as a summer spring?

Legolas – for certain – was out of this world, and by ‘this world’ you meant your world; he was beautiful in ways you didn’t even have words to describe and despite his vast knowledge and the atrocities of war he had braved, he held a core of gleaming, optimistic innocence in his heart that stemmed from being truly loved and knowing that there would always be a place for him, no matter how the story ended.

He made you feel safe – not because of his skills in battle – but because he was good and honourable. Before ever becoming your lover, he had been your friend – quick to help and to soothe – and his unconditional faith in the next sunrise had made you sit through many a dark night.

“Legolas,” a figure called, rushing towards you in a cloud of billowing fabric that looked as if it had been spun of starlight and peaceful dreams.

“Ada!” Legolas quickened his pace and bowed before the tall, blindingly gorgeous creature standing straight as a tree and proud as a mountain in front of him.

“You have come home!”

You crept nearer – feeling foolish because how could you even try to hide from eyes as all-seeing as theirs? – and ducked into the shadow of your lover’s form.

“Legolas, there is someone cowering behind you,” the king – in his endless wisdom – commented lightly and promptly tried to peek around his son.

“Father, this is my beloved; she comes from a very remote place we have never walked and might never see,” Legolas tried to introduce you, but you kept shifting around him, too shy to meet the king without having had ample time to prepare yourself and worm the proper etiquette out of your sweet friend.

“She is like a wild kitten,” Thranduil – his voice soft as the merry gurgling of the river you had just passed – remarked, taking up your challenge and starting to pursue you with slow, measured steps.

"My love,” Legolas groaned, his head whipping side to side in an effort to keep both you and his father in view, “come and meet my king and father, Thranduil.”

In a moment of pure insanity, you threw a single glance at the king and hissed: “Oh, he gets to wear a dress!”

Legolas blinked, his hand closing around your shoulder to keep you from moving around any further as he chuckled: “Yes, at least one of you is.”

Immediately, tears of humiliation burned in your eyes and – seeing that – Legolas scooped you up and held you against his chest lovingly.

His father was – undeniably – gorgeous in a way that was impossible to even imagine in the world you had come from; time had done nothing to mar the perfection of his skin or tarnish the shine of those gleaming eyes his son had inherited.

“Hello little one,” he said carefully, inclining his head slightly, “my name is Thranduil. Welcome to…our forest, our home. If it is truly a dress you desire, I am sure that can be arranged.”

The hand he extended to you was slender and white, silky and hard at the same time in yours as you grabbed it instinctively, while his smile brightened into a warmth that made you forget your torn and tattered clothes.

“An honour to meet you, Sir, Your Majesty…” you stammered.

“Thranduil is fine for the time being,” he chuckled, “we shall be working our way up to ‘Ada’.”

And with those words, he completed a perfectly graceful pirouette and preceded you through the doors of his underground palace of marvels and miracles.

I hope you liked this <3

[mariaofdoranelle]

Royal Rebels — Chapter 1: The Drunken Decision

Masterlist

I told myself I’d keep posting on a weekly basis, but tomorrow is a holiday where I live, so it’s kind of the weekend again, right? Anyway, I hope you enjoy this!

Warnings: mentions of death and brief mentions of torture.

Word count: 4,3k

˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

Doranelle was grieving today, but that didn’t stop Queen Maeve from being absorbed on the latest royal gossip Lady Remelle had heard of. Honestly, Rowan had no idea how was he managing to be there as he tried to even his breathing and get a hold on the dangerous thoughts he was having. But the more he tried to restrain himself, the more his pulse quickened and his head hurt from gritting his teeth so much.

His cousin Sellene kept glancing at him with a weird look on her face from across the table, and that was when Rowan knew he couldn’t be there anymore if he didn’t want to do something he’d regret. He abruptly stood in the middle of dinner and excused himself but, as expected, he wasn’t being let off the hook that easily. How dare he leave dinner early when his friend had been executed the day before. Or at least that was his thought as he heard Lady Remelle follow him outside of the castle and quickened his footsteps.

“Ro! Why are you leaving so early?” She asked in a lowered voice while stroked his arm. His bitten nails were close to slicing his skin when he took a deep breath for the millionth time that night.

“Remelle. Leave me alone.”

“Are you still upset over Vaughan?” It had been less than 24 hours ago, but there was no need to remind her of that. Lacking a response, she tilted her head as her eyebrows drew together. He didn’t want to make eye contact and see whatever emotion she was trying to convey him. “He committed treason, Ro. You know Maeve had to do—”

“He was trying to help his people!” And there goes his self-restraint.

“By stealing from the castle to support a bunch of half-breeds! You know how this people are, if you make it too easy for them, they’ll just stop working.” Was she for real?

“The people are starving.”

“Because they don’t work hard enough. Do you have any idea how many seamstresses I’ve had the past decade? They’re a bunch of lazy half-breeds who refuse to do even mild labor.”

“I can’t see any other reason why someone wouldn’t want to work for you.” He didn’t even expect her to get his sarcasm.

“Exactly! You see, I know he was a kind Fae. But you can’t let them have it too easy.”

“So she killed someone who vowed his life to her because he was helping her people too much?” Rowan hoped Remelle, just this once, could take in the rage in his voice. But he wouldn’t do anything with the rush of adrenaline filling his veins. Not here, not now. He’d love to tell himself Remelle was just dumb, but he knew she wasn’t. She was a wealthy Fae who only cared about herself. Queen Maeve loved to surround herself with those.

“When you put it this way, it makes even more sense. He vowed his life to be loyal to her. If he’s not loyal, he loses his life. I don’t get why you’re upset.”

By the time she stopped talking, his breath was probably too loud to a Fae ear. He started cracking his knuckles as is thoughts were completely murderous. Remelle being set on fire. Remelle being attacked by Vaughan’s osprey form. Remelle being publicly killed instead of Vaughan. Not liking where his thoughts were headed, Rowan shifted into his hawk form and flew away.

Even though the goal was to calm himself down, flying has never been the same ever since Rowan visited Terrasen last year. It was a purely logical thing, the rivers and valleys sprawling toward those great northern mountains—it was paradise for a hawk. So much better than flying at Doranelle.

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Orynth’s castle for itself was a sight to see, with its enchanting towers made of opal stones, but for Rowan the real show-stopper was the place’s geography. He was looking for Fenrys, but wasn’t even minding his missing friend, delighted with just the wind and the smell of the trees. Rowan wondered what would be like to fly at the Oakwald Forest or in the Staghorn Mountains.

At a small table outside, he could see the Princess and a golden dog, both sitting alone with a chessboard. She was just watching him fly with crossed arms, but her eyes held a challenge impossible to ignore, so Rowan decided to look for Fenrys one last moment before joining her. Currently trying to prove someone, maybe herself, that Rowan was sent to murder her, a Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was the most irritating living thing he had ever met. In fact, Rowan wished he was really sent to kill her, just so he could be done with it and go home. They haven’t talked alone ever since the door incident and, for some reason, he was curious of her. Rowan could be very detached, but Aelin was capable of getting under his skin in a matter of seconds. For now, his only goal was to prove her wrong by not killing her... As hard as that was.

Sat at the table, he watched Aelin set the chessboard with a bored look on his face. That female could be as gorgeous as she was annoying, but he wouldn’t give her the pleasure of acknowledging that.

“Fenrys left you for today. He went to Ren Allsbrook’s room last night, and today Ren asked his servant to send every meal to his room, enough for two.” Honestly, Rowan was surprised it took Fenrys three days to do this.

“How in hell do you know this?

“Servant gossip. Philippa knows everything. Which color do you want?”

“The black pieces.” Let the princess start the game. Rowan didn’t need that to win. “Does she know about my door?”

“I’m afraid the whole castle knows, Whitethorn. I’m sorry about it.”

“You’re not.”

“I really am. But only because it was made from a rare type of tree. I’ll be the Little Folk’s queen too, I don’t want to upset them.” Rowan hid his hands on his lap, under the table. He wouldn’t give Aelin the satisfaction of seeing how clenched they were, how easily she got under his skin. Of course the Princess wasn’t sorry for barging into his room and accusing him of plotting her assassination. But he wouldn’t let her rile him up just because that was exactly what she wanted.

“Is the mutt yours?” He needed to change the subject and act civil. Immediately.

“Fleetfoot is a part of the family and she’ll be treated as such.”

“Are you serious right now?” Aelin just raised one eyebrow, making him sigh. “Is that... Her Royal Highness Fleetfoot Galathynius?” he said in a carefully controlled tone.

The mutt barked and flicked her tail before Aelin could answer. In the meanwhile, Rowan’s knight captured Aelin’s pawn. The sight of Rowan’s winning board relieved his anger a little.

“I’m surprised you haven’t burned the chessboard by now, Princess.”

“Oh, please. I won’t waste my finest board with a lowly prince desperate to win Queen Maeve’s favor,” she hissed with flared nostrils

And there it was. Rowan could feel his whole body tense and the increase on his pulse speed, but he wouldn’t give in. Even if every cell in his body was currently telling him to punch her in the face. He noticed the lack of guards where they were, it would be the perfect place and time to murder her if that was his goal. If Aelin was trying to play some sort of sick mind game with him now, he wouldn’t let her know she was winning.

“I think you’ll be shocked when you find out the world doesn’t revolve around you, Your Highness. One thing Terrasen beats Doranelle is the council, especially its ability to protect the people from spoiled monarchs and their temper tantrums.” Just for a dramatic effect, Rowan’s pawn captured one of Aelin’s.”

“What a refined way to insult me, Prince. I thought I was just an attention-seeker little brat.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile, her knuckles as white as the knight she had a death grip on.

“I think you’re much more layered than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

“And I think you’re much less brave than the legends give yourself credit for. Tell me, Whitethorn, would you be sitting there now if you didn’t know that I’ll send the whole Bane to bring me your head if you lay a single finger on me?” No. She’d be heading for the healer by now if he could have his way, and she knew that.

Through gritted teeth, Rowan snarled, “Can’t kill me yourself, Princess?”

However, she lifted those maddening blue eyes at him and raised her eyebrows. “I just killed your queen.”

“Is this a threat?” Rowan didn’t care about Maeve, but it added up to his annoyance. Also, it was the expected response from him.

Aelin gave him a triumphant smirk. ”You were so sidetracked by the lack of guards and little pawns I gave you to kill, you failed to see what was right in front of you. You need to do better if you want to play this game with me, Whitethorn.

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Rowan roamed over the city without thinking about destination or time, just feeling the wind caress his feathers until he spotted Fenrys on a street and navigated towards him. After shifting back to his Fae form, they stared at each other until Rowan broke the silence.

“Where are you going?”

Fenrys just shrugged. His reddened eyes helped to portray a haunted look Rowan rarely saw on his friend.

“Come on, we’re getting hammered,” Rowan mumbled.

When they got to the tavern and the first few rounds of beer came, it was easier for them to keep a conversation going. Fenrys leaned back and asked with a tight smile, “Do you remember when Maeve sent Vaughan on a journey to the Southern Continent, about 30 years ago, and he just kept flying until the situation solved itself?”

Rowan mused, “Yes, that costed him a lot, though.” He had no idea why Vaughan swore the oath if he was always trying to rebel against Maeve. Suddenly, his throat thickened. His limbs became heavier. He understood Vaughan more than he was willing to admit. Rowan had commanded Maeve’s armies himself for long enough to know how brutal and unfair the campaigns could be. The things she could do out of spite. Another deep breath. It was hard to get a grip on his emotions today, so he just pretended to pay attention to Fenrys’s blabbering until he calmed down. Rowan was just a non-essential prince doing the only thing he was fit to do. Stop working would only cause him more problems and make no change. Or that was the thing he was used to tell himself, at least.

When Rowan focused back on his friend, Fenrys was already eying him thoughtfully, “How are you?”

“Fine,” he said between clenched teeth.

Fenrys raised his eyebrows, “Really?”

One of the perks of being friends with Fenrys was that he could be so annoying it allowed Rowan to focus his irritation somewhere else. “Your point is? You’re fucking miserable.”

“I’m grieving. But I’m cheerful. Glass half full and shit.”

“Okay, then.”

Fenrys ordered more beer before turning back to him. “When was the last time you felt happy, Ro?”

Eleven months and two days ago, but Rowan just shrugged. “You?”

“When we went to Essar’s vineyard and I played with the baby chickens,” Fenrys gave him a faint smile, “They’re probably dead by now, anyway.”

That had been a few years ago, but Rowan didn’t feel like pointing it out, “And they probably became ugly adult chickens before dying.”

They both slumped on the chairs before Fenrys swallowed down the rest of his beer and continued, “They’ll always be cute baby chickens to me, though. And very much alive.”

A fleeting idea crossed Rowan’s mind, “You know who should die instead of them?”

That piked his friend’s interest, “Who?”

“Maeve,” Rowan only mouthed to make sure the other Fae at the tavern couldn’t hear him, but it was enough to make Fenrys still on his chair with wide eyes. And then blink a little. Finally, he relaxed on his chair and grinned like the devil.

“For Hellas’s sake, Whitethorn. I never thought you had it in you.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow, “Scared, boyo?”

“Hell, no. Let’s do this.”

After a lot less planning than they should have made, they settled on using Rowan’s rank to borrow a few weapons from the army base closest to the castle. The plan went smoothly until they bumped into Essar’s sister, another Commander, on their way out of the base. Both way too armed for a weekend night.

“Hey, Rowan. Fenrys. What are you two doing here in the middle of the night?”

Rowan snarled, “We’re on a mission.”

However, Fenrys cheerfully explained the situation “We’re going to kill Maeve,” right before he crossed his arms and almost fell on his ass while trying to lean on the wall. Rowan stared blankly at his awfully relaxed friend, his disbelief stopping him from noticing the huge grin the female wore.

“Good,” she snickered after a few moments. Until she paled completely. “Fuck, are you going to do it now?”

Fenrys lifted his chin and grinned broadly. “Yes, ma’am!”

She turned to Rowan. “You know this is a suicide mission, right?”

His voice was completely flat as he retorted, “We’re going to be fine,” and dragged Fenrys out of the army base.

As they walked their way to the castle, Fenrys’s steps seemed to be more steady as the realisation of what they were about to do seemed to sober him up a little. Too little for what they were going to do, but Rowan himself was drunk enough to pretend not to notice this.

Fenrys’s laughter was booming on the streets as he managed to say, “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

Honestly, Rowan hadn’t felt this determined in a long time. “We’re warriors. Serious ones. We defend our kingdom. We’re doing our jobs.”

Fenrys eyed him thoughtfully as me mused, “You’re serious.”

“I am.”

For a moment, Rowan actually thought his friend was being serious until Fenrys beamed at him.

“You should drink more. You’re no fun sober.”

A deep sigh. “This isn’t supposed to be fun. We’re on a quest to free Doranelle.”

“What are we supposed to do after Maeve’s dead? Are we taking over the country?”

Rowan hadn’t thought much about it. For him, it was already implied Sellene was taking the throne, as she was next in the line of succession. But he still wanted to hear his friend’s thoughts. “Do you want to be a king, Fenrys?”

“Fuck, no. I would swear the blood-oath to you, though.”

“Nah. I don’t want to be king.” His sentence was as true as it could get. As much as he had all the royal education along with his cousins, Rowan knew he was only good for one thing. Plan, attack, kill. Over and over for centuries until he settled into a routine. His friends and family would say he’s detached, but there was one thing he did they couldn’t complain. Plan, attack, kill. He was definitely not king material.

“So we’re back to square one. What are we doing after she dies?”

“We give the throne to Sellene.” He didn’t know how she would deal with this, though. She has always been the most pressured in the family because of her position. “We can handle this later. Call it Step 2.”

“Cool. We just have to get through Step 1 before I throw up.”

Was he for real? “You drink too much to be such a lightweight.”

“I’m not a fucking—“

“Shut up, we’re here,” Rowan interrupted with a hushed voice. Maeve kept her castle surrounded with so much Fae disguised in their animal forms it looked like a fucking farm in the middle of the woods. They were being heavily watched now.

Rowan clutched his poorly embroidered Spidersilk handkerchief and for a moment he didn’t repress any thoughts about who gave it to him. There was no turning back now, either he or Maeve were going to die, and she was the only person he knew would love both outcomes. When he pictured her receiving the news of whatever happened tonight, the mirth on her turquoise and gold eyes was the only thing that flashed into his mind before he let it go and entered Doranelle’s castle.

At first, they managed to walk through all the common areas without being suspicious. But when they approached Maeve’s personal wing, one of her watchdogs creeped out of the shadows.

Onyx eyes were narrowed at him when Lorcan Salvaterre snarled, “Whitethorn. What are you doing here? Spill.”

Rowan tilted his head and crossed his arms. “Are you still licking Maeve’s boots, Lorcan? How long will it take before she deems you enough to be a blood-sworn?”

“Fuck. Off. Now tell me what you’re doing here. Now.”

“We,” Fenrys swayed a little on his feet and pointed at himself and Rowan before continuing, “Have a mission. And we need to talk to Maeve. About it. Our mission.”

Lorcan seemed terribly amused at Fenrys. “Is that so? Can you tell me more about it?”

Fenrys inched closer to the enemy and sent him a conspiring smile as he added, “But it’s secret. Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure,” Lorcan said behind a fake smile. Rowan knew it was fake because Lorcan Salvaterre never genuinely smiled, but his terrible acting skills seemed to be enough for Fenrys.

“We’re here—“

He didn’t finish the sentence because Rowan put an air shield around Fenrys to stop anyone else from listening to his idiot friend. What the fuck was he thinking? Fenrys kept gesturing at Rowan any nonsense he could muster as Lorcan crossed his arms and looked expectantly at them with squished eyebrows. When Rowan closed his eyes and pinched his nose to take a deep breath and calm himself down, Fenrys took it as a cue to teleport him to a shieldless part of the hall and cheer, “We’re here to kill Maeve!”

And that’s when everything went black.

Rowan was sat when he woke up, and his whole body was covered in iron shackles and chains. Fenrys looked pretty much the same. Queen Maeve was sat on her throne with one of her creepy owls, and he could sense, more than see, the guards and blood-sworn lurking by.

Maeve looked at them and sighed. Heavily. “I think we all know that was the dumbest assassination attempt I’ve ever seen,” she pinched her nose, “And I’m the world’s oldest Fae.”

He didn’t feel like mentioning it now, but this was one of those rare moments Rowan actually agreed with his queen. As if sensing his thoughts, Maeve leaned back and continued.

“I always knew Fenrys would eventually do something that stupid in his life, but I never expected this coming from my best Commander, Rowan. Being thousands of years old is terribly boring. I thought defeating you could be a little more exciting.” After hundreds of years of working for Maeve, this was the closest he got to a compliment, and it was actually disturbing to him. If Maeve thought highly of him, it was probably because he had been doing something wrong. His stomach started quivering as he began to feel unclean. He didn’t show any sign of his unease, so she took their silence as a cue to continue.

“You should consider yourselves lucky for Vaughan’s death. The only reason you’re getting out alive is because I can’t kill two nobles and a prince on the same weekend.” He kept still, refusing to give Maeve the satisfaction of seeing him recoil. Looking at his right, Fenrys looked murderous, his jaw so clenched it could break stone. Maeve analysed him and smiled broadly. “I’m not killing you, but you’re officially exiled. Permanently. I don’t need to tell your bank accounts, every property you own and what’s inside it belongs to Doranelle now, right?” She smiled. “Good.” Well, Rowan didn’t give a shit about his property or bank accounts, but he found it hard to believe any king or queen would like to have their armies trained by someone who was exiled for committing treason.

For someone as private as Maeve was, she couldn’t keep her mouth shut tonight. Thankfully, she eventually gestured requesting one of her blood-sworn and came to a halt. “I think you’ve heard enough talk about treason on the last 24 hours, and Cairn has been terribly bored lately, you know? I should finish our meeting and go.” Was it supposed to scare him? He just wanted to get it over with and go.

Maeve started giving instructions directly to her blood-sworn, but loud enough for them to hear. “You’ll keep them entertained, consider it the closure of their spree. Whips and daggers only, but I want both healed enough to walk. Dump them at the border by dawn.” He bastard started grinning wickedly at them as Maeve walked out and sing-sang, “Have fun!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a week later, and both Rowan and Fenrys were healed enough to wander on the lands between Doranelle and Wendlyn.

Rowan crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at his friend. “Are you sure the Ashryvers will welcome us in Varese?”

Even though they were friends with Prince Galan, Wendlyn and Doranelle politically kept a good relationship. It wouldn’t be a good move to take the two of them now.

“Don’t worry, Birdie! Live a little!” That was Fenrys’s umpteenth try to cheer him up since the exile. At least he got it right. Rowan wasn’t pissed about the exile in itself, but he was very worried about where they were going to live.

“If you call me Birdie one more time, you will be the one who won’t live a little.”

Fenrys barked a laugh. “We’ll be fine, Galan will love the surprise.”

His eyebrows immediately creased. Had he misheard his friend? “What do you mean?”

Fenrys rubbed the back of his neck as he stared ahead for a while. “They love us! We’re like part of the family.”

Rowan stopped dead on his tracks. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you telling me you didn’t even tell them we were visiting?”

An impatient huff, then he replied, “Why spoil the surprise? We’ve never needed it before.”

Rowan’s eyebrows shot to the sky. “Fenrys. That was before we tried to kill their political ally.”

Fenrys’s shoulders seemed to loosen up a little as he gave a heavy sigh and groaned, “What’s your plan, then? If they don’t take us, we’re fucked.”

Very true. Maeve wasn’t a very friendly queen, he had befriended very few people on his journeys abroad. Lord Suria, maybe? They had bonded a little over war tactics and weaponry on his brief trip to Terrasen. Being Maeve’s enemy now, maybe he could get a nice enough military position without causing a turmoil in the royal family, if he was lucky. He could keep it in mind as a last resort.

“We’re close to Mistward. Emrys and Malakai would welcome us. We go there, spend the night, send a letter to Galan and wait until we have a response.”

Fenrys rested both hands on his hips and tilted his head at him. “You’re not half as bad as a strategist, Prince. This month’s shenanigan could’ve fooled me”

Rowan’s lips twitched a little and they resumed their journey. They were closer to Mistward than he calculated, arriving there by the middle of the afternoon. It had been years since he last visited Emrys and Malakai, but the fortress’s sentries hadn’t stopped him. In fact, to be welcomed there after becoming an official traitor to his country was… Interesting. Even though Mistward wasn’t Maeve’s territory, it was still full of people who intended, at least initially, to live in Doranelle. He made a mental note to investigate the fortress’s relationship with Maeve later.

Rowan didn’t even care to enter through the front door, Fenrys was hot on his heels when he entered the kitchen first, already knowing Emrys would be there. Everything was just as he remembered, except that Emrys was alone. The preparations for dinner would probably start soon. When they crossed the threshold, the old male was already on his way to greet them.

“Prince Rowan! Fenrys! What are you doing here? It’s good to see you, even if it takes an exile for you to visit me.” Emrys’s comment didn’t sound snarky, but it still was something uncomfortable to hear. It had been at least a decade before he last visited Mistward, with no excuse whatsoever for that.

It was a few minutes of conversation and exchanging news mainly between Emrys and Fenrys, but Rowan managed to make a comment every now and them. However, Rowan completely zoned out of the chat when he scented a familiar smell. A hallucination was the only explanation possible, but it got stronger each time until he couldn’t ignore it anymore. Jasmine.

Emrys’s face perked up. Rowan’s turned slack. Fenrys started to eye him curiously. “Oh! There’s someone I want you to meet.”

The closer she got, the more of her scent he could pick up. Like lemon verbena.

“She’s staying here for a few months. I’m close to her mother, so she’s like a niece to me.”

Rowan started to smell the embers as her gaze on him seemed to ignite the room.

“This is Celaena.”

At his side, Fenrys barked a laugh at Rowan’s expense. The traitor.

TAG LIST

@morganofthewildfire

@elentiyawhitethorn

[miekasa]

i really like the idea of prince!connie who enters your life and teaches you that it can be so much more than fake smiles and appeasing the royal court, he takes you out all the time - on cute picnics and his kingdom’s festivals and he holds your hand the whole time :( i imagine princess!reader and prince!connie have been engaged since birth and you haven’t really gotten to know eachother and you just hoped for him to be a decent man but you don’t expect him to turn your world upside down and you can’t imagine ruling without him <\3 he’s not scared to show affection on royal tours and in front of royal officials, he is completely in love with you so why wouldn’t he????

Okay, okay, I like this, I can roll with this. Let’s say you know Connie—not well, but you know him from visiting his kingdom, and being forced into high tea and academics with him as a kid. You know that he’s not the best at math, that he hates reading, and that he would much rather pay hide and seek with his knights in the courtyard, than be cooped up in the library doing history lessons; so it doesn’t surprise you that he gains the reputation of the troublemaker prince as he gets older. You never thought lowly of him for it, though; you know Connie never intended to get you into trouble when he invited you to play instead of doing your lessons, he just wanted to have fun with you. He just wanted a friend.

Your visits become fewer and farther between as you get older. Naturally, you both have more responsibilities to bear and you’re limited to seeing him only on formal occasions; sometimes you don’t even get to talk, as you’re busy being greeting other noblemen and representing your family, but he always sends you a warm smile (and a very unprincely wave). So, when your parents are telling you about an upcoming event hosted by Connie’s family, you didn’t expect it to be a party to announce your engagement—because, apparently, you and Connie have been betrothed since birth. You’re not exactly elated to learn that your life was planned without your consent, but you suppose if it had to be anybody, you’re glad it’s him. When you see him the night before, you expect it to be awkward, but Connie doesn’t allow room for doubt. He didn’t know about the engagement either, but he happily takes your hand and smiles, “I’m just happy I get to see you more often! I missed you, you know.”

You might be the smarter one on paper, but Connie ends up teaching you way more than you’ve ever learned in your private lessons. He drags you out into town to play with the kids, and see the vendors, and to show you that he’s friends with the stray cats near his favorite bakery. Instead of letting you read about historic sites in his kingdom, he takes you there on dates—you have a picnic under the oldest willow tree in the land, and skip rocks in the river rumored to have been frozen over completely during the hundred year’s winter, and he has a dress made for you by the granddaughter of the seamstress who first sewed his kingdom’s flag—and you quickly see that even though other royals see him as a troublemaker, Connie is loved and revered by the citizens of his kingdom, and for good reason.

And the affection comes naturally to him. He doesn’t ever want you to feel like you’re an accessory to him—you two might be engaged because an agreement your parents made with each other, but that doesn’t change the fact that you were always Connie’s first, and only, love. He knows how some princes and noblemen get with their arranged spouses, but he doesn’t think of you like that—he’s proud to be engaged to you, and he’s more than happy to show it; you always enter the room first, he’s never not by your side in public, and he never, ever misses an opportunity to dance with you. Other men might be miserable in their marriages or take a mistress on the side, but not Connie. He’s your husband to be, and everybody knows it.

[headphonemouse]

and/or taiyuzu with r2 🥺

this was so much fun

kiss prompts

[pherelesytsia]

Who did this to you? 3

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x female/Reader

Summary: Bruised and broken, Y/N, trapped in a loveless marriage, arrives at her best friend's house, desperately hoping someone will help her, aware she cannot return to the estate of her husband.

Warning: fear, anxiety, Angst, swearing  

Word Count: 2.5k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

Shadows reared and shifted, invaded the corners of the house and found their way into the hearts of the people whose peals of delight once resounded throughout the deserted hallways and richly decorated rooms. Mercilessly, the rain pounded against the windows. The storm raged fiercely over the land, causing rivers to leap, destroyed leaves and uprooted trees.

Lightning, curved and slanted like the stitches of an unskilled seamstress, coloured the sky, but thunder was missing, did not chant the song of horror and ruthlessness.

Silence had descended upon the house, and the murmur of the gramophone broke the awful stillness. No one dared to speak, cloaked in silence and realisation, but the walls full of memories talked and screamed, laughed and giggled at the sight.

The vision cleared and confusion welled in the eyes, staring wide awake at each other, hoping to find the soothing answer yet realisation hit like a wave of destruction. The boldness of the alcohol was gone with the wind. Hearts were beating at a rapid pace. Foolishly, the men and women, dressed in rich garments, blamed each other, but no words fell, yet the eyes told the unspoken tale and fell on the man in the dark suit.

Wounds, long healed, ached and pained. The walls of solid stone crumbled. Thomas took one step, swallowed noticeably as he tried to process what John had said. He had heard the words loud and clear, but they made no sense, sounded ridiculous and foolish. The eyes of a sunny sky turned to a torrent, grey and misty. He tried to focus, felt dizzy, sickened by his thoughts. The words bearing the dreadful message echoed in his mind, but they made no sense. His chest was burning. Thomas applied pressure to the aching wound, but soon the man realised that no blood was oozing from his chest, felt no wetness under his touch nor a hole in his flesh. The murmur of weak voices grew, and he listened to the words calling the scariest nightmares to life.

            "Where is Y/N?" John screamed, unsure if everybody had heard him.

Questions escaped the throats, coalesced, but John's voice cut through the tumult like a sharpened double-edged blade, silenced the voices dripping with fear and the dooming thunder echoing across the hills, meadows, and fields. Thomas advanced. He focused his gaze over his shoulder on Arthur standing close to the sofa and then looked at Polly and then at John breathing heavily, panting, trying to fill his lungs with air. His legs grew weak, stumbled, nearly fell like a wounded soldier on the field of desolation.

Guilt dripped from his lips and Thomas swallowed again, but the foul taste, rotten flesh, dark as cinders in the depths of an undisturbed lake in the midst of a dark forest shunned by animals, forbid him to form a clear thought.

The slow rhythmical ticking of the wooden clock grew louder, but it felt as if not a single second had passed, felt as if the earth had stopped moving, but the branches crooked as the teeth of a beast swayed back and forth in the crispy wind knocked like an unwanted visitor on the windows.

A stabbing sensation forced Thomas to halt, and he realised what he had done. It is my fault, Thomas thought to himself. The siblings waited for instructions, deaf to the words John spoke, told them to go outside and search the streets for the missing woman, knowing they wasted precious time. John faced his brother. His voice turned hoarse, but the man he yelled at was speechless, didn't know what to say nor what to do.

Thomas gulped. A veil flew through the air and greyed the house. Thomas closed his eyes. The veil settled on his body and enveloped him like the stormy sea crossing the borders of the sandy shore. Walls of defence crumbled. The ocean was calling him by his name. Thomas could not breathe. The water was rising. In fear, Thomas tried to open his eyes, but he couldn’t, couldn't escape the terrible thoughts he tried to flee like a child. The velvet curtains dropped and the worst scenarios played out in his mind, a theatre, a play written by a man with a twisted mind, unpoetic and bloodcurdling. The ocean swallowed him, dragged the Shelby into the deepest of depths, but Thomas did not fight, did not struggle and let it happen.

            Suddenly he opened his eyes and saw his wife dressed in white. The waves destroyed her tightly fitted curls. The gentle smile, loving and caring painted her kind face. The sight pained his soul. Desperately Thomas called her by her name but saltiness filled his mouth. Fearing to lose her again Thomas reached out with his right hand, wishing to pull his wife, his love into an embrace and let her know how sorry he was, that it was his fault, that he was supposed to protect her, but she fizzled out. Crimson coloured the water. Lights twinkled. Thomas called her by her name, but the waves carried his love away. The water cleared and he wished to close his eyes. He saw her, beaten and dead at the end of a dark alley surrounded by rats and rubbish, locked in a house in a remote area, in a nasty room guarded by starving men craving the closeness of a woman. His eyes shot open, escaped the prison of his mind

            "John who was at the door? How do you know?" Thomas thundered.

            "I don't know, a woman knocked on the door and wanted to know if we are missing someone and when I realised that Y/N is missing I went back but the woman was gone. I couldn't find her. She drove away" John babbled.

Thomas advanced, paced, left his brothers behind and turned on his heels as a cold chill travelled down his spine.

            "Arthur, send everyone out, and after drive to the stables. Polly, you remain here in case my wife arrives. John, search the factories and the others the streets." Thomas ordered.

His voice broke, and they asked no questions, ran off, not daring to question Thomas in his anger, to let him know he should remain calm and think where Y/N might be, but the women remained silent and did as they were asked. With quickening steps, Arthur went away, walked in great haste towards the telephone to chase the men out of bed to find the missing woman.

Cursing, Thomas ran his fingers through his tamed hair, and he realised how wet his palms were. He knew hundreds of people who wanted to take revenge on him. Thomas hoped the door would open and she would stand in the glow of the lights, yet he did not know what to do, if he should apologise or tend her wounds.

Eyes settled on him as the stiff wind invaded the house like the enemy. Polly standing in the middle of the chaos clasped her hands in front of her body, breathed a short prayer and walked towards the man threatening to break under the burden. Her heart broke, was convinced she had never seen Thomas like this before, so lost, too close to the breaking point, uncertain of what to do. Polly braced herself, prepared for curses and anger and walked slowly towards Thomas, saw the fear and urgency in the tall man's eyes. In a reassuring gesture, she placed her hand on his shoulder.

            "Thomas." Polly started.

Gazes met.

            "I'm sure we'll find Y/N/N,” Polly assured and Thomas wished his heart would bear the same hope.

            "I should have looked after her. I was the one who was supposed to pick her up, but I forgot. I forgot my wife.” he said.

He laughed bitterly.

            “Y/N is my wife, and I have to protect her." Thomas continued in shame.

Delicate lips did not touch. Tears almost crossed the borders. His eyes turned into the ocean, caressed by the rays of the sun, glittering like hundreds of thousands of diamonds. He wanted to be strong, be a man, had never felt like this in a lifetime and he was in danger of losing control of himself and Polly noticed it immediately.

            "Thomas, will we find her. Yes, you are her husband, but we should have noticed, we are her family.", "We behaved horribly to her, like a fucking stranger." Thomas hissed, addressing each of them and himself.

            "Thomas, if the woman asked John if somebody was missing, it means that Y/N must surely be somewhere in town. We will find her.", "And what if she doesn't want to be found? Let's face it, we haven't been good to her and I can't count the number of times I've heard her crying." Arthur interjected dryly, wouldn't be surprised if Y/N disappeared without a trace to escape the clutches of the family.

A sound broke the silence like a gunshot. Eyes widened. The spark of hope in his heart grew in size. Thomas ran towards the telephone and picked it up, hoping it was someone who had seen his wife.

            "I see you have finally noticed that someone is missing. It has taken you almost four hours to realise that your wife is missing Mr Shelby," the words wounded his pride.

He didn't laugh, didn't shout, couldn't swear nor speak, knew his voice would break. Relieved Thomas realised the woman could not be far, probably saw the men searching the streets for his wife. The sting in his heart was painless, realised by the voice that the woman was not interested in money or gold.

            "You don't have to worry about Y/N/N, she's fine, I'm taking care of her, that’s what friends are for.", "Where is Y/N?" Thomas inquired boldly.

            "If you knew your wife you would know where she is and no, she is not with her great parents who sold her to your fantastic family.” the woman paused. “And before you ask yes, she is hurt but it is nothing compared to the wounds you and your family left on her soul. She is fucking lying," the woman sneered.

He nearly dared to lose his temper. Thomas wanted to scream, to spit and shout, to start a sentence, to let the woman know that he loved Y/N from the depths of his heart but was incapable to show it, that he would never hurt her but he realised he had been the most horrible husband under the rising sun.

I do not deserve Y/N, Thomas thought to himself.

He stayed in silence, sensed the woman had much to say. Balling his hands into fists, he leaned forward and steadied himself with his right hand resting against the wall, feeling the burden increasing on his shoulders.

            "Probably Y/N would have died this night. Her arms were blue and purple. They beat her up. She looked terrible, and her plea was that she didn't want to see anyone, not even her husband who had vowed to her, who had sworn before God that he would protect her with his fucking life but you weren't there to guard her, you weren't there to protect her from these bastards.” she hissed like a snake.

Thomas gulped and closed his eyes.

            "She cried and Y/N/N didn't shed a tear when she found out that her parents had chosen you as her husband," she breathed.

The world turned dark and remote.

            "Y/N wouldn't tell me what happened, but I saw the wounds. I touched her beaten flesh, but she wouldn't expose herself, refused to take her dress off and you and I cannot imagine what happened. Those filthy, dirty bastards dragged her into an alley. They kicked her, ridiculed her, and punched her. There was a lot of blood. I saw it in her eyes, the pain, the fear of being touched.", "Then tell me where she is and I will pick up my wife. I must," he begged.

The woman laughed, could not believe what he was uttering.

            "Mr Shelby, you should have been there. You should have protected her." the woman spoke.

The silence was awful.

            "Why should I do that, Mr Shelby? Call me a fool. I knocked on your door to tell you that your wife needs you. My intentions were pure and not to fear you or play with your mind. I wanted to help you. And you sickened me when I looked through the window. I wanted to take you to Y/N but the moment I saw you were feasting, fucking celebrating, that you were well and did not notice that one of your family members was missing, I lost the desire to help you, Mr Shelby." the woman spoke.

Thomas did not answer.

            "Wait, I have to correct myself. You did not notice that your wife is not by your side, that she is not holding your hand." she stopped, unable to continue.

His lips quivered.

            "Y/N is in good hands, Mr Shelby. She feared to face you, expecting you to laugh because she couldn't defend herself, or that you would tell her it was her fault. Those were her words.", "Thank you, thank you for taking care of Y/N/N. May I speak to her?" Thomas breathed, hoping the woman would permit him to talk to his wife.

Thomas Shelby did not pray often, but he wanted to join his hands in a prayerful gesture before his heart and pray to the higher powers. He pressed his lips into a fine line, listening to the silence on the other side, unaware of the questioning stares of his siblings and focussed, praying Y/N would take the speaker.

            "One moment, I will check on Y/N and if she is awake, I will inform her that her husband wants to speak with her but I will not force Y/N/N to do anything.", "If she doesn't want to, I understand," Thomas replied.

The clacking of shoes filled his mind. Nervously, his fingers tapped against the wall, trying to busy himself. He uttered a low prayer. A scream made him jump. Thomas shouted and screamed. He hissed. Nails dug deep into the skin. The wood shattered. Crimson dripped. His throat turned raw. He asked questions, screamed from the depths of his soul, needed to know what had happened. Agitation ceased and suddenly silence ruled with an iron fist. A lone tear rolled down his cheek. Wounded, shot clean into the heart, the man collapsed, abandoning the listener.

Taglist:

witchymoonbabe secretdreamlandmentality mysticalpandora kittiowolf210 muhahaha303 dreamy-caramel elinalfrida violet-19999 niyah834 watersquirtpewpewboomm piceous21 elliaze heidimoreton literishdegree99 globetrotter28 thecrazytealady regulusblacksimpsblog torresbarnes nightgirl250 sweet-angely05 hellomyweirdos mysticalbouquetwolf-posts batmanbiersack02-blog fulla02 regulusblacksimpsblog  smile-sugar calsjack muhahaha303  starry-night-reid chlorrox regulusblacksimpsblog 100percentlazybonez kenny-0909 diabolusdevia stuckinmylittlebubble  hobothejuggalo camomiletangeringe v7nt7 kiara-rose-blackthorn rangerelik abaker74 madsothree kittiowolf210 lucyandersons-world marigold-morelli meyocoko angelicwolfyqueen iwanttohitmyself pennywisesstuff batgurl42 sleepymadmess lolcaca yolobloggers lor-16 randomgirlwriting witchymoonbabe

[crescentmoons-and-stardust]

Twisted Tales: Trinity, The Third Sister

In the enchanted woods the sisters fled to every full moon there ran a long and glistening river. The river ran all the way to a far off sea until it merged with the lake in the witches’ glen. Every fall a strange group of fae traveled down the river and stayed near the lake throughout the winter. When they came bobbing through the water they looked like seals, a creature Trinity had only ever seen in books. But the creatures could shed their seal skin to walk among the humans. Their sleek seal skin cloaks always adorned their shoulders.

Trinity was sixteen the first time these seal fae creatures migrated for the winter. She was fascinated when they stepped out of the water, human and naked save for their cloaks. She enjoyed sitting by the lake and chatting with them every full moon.

This was how she met Sylvan. When Sylvan first stepped out of the water, she had been shocked by his nakedness. Shocked but fascinated at the first man she had ever seen so fully. All that fall and winter they exchanged flirtatious glances and shy remarks. She thought of him all that spring and summer and eagerly awaited his return. Sylvan had likewise yearned for Trinity and the two began to sneak off together on those handful of nights they spent together.

It wasn’t enough. She cherished the time they had together but she wanted more. She was eighteen and wanted a husband. Then she was nineteen and wanted a baby too. In her twentieth year she couldn’t contain it any longer.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave every Spring. I wish we had more time,” she told him.

“I wish that too my love, but it is within my nature to return to the sea.”

“I know it is. But I wish to marry. I wish for it to be you.”

The handsome fae hesitated before speaking again. “Some of my kind have mated with humans,” he said slowly. “Given up their cloaks to stay with their loved ones.”

Trinity was torn between asking this of him and snatching the cloak off at that very moment. But he continued.

“There is a way… but I can not tell you how. You must find that answer on your own.”

“Would you be happy giving up your cloak?” She asked.

He kissed deeply before replying. “Only for you.”

And so Trinity studied the grimoire. She visited the town’s library for books on the fae. She asked the other creatures of the glen for answers. Finally in an old dusty book she stumbled upon a passage about the selkies.

Selkies can not survive without their cloaks but a human can capture one by quickly replacing the cloak with another. But only if the other cloak is sown by hand from one that truly loves the selkie.

Trinity was thrilled to read this. She was an excellent seamstress and she went to the clothing shop that same day. She picked out a beautiful shimmery blue fabric for her love. Back at her home, she used a spool of real silver thread that she had been saving for a special occasion. She used it to sew the pieces together and embroider patterns all along it. 

She hid the cloak from Sylvan in her bag at the next full moon. Neither brought up their last conversation as they spent the night together. 

Building up her courage she cried: “Look at that over there!” 

With Sylvan distracted she tugged off his seal skin and draped the new cloak over his shoulders. He turned to her surprised but quickly a smile formed on his face. He kissed her and she kissed him. It had worked! He was hers and she was his. She envisioned their wedding as they kissed until suddenly he bit down sharply on her lip.

She gasped in pain but when she pulled away it was quickly forgotten. Sylvan was writhing on the ground in pain.

“Sylvan what is wrong?” She cried.

“What- what is this made out of?” He screamed, his voice full of agony. 

“It’s just cloth! And some thread.” She could not understand what was happening. He clawed at the clasp but hissed in pain as he touched the silver button she had used.

“Oh Trinity! Oh my love!” He cried again before rolling himself into the river. Trinity went to jump in after him but froze in horror as she watched Sylvan’s skin bubble under the river. His skin was flaking off and the bones underneath were dissolving. When Trinity screamed others came rushing to her aid but all that was left of Sylvan was a whitish foam on the river’s surface with his blue cloak among it.

A nymph pulled the cloak from the water but dropped it quickly.

“Silver?” She hissed.

“The. Thread,” Trinity managed through her sobs.

“Silver is poisonous to our kind! Why would you bring it here?”

“She didn’t know,” Suddenly her sister Verity was at her side. “She must not have known.”

“This is a harsh way to find out,” The nymph said sadly before melting away with the other fae folk. The other selkies fled almost immediately after they saw what had happened to their brother. Trinity knew they would never swim this way again.

At the next full moon, Trinity left an engraved stone at the spot of the lake she had last held her love. The beautiful cloak she had made with such care had been burned but she had saved Sylvan’s seal skin. She wore it all the time. Ladies in the village would fawn over the strange velvet of her rich cloak. They begged to know where she had gotten it.

“It was a gift from a man that I once wished to wed,” she’d reply.

In her dreams, Trinity would often see Sylvan. She’d be in a wedding gown, walking slowly to the lake. She’d keep walking as her feet got wet, then her knees, then her waist. She’d keep walking until she was fully submerged and there at the bottom of the lake Sylvan was waiting. He’d wrap his arms around his bride, trapping her below. Locked in his deadly embrace she’d feel free before waking back in her bed. Just a dream, her sisters would say. And Trinity would have believed that too if it hadn’t been for the seal skin hanging next to her bed, always damp to the touch afterwards with a small puddle forming slowly below it.

[insomniaruler]

What I think the Madrigals rooms look like

(going by age )

Alma - It’s extremely similar to the room she shared with Pedro in their old house but with a small memorial to Pedro. Casita can work in there

Julieta - It’s a relatively normal room but it has a very warm and welcoming aura. in her youth it was packed with soft comfy blankets and things for when her siblings slept in her room those left as she matured. but they returned as she had children.

Pepa - it’s a field with ever changing weather tied to her moods (Like her gift). Her bed and dresser are in a flowering meadow. she has a room with in her room where her emotions don’t affect the out side world. That just let’s her let it all out.

Bruno - When he first received his gift it was desert yes but the stairs were shorter and he actually had a small living space. But as he grew older And the towns folk grew more hostile and his mamá grew distant. the stairs grew taller and his living space shrunk. When he returned he had a theatre for his rats and a actual bed (he got to keep his chair, it to survived).

(ps. All the triplets have little hints of their siblings in their rooms)

Isabela - (we know what her room looks like) when she returns it has spots for her succulents and the flowers change into more native Colombian flowers. It also appears less castle like.

Dolores - Her room when she was small was completely soundproof but as she grew to control her gift the room changed to let her hear her family while inside. Visually it’s comparable to a zen garden with a river running through it. She also has a multitude of instruments most notably a tiple (12-string Colombian Guitar).

Luisa - it’s a beach with workout equipment, her bed is soft with a unicorn plush. She actually really enjoyed swimming before the responsibilities started to pile up.

Camilo - he has countless pictures of many people for ideas for shifting. his room all in all is like a theatre he practices his shifting on stage. When he was younger he put on shows for baby Antonio. His bed and things are back stage. He has chameleon stuffy from Mirabel.

Mirabel - she actually got a room after Casita’s fall it had a high quality seamstress’s table with all her craft things. She also has a new big bed instead of the single she had before. Casita can interact in her room.

Antonio - (we know what it looks like) it has a ton of animal beds and brushes and things. His tree has tiny hidy holes, in one he keeps the vision that Bruno threw away. He found it cool.

[greenhikingboots]

A Safe Stranger - Jonsa Ficlet

Woops. Hand slipped. Here’s another ficlet. I’ve been going through my Google Docs, simplifying half formed ideas and finishing them up. Summary for this one, so you know what you’re getting into (because it’s different than my usual stuff):  The owner of the Mole’s Town brothel has a gift for him. Nineteen and still a maiden, they say. And the prettiest thing in all the Seven Kingdoms.👀

In this life, nothing is certain apart from taxes, war, and death. Oh, and on occasion, brothers of the Night’s Watch will break their vows with Mole’s Town whores. That’s their version of the saying, anyway. Their Lord Commander, Jon Snow — murdered, resurrected, replaced, and eventually returned to them — is far past caring. When he was a green boy, he took his vows seriously. That is, he tried to. And he expected others to do the same. But so much has happened since then, so many terrible, heartbreaking things, that a bit of vow breaking here and there doesn’t really bother him anymore. For fuck’s sake, he broke his own vows with a wildlig. So who is he to judge? As long as his men aren’t hurting women, bruising them or forcing them to do things against their will — or gods forbid, putting a babe in them they’ll never help provide for — what does Jon care? -x- The owner of the Mole’s Town brothel has a gift for him. Nineteen and still a maiden, they say. And the prettiest thing in all the Seven Kingdoms. “The owner — she wants to thank you for restoring the Gift,” they tell Jon. “Says business has been booming ever since. Says you wouldn’t have to pay for the girl neither.” Jon allows the conversation to continue more for his amusement than anything else. “How could a girl living in a brothel still be a maiden?” he asks. “Serves drinks, plays the harp, and does the singing. Owner says it’ll stay that way until she’s heard from you. So you want the girl or not?” -x- Jon tries to be discreet about it, tries to keep it between him, the brothel’s owner, and the steward he sends with his answer. But of course his attempt fails. Before the steward even makes it back to Castle Black, all the men know. “Don’t want her unless you can have her in your own chambers?” they tease. “Is that you’re thinking, Lord Snow? We heard she’s meant to come back here with your steward.” Jon shakes his head, embarrassed but amused as well. “You’ll all kindly fuck off unless you want nothing but cold stew for the next fortnight,” he quips. “Thank you and goodnight.” -x- If the girl doesn’t want to fuck him, that’s fine. And if she doesn’t want to return to the brothel, that’s fine too. Jon’s prepared for both options. The latter might be tricky, logistically speaking, but he’ll find a way to make it work. Rickon Stark — Jon’s baby half-brother when last they saw each other, many, many years ago, but now known to be his cousin — serves as the young Lord of Winterfell. If need be, Jon will send the girl to work in his kitchens or be his seamstress or something of the sort. He’ll give her a chance to make an honest living, if that’s what she wants. What’s dishonest about sex work? It’s easy enough to imagine her asking such a thing. It’s the oldest occupation in the world. Everyone knows that. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Maybe that’s Jon wanting the girl to want him. It’s been a long time since he’s felt wanted. He aches at the memory of it. -x- When Jon sees the girl, he’s struck by how easily she could pass for a member of House Tully of Riverrun. If she dyed her hair auburn instead of its current shade of brown, she could even pass for a member of the family he grew up in. Another one of Lady Catelyn’s daughters. Face not as round as Sansa’s, but eyes just as blue, cheekbones just as high. “Shae Rivers, m’lord,” the girl says, giving a small bow. “Rivers?” Jon asks. “Natural born, then? Like me?” “Ah, but you weren’t, were you? Only thought you were for many years.” Jon scoffs. “My reputation precedes me, I see.” “It’s a good reputation, m’lord. You saved us all from those monsters beyond the Wall.” “And ushered in a Dragon Queen,” Jon challenges. That was the reason he’d been sent back to the Wall. Seems ridiculous not to acknowledge it. “But then you saved us from her too,” the girl — Shae says. But Jon is undeterred. Admit what I am, he thinks. Let’s have no secrets or half truths between us. “Which is worse, do you suppose,” he asks, “being a queenslayer or a kinslayer?” She doesn’t answer that question. “Take off your clothes, m’lord,” she says instead. -x- She’s meant to be his gift, and yet Jon can’t help but bury his face between her legs. He wants to feel her squirm with excitement, hear her moan with delight. After she’s done just that for several minutes, she wraps her fingers around his arm and tugs. “Come up here, Jon,” she commands. He doesn’t catch it at first, the change in what she’s called him. But soon he’s kissing the inside of her wrist, the one below the hand that tugged at him. And that’s when he sees it. A birthmark he recognizes. Jon stares, then rubs his thumb over it, the truth sinking in. Sansa — not Shae, definitely not — sits up and holds his face between her hands. “Don’t be angry with me,” she begs. Jon shakes his head. She’s alive. After all these years. He’s more likely to weep with relief than be angry. And yet— “Why would you want this?” he asks. “Why would you let me —” “It’s as I said earlier,” she interjects. Earlier, Jon gave her the option to go to Winterfell, to work in Rickon’s castle, just as he’d planned. But Sansa, still pretending to be Shae, had said she’d been running from dangerous men her whole life. One day, she was bound to be caught, bound to be forced to do things she didn’t want to do. “Not at Winterfell,” Jon tried to assure her. “You’re wrong. Terrible things happen to women even there. I’m sure of it,” she countered. “So I think I’ll take my chances with you, Lord Snow. You seem gentle enough. At least this way I might actually enjoy my first time.” -x- “I don’t regret it,” Sansa insists. “Unless — are you angry with me?” “If I’m angry with you, then you’ll regret it? Is that what you’re saying? Sansa… we were raised as brother and sister.” He still doesn’t understand. Why did she pretend not to know him? Why, when he spoke of Winterfell, did she not reveal the truth about who she was? Who she is . “Aye, we were raised that way,” she replies, “but that isn’t who we truly are to one another. And you're —” She huffs, frustrated. “You’re nearly a stranger to me! A safe stranger. But I suppose lies of omission are still lies, aren’t they? I don’t regret it, but I am sorry. Will you forgive me?” -x- It doesn’t make sense, how he can feel so differently than he knows he ought to. But after the initial shock wears off, Jon realizes that’s the case. The simple truth is that he still wants Sansa. And she wants him too. Even so, honor compels him. Her honor. Now that he knows who she really is, he tells himself to resist. And when they fall asleep sharing his bed, he makes sure to face the wall. Sometime before daybreak, she slips her arm around his waist. “Did you miss me?” she whispers in his ear. Jon’s sleepiness makes him unencumbered. He lifts Sansa’s fingers to his lips and kisses them gently. “I missed you desperately,” he admits. “Don’t you want to show me?” She slides her fingers under his shift. She kisses the crook of his neck. “Jon, please. Show me how much you missed me,” she begs. “Show me how happy you are to have me back in your life.” “I’ll show you,” Jon agrees. He rolls over, then straddles her waist. He kisses her mouth this time. It’s easy In the dark, where Sansa’s little more than shadows and curves and sparkly blue eyes. A safe stranger, as she said.

[faebanes]

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .   the  continent  welcomes  CATRIN  RAGIEL  of  THE  MORTAL  LANDS,  the  SEAMSTRESS  of  THE  WINTER  COURT.   when  the  CAULDRON  MADE  HIGH  FAE  is  glamoured,  she  bears  a  resemblance  to  SOPHIE  SKELTON.   the  26  /  29  year  old  CIS  WOMAN  is  reputed  to  be  CHARMING  and  ASTUTE,  but  a  decade  of  war  has  left  them  IMPATIENT  and  MEDDLESOME.   if  created  by  the  cauldron,  they  would  be  made  in  the  likeness  of  RED  LOCKS  IN  LOOSE  BRAIDS,  SPENDING  HOURS  PERFECTING  THE  PERFECT  DESIGN,  AND  WALKING  ALONG  THE  RIVERS  EDGE  ON  A  CLEAR  NIGHT.   whispers  throughout  prythian  claim  that  their  allegiance  lies  with  HERSELF,   where  they  conspire  to  ADJUST  TO  BECOMING  A  FAE  AND  HANDLE  THE  WORLD  SHE  NOW  LIVES  IN.

BASICS .

full  name.   catrin  ragiel  .

nicknames.   cat  . 

age.   twenty  six   /   twenty  nine  . 

hometown.   bharat,   the  mortal  lands,   the  continent  . 

current  location.   under  the  mountain  .

status.   unmated  . 

occupation.   seamstress  for  the  ruling  family  of  the  winter  court  .

gender.   cis  woman   /   she  +  her  .

orientation.   bisexual,   biromantic  . 

parents.   owain  ragiel   (   father  ,   deceased   )   &   mairwen  ragiel   (   mother  ,   deceased   )  .

siblings.   utp  ragiel   (   younger  sibling  ,   wc   )  . 

pets.   unofficially  a  fox  that  used  to  hang  around  the  entrances  to  the  palace  that  she  was  too  sweet  on  for  her  own  good  and  now  curls  up  at  the  end  of  her  bed  . 

languages  spoken.   the  common  tongue . 

allegiance.   herself,  the  winter  court  in  theory  .

APPEARANCE .

hair  color.   red  . 

eye  color.   green  . 

height.   5  feet  5  inches   /   165  cm  . 

scars.   faint  rings  around  her  wrists  and  ankles  from  ash  -  shackles  in  the  early  days  after  she  emerged  from  the  cauldron  . 

style.   fur  -  line  dresses  often  in  white  or  deep  blue,   preference  for  self  -  designed  outfits  that  she  has  added  small  details  to  ;   wears  more  tight  -  fitting  attire  but  often  hidden  beneath  warmer  layers  ;   still  includes  inherently  human  attire,   specifically  thick  sweaters  she  tugs  down  over  her  hands  .

MISCELLANEOUS .

alignment.   neutral  good  . 

strengths.   charming,   astute,   detail  -  oriented  .   

weaknesses.   impatient,   meddlesome,   guarded  . 

aesthetic.   red  locks  worn  in  loose  braids,   spending  hours  perfecting  the  ideal  design,   walking  along  the  rivers  edge  on  a  clear  night,   a  dusting  of  snowflakes  in  ones  eyelashes,   a  yearning  for  a  life  long  left  behind  and  one  that  could  never  be  returned  to  . 

media  inspiration.   america  singer   (   the  selection   ),   alice  cullen   (   twilight   ),   eloise  bridgerton   (   bridgerton   ),   ellie   (   the  last  of  us   ),   donna  noble   (   doctor  who   )  .

BIOGRAPHY .

trigger  warning  for   :   parent  death,  ptsd,  kidnapping  (  mentioned  /  implied  ),  torture  (  non  -  descript  ),  war  mentions,  general  just  ...  trauma  .

you  are  the  firstborn  of  only  two,  barely  any  time  passing  between  you  and  your  younger  sibling,  but  both  doted  on  by  parents  all  the  same.  you  spend  much  of  your  early  years  in  the  streets  of  bharat,  your  parent’s  home,  developing  a  love  for  rich  spices  and  fine  cloths  and  remaining  ignorant  to  the  suffering  in  the  black  lands.

your  mother  is  a  seamstress,  selling  wares  to  travelers  and  mending  clothes  for  the  locals,  and  you  linger  at  her  elbow  watching  in  wide  -  eyed  wonder.  you  hold  your  first  sewing  needle  with  the  reverence  of  a  man  taking  to  his  knees  in  prayer,  and  you  don’t  look  back.

you  are  twelve  when  parents  put  your  family  on  a  ship  to  the  mortal  lands  just  south  of  prythian,  settling  in  a  coastal  town  just  south  of  the  spring  court.  the  fae  are  stories  of  warning  meant  to  deter  you  and  your  sibling  from  venturing  too  far  down  the  coast  to  the  looming  forest’s  edge.  it  works,  and  you  do  not  ask  questions.

your  father  supervises  your  educations,  and  mother  teaches  you  a  trade  that  you  will  carry  with  you  for  the  rest  of  your  life,  and  life  goes  on.  you’re  barely  into  adulthood  when  the  war  begins,  and  it  is  your  first  taste  of  the  horrible  things  you’ve  only  ever  heard  stories  of.

sheltered  childhood  only  serves  to  hurt  you  as  the  years  passed,  no  trained  fighter  and  fearing  the  war  that  ravaged  the  lands  you’d  come  to  call  home.  you  were  certain  your  home,  your  family,  could  make  it  out  unscathed,  but  fire  soon  spread  through  the  seaside  town.  in  the  markets  when  the  attack  began,  you  had  rushed  home  to  find  it  ablaze,  the  screams  of  your  parents  inside.

it  haunts  you  still,  and  with  no  time  to  find  where  your  sibling  might’ve  gone,  alive  or  in  danger,  you  seek  out  the  one  place  you  were  warned  not  to  go,  straight  into  the  faerie  lands.

you  spend  some  time  seeking  refuge  in  the  spring  and  summer  courts,  enough  to  know  that  there  were  some  fae  that  did  not  hold  the  views  of  hybern,  or  the  queen,  some  that  showed  kindness  and  compassion  for  all  that  was  lost,  and  all  that  was  still  to  lose.

but  one  unfortunately  interaction  led  you  into  the  hands  of  the  king  of  hybern,  a  mortal  plaything  locked  up  and  treated  as  little  more  than  test  subject  for  his  nefarious  deeds.  put  on  display,  meant  to  act  as  dutiful  servant,  and  yet  the  king  of  hybern  still  saw  a  spark  in  you,  as  fiery  as  your  hair,  that  kept  you  alive  just  that  little  longer.

with  the  cauldron  in  his  grasp,  and  no  shortage  of  potential,  the  king  knew  what  he  was  doing  when  he  dragged  you,  kicking  and  screaming,  into  it.  he  was  showing  the  world  what  power  lay  in  his  hands,  what  he  could  do  to  defiant  and  obedient  mortals  alike.

when  you  emerged  from  those  murky  depths,  you  were  not  the  same  as  when  you  entered  it;  ears  pointed  where  smooth  curve  had  once  been,  limbs  foreign  and  difficult  to  adjust  too  —  like  small  child  still  learning  to  carry  themselves,  and  as  familiar  as  you  were  unrecognizable  when  you  first  saw  yourself  again.  

but  the  memories  of  your  time  in  the  cauldron,  that  short  eternity,  and  the  human  nightmares,  oh  how  they  lingered  still.  and  how  they  lingered  even  when  rescue  came  in  the  form  of  a  fleet  of  summer  court  ships,  or  sanctuary  was  found  within  dawn  courts  borders.

it  took  months  to  gather  any  sense  of  bearings,  and  more  months  still  to  even  considering  returning  to  the  things  you’d  once  enjoyed  doing.  but  you  found  that  busying  your  hands  stilled  the  turmoil  in  your  mind,  and  mending  armor  and  dressing  the  members  of  the  dawn  court  became  more  necessity  than  joy.

you  spend  another  almost  two  years  in  the  dawn  court,  labeled  an  oddity  and  studied  endlessly,  not  even  you  could  understand  what  of  the  cauldron’s  powers  had  turned  you  fae.  nor  did  you  want  to,  cursing  the  very  thing  that  took  away  your  mortality  and  thrust  you  into  a  life  where  you  would  never  quite  fit  in.  feared  by  mortals,  disregarded  by  fae.  

and  when  the  offer  came  to  join  the  winter  court  as  the  royal  seamstress,  you  were  eager  to  oblige,  and  you’ve  been  content  to  remain  amidst  the  snow  and  furs  until  the  time  came  to  venture  to  the  mountain.

TLDR .

human  seamstress  made  high  fae  via  the  cauldron  after  being  forced  to  watch  her  parents  die  and  having  to  flee  into  the  faerie  lands  in  search  of  respite,  only  to  be  captured  and  tortured  by  the  king  of  hybern.  was  eventually  able  to  seek  refuge  in  dawn  court,  though  it  took  her  about  a  year  to  well  and  truly  recover,  now  she  works  for  the  winter  court  and  just  pours  herself  into  her  work  to  take  her  mind  off  of  the  trauma  that  haunts  her  still.  has  a  sibling  that  is  still  alive  but  she  has  spent  about  the  last  5-6  years  thinking  was  dead  and  doesn’t  know  any  different  so,  you  know.