#she claims they were all blessed with prayers to keep him safe

[randomnameless]

Reading your headcanons, if Willy was a Great Holy Knight with bold healer, what was Lycaon?

Oh!

A stylised version of the hero class!

(don't make fun of him, his mommy picked the class for him :(, and uncle birdie gave him one of his feathers to put on his helmet to help him "channel magic" since he is "lousy" at it, per his words)

Labraunda being a switchaxe, I guess he'd have mastery over sword and axe ranks (taught by uncle Cichol!) and an acceptable rank in brawling ("playing" with uncle Indech!) adding to his prf class that he can use magic, and in general has better stats around than an usual Hero class (think of how stupidly broken promoted!Alm was, let's say Macuil's enchanted feather on his helmet gives +1 to magic range), inferior to Rhea's stats, of course, but on another plane of existence compared to his dad, when it came to fighting.

Tl;Dr : unlike Willy, Lycaon was a good unit.

Of course being a #badass on the battlefield didn't help him at all when he was stabbed at home (tfw he didn't take his feathered helmet with him).

[thedepressexpress]

in case anyone is interested in learning some stories about islam

some background, in Islam, there are lots of different prophets and they were blessed with special gifts. the prophets all had friends that are called companions and they're collectively considered the best of humanity.

during the days of Hazrat Sulaiman (King Solomon), his people were walking through an area but he heard an ant say to its fellow ants to hurry into the colony so they don't get trampled and Sulaiman stopped to pray and thank god that he could do righteous things like being mindful of the life around him

the last prophet, who's also the most famous and considered the best of humanity, Hazrat Muhammad, had a cat named Muezza who he loved so much he didn't mind drinking water that Muezza stuck his face in

Hazrat Muhammad loved Muezza so much that when he was called to prayer and Muezza was sitting on his sleeve, he chose to cut off his sleeve rather than disturb Muezza

there was a woman who used to throw garbage on Hazrat Muhammad every time he had to walk by her house on his way but one day she didn't so he knocked and went into her house and saw that she was sick so he nursed her back to health

Hazrat Muhammad called his younger cousin Ali, Abu Turab, or Father of Dirt because he fell asleep in a mosque absolutely COVERED in dirt

on the way to Makkah (where Hazrat Muhammad was born and basically abused and thrown out of when he became a prophet, he was coming back to claim it in peace) there was a dog and her puppies in the path that his army had to walk through so the prophet gave the dog family their own guard to keep them safe while they walked through

Hazrat Muhammad, again, the single most important human being in Islam, was praying with his head to the ground (prostrating) and his grandkids climbed on to his back so he just stayed there until they had their fun and got off and then continued his prayer

there's a lot of poetic justice on the day of judgement so people who were arrogant are turned into ants, people who masturbated will have pregnant hands, real creative stuff

there was a battle of trenches where the Muslims dag hide trenches to protect their one exposed side and without resources like water and food, to suppress hunger, the diggers would tied a stone to their stomach and pressure would make them feel less hungry. they went to complain to the Hazrat Muhammad that it wasn't fair. when they reached him where he was digging in a different part, he just lifted his shirt to show them that he had two stones tied to his stomach too.

once Hazrat Muhammad was sleeping at his companions house and early morning on Eid (think Christmas level celebration) the companion's daughters were singing while the prophet was asleep. his companion was telling his daughters to quiet down because he, the most important person, was sleeping and the prophet wakes from his sleep to basically say it's Eid. it's a day to celebrate. let them sing even if it disrupts my sleep.

Khalid bin Walid, one of the companions was so fucking sick, he was called the sword of god and during one of his battles he broke nine swords. he broke nine swords. he was also ambidextrous and fought with two swords.

disclaimer: I am not a religious scholar, I just know some things. For reference, I was born, raised and schooled in Islam for a really long time. I am not a Muslim, so please feel free to correct me or add on any religious stories from any religion.

[virtuouscandlelight]

{ 🕯 }

Once upon a time, long long ago, a young Virtue angel had finally been tasked to leave Heaven grounds and perform miracles and blessings in solitude. Having been used to shadowing peers on Earth and scarcely other universes, Candle gained a new sense of pride in doing well enough that the higher rankings in the choir entrusted her with deeds on her own —

And had been sent down to begin in a relatively untouched area.

The fantasy world of Neverland.

Days of effortlessly helping wishes come true, answering prayers, and looking after the strange inhabitants only boosted her confidence even more, hardly finding a person or creature’s wish to be too difficult. Violence was never exactly shown up in Heaven nor was it seen as often in Neverland, as the angel was used to straying away from trouble and watching from afar whenever quarrels would stir between colleagues. Simply said, the woman was a die hard pacifist — she could not harm even a bug. It was almost disgustingly sweet and endearing. Sure, there would be quarrels here and there on Neverland as well that required her to step in and break up the heated discussion between merfolk or children, but rarely would genuinely hard fists be thrown.

All bark and no bite, she insists.

Thriving in Neverland felt much more easing than lounging in Heaven. It became rather boring and dull repeating the same routines and scenes over and over and over again. Waking up in her same old cathedral, seeing the same old people that never bat an eye in her direction, listening to the same old discussions about keeping Heaven safe and standing, reading the same old boards with designated areas for assistance, shadowing the other angels and envying how they got to do the tasks she wanted to perform on her own, returning back to the same old pearly gates, rinse and repeat. Everything was so incessantly the same dry routine that it nearly drove her mad with boredom. Everything being nice and sweet and gentle made her gradually wish for something troubling to occur.

Freedom. That’s all the angel ever wanted. A taste of freedom, a lick of true company, companionship, love, an adventure without authoritative interference ! Something to claim as her own — and only her own — and that was Neverland.

. . .

Amber eyes promptly popped open as Eleanor felt a cold shudder of dread nearby. Swiftly sitting up from her relaxation in the clouds and startling the sheep slumbering next to her, Candle squinted down at the sight of a blurry concoction of neon pumpkin, bright sunlight, distant hollering . . . gunfire. The iron - penny scent of blood. Emotions of distress, agony, despair — death. Dandelion bleated worriedly, to which his owner reassured everything would be alright and she’d inspect for any survivors and return as fast as she could, hopping off the edge of the cloud.

A part of her was cryptically elated. At last, a luxurious bite of action ! Of something that wasn’t simple ! Something that required a challenge, an adventure, not a simple prayer of finding a dumb fruit or person ! A true fight, true chaos, true dilemma !

And it was horrific, alright.

Bodies both deceased and mortally wounded littered sunken ships and clung to life boats. People coated in ash and debris scrambled for cover as bombs erupted and cannonballs shrieked, blood stained the pristine waves, humans were jabbing one another with knives and swords and whatever they could get their grubby hands on. It took Eleanor a moment to really drink in the unexpected scenario before she rushed into action, swiftly hopping over broken pieces of ships and the fallen to aid the nearest cry for help,

“ No worries, no worries, it’ll be alright — “

The Virtue followed back, kneeling down to the captain and extending a gloved hand. Amongst the foggy smoke and discord, the angel illuminated a golden aura, the wicks upon her candles energetically dancing with the eagerness to assist — those amber eyes staring down at him warmly anything but human. Attentive ears picked up on the sound of splashing relatively close to the two and her lips turned downwards in alarm, irises flickering briefly to the side to notice the culprit — a giant crocodile.

“ . . What is that thing ? Is that why you’re so distressed ? Or are you injured as well ? “

Now she’s just as alarmed.

Never did she fend off a huge, scaly reptile.

{ @starsailingcaptain 🤍 }

[princecosmosanon]

Zukka Fic Idea: Lunar Phototaxis

Originally I described this one as “Zuko is a sacrifice to the moon god (Sokka) and ends up becoming the consort of the moon god (Zukka)” which is pretty basic. This one is most straightforward story idea I have currently, at least in my opinion.

Warnings: mentions of rape/non-con, child and adult slavery/prostitution, mentions of pedophilia, referenced suicide, suicidal ideation and human sacrifice. Most of these happen before the events of the story and will mostly be mentioned, not happen concurrently with the main story itself.

Background details: In this AU, Zuko was born into a rich family off the coast of a continent still known as the Fire Nation, but they are not royalty. For most of Zuko’s childhood he had a normal life, but after his mother passed away (possible suicide) when Zuko was 14 life changed very dramatically. It turned out, much of their family’s wealth, while being somewhat related to trade, was also brought in by Zuko’s father selling their mother to his other rich “friends” which she agreed to do in order to protect her children.

Once Ursa was gone, Ozai instead switched to selling Zuko. Zuko figured it would only be a matter of time before Azula would be abused in the same way, so he prayed to Agni, the Sun god, to protect her. He figured he could endure it, as long as he could save her; and it seemed his prayer was answered.

His uncle Iroh, who was often traveling and doing actual merchant business, happened to visit and offered to take one of the children with him on a journey to the other continent (Earth Kingdom), and Zuko convinced both Iroh and Azula it was better for her to go. She did, and after a time Ozai and Zuko received a letter saying Azula had been selected to join an order of highly skilled warriors (Kyoshi warriors) and would be sending home some of her pay as time went on, cementing her in a safe place away from their father.

Zuko, though very grateful for his answers prayer, did start to feel bitter towards his situation. He didn’t have to “entertain” often but as he got closer to 18 he wondered how his father would get by after Zuko was technically an adult and could leave.

Turns out he couldn’t leave. Ozai had Zuko locked into his room, and claimed to outsiders that Zuko was troubled/ill in order to secure his claim on him and continue to use him for cash. By this point, it didn’t seem fair that he had no way out; even the window had bars on it to keep him from escaping or taking his own life. No matter how much he begged Agni he couldn’t seem to find the same blessing of peace, and Zuko began to curse his god instead, feeling only hopeless despair.

Then, at the peak of summer during Zuko’s 19th year, there was a solar eclipse. The phenomenon, while not impossible was still seen as a bad omen, as it was not predicted for another 50 years. It seemed the planets had fallen out of alignment, and the seas turned dark and stormy for weeks on end.

The story actually begins here, when Zuko is just past 20 years of age, thin from little to no exercise, pale from lack of sun, and bruised from abuse. His father, supposedly gaining clarity after receiving a strange letter from Iroh, declared the twin deities of the Moon and Sea had grown jealous of Agni and demanded blood. A sacrifice was needed to appease them and bring the warmth of the sun back to their coast.

Zuko, who in his adulthood has “lost his appeal” for many of Ozai’s less than savory friends, was taken from his cage of a room and sent out to sea, alone in a small boat, bound with no way to free himself and swim to shore. Zuko was resigned to the fate awaiting him, figuring it would be better to die than remain languishing in his room any longer.

Despite the harsh rain and rocking waves, the boat seemed to naturally remain upright despite it all, like the ocean were guiding him through the storm until there was not a speck of land in sight. Then, suddenly, the heavens cleared and the full moon shone down upon the abruptly still sea. Zuko’s boat, hitting the moonlight, sunk into the reflection of the moonbeams on the water. When Zuko should have drowned, instead it was like he was hit with a strong gust of air, and like that, he had entered the Realm of the Night Sky.

From there, Zuko meets Yue, the caretaker of the stars, one of the Moon god’s first High Priestesses who was welcomed into the Realm upon her death. She leads Zuko to the heavenly alter room where the twin gods, once known as Tui and La, are overseeing a procession of minor deities and spirits offer up sacrifices. One can only stay in the Realm if they offer something, and Zuko realizes he has nothing to offer but himself. So he does, fully expecting the worst, but the Moon god only takes a kiss.

Being touched by a god is overwhelming, and Zuko passes out only to wake in an empty bedroom. From there, he learns a lot of things, like how the Realm of the Night Sky works, what the other denizens do there, who Tui and La (who now go by Sokka and Katara) truly are, and why he was brought here in the first place.

A few little spoilers; Sokka started taking a male form after he changed his name, but he can change his body’s form after every new moon. And Zuko, despite now being in a godly realm, is still technically mortal though his age is suspended while he lives there as time doesn’t work the same in a world made for gods.

Anyway, shout out to @justaloadofgarbage-blog for being interested in this story idea! It’s pretty dark, especially the background stuff, but the story is supposed to be bittersweet. I have a lot of ideas on how I want to move things forward, but I don’t have any clear “end” in mind, so for now this will remain as notes.

[booksweet]

Could I request a Gojo fic/drabble/whatever based around Halsey’s song Colors?? I feel like it fits Gojo perfectly. Angsty. Fluffy. Whatever you’re feeling.

Hollow Purple

starring: sorcerer!Gojo x human!reader

synopsis: there was happiness when blue and red met, but they didn't know grey would claim their place in between them.

contents/warnings: ANGST, SFW, slightly mention of blood, trauma, violence (if I miss something, please warn me), both reader and Gojo are 18+

WC: + 2k

A/N: hello, anon! I swear to god I tried to make it a fluff, but I coulnd't, it screamed angst on my mind. This request reminded me I'm into writing pain stuff like my heart was broken a thousand times, and I wish I could say sorry for the pain, but I'm NOT hahaha no regrets. Enjoy!

tags @noritoshiikamo

main navi | masterlist

You were gone. You were gone and destroyed every piece of him, every inch of him were carved by you.

He knew by the first time he saw you that you'd have so much power over him, you could end him without even using words.

And that's what happened.

You with your beautiful eyes, and beautiful red dress. You broke him.

His blue eyes now devoid of bright, of color.

But he knew it was his fault.

His fault to insist bringing you to his world while you should've had stayed in yours, oblivion to everything related to jujutsu. Yet, he couldn't regret it. He would never regret meeting you, and being with you this whole time until you got apart.

There he was, above the skies, searching for cursed spirits who ran away from him, their fear reasoned since he was the strongest above all. He couldn't care less about their feelings. Within the curtain, without non-jujutsu sorceres, he just wanted to finish that spirits as fast as he could to call his day off and eat some sweets.

"Guess I'll have to go a little rough now, uh?" With a movement of his hands, he felt his cursed energy shaking inside him like an ocean of power, such powers had he overwhelmed by years until he could plenty control them.

But suddenly he felt another presence, aside cursed spirits and jujutsu sorcerers, he felt a human presence. With a frown of his browns, he took off his blindfolds, revealing beautiful blue eyes, in order to find out who or what was that feeling. His flowing energy all at once disrupted.

And then, he found you. He found you walking calmly through the lonely streets wearing a red dress he could never forget. "What an interesting..." He muttered checking out if you were truly human, six-eyes working hard to find it and, when he was certainly of it, his interest on you just grew even harder.

You were about to cross an alley between two buildings and he took the chance to teleport there by connecting his hands. You took a few steps and stopped to admire some store's window and he couldn't help but wonder how you were still there in that chaotic place so relaxed and withou fear.

"Who are you?" He came closer to you and you stepped back with surprise, staring at that tall white-haired man with suspicious eyes and a smirk on his lips.

"Who's wanna know?" Your hands ready to punch his face if he dared to try something on you. His growing interest reached alarming levels as his heart bumped hard on his chest.

"I'm Gojo Satoru," He said without approaching you, and with a bow, he added. "The strongest above all. At your service."

"The strongest?" You said while lifting your chin up to him in defiance. "Oddly of you to say that, isn't?"

And he at that right moment, he knew he was lost. He was lost to you.

- x -

He was supposed to protect you, he was supposed to take care of you ever since you met. Instead, he brought you danger, he brought you pain, he brought you despair.

What's the point of being blessed with six-eyes if he couldn't protect the only one he cared the most?

Not a bless, but a curse. A sin held upon his shoulders. A burden so heavy he couldn't breath.

A sin so harmful that had stained you. Your naive soul. Innocent. Heavenly.

And he missed you. He missed your red lips. You red clothes. He missed how your smile seemed to warm him just like the red sunset you two watched once. His blue eyes missed staring at your for hours, drowning in yours.

Blue and red.

Red and blue.

Two parts independent from each other, yet they floated against them, their souls wiling to be one.

Convergence and divergence.

Divergence and convergence.

And when both opposites reunite...

The second time you met, Gojo wasn't on a mission and you weren't in danger at all. You had an average day and stopped by a coffee shop to drink some hot coffee, eat your favorite sweet and maybe read your favorite book just to get away from craziness of your life, you wanted to relax. You were at your favorite table, alone, and the costumers were passing around you and you weren't giving them attention when the doorbell left out a "ring!".

He couldn't help but desire some sweets, it was his nature as sweet-eater. He knew he would bring attention to him, he was tall, handsome as hell and was wearing a blindfold, of course everyone would've looked at him.

But you hadn't looked at him. You didn't even take your eyes out of the pages to check what happend at the cafe. Nevertheless, once again you caught his attention and he recognized you from your first meeting. "What do we have here?" He muttered with a glimpse of a smile on the corner of his lips.

He ordered a chocolate cake and signed the waiter to take it to your table. Meanwhile, he moved his long legs on tour way, like you were a force bringing him closer and closer each step. He moved the chair loudly and had his seat in front of you. "Hello, Y/N! Long time no see, ugh?"

Surprised by his suddenly entrance, you put your book down and looked straight at him. That weird man you met months ago, still you felt different about him. "Long time no see, strongest above all" you replied playfully. "What bring your majesty up here?"

— x —

When you third met, it was your first date. That turned into a second, and then a third, a fourth... And suddenly you were about all his life, above your weird friendship. All at once you became the one he needed the most to feel himself.

Yet he chose not to tell you about jujutsu. He chose not to tell you about his powers. About why he couldn't stay a little longer with you at your place. About where he would've been travel out of city for weeks without giving any news if he was okay.

He dissapeared for weeks in a roll. And you worried about him. About his blue eyes. You worried about never going to see him again, even though you didn't figure out what you feared at all.

Once, he came back of one of those long trips, after several weeks of nothing about him, but what he gave you to remind of him — his shirt, a photograph of you two, one of his blindfolds.

And you couldn't help but cry while kissing him. You couldn't help but to say you loved him you never wanted for him to disappear. And he would retrieve, he would say he loved you so hard you had him in your hands. He was yours to be loved, to be destroyed.

The strongest on his knees at a human's mercy.

Had never his eyes sight such a colorful being, such a colorful existence. He was at your mercy, his existence, his entire being was yours to paint, to stain, to rip him apart if you wanted.

And then, when you two lay down together, messy sheets and pillows. Blue and red met once again, but not apart, they were together. That time blue and red turned into a beautiful tone of purple.

— x —

Someday you would find out, he knew it. Yet, he still longed for time to be with you, time to be himself without necessarily being the strongest, the head of his clan, the balance between cursed spirits and jujutsu sorcerers.

But he knew he had no time, you had no time with him. There wasn't enough time with jujutsu and curses. They would've come for you by anytime.

He masked his worries from you. He always seemed so happy in his nonchalant and playful way. Always trying to annoy you and make you laugh everytime you spent together.

You mocked the "strongest above all" out of him every opportunity you had. And this had him caring about you more and more.

But then it wasn't a joke anymore.

Jujutsu were real.

Cursed spirits were real.

And you were just a human.

Alone.

Blood. Red. Everything is red. Everything is blood. Pain. You were in pain screaming. You couldn't see what hurt you, but that ominous feeling was still there in your place. "What happened? What happened? Who are you? Who are you?" You couldn't help keep muttering it like a prayer, thinking of Gojo who was to come by and see your hurt state.

But Gojo Satoru felt the overflowed cursed energy arisen from your place. His bare eyes naked with worry and, for the first time, fear. And then he broke. Every piece of him.

He found you on the floor, muttering non-sense words — including his name in your dizzy state — blood running over you limbs, torso and head. A cut on your beautiful face. And above you, at the ceiling, that goddamn cursed spirit laughing out loud mocking you. Mocking your pain. Your despair.

He ran out of control. He released this powers untamed, uncontrolled. In a blink of an eye he exorcised that cursed spirit from existence. He was furious, feral. He could bring fire to the world if it means to keep you safe, to keep you alive. "Y/N?" He came closer to you, checking out your pulse as his hand held your wrist. It was so weak his heart almost stopped. "Don't leave me, please. You don't deserve to die."

— x —

When everything fell apart, he took you to Shoko at Jujutsu High nursery. She healed your physical wounds in silence while he stayed by your side. You kept unconscious the process, sometimes mumbling while your expression turned into a painful one.

When you woke up at his place, you said nothing. Nothing came out from your mouth, even though he tried to make you speak. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks. You could hear him say "Love, love, love, please, talk to me" in a desperate broken tone.

Yet you couldn't say a thing.

When purple turned into grey, everything faded away. Everything blurred.

Happiness overpowered by despair and pain. You were broken such as the beautiful thing you two had.

"Y/N, please, please, I'm begging," Once more his voice muffled on your ears. Why they hold such pain? "I'm on my knees, Y/N, please, come back, come back to me."

He told you the truth about him so many times expecting some reaction, something from you. Yet he received anything at all. You were numb to reality, there was nothing he could do about that.

But one day, after weeks and weeks of him trying to call you back, you spoke for the first time. Pale eyes meeting him lifeless. And he felt his world falling apart again. "I want to go" You whispered and he widened his pretty eyes full of tears.

"What, Y/N?"

"I want to leave. I wanto to go away from here. Take me out, take me out, take me out..." You kept saying repeatdly, each time a knife stabbing his heart.

"Y/N, love..." He tried to touch your hair, but you moved away from him.

"No, no," You muttered afraid. "It's your fault. The monsters. The blood. The pain..." You shrunk yourself in your bed, crying. "The nightmares. It's your fault." Your crying getting louder and louder. "I wish I could forget you."

"Y/N, I-I," He struggled his words, afraid and crying. "You know I can protect you, you know I will."

Your voice cold in his ears aside your tears. "No, you can't."

— x —

Blue bright eyes once, but not anymore. Not when the reason they shone for now It's gone. When you've chosen to forget him since your accident.

That was what you asked, to forget. To forget the pain, the blood the nightmares, him...

It was quite easy to manipulate your memories, cursed energy manipulation and then it's done. Not that it means it did not hurt him, but it had to be done.

When light came back to your eyes, Gojo's bright faded away.

When you smiled red, blue was not his color anymore.

When your life was colorful, his was grey and devoid of any color.

Red and blue turned into purple. His heart was craved by yours, when you were together.

Purple danced in front of his eyes as his memories overflowed his mind. Blue eyes crying because of red.

Blue eyes seeing grey because now red is gone forever and blue is alone.

[cheekygreenty]

Little Witch - Part 21

The Darkling x Reader

The atmosphere in the Palace was welcoming and enjoyable yet you couldn't help but dampen the mood of those around you. Your smiles were visible fake, your laughs as forced as the diplomacy of the evening. It was hard to focus on anything but the Queen's request, you could still feel her cold touch on your hands, could still hear her voice as if she was standing next to you. Some would say being in the presence of the Royals was a blessing by the Saints, but to you it was a sudden blight; a curse.

The duties and obligations you had were out the window now as you looked for the particular head of red flame hair, completely ignoring the Kerch ambassador and his slurring words of trade agreements.

Did Genya tell her General that the charming Lantsov Prince was soon to be wed to the Deputy of the Second-army? Or did she keep that part to herself? You had a feeling it was the latter given Aleksander's behavior earlier but what if he knew- What if his obedient spy told him everything and he was looking at your predicament as an opportunity, even though it would hurt you to the core and shatter your moral values. There's nothing he wouldn't do for more power.

'Deputy Y/L/N, I presume?' A man in a military uniform adorned with colorful medals approached you from the side, silently shooeing the Kerch man away and taking his place despite your obvious air of hostility. You were in no mood for diplomacy.

'The one and only.'

'So I have heard.' You could make out the smallest tinge of an accent reminiscent of a Fjerdan rhythm through the spoken words. His blonde hair and long beard tell-tale signs of his druskelle service and enough for your anger to flare. 'Tell me, what kind of Grisha are you?' You didn't miss the disgust dripping from the word as he forced it through his teeth. No doubt he hated himself for being here.

'A powerful one.'

'More powerful than the Sun-Summoner?'

'Much.'

'I won't forget that.'

'I hope you don't. Tell your people too, it'll save me some time and perhaps some lives.'

'Is that a threat Deputy?'

'Yes' He snorted and looked around the lively room.

'Fjerda isn't here to fight tonight, we're here to party. I thought it would be the same for you, no?'

'I don't keep peace with people who wish my kind dead.'

'Neither does your General. But the West, I'm not too sure they're on the same page'

You bit back the urge to smack the tall man stone-cold. The West was a tricky situation that had been playing heavily on your mind for as long as you could remember. Although it was Ravka, Grisha were no longer safe there. Zlatan was coercing with the Fjerdans to capture Grisha in exchange for military backup and as much as it angered you to keep the First-Army General alive, it would create a whole other problem if he was found dead.

'West Ravka is Ravka. All Zlatan is is a mere General of the First-Army. He's no King.'

'You would be surprised. People would listen to a stableboy if he spoke of truth and justice.'

'And would Fjerda back him up too?'

He smirked and gave a nod of his head in amusement at your raging eyes. 'You drüsje get so worked up over words. It's actions that matter.'

'Not here in Ravka. Remember where and what you are. Then think of what half of this room can do to you' Without so much as a goodbye, you walked away from him with a huff and continued looking for Genya. You hadn't even seen Aleksander make an appearance yet but you didn't think you wanted to see him, not after your conversation with the Queen.

We wish for you to marry my son

Every time you thought you had shaken the haunting request, it came back with a shiver up your spine. It went against everything you ever believed in. You hated the crown, the Lantsov line, you hated the Ravka they created. But this didn't feel like something you could reject. It wasn't a proposal, it was an alliance.

You turned your head to the doors and watched as Zoya clambered up the stairs in her stunning blue silk kefta. Behind her, a Suli performer climbed up on her silks as if it were all she'd ever known. Her body swung gracefully and smoothly, not batting an eyelid at all her observers. It was memorizing and distracting, something for which you were thankful.

'Haven't you got some Dukes and Ministers to babysit?' Zoya appeared beside you, eyeing up the empty glass in your hand.

'Let them roam free for the night'

'As long as they're not groveling over me'

'Because your presence is so much more captivating than the Sun-Summoners' You rolled your eyes and made your way to get a new, full, glass.

'Thank you for finally admitting it'

'Where's Genya Saffin?'

She made a face and took a glass to, bringing it up to her lips and taking a small sip.

'With Alina. Why?'

'Oh nothing, just some details to hash out about Marie attending dinner' You covered up. 'I spoke with a Fjerdan dignitary. He had no problem hiding that West Ravka is coming to their aid.' Zoya was a good soldier and a great tactician, if you were to tell anyone such sensitive information, it would definitely be Zoya.

'I overheard a Zemeni ambassador say they were spotted at Zlatan's rallies. He's raising his ranks whilst our own coffers run out. We can't afford a war with each of our borders'

'Try telling the King that' The Lantsov King. Nikolai's father. Nikolai.

'Saints are you alright?' Zoya looked at you with wide eyes, then to the broken glass crumbling in your hand. You had been clutching it so hard you managed to smash it and slice the palm of your hand.

'Oh umm- I need a moment' You disposed of the glass on a nearby table and basically ran to the nearest washroom. Crimson red blood dripped slowly from your fingers as you tried to keep it from staining your kefta while you closed the door behind you.

This was the first moment since your talk with the Queen where you were alone. Truly alone, no ambassador looming over your shoulder or a Duke at your side. Alexander, Alina, and Genya were still nowhere to be seen and the demonstration would begin shortly but all you wanted to do was stay in this tiny and stuffy room, shut off from everything. You washed your hand down with water, hissing in pain as the water tinted red and carried away the signs of injury. The quarters were quiet and calm, a stark contrast to the liveliness in the hall not often seen in the Little Palace.

The Little Palace tended to be quiet, but the Grand Palace was different. The Grand Palace. The winter home of the Lantsovs. Nikolai. Marriage.

The gentle tears came like a surprise, rolling down your face with grace. 'Fuck me' was all you could say as your head rested on your uninjured hand. You still felt exhausted and overwhelmed now even more so but you liked to think you hid it well. What good was a Deputy in emotional turmoil at a party full of political vultures?

The door to the small space suddenly opened and none other than Genya Saffin walked in with ease only she possessed. She looked at you in shame then fixed her attention on her shoes, not meeting your broken gaze.

'I take it you spoke with Tatiana?'

'Why didn't you tell General Kirigan?' You sniffed and wrapped your hand in a handkerchief, not bothering to wipe away the tears that you continued to cry.

'I felt it wasn't my place'

'Why?' Your voice cracked, slightly distracting you but the meaning to your question was obvious. Why me?

'She wished to squelch his bastardry rumors with your standing reputation.'

'Does he know?'

'She wrote him, but he has yet to respond.'

'Why not Vasily? Is it to make sure a Grisha never sits on the throne?'

She stayed quiet, toying with her sleeve. 'She says you have the air of a false Queen but the mind of a demon'

'Nothing new there' You laughed and straightened up, using the handkerchief on your hand to pat your face dry, diminishing any last sign of your weak moment away. 'Is Alina ready?' She looked at you with pure pity on her face, the compassion bursting on her face busting at its seams.

'Yes. Last I saw she was with the General.'

'Thank you Ms.Saffin'

***

You didn't mean to miss the demonstrations, but you took your time walking back to the main hall anyway. It was only when you saw the darkened room and searing light did you stop dead in your tracks at the door. Alina stood there on the podium, the image of a Saint. Her black and gold kefta shimmered in her light beautifully, illuminating her face and smile. She was glowing. Her powers had brought her not only luxurious life but good health, something everyone prays for. The black looked well on her too. It set her apart from the sea of bright keftas and gowns. In a Palace full of Grisha and powerful members of society, only Alina and Aleksander wore the black keftas, not even you wore it tonight and it made you feel surprisingly insecure.

He stood to her side, enthralled by her show of strength and skill. He was fascinated with her, it showed in his eyes and on his face but it definitely wasn't a facade. Even watching them from afar you could see that he looked at her as if she was his Sun, the only thing capable of lighting up his night sky.

You didn't know how to look at her. Everyone around you was worshipping her, whispering silent prayers to Sankta Alina: the Sun Saint, but you stayed frozen and still. You were never faithful to the Saints, they never listened to you, so what good would pledging your allegiance to Alina be if you knew Aleksander planned to extort her?

The whole room was kneeling now, heads bent down in symbols of submission yet you stood. No doubt you stuck out like a sore thumb, but a leader does not bow to anybody, not even the Saints. He momentarily turned his head to look at you but his eyes were far from the softness he gave Alina. They spoke more than his smooth words ever could yet this time the silent exchange did nothing to soothe your muddled head.

A tap on your shoulder caused you to break your burning gaze away from the summoners and to a guard instead.

'Deputy, we have 2 First-Army soldiers who claim to have found Morozova's Stag' The Stag. Just my luck.

'Tell the General, I have no business with the stag' You waved him off and returned your stare back to the room, scanning the crowd like a hawk when her eyes caught yours. Queen Tatiana was looking through to your soul, demolishing any confidence you could muster at that moment.

Marry my son.

----------------

Part 22

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[jonogueira]

Peace

AO3.

Summary:

The Inquisition marches to the Adamant Fortress.

Cullen makes sure Alma comes back alive, and Alma makes sure to let him know when she is back.

TW: none (angst/fluffly)

Notes:

I want to thank @kemvee for being my Beta in this one shot.

Cullen could feel the tension in the air. His skin tingled with anticipation, and his muscles tensioned with the proximity of combat. His body was as ready as it would ever be, but his mind…

He watched her from a distance. She talked to Leliana about things he could only guess. Hawke came to her side and her hardened expression softened for a split second. Carver joined the family reunion and the trio leaned forward, touching each other’s forehead together.

He noticed the sadness and regret in her eyes when she watched them walk away, getting lost in the ocean of people ready to give their lives for a greater cause. To make sure the ones they loved stayed safe.

He envied the soldiers around him.  

He envied them because they could march and fight, battle and die in peace. Knowing that their deaths would be a fair price so the last wisp of their souls would remain inside their lovers’, partner’s, and loved ones’ beating hearts. That they would live a long and happy life. A life with a beautiful future and hope.

He envied them…

But most of all, he felt sorry for them.

He felt sorry for them because he knew exactly what it was they were feeling.

The sense of dread and loss. The impending doom leaving feather-like touches on his overly-sensitive skin.

The lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe… To utter the words his heart wanted to shout into the cold morning air. To curse the sun that rose little by little, bathing the view in front of him with its warm rays and decorated the sky with a breathtaking portrait. Painting everything around in hues of orange and red. Reminding him that in a few hours that hue spread on the ground, sand and walls would instead be the crimson hue of the fresh, hot blood of their enemies, friends, lovers ...

Cullen felt sorry for them… He felt sorry for himself.

When he accepted his role as Commander, he didn’t expect to find her again.  

Her.  

The one to whom he had given his body, his heart, and his soul. To whom he had promised forever until his last breath. The one he left behind without a last goodbye. The one he hurt so deeply that her beautiful, pure heart drowned in sadness and distrust. The one from whom he desperately awaited for forgiveness.

His mind visited the past. His ears heard her whisper his name in that tone that made him feel loved and wanted. His fingers traced the freckles on her heated skin. His nose touched her soft lips to claim them in a chaste kiss. His eyes watered when he saw the hatred in hers.

He lifted his head to look at her. To see the woman she had become. The Mage, the Warrior, the Hero, the Herald, the Inquisitor, the Love of his life. The woman he would love until the end of times. The only one who could break him without any words. The one he would gladly die for that and any other day.

His lips curved into a sad smile, and then it was gone.

Cullen observed Nathaniel gather the last pieces of her armor and approach her. When the Warden started to help her, Cullen found himself making his way through the sea of people. His steps firm on his path and his mind set on his goal. If anything happened to her, he wouldn’t forgive himself. He had to make sure she was prepared, even if she dismissed his help. Even if they had to argue, he wouldn’t let her push him away.

He didn’t care that they were surrounded by the Inquisition army. That he was their commander and she was their leader. She had to survive for the future of Thedas… and maybe to argue with him one more time. He would be forever grateful if she graced him with one small smile.

He took the last of her armor in his trembling hands, and their eyes met in a wordless conversation. Not for the last time, he prayed.

She studied his features, and he begged her in silence. Her answer came when she lifted her arm for him to take.

There was quietness between them. Peace that once came when they lay in each other’s arms.  

Cullen’s fingers found every knot. Every forgotten flaw in her armor, and he made sure to correct them. To send her out there prepared for anything and everything. To be protected when he couldn’t be by her side.

The only words in their speechless conversation came from his whispered prayers.

He asked and pleaded. He implored the Maker to keep her alive and safe. To not let any harm come to her. To be able to see her even if it was the last thing he would do. To be by her side when he couldn’t. To be her protector where he had failed. To never abandon her as he had.  

His fingers wavered on the last lace. His tongue tied on his final word. His eyes closed, defeated and hopeless when she looked at him with unreadable emotion in her eyes. His heart stopped when she took a step back from him. His soul died when she spoke her last words to him.

“The Maker abandoned me a long time ago. There is no salvation for the likes of me, Rutherford. May He bring the peace you so desperately seek.”

He watched her once again walk away from him with death as her best and only friend.  

He didn’t pray anymore.

Cullen accepted what she had accepted a long time ago. He closed his eyes and ordered himself to forget about her. To just let her go.

He let his eyes stare into the heavens, and a single tear, filled with all his sorrow, rolled down his face.

–––––––––––––––

Alma felt her knees touch the ground. Her lungs fought for air, and her mind ordered her to breathe. Breathe and forget what had just happened.

She cursed him once, then twice. She was the one who was supposed to stay back. To fight the Nightmare demon and end it all.

She was just so very tired.

Tired of everything. Of all the demands. Of all that was expected of her.

She had to be an example as a Mage. The perfect Hero for her nation. The one blessed by the Maker himself. The leader that would save them all.

Only a few knew the truth.

She was just a woman. A tired, hurt, dying woman.

One that grasped and tried and regretted.

All she wanted was to disappear. To go back to a time when everything was so much simpler. When there were no burned corpses, no spiraling tower, no blighted monsters or demons falling from the skies. No whispers in the back of her mind reminding her that her death was near and everything she still wanted to do were just wishful thoughts.

Things she shouldn’t think about.  

Not think about the fact that she had never learned how to swim. About the family she couldn’t be with. Her beautiful niece who she adored so much. Of how much she loved to sleep outdoors and watch the starry night sky. Recite the recipe she learned to cook with Wynne. The friends she had to part ways with. The family she once wanted to create. A daughter and a son that filled her dreams. The lover that left her behind. Think about the man she wanted to hate but couldn’t stop loving.

She dismissed the hand that tried to help her stand. She was too sensitive. The anchor flared in anger, and her body jolted in pain. She could still see Stroud fighting the demon when the rift closed at last.

She cursed him again and then she thanked him.

She thanked him for his sacrifice. For giving her a chance. A chance to atone for her mistakes. To maybe be able to dream again.

There was shouting and people talking to her. Words her brain wasn’t capable of understanding.

Her eyes prickled with hatred.

For her, for him, for them.

She wanted to damn them all.

She was tired, her body begging to rest… but once again she was denied her simple request.

“Inquisitor… Where is Stroud?”

She balled her fists by her side. Ordered her emotions not to spill through her eyes. She breathed slowly and deeply.

“We will honor his sacrifice and remember how he exemplified the ideal of the Grey Wardens. Even as Corypheus and his servants tried to destroy us all from within...

“The Grey Wardens will join the Inquisition and help with whatever we can.

“In War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice.”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra called by her side but gave up when Alma looked at her, and the warrior saw the exhaustion in her soul. “Get some rest. We will deal with whatever is needed.”

She thanked with a nod and marched out of those cursed walls.

The hair that had been perfectly tied was half loose and poked in all directions. Her muscles ached and complained. Her lips allowed low groans to escape her mouth. Her eyes, bleary, saw nothing but blurred pictures. Her feet moved without command. Her body cursed her mind. And her mind cursed her soul.

The rain started out of nowhere. She looked up at the sky, narrowing her eyes against the thick droplets of water. The stars hid behind heavy clouds, ashamed of the blood bath below.

Alma closed her eyes and allowed the water to wash her armor. She remembered once asking him to dance with her in the rain if one day they left the prison’s tall grey walls and how he had chuckled at her. Promising with that kind smile only he had… have.

She glanced to the right, and her wild hair stuck to her cold skin. In between the wet strands, she noticed him inside his tent. The light from the lamp against his body made his shadow appear on the fabric. Showing that he had started to remove his armor.

She closed her eyes once again and allowed the relieved sigh to escape her. His prayers reached her ears, and she smiled. His words had stuck to her while she walked into and around the fade. His face, selfishly, the only thing that made her want to leave the place. His fingers against her the only thing she sought.

She wanted to hate him, and she did, but the mere thought of him… the mere sight of him, made her heart fill with hope. Made her want to have him in her arms again and never let him go.  Made her want to beg for his forgiveness and to allow her to stay with him. To stay with him forever and ever... and then beyond.

She giggled, she chuckled, she laughed. She walked to him, letting her heart lead the way. She stopped by the entrance, and she then allowed herself to pray.

She asked the Maker for one more chance. For one night to forget about everything and remember about them. To be a woman and a man. Madly in love. Together again.

She reached for the fabric, but her hand hesitated, fingers curling with indecision. She was suddenly scared. A little girl covered in soot once again.

–––––––––––––––

She was safe. She was back. That was all that mattered at that moment.

Cullen cleaned his face with his gloved hand, smearing blood on his cheeks.

When he heard she had been thrown into the fade, he panicked. He fought his hardest trying to find a way to get her back. Alive.

He cursed the Grey Wardens. He cursed Clarel. He promised he, himself, would kill Corypheus with his bare hands if necessary.

And there, amidst the fight, he heard the horn. It was over. She was back.

The rain poured on his tent, the wind shook its thin walls and brought coldness with it. He adjusted his bed, throwing the covers over it so it would be warm when his time to sleep finally came… If and when he went to bed that day.

Afraid of the inner demons darkness would bring. The cherished memories of her and him. The painful feelings he wanted to bury, he lit the lamp on his table.

Cullen relaxed his shoulders and started to take his armor off. One knot at a time he removed. His muscles ached to no end, but he wanted to be rid of the extra weight as soon as possible. He knew there was still a lot to do, but that fight was over. He left the thought of other battles  to come for another day.

He rolled his neck and saw his surroundings brighten with the sudden lightning bolt. A shadow on his tent's entrance caught all of his attention. Sighing, he headed to whatever waited for him.

Cullen's eyes widened when he saw Alma standing there. She was soaked to the bones. The curls he loved so much were stuck to her face. The water dripped from her chin onto her dirty armor. And her parted lips trembled.

He took a step in her direction, but her eyes never met his. They were focused on the inside of his tent, in a silent request to enter. Moving to the side for her to get in, he noticed the soldiers examining the scene in front of them.

Alma stood in the middle of the place. Waiting for something he didn't know. Something he was afraid would be one more thing separating them.

"Inq-"

She finally looked at him, and what he saw broke his heart.

She looked so fragile. Nothing like the woman who marched into battle that morning. The fierce soldier who brought courage to the army's heart. The leader who inspired her troops.

No.

Alma looked no more than just a woman in need of comfort. Rest from everything and everyone. A place to feel safe.

Cullen closed his lips and the space between them. He towered over her hunched figure and didn't move when she placed her hands on his chest. Looking up at him. Searching his face. She closed the gap and rested her forehead on his chestplate.

His hands slowly raised. One to softly hold her in place, the other to massage her scalp. Without noticing, he nuzzled his nose into her hair... just like he used to do... when she was his, and he was hers.

He sighed. A regretful sigh.

Her fingers found his belt and then his vest. He observed her focused eyes pull them off his shoulders. She moved to his gloves, and her fingers traced the scars in his hands. She caressed the callouses and planted a delicate kiss on his palms.

The vambraces and pauldrons were next. The curass was meticulously examined for any damage and then removed. Her hand traveled his chest down to the hem of his shirt and when it was off she then folded and laid it on the table beside them.

Without a single word, he saw her kneel and start to untie his boots, which were placed underneath the table.

She stood in front of him. They gazed at each other. Seeing nothing more than a man and a woman in need of redemption. A new start.

Alma placed her palm on his chest and walked around him. Her trembling fingers gently pulled his undershirt off his body. Her lips caressed the scars on his back before her hands encircled his body and embraced him. Her cold cheeks pressed against his skin. Her ears listening to his heart.

Cullen couldn't stop himself and brought her knuckles to his mouth. A tender kiss he planted on each and every one of them, hearing her sob behind him.

It was his turn to take care of her. He faced her and removed the armor just as she had done to him. He found every scar on the visible skin and kissed them, murmuring apologies and compliments. Asking for forgiveness and begging for a chance. A chance to be her comfort. Her safe haven.

Cullen stood in front of her. His soul bared for her to see. His heart in his hand for her to take. He looked at her. So small and so big. Unreachable.

Alma took some cloth and cleaned the blood on his cheeks. Her eyes never meeting his. Never answering his pleas. Her lips never soothing his broken spirit.

She cleaned his skin and then... then she cried.

She cried, and she begged. She sobbed and urged for him to forgive her.

Forgive her for pushing him away when all she wanted was to have him near. As near as they had never been.

For wasting precious time. Time she didn't have. Not anymore, not like she wanted.

She circled his neck with her naked arms. Her lips whispered supplications. They confessed her love for him.

She held him, afraid he would let her go, and Cullen pulled her closer. Burying his nose in the crook of her neck. Revealing he had dreamed about that day for so long. Having her in his arms, telling him she still loved him. That she wanted him as much as he wanted her. That she was still his and would always be.

He cupped her face and kissed her. Thanked her for coming back for him. For loving and letting him stay. He told her she didn't need to apologize, she needed her time, and he understood. He understood that so much depended on her. That so much was expected of her.  He told her he understood, and then he asked her to stay.

For a future for her and him. Them.

Stay with him that night and all the others to come. To let them have what was taken from them. He looked into her eyes and told her with all his being that he loved her and would always do. He kissed her one more time and took her in his arms.

Gently, he placed her in his bed and laid beside her. Her body in his arms and her lips on his.

Cullen rejoiced when she said she loved him always and forever. That there was, and there would never be anyone but him. That she was staying with him, and there was no way he would get rid of her.

He heard her lips word her worries and ask him to not leave her. To never hurt her again. To be his comfort and his safe haven.

To be his for that night and all the other to come. To let them have what was taken from them.

A future with him and her. Them.

Cullen chuckled and laughed. He pulled her near and kissed her. He admitted he missed her more than anything.

And there, with their bodies intertwined, they finally found the peace they had been seeking for so long.

I hope you liked.

Likes and reblogs are super appreciated!

[gastricpierrot]

Title: Weight of a Memory 

Series: Genshin Impact

Relationship: Pre-canon Venti and Zhongli, mostly platonic,,

Rating: T 

Summary:

Barbatos did not care about anyone and anything, once. Not the world around him, not the people of the city who now considered him their patron god when he had only been there by chance, to deliver a gift that would now never be received. He had been nothing but a sliver of breeze, and he had not the ability to care.  

The one who taught him otherwise was gone.  

He was gone, and no matter how hard he tried—no matter what he did in his stead, in his name, he would not return.

Note:

Contains spoilers for Venti’s backstory

Read on AO3

________

Barbatos spent his first week of godhood in grief.  

He lived as a cruel joke of the fates, granted the title of god yet powerless in the face of his own loss.  

He’d lost him. His precious friend. The one who should’ve been hailed the hero instead of him. The one who should’ve lived to experience what he’d fought so hard for. And the one he, Barbatos, came to adore with all his life.  

He’s gone but Barbatos couldn’t let it sink in. Refused to let it sink in. Even when he had been the one to carry his lifeless, fragile body back to his people, requesting he’d be given a hero’s farewell. The grandest of all, filled with the songs and cheer he loved. Send his dear friend off, lain on a bed of his favourite cecilias.

Ask anyone in Old Mondstadt and they would tell you about how Barbatos would’ve then disappeared, presumably to meditate while he mulled over how he would like to lead the nation. He’d flown to the peaks of the highest mountain, found a cave there, and surrounded the area with a violent gale to bar anyone from finding him.  

In truth, Barbatos had hidden there, curled up. And slept.

He’d slept, in a dreamless slumber away from the fear of the newfound power surging through his being, away from the countless prayers that constantly bombarded his ears, and away from the emptiness the death of a beloved friend had left behind. He’d slept, and slept.

And then he’d awoken in a body not of his own.  

Heavy, it was heavy at first. His limbs too long, his proportions all unfamiliar. He sat up, stared at his arms and legs in bewilderment. Slender fingers, even calloused on the tips of his right hand, as though he’d spent many years playing an instrument. He felt all over his face, pinching warm, supple skin. Human-like. No, no , it hit him like a sudden storm. Barbatos scrambled to his feet and ran out, an unfamiliar pulse racing in his ears. No, this can’t be happening.  

He stumbled to the base of the mountain, his bare feet bruised raw and bleeding in his haste. It had not occurred to him that he could still fly, even in this form. He fell to his knees at the edge of the lake, leaned over the serene waters, trembling.  

And staring back at him, as he’d feared, was the face of a friend.  

No, it was all wrong. His eyes had been powder blue, not green. They once had so much determination, so much fire and passion. They were never so colourless. He had a smile that feared nothing, one that could make even someone like Barbatos feel invincible. He had always stood proud and true. He wasn’t...this. Whatever this atrocity that was reflected on the water surface, was. 

Imposter, the words danced in his head. Round and round and round, taunting, taunting. Imposter, imposter.  

Barbatos raked fistfuls of dirt, hurled them at the water with a scream that tore out of his throat. He held his head, prayed to wake up, wake up, turn back.  

That was the first time the Anemo Archon learnt how it must have felt like to drown.  

xXx

At the end of the day, a nameless bard was a nameless bard, and even with the grandeur of the festival that was held in his honour, he was still merely one of the many who had fallen in a long battle for freedom.  

“Blessed by Barbatos” was the name the people had decided on when they added him to the list carved onto the monument they erected as a memorial for all who had lost their lives to the war. Barbatos traced his fingertips across the letters, unable to decide if he wanted to laugh or cry at the irony. If he had truly been able to bless anyone, the winds would have made sure the arrows did not fly true, and his dearest friend would still be here.  

“Who’s there?”  

A voice cut through the air, far too loud in the midnight silence. Barbatos, startled, had turned around on instinct, forgetting that his robes did not hide how he bore a dead lad’s appearance.  

The man wore the plain clothes of a commoner, eyes wide at the sight that greeted him. “You—you’re that boy!”

Barbatos had fled with the wind then, but it was already too late. Rumours began spreading immediately after, spinning tales of the boy actually being the new Lord of Wind himself, and that the procession in his honour had been all but a test from him. Fellow bards who claimed to have known him in life insisted they always thought he was strange, different in ways difficult to explain. There had not been anything solid to hold on to, yet the people had readily embraced the narratives that suited their fancy.  

It terrified Barbatos at first, being absolutely unprepared to face the string of events that unfolded with such overwhelming succession. What would happen if he’d shown up to disprove something the people believed so vehemently? Would it be for the better, or would they reject him on the basis that he was only being jovial with his subjects? Would it, ultimately, taint this image of a precious friend that he’d somehow donned and failed to strip?  

Barbatos refused to risk that. It's fine if he himself were to be hated and deemed a liar, but not him, never him. Besides, doing this would keep his memory alive, wouldn’t it? Monuments would be built in his likeness, portraits of worship painted to be passed down generations to come. Even Barbatos would never have the chance to forget.  

He'd decided then, to play along with this elaborate lie. The rumours were all true, it had all been his first trial as the new Archon to the people of Mondstadt. He acted the way he believed he would’ve behaved, the way he would’ve presented to the crowd, all smiles and charisma. Made choices he would’ve wanted. Sang his songs, recited his poems and strummed the lyre with his melodies.  

Barbatos thus began to live as him, and the memory of him was to live on through Barbatos.  

xXx

Oddly enough, he found strength in his impersonation.

It gave him a purpose, wanting to bring glory to a friend who deserved it infinitely more than himself. Barbatos set out to tame the violent blizzards that surrounded the land, learnt to harness his powers to open paths to the world for the people of Mondstadt. He granted them the freedom they’d fought for. The freedom he wished he too, could’ve been here to experience in person.  

He declared he would not reign over Mondstadt as the other Archons do with their own territories, opting to leave the fates of humans wholly in their own hands. It had felt right; they had been the ones who’d fought the hardest to dethrone Decarabian, not he, and it was clear that control was the last thing the people wanted. These were humans who could carve their own futures, who did not require the words of a god nor a king to lead them forward.  

It was what he would’ve believed, too.

And it wasn’t like Barbatos was equipped to handle such responsibilities in the first place, for he’d been nothing more than a tiny elemental spirit merely a century old, his first real contact with humans beginning with his fateful meeting with the child who loved to sing and dreamt of flight. He harboured no particular affection for humans, except for one.  

How he wished he could show him flight now; what wouldn’t he give for a chance to soar with him to the ends of the earth and back.  

It was the knight with flaming red hair who’d volunteered to serve as his temporary advisor, teaching him about the systems humans adhered to in order to keep their societies functional. Barbatos trusted her; she had held his friend very dear herself, having fought side by side in the front lines of the war they helped wage. She was one with few words, never speaking more than she needed, never even questioning why Barbatos had chosen this appearance. Many a time he’d spotted her looking at him with regret, and many a time he had been at loss as to what to say.

What could he have said, really?  

Barbatos’ efforts to open the world for the exploration of Mondstadtians eventually led to plans in securing safe routes for trade; the knight was certain it was something the nation would require once it fully regained its footing after the years of strife. For that, good connections with neighbouring countries should best be formed.  

Closest to Mondstadt was a land by the name of Liyue, one under the jurisdiction of the Geo Archon, Morax. Barbatos knew close to nothing about him, and even the Ragnvindr knight could only tell him the barest minimum from what books had taught her. Morax had been around for thousands of years, he was one of the founders of the prosperous nation of Liyue, and he was also a god of war and contracts. That was all, but Barbatos knew that no matter what, that would have to do.  

Liyue was Mondstadt’s best bet for first diplomatic relations after Decarabian’s long reign of isolation.  

xXx

Barbatos left for Liyue alone, soon after sending off a message in the wind notifying his impending visit and receiving a response detailing the location where they would meet.  

He had not quite expected to see so many awaiting his arrival, though.  

Barbatos surveyed the group as he floated to the ground, noticing how none of them were mortal. Divine beasts observed his descent with solemn gazes, still as predators awaiting their chance to strike. They were old, Barbatos could tell from the aura enshrouding them, a cloak of energy he’d only recently been able to see himself after becoming an Archon.  

But amongst them was one older than the rest, and far more powerful.  

Morax took a form loosely resembling a young adult male human, the illusion of actually being one immediately broken by the horns branching out of his head. His eyes glowed amber in the night, his long, deep brown hair reaching his waist and almost blending with the material of his billowing robes. He stood with his hands behind his back, watching in silence.  

Barbatos thought he could’ve stood on the tension in the air even without the power of Anemo.  

He took a deep breath, mustering all his chipper as he landed on the grass and spread his arms. “Greetings, dear neighbours! It is I, Barbatos of Mondstadt!”

There was a poignant silence following his introduction, as though no one was quite certain how to react to him. Barbatos put two and two together, and growing nervous, ventured, “Am I in trouble?”

Morax was first to respond, upon cutting off one of his retainers’ retort with a subtle wave of his hand. “It certainly seemed that way in your message to us, my friend. Is everything alright?”

Ah, perhaps he could’ve been more specific when he’d requested for an audience with him. His message had been drafted under the strict supervision of the flame-haired knight, who had been sorely insistent on making it sound serious and official, for international diplomatic discussions were serious and official affairs indeed. But seeing that it had come across not quite the way they’d intended, it appeared they both still required some improvement in the communications department.  

“Yes, yes, everyone’s doing quite well where I come from,” Barbatos attempted a sheepish laugh, quietly grasping for a more solid way to dispel the awkwardness that’d already formed between them all. “Many thanks for the concern, Lord Morax, though I must apologize for the misunderstanding.”

“Think nothing of it, what matters is that all is well.” He spotted the way Morax visibly relaxed at his assurance and felt the guilt slowly setting in. His cryptic message truly must have worried him.  

“Actually, I’m here to have a chat over some drinks,” he tried picking things up from there, reaching for the satchel hidden beneath his robes and producing it with flourish. He's then immediately hit by the realization that it might not be quite enough for everyone present. “Oh, uhm, I didn’t expect to be greeted by so many of you...one is humbled...”

Morax must've sensed his growing dismay, offering, “Perhaps you would not mind my lone company, Lord Barbatos?”  

Barbatos thought this must be how it felt to receive a god’s grace. He readily agreed—though still careful to tone down the enthusiasm he showed, lest he offended the other immortals present. It was not a trouble he was prepared to go through at the moment. He stood back as Morax dismissed his retainers with a curt command before beckoning him to come along, saying he knew a good place to enjoy drinks.

Barbatos was led to a rather secluded spot atop a hill, but it was easy to see why Morax favoured it. It overlooked his beloved city, all bright lights and festivity even at this time of the night, with the sea stretching out from the harbour and beyond towards the horizon. The breeze at this altitude was refreshing, strong yet not too obstructive. And most of all, it was quiet, though perhaps also just a little lonesome.

Morax set the bottles of wine—which, he’d insisted on carrying all the way here himself despite Barbatos’ protests, adamant that it was simply Liyue tradition as a host to guests—on the stone table, and urged him to take a seat.  

Mondstadt prided itself for its wine, and it was only fitting that the finest of them would be brought as an offering to another god. What Barbatos had not been aware of, however, was that Mondstadt’s best brews were often on the strong side, and the flame-haired knight had, in hopes of rendering Morax slightly more agreeable so the Wind God might not have quite as much of a difficult time as she feared, slipped him two bottles of possibly what was, at the time, Mondstadt’s first ever knock-out wine.  

Barbatos had never drank before. He did not require the same sustenance humans did, and being an elemental spirit of air, anything he consumed would only have passed right through. Even so, he’d witnessed how wine could work almost like a spell, how once a person drank enough their troubles would seem to disappear. Some would laugh when they could not, some would cry, some would rant and some would fall into a peaceful sleep. He’d seen people bonding over drinks as much as they’d fought over them. He found it fearsome as much as he found it fascinating. The idea of losing oneself to alcoholic influences unnerved him, but surely there was also merit in the intoxication, otherwise why would humans so often willingly subject themselves to the experience over and over?  

Barbatos’ current vessel could hold human food, that much he knew. He had, in fact, developed quite a liking to the taste of apples, many a time offered to him by the people of Mondstadt who saw him whenever he visited the city, as the fruits were another of their prized produce.  

But Barbatos did not know how susceptible he was to the lulls of alcohol in his current form, nor did he know how to drink for the very first time.  

Morax, understandably, had not the slightest inkling that these were all part of their current circumstances. He simply produced a pair of marble goblets from his sleeves, and in his endless hospitality, poured Barbatos a full glass.

And so began their chat over wine, under the shine of moonlight.  

Morax asked about Mondstadt, having not visited there himself for a long time both due to commitments and also the violent climate plaguing the nation that was a hassle even to him. Barbatos told him what he knew, what he’d vehemently rehearsed before he made his journey here.  

Morax asked about Decarabian, and Barbatos told him of the nature of his reign and the efforts of the humans who had sought to usurp him and succeeded.  

Morax offered to share about Liyue and Barbatos was happy to listen, finding peace in his deep, stable voice. He drank from his glass as Morax recounted a tale that had to do with a lone island just a little way from Liyue’s pier, explaining how it actually used to be a mountain, a domain of a god long lost to time. Morax spoke, slowly and steadily, and Barbatos listened. And he drank.

He drank as he’d often seen humans do within the many rowdy taverns of Mondstadt. In large gulps, whole glasses at a time.  

Barbatos soon felt like he was floating, but it could’ve been just him losing a grip on his powers again.  

“Morax,” he began once Morax paused to sip his own drink, all honorifics forgotten to the sweet, sweet daze of fermented grape. He'd already lost track of what he’d been talking about. He sounded somewhat funny, too. He wanted to laugh. “How does it feel like to be a god for so long?”  

Morax did not seem particularly bothered by his demeanour, or at least he did not show it even if he was.  

“I’ve never thought about it,” he admitted, and with a solemnness that Barbatos thought was also rather amusing, he added, “I do not quite remember how it felt like not to be one.”

“Tell me, then, Morax,” Barbatos continued, leaning forward to rest his arm on the table, and then his head on his arm because he felt heavy now. Heavy and tired and his head was starting to spin a little. Like when he used to get caught in passing whirlwinds, he thought with a giggle. How he’d always hated it. “Why are gods not all-powerful, as the humans believe us to be?”

“Because if we were, then there would be no order.” Morax’s reply came almost too easily. As though it was simply a fact, a fact perhaps he knew too well himself. He went on to explain something about the importance of balance and that as gods in their world they had an unspoken duty to maintain it and how all of them are intricately intertwined with one another in that regard and a string of many other things that Barbatos could not find the urge to care about.  

He did not care about order. He did not care about anyone and anything, once. Not the world around him, not the people of the city who now considered him their patron god when he had only been there by chance, to deliver a gift that would now never be received. Barbatos had been nothing but a sliver of breeze, and he had not the ability to care.  

The one who taught him otherwise was gone.  

He was gone, and no matter how hard he tried—no matter what he did in his stead, in his name, he would not return.

Barbatos was tired. The weight clung to his being, though now mostly centred at the base of his stomach. Suffocating. He wanted to throw up. His body was too warm. The world suddenly felt too endless, infinite, and he was alone.  

He was gone, and not even the divine powers of a god could bring him back.

Was it the Gnosis that made him feel this much, this deeply, he wondered? A god’s heart, it was also called. If Barbatos ripped it from his chest, would it hurt a little less? If he threw it to the ground and crushed it under his feet, would he be free of this emptiness that haunted him?  

In his drunken state, Barbatos had failed to noticed two major things. One, he had reverted back to his original form at some point, to the little elf who had once been capable of being carried along even by the gentlest wind, hence why the world suddenly felt much too vast around him.  

And two, his vision had swum not because of the wine, not because the alcohol was slowly driving his senses haywire.

Barbatos had wept, but he did not know that he did.  

xXx

He woke up in a room that was definitely not the mountain cave he’d come to grow fond of.  

Not that it mattered because the first thing Barbatos registered was a massive headache he thought would split his skull in two. He groaned as he sank further into the sheets that surrounded him, half wondering if he’d somehow fallen on his head the previous night or if he’d done something to incite the Lord of Geo’s anger that’d ended with him getting beaten up. Barbatos could not remember, and the more he tried to think, the more it hurt.  

He must’ve fallen asleep again at some point, waking once more but this time to the faint scent of herbs. The pain had subsided to little more than a dull ache, and he reached for his temples only to find his arms shorter than he’d unconsciously grown used to.  

Barbatos sat up and did not know what was happening.  

Morax lounged on a padded chair across the room, glancing up from his book when he noticed his movement. “Oh, you’re awake.”

Barbatos could only stare, stupefied. What was the Geo Archon himself doing here?

“Try the tea if you’re still feeling terrible,” Morax gestured to the cup of steaming liquid on the bedstand, where the scent of herbs originated. “It works well for hangovers.”

Hangovers...?  

Oh. Oh, gods of Teyvat.  

“Lord Morax—I, I’m so sorry, I—” Barbatos scrambled to even get the words out, mortified that he’d acted so undignified in front of someone he’d barely just been acquainted with. While they were supposed to be sitting down for a diplomatic chat!!! He genuinely could not recall what had transpired the night before. He could only hope that whatever he'd said and done, it hadn’t been anything he’d regret.  

Still, the fact that he’d returned to this form raised enough of a cause for concern.  

“Do not worry, Barbatos,” Morax assured, calm as he stood up to approach him. “It’s safe here. Just rest for now.”

“No, I must’ve already troubled you enough, I should go,” Barbatos insisted, trying his hardest to untangle himself from the sheets but somehow only making it worse in his haste. He, in all seriousness, considered summoning a blast of wind to loosen everything in one go, but he fortunately succeeded in freeing himself before he could decide.  

And just as he’s about to quickly excuse himself and never show up in front of Morax again for the foreseeable future—he found the cup of steaming tea thrusted at his face.  

“Drink. It’ll calm you down,” Morax said, voice levelled and face composed despite his rather aggressive approach. Barbatos was now quite sure he’d done something to offend him while he was drunk.

“T-Thank you but I can’t hold anything in this form,” he explained, but soon realizing that maybe it’d be better if he would just entertain him and drink the tea? He had probably displeased him enough, the least he can do is not make it any worse by rejecting his current offers (demands??).  

Barbatos focused and tried to visualise the appearance he’d always taken ever since he became the Anemo Archon. He channelled his power and tried — and in what must be another joke of irony the fates casted upon him, he discovered he could not turn back.

Barbatos, dumbfounded by the turn of events and quite positively terrified of bearing the brunt of Morax’s wrath, once again did not know what to do.  

“Lord Morax, please forgive me.” He tugged at the edges of his hood, pulling it lower over his face so at least he wouldn’t have to see any blows coming. ‘Whatever I said and did yesterday, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it—”

“You’ll be able to drink this,” Morax persisted the moment he trailed off, still oddly fixated about the tea. “You’re an Archon now. Drink it while it’s still warm.”

Barbatos saw no other choice but to do as he said. He reached to hold the delicate cup with both hands, and once Morax let go, he carefully brought it to his mouth, and took a careful sip.

He could taste it, as subtle as it was, which was a good sign. Barbatos gave himself some seconds to see if his body retained the drink, and almost cried with relief when he confirmed that it did. He then drank a whole mouthful, feeling a wave of calm slowly wash over him as the herbs worked their magic. His body untensed, his pulse regained a slower, steadier rhythm. Even the last traces of his headache began to fade.  

With his mind slightly clearer now, Barbatos was starting to suspect that it was all a miserable misunderstanding.

“He must have been very dear to you.”

Barbatos glanced at Morax over the rim of the cup, not quite comprehending the sudden comment at first. Morax’s gaze was attentive, but Barbatos thought there was a slightest unexpected gentleness to it as well.

“You were mumbling about someone yesterday,” he explained after a lapse of silence between them. “Someone...who’s no longer here.”

“Ah.” Barbatos could hear himself scream on the inside. How could he have told all that to a person he’d literally just met!!! “So that’s what I said.”

Morax was once more silent for a beat, staring as though he had something to say but wasn’t quite sure if he should say it. Barbatos wondered if he would buy an excuse about his stomach hurting and thus him needing to attend to some private business. He wondered if he could just disappear from the face of the earth for the next century or two.

“A late friend once told me,” he flinched when Morax finally spoke again, “that humans have gods, while gods only have each other.”

“I’m not sure I follow...?” Barbatos blurted and immediately regretted it. Morax broke into a small frown, as though trying to sort something out himself.  

“You can stay here—until you feel well enough to go back,” he tried, again with something quite out of the blue. Barbatos blinked as he struggled to process whatever was happening. Was he... trying to comfort him? Had he been trying to comfort him all along?  

“Morax, really, I don’t think I should impose on you any more than I have,” Barbatos found the courage to say, feeling a little more stable now from the tea and the realization that Morax was more awkward than he thought he’d be. Then again, it was a rather unusual situation—caused by Barbatos himself, no less.

“You can leave whenever you’re ready,” Morax maintained, before glancing toward the window as though to gauge the light outside. “But I’m afraid I must excuse myself now, as I’ve matters to attend to in a bit.”

“Morax, wait!” Barbatos managed to call after him just as he made to leave. Morax turned to face him, eyebrows slightly raised but not looking particularly startled. Barbatos knew the least he could do is thank him, after everything. So he did.  

Morax listened, and then to Barbatos’ surprise, he smiled.  

“Let me know when you’d like to visit again,” he said, a genuine invitation Barbatos did not expect. “Take care in the meantime, Barbatos.”  

And with that, he was gone.  

xXx

Barbatos did leave eventually, but he did not return to Mondstadt.

He was trapped in his current form, for reasons he once again could not comprehend. It's almost laughable when he thought back about how desperately he’d once wanted to return to this, so he wouldn’t taint the memory of his dear friend by living as his impersonation. Now he’d finally succeeded, yet there was an unease he could not seem to shake off.  

Barbatos was riddled with a sense of dissociation, having taken his appearance throughout the entire time he’d spent as the God of Wind. In this form, he was not Barbatos the Anemo Archon, but rather simply another elemental of air, the most insignificant sliver of breeze.  

Barbatos also could not return to Mondstadt , because how was he supposed to face the flame-haired knight after all that ? She would be absolutely livid if she knew he’d essentially done nothing but gotten intoxicated and passed out while he was in Liyue. A message about his temporary absence would have to do for now.  

Then again, Barbatos hadn’t the full intention to go and make any negotiations to begin with. When the time comes, the people of Mondstadt would no doubt find their own way there, and they would form their own agreements and contracts—they did not need his interference. No, Barbatos had gone mostly as a sort of insurance, to see if Liyue would be welcoming to his people, and to see if the Geo Archon was someone they should be involved with.  

Barbatos thought Morax was rather a strange one. He had half expected him to be brutish, loud and overbearing, considering he also bore the title of a war god. Morax had instead not only been an amiable host, but also surprisingly polite and soft spoken. He carried a sort of calm around his being, unruffled in the face of most usual circumstances. If Morax was a god who had stained entire lands with blood, it did not show.  

Barbatos found himself mulling over Morax’s words as he drifted through the endless fields between Liyue and Mondstadt. The humans have gods, while gods only have each other. Humans relied on gods, and gods only had each other to rely on. It sounded like a very generalized statement at first; Barbatos certainly didn’t think it was all that true. Barbatos himself had only gotten this far owing to the guidance of the people of Mondstadt. Surely all affairs within a domain could not be settled by gods alone; the humans they rule over would never allow it for long.

But Barbatos supposed it made sense too, in a way. Time flowed differently for those who were immortal and those who were not. A hundred years was nothing to them, but to humans that was their entire lifespan. Barbatos had not really noticed, but even his knight friend looked different from when they first met, now that he thought about it. Her features rougher, her stature taller and more solid, her flame-red hair losing just a little of its vibrancy. Barbatos had not been counting the sunrises and sunsets, but it had in fact been at least a decade since he was made a god.  

Time was passing and it was a frightening realization to come to. Soon the people he knew would come to pass themselves, and he would truly be nothing but another figment of history. Barbatos would have to bear the memory of him alone, for who else could remember him if not he, who would outlive mortals many times over? Yet in this desperation to never forget, Barbatos found that certain aspects of him were already starting to grow fuzzy in his mind.  

Barbatos had taken his appearance for the past ten or so years, but he had never been able to replicate his voice. His voice; rich, lulling and infinitely wonderful. If the lush fields and full blooms of spring could sing, they would envy what he had. This, Barbatos knew for a fact. But he was already forgetting how exactly it had sounded. He remembered even the sweet lullabies he used to sing to him, even the playful tunes and verses he’d compose on the spot when things grew tense within their ragtag group of four—but when Barbatos sang them now, he could only hear his own voice overlapping his.  

Then in appearance at the very least, he thought, he mustn’t forget. Barbatos made his umpteenth attempt to transform, to adopt his likeness as he’d once done unconsciously. He was already regaining some control of his powers, he can do this. He squeezed his eyes close, took a deep, shaky breath. Concentrate. He can do this. He must do this.  

What surfaced was the image of him with arrows piercing his chest, his tunic stained red with blood—and nothing changed in the end.

Gods only had each other.  

Barbatos summoned the wind, and sought the only other god he knew.  

…  

Morax was true to his word, arranging for his visit soon after he received his message.  

This time, however, Barbatos was to meet him in Celestia, as he was in the middle of something he could not step away from there. Barbatos had insisted it wasn’t anything urgent and that it wasn’t a matter Morax should deliberately trouble himself over if he had other things to attend to, and Morax had in turn assured that it was alright and that he should be almost done by the time Barbatos visited.  

Barbatos had already regretted asking at that point, but he also did not wish to disrespect Morax’s generosity. So he waited until dawn broke on the day they were set to meet, and feeling the Gnosis thrum within his chest, he made his way to the island of the gods.

The heavy gates of Celestia parted easily for him, revealing a world within that was too vast to seem like something that could’ve fitted on the floating piece of land visible from below. Barbatos entered a world where the divine made their exclusive residence, each owning an area they claimed as their domain. Teyvat, although hailed the Seven as the most powerful for their influence over the seven main elements, was not short on minor deities. Celestia could probably have spanned across the sky over the entire region and more.  

Barbatos attracted some looks almost immediately from the group that was mulling about by the entrance; after all, he seemed far from godly in his current form. He tried to ignore them, instead digging into his pocket for the pebble Morax had sent to guide him to his residence in the heavenly realm. It briefly glowed yellow once brought into the open, and then as though by some sort of magnetic pull, it shot eastward without a warning, and Barbatos had no choice but to give chase.

Morax’s residence in Celestia was humble compared to the extravagance of some Barbatos managed to spot in passing. It resembled a shrine of sorts; a set of stone steps leading towards a wooden gateway that served as its entrance, the privacy of the garden inside protected by bamboo partitions built in place of walls. Barbatos drifted in and towards the modest abode beyond the garden, feeling the air shift just before he heard Morax speak.  

“You’re here, Barbatos.”

Barbatos did not see him anywhere, but he sensed that he was within the house made of intricately carved stone, harnessing his power for...something. “I am, but perhaps I should really return another day...?”  

“It is fine, I should be done in a few minutes,” Morax assured, and Barbatos abruptly noticed how his voice sounded slightly deeper, with a reverberation to it that gave it a resemblance to a growl. He thought of Morax’s horns, and made a guess. “Please, do come in.”

Barbatos must admit that his curiosity got the better of him this time. He pushed at the door, and slipped through the opening.

Morax was a dragon, though not one whose appearance Barbatos was familiar with. The dragons that sometimes soared through Mondstadt’s skies were often winged, had powerful legs that would let them roam the land on foot if they wished. Morax was scaled as they were, had a skull structure that was similar though perhaps slightly more angular. But the similarities ended there. His body was more serpentine, slender and longer but wingless, and he had claws instead of legs.  

Morax was curled up over a circular enchantment on the floor, surrounded entirely by a barrier of golden light. He regarded Barbatos as he flew closer, and even when he spoke his jaw did not move.  

“Make yourself at home, I’ll get you some tea once I finish up here.”

“No, no, please don’t trouble yourself.” Barbatos could hardly get the words out, awed by the sight of a god who actually resembled a god. Composed, regal and mythic. He averted his gaze, fiddling with the hood of his cloak. “I’m sorry this is so sudden, Morax. I-It really isn’t anything important but I just don’t know what else I can do and—”

“It must be something important if it is bothering you enough to come see me,” Morax pointed out, and Barbatos could only swallow thickly, words stuck in his throat. “Speak, Barbatos. If you think it is something I can help you with, then I will see what I can do.”

“I—” Barbatos worked to push his hesitation down. He’d already come this far. “Please teach me how to change forms.”

Morax did not respond immediately, as though silently contemplating his reply. Barbatos tensed, because Morax knew. He knew, though perhaps not enough, still he knew about him. He could probably make a guess, Barbatos hadn’t exactly been vague about it in front of him courtesy of the cursed alcohol. He braced himself for the questions, the judgement—but even so, he decided, he would not leave until he found a way to turn back.  

“To take on another appearance,” Morax began, the wall of light around him shimmering before disappearing altogether, “one must first have a strong sense of self. You can say it’s our body’s way of self-preservation, so that we’ll always have a default form to return to if anything goes wrong during the transformation process.”

Barbatos watched him demonstrate, a glow of light enveloping his body as his proportions shifted, condensed—and he re-emerged in the form of the young man he took when Barbatos first met him.  

“If you’re struggling to transform, it could mean that you’re wavering, Barbatos,” Morax continued, stepping out of his enchantment. “Why are you so desperate to change?”

“Because if I don’t,” Barbatos took a breath, forced the rest of the sentence out, “I’m afraid I might one day forget.”

Because if I forgot, there would be no one else to remember him for who he really was, in time.

Morax studied him, silent as he walked over and, with a flutter of his robes, sat down on the floor to be eye level with him.  

“There are more ways to remember someone than simply by appearance,” he stated, as if Barbatos did not know.  

He'd tried everything he could’ve thought of. He’d emulated his personality, his habits and quirks, even his preferences. He'd committed each and every one of his songs to memory, practiced endlessly on the lyre so he could play the way he did, so his art would still live even when he did not.  

Barbatos wasn’t sure why he’d taken Morax’s simple words so much to heart. It was a statement of a fact, one he knew very well—otherwise why would he have tried so damned hard for so long?  

He knew, deep down, that despite all that, despite everything he’d done, it hadn’t been enough.  

“Barbatos.” Morax’s voice was soft when he called to him, hardly even a whisper. Barbatos found it difficult to breathe, the weight he’d been carrying on his being suddenly crushing down on him. He could not find the courage to look at him, but Morax waited, and waited until he finally did.  

There was a gentle smile upon his lips when Barbatos met his gaze, a comfort that strangely brought only pain. “Won’t you tell me a little about him?”

Barbatos was not prepared for this, was not prepared to talk. “I...I don’t know where to start.”

“That’s alright, even the first thing that comes to mind would do,” Morax assured, showing no signs of retreating even when confronted with Barbatos’ hesitation. “Tell me a little about him, so I may remember him with you.”

It’s only then that it dawned him, that Barbatos had in fact, rarely ever shared about who he was as a person. He’d sung his songs, praised his deeds—but there were the more personal aspects of him which Barbatos had held extremely close to his heart, in some sort of unspoken pact with the knight where they would be the only ones to shelter those pieces of him. Barbatos had never disclosed how he would sometimes perform on the streets for days on end, skimming on food and saving his coins, just so he could afford the smallest bundle of cecilias from the florist in the market.  

Or how he would hum a certain melody whenever he combed his hair out and braided them again.  

Or how, despite his normally demure temperament, he could have a temper that would frighten even Barbatos when wronged, but would fade just as suddenly as it’d flared.

They surfaced, one by one, after the many years Barbatos had kept them tucked away in a place he thought was safe. He recounted them now, each recollection so precious—yet so, very, heavy. He had subconsciously avoided this all along, for he knew the weight of the memories would easily break his newfound heart.  

He missed him. It was a truth that he’d constantly refused to face. He was gone, yet still, he yearned terribly to see him once more.

Morax listened in silence, attentive even when Barbatos’ breath hitched and his voice trembled. He listened even when the words began tumbling out on their own volition, words of self-loathing and regret and of the indescribable exhaustion of a lonely god.  

Barbatos spoke, and Morax only listened in silence.  

xXx

Barbatos stayed with Morax for a few days more, not quite able to find the right timing to leave—but also because he’d eased into the safety of the Geo Archon’s company.

They exchanged many stories during their time together, Morax encouraging him to share his by offering an abundance of his own. He told him of a time long before Liyue, an age where dragons and elementals were the majority who roamed the world. He told him of wastelands now reclaimed by greenery, of deserts now reclaimed by the seas. He spoke of tales that would’ve been lost completely to the passage of time, had they not been ingrained into his memory. 

And Morax had a very good memory indeed.  

Barbatos had no such high tales to share; he had yet to live enough to experience the world to that extent. He was, however, instead reminded of simpler days of his own in contrast to Morax’s snippets of old history. The days spent within a fortress of storms, of human games and archery practice, of picking pockets and street performances.  

Barbatos remembered being called a different name then. Venti. He had called him Venti.  

How could it have ever slipped his mind.  

Morax proposed the idea the day before Barbatos finally decided he should be leaving. What if they arranged for all Seven to gather regularly? They could share some drinks and simply have a chat, as Barbatos had done the first time he’d visited Liyue. Morax wouldn’t mind being the regular host, but if the other Archons were willing, it would be nice if they could each have their turn. Maybe through this, they would be able to improve international relations within Teyvat, a collective step in rebuilding the continent after the destruction following the Archon War. Maybe through this, they would be able to usher in a new age of peace.  

Maybe through this, they could all be friends.  

It’s unexpected, hearing the concept of “friends” proposed from Morax’s own mouth. He certainly seemed more of the type who would only take acquaintances, keeping his contacts at an arm’s length so he could assess their worth and utilize them as he saw fit. It was rather naive too, Barbatos couldn’t help but think, to believe all seven of them had such an easy chance of getting along when they no doubt had personalities as different as the sky and earth.  

Still, he supposed it was a little endearing; for all his stoic, pokerfaced glory, Morax also had this sentimental side to him.  

Barbatos himself saw no reason not to try; he had taken his own leap once too and that worked out for the better. He reasoned that Morax would probably need him around as well, to diffuse some tough situations that might stem from the sheer difficulty of reading him at times. He'll bring the wine, he’d volunteered, promising that he’ll have learnt to be a better drunk by the time they gather. They would each have their share of alcohol, and in true Mondstadtian fashion, perhaps they would end each night with just a little more mutual understanding and better bonds.

Morax seemed to like the sound of it.  

And with that, along with an insistent invitation for Morax to be the one who bothers him next, Barbatos descended back upon the earth.

There was a field he was rather familiar with on his way back to Mondstadt; it's a place he frequented to practice playing the lyre in solitude. It was currently a time when dandelions are in full bloom, a carpet of yellow flowers swaying with the breeze, their scent pleasant and nostalgic. Barbatos even spotted a group of slimes hopping around not far off, tiny animals darting out from the cover of tall grass and into the nearby forest.  

He halted in his flight, and decided that the lecture from the flame-haired knight could wait a little longer.  

He drifted to his usual spot by the edge of the field, under a large tree older than even himself. He settled on the ground, took a deep breath as he spent a moment to gaze at the sight before him.  

Thousands of dandelion seeds floated in the air, dancing to the whims of the wind in the fading light of the sun.  

Warmth flowed through his body as he thought of him, and how he would still insist that cecilias were more beautiful than this.

Barbatos smiled as he plucked a new string of notes on his lyre, and for the first time, sang a song of his own.

[yandere-romanticaa]

Imagine...

In her eyes, (y/n) was nothing special. She was just a normal girl with a life in which she was more then happy with. She had a loving family, friends that she adored but... She had yet to find a husband. She would soon be of age and all of her friends had found a husband. Heck, some of them even had children of their own! She was at a loss, she didn't know what to do. She had always dreamed of falling in love, to find someone who would adore and treasure her. She prayed to the gods day and night to help her, to bless her with the love she craved.

She would often sing her little heart out deep, deep in the woods where she could not be found.

Or so she thought.

She had caught the attention of something divine, something that was not from this world. Apollo had heard her prayers and he couldn't help but to be a little intrigued about the (h/c)ette. She was a gentle but lonely soul who had a love for the arts, and she loved her family dearly. It had become a hobby of Apollo's to watch over her, to learn more and more about her. Some time passed and he wanted to make himself known to her. He wasn't too sure if she would like him therefore Apollo decided to go for a human disguise. He gave himself a new name and descended down from Olympus.

To his delight she had grown fond of him rather quickly. Apollo loved spending time with her and he was always so charming and patient with her. He would always tease her to sing for him, but (y/n) would always blush and turn her head, claiming that her voice wasn't good enough. But oh, how much those words hurt the god! He knew, he knew all too well just how lovely her sweet voice was. It was like honey and he had become addicted to it.

Addicted to her.

His obsessive nature was soon brought to light, far too soon. He would always worry about (y/n) and no matter where she went her new "friend" would follow. There was nothing she could hide from him and she no longer enjoyed his company. His pressence was suffocating, he would always want to be with her, he wanted to hold her whenever he could and it was unnerving to (y/n). Even some of the men she had fancied had dissapeared without a trace and it was just so sudden. She felt like something, someone, was always watching her and soon enough she would find out the truth.

Her friend had revealed himself to her to be Apollo and (y/n) had been speechless. She had been in the presence of a god this entire time?! Fear and panic came over her as she ran in to the woods, desparate to get away. Apollo on the other hand was hurt. Wasn't he good to her? Wasn't he patient and kind to her? He just... he just wanted to protect her! He wanted to keep her safe! Oh how badly he craved her presence, her touch, her love. He wanted her and he wasn't going to let her just run away like that!

(y/n)'s feet were aching but she could not stop. She needed to keep going, her entire life was on the line. In any other situation she would have been flattered to have caught the attention of a god, Apollo none the less but... he had become too obsessive and clingy for her liking. She knew he wanted to keep her all for himself and with that knowlege (y/n) would not let herself stop running. Her feet were bruised and bloody, her clothes were torn and dirty and out of breath she trips on a little tree branch. A loud yelp escaped her bloody lips as she coughs uncontrollably, desparate to catch some air. Her drowsy eyes scanned the nearby woods, looking for any signs the life. The quiet air around her only made her more tense as she tried to get back up, but her shaky feet gave in. She collapsed on the forest soil, only injuring herself even more. Salty tears pricked her once lively (e/c) eyes as she suppressed a loud sob. She just wanted to go home, for all of this to just somehow dissapear...! Did she outrun him? Perhaps, Apollo didn't seem to be around...

But alas, luck was not on (y/n)'s side today as she felt a pair of two warm, strong hands on her shoulders She felt like screaming but her sore throat prevented her from doing so, and her body was finally giving in to the exhaustion. Warm lips pressed against (y/n)'s forehead as he lightly sniffed her dirtied hair. She was now trapped in the grasp of this lovesick god and she couldn't fight him, and how could she? What could a mere mortal do? Apollo on the other hand, was thrilled. She was finally his, his darling (y/n) was finallt his! His, his, HIS ! A smile formed itself on Apollo's handsome face as his lips took (y/n)'s in to a longing, needy kiss. Yes, they were going to be happy he would make sure of that. Even if (y/n) had to get used to some things...

[vivi-the-sky-kid]

Sowing the Seeds (of Love), Chapter 2

Aka the Resh/OC Fix-It Fic Nobody Asked for but I'm Inflicting on All of You Anyways as Punishment for Kai's Your Hubris

The King has always been a mysterious figure in the annals of the Sky Kingdom's history, generating both awe and fear within the hearts of the sky spirits. Few can claim to have met them in person; certainly not Tav, a researcher of light creatures for the Vault of Knowledge. But when they discover their research may be used to harm the very creatures they know and love, Tav knows they cannot allow this to happen.

Somehow, they must change the King's mind. If that means throwing butterflies at their royal face, then so be it.

-<◇>-

Warnings: Will be added to each chapter when necessary, but there's not gonna be anything graphic in this (do send me an ask if you think there's something I should warn about tho)

Rating: T (just to be on the safe side)

Pairing(s): Resh/OC

Tag(s): Enemies to Lovers, Fake Dating, Canon Divergence, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies

Additional Tag(s): Resh and Alef are twins, Resh and Tav are both nonbinary, Resh uses he/they, Tav uses she/they, Resh is demiromantic and pansexual, Tav is biromantic and demisexual, no beta we die like moths in eden

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

-<◇>-

Chapter 2

Word Count: 3,464

Warning(s): Some swearing

-<◇>-

How had this happened again? Tav's mind was still reeling the next day, even as she sat amongst a flock of birds near one of the rookeries of the Bird's Nest. Normally, their chirps would soothe them, even as they reminded them of a different life. Unfortunately, the events of yesterday kept playing through their mind like a broken memory cube.

Now the King's Will—they refused to use his name—was coming to Daylight Prairie, and all Tav's courage had run out. In the time it had taken to travel to Prairie, her false bravado had melted away like snow in the bright sun. Panicked thoughts now ran through their mind, and not even the cheerful chirps of birds, or the soft squeaks of butterflies, or the whimsical whoops of mantas, could help. Most of them were because of the Will, if she was honest with herself.

Their gray gaze had been so cold. So... empty. Like any warmth and life had faded away long ago. Like they could no longer care about anything.

And now they had to convince him to care about light creatures?

It was impossible. There was a better chance of becoming King herself and killing the project that way.

A chirp from the bird perched on their knee caught their attention. She reached up and tugged on one of the flat locks sticking out of her hair, mouth tightening.

Yes, it was impossible. But they had to try.

-<◇>-

Kumibir hummed as ey left the solar altar, the morning's prayer putting a spring in eir step. With the Megabird's blessing, the Prairie was sure to flourish with light and life. Now ey just needed to get to work tending to the prairie lilies...

“...from Eden, you say? How fascinating!”

A conversation nearby caught eir attention, and ey slowed.

“Isn't it? From what Omifiti told me, the spirit that arrived went into Elder Ayin's temple right away! I wonder what business they could have.”

A spirit from Eden? Could it be...?

Kumibir smiled to emself, taking hold of eir chin. Then ey turned away from the boat that would take em to the Butterfly Fields, and instead made for the next boat bearing a shipment to the temple for processing. The lilies could wait a little longer. Ey had a spirit to catch.

-<◇>-

Feeding time at the Bird's Nest was a sight to behold. As the caretakers spread seed across the grass and stone, flurries of white would descend from the sky to feast. A cacophony of chirps filled the air as the countless birds flocked to their meal. It was a welcome distraction from the thoughts racing through Tav's head.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

“Are you Tav, from the Vault?”

They turned to look at the speaker. A messenger fresh off their boat, by the looks of it. She nodded. “That's me. Do you need something?”

“A spirit from Eden is asking after you at the temple. If you would please come with me...”

From Eden?

Tav swallowed the lump in their throat. With the help of the messenger's proffered hand, she got to her feet. Together, they went to the nearby empty boat, and set off for the temple. The ride was quiet. They would have preferred the agony of small talk with a stranger. At least it would have distracted her from the feeling of going to her own execution.

Tav disembarked a short distance from the pond outside the temple, and the messenger got off to load nearby pots. They took a deep breath and moved toward a very tall spirit standing on the bridge arching over the pond. With the warrior's garb and spear slung across their back—two things nearly unheard of in the peaceful realm of Daylight Prairie—it was clear they were the spirit from Eden.

The King's Will had arrived.

As if sensing their eyes upon him, the Will turned. She gaped at them, thankful her mask hid her look of surprise. An elegantly patterned cape draped from beneath the stone pizaine resting on their shoulders. Long, silky hair drifted in the wind from beneath the diamond-shaped crest of his mask. She had to admit, it was all rather striking, except for one thing...

Tav shuddered slightly when they saw the Will's stony gray skin—as chilling as his gaze.

Then they froze as another spirit peeked out from behind him. An impish grin broke out across eir face when ey caught sight of her.

“Oh, and look who it is!”

Kumibir walked up to Tav, wrapping them in a tight hug. She hugged em back, a little numbly, and tried to ignore the piercing look the Will was shooting her. Thankfully, Kumibir soon released them, though ey kept an arm slung about Tav as they walked back to the Will.

“We were just talking about you!”

“Y-You were?” she said, beads of sweat forming on her back.

“You know, when you said you were expecting someone from Eden, I didn't think you meant your partner! You should have told me. I would have gone to stay with one of my own so you two could have some space.” Kumibir grinned and added, in a conspiratorial whisper, “I can see why you like them. So polite! And so tall! They're just your type!”

Tav blinked. Then blinked again. And then a third time for good measure.

“My wha—?”

“You really are so generous, Kumibir,” the Will cut in smoothly, wrapping an arm around Tav's shoulders and pulling them against his side. His other hand curled by the side of their face, gloved fingers brushing against their mask.

What.

With a squeeze of her shoulders, they continued, “We've been wanting to spend more time together, but sadly, Tav's work has kept them so busy I could rarely see their darling face.”

What.

“Oh, I know how that is. Sometimes the others' work keeps them away for almost the entire day,” Kumibir said, nodding solemnly. Then ey glanced at the sky and squeaked in surprise. “Speaking of work, I have some prairie lilies to tend to. Have fun, you two!”

Ey waved and ran off to the boat Tav came in on. Tav themself remained frozen, trying very, very hard to wrap their head around what just happened. It wasn't until the Will was pulling her around the walls of the temple and out of sight of the boat that she regained her senses. They wriggled out of his grasp and folded their arms in front of them.

“What was that?”

The King's Will scoffed. “You tell me, little researcher. You're the one who told that spirit we were partners.”

“I never did that! I just told Kumibir that you were coming so ey wouldn't be surprised. It's not my fault ey jumped to conclusions.” They turned away, eyes squinting in confusion. “Also what did ey mean, my type...?”

“And why would you not tell them my purpose for being here? I doubt one of your position would be very familiar with a soldier.”

Tav glanced back to him balefully, but they could not deny it. Although the midnight blue and electrum threads of the Will's cape would fit right in amongst the Vault's denizens, soldiers were a less likely story. The Golden Land's lack of light creatures near its dunes meant she was even less likely to go near it. The odds of them and the Will chancing to meet were slim enough to be unbelievable.

But they couldn't tell Kumibir the truth. It would break eir heart.

Ey couldn't know about the Dark Matter Bioweapon project.

Taking a deep breath, Tav said, “The people here love light creatures. If they found out you were here because of a plan to turn them into weapons, it would ruin any chance of cooperation to get you to not want to do that. So I told them you were just here to confirm my research. That's all.”

The King's Will studied them, arms crossed in front of him. Then their demeanor changed, and a shiver ran down Tav's spine.

That wasn't good.

“Very well. In the spirit of cooperation, I will not speak of my reason for being here. But” —and he held up one finger— “you have to pretend I am your partner for the duration of my stay.”

“What?!” Tav said, clapping a hand over their mouth at their volume. She scowled and lowered both her hand and her voice to add, “Why?!”

“Despite what you may think, I too would prefer my identity remain a secret. They don't need to know of my connection to the King. As far as these spirits are concerned, I am Resh, a high-ranking member of the Sky Kingdom's army, and nothing more.”

“Why do you care if these spirits know about your connection to the King?”

They turned away. “I have my reasons.”

“And those are...?”

“None of your concern. Now, do we have a deal?”

She stared at them incredulously, then threw her hands in the air and marched off, much to their surprise.

“Where are you going?”

“To the butterfly fields. It's time for your first lesson on light creatures, darling,” Tav replied, jerking their thumb towards a nearby boat.

-<◇>-

The boat to the edge of Prairie had arrived before any further stilted conversation could occur, and the two had spent the ride in relative silence. That had been a mercy. Now, however, she wanted to scream in frustration. The butterflies were acting strange and uncooperative today. They were fine with Tav themself; it was the King's Will they had a problem with. They flew away squeaking as soon as he approached. Even those she could coax to her hand fled as soon as she beckoned the Will forward.

So things were going just fine.

In the end, as the sun began to set and the butterflies flew off to the nearby sphere they slept within, they had decided to call it a day.

Of course, that didn't mean their bickering had ended. Even when they passed other spirits, the two kept it quiet, making it seem more like two partners sharing private thoughts than opponents exchanging barbed words.

“For a creature claimed to be 'loving' and 'kind,' these butterflies were rather standoffish today.”

“Maybe they sense you're a terrible person who wants to use them as weapons. They're perceptive like that.”

“And yet they cannot perceive the bitter heart inside you, my dear.”

“They can't perceive what isn't there, darling.”

“Ah, of course. How could I have been so blind? You don't have a heart.”

So caught up in their verbal battle was Tav that they didn't realize they had boarded the same boat as the Will until the two were standing outside the elder's temple.

“Good night, my dear. I look forward to tomorrow's efforts,” the King's Will said, pressing a masked kiss to the back of her hand.

Tav narrowed their eyes, but nodded and managed to hold back a shudder as their hand was released. “Until tomorrow, darling.”

The Will nodded back and entered the temple, leaving them to sigh heavily and wait for another boat.

-<◇>-

“So... how did it go?” Ayin asked, a hint of nervousness in their voice.

“Oh, horribly. The butterflies refused to go near me. But that Tav... I must admit, they're a stubborn one. Either they're planning to assassinate me, or they really believe they'll be able to change my mind over this matter. This may be the most entertaining thing I've done in... I can't remember how long. I'll have to thank Alef when I return. After punishing him for enabling this nonsense in the first place, of course,” Resh responded casually, lifting the stone pizaine from their shoulders to lounge more comfortably across the bed provided. For a moment, they thought his skin seemed a little less gray, but it was likely just a trick of the light, nothing more.

“I see.” Ayin turned to leave, but lingered in the doorway long enough to say, “Rest well, Resh. You have a busy day tomorrow.”

Resh grunted in acknowledgment, and the room fell dark.

-<◇>-

The smell of fresh bread greeted Tav's nose the next morning, as well as Kumibir singing a cheerful song praising the sun. It was a welcome start to a day that would doubtless be a strain on her patience. They'd try again with the butterflies, and hope that somehow Resh would be... more cooperative.

Perhaps a vain hope, but she'd hold fast to it.

Tav managed to answer Kumibir's excited questions (“Where did the two of you meet?” “They're so tall! Is that why you like them?” “Do they have a sibling?”) with vague replies that technically weren't lies (“Oh, we met because of my work.” “What? Why would that be a factor?” “Oh, they might. We haven't talked about our families yet.”). Eventually, Kumibir left to attend the morning's prayer to the sun, and Tav was free... for now. As they sat there, idly munching on a slice of bread and listening to the soft whoops of mantas in the distance, irritation rose once more. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner they could escape this miniature hell.

With that thought, she stuffed the rest of the slice into her mouth and left, slinging a light staff across her back. At the very least, it might help in coaxing a butterfly within reach of Resh.

-<◇>-

Resh waited at the dock for Tav, arms folded before him. Ayin had suggested being a bit more agreeable when they awoke, and despite their better judgment, they had agreed. Unfortunately, it was hard to be agreeable when the person in question was late.

...All right, maybe not late, but later than he liked. Too many locals had gawked at them while they waited, muffling their voices with their hands. Too many had giggled in his direction, and all had avoided eye contact when he turned to glare at the offenders. The same nonsense had happened many years ago, when they had first grown into an adult under the watchful care of the Elders. He could still remember some of those that commented on how handsome they had become.

They were all dead by now.

“Good, you're here.”

Thankfully, a familiar voice drew him from that unfortunate reverie. Tav was now approaching... with some kind of staff across her back for some reason. Resh huffed and placed their hands on their hips.

“You're late.”

She shrugged. “I was eating breakfast. You know, since it's morning? What, too good to eat breakfast like the rest of us? Or are you too used to the fancier fare of Eden?”

Ah, yes, such fancy fare as standing near a blazing fire long enough to push back the ache deep within. Too long, and a different pain began. But they didn't need to know that. They were just some too-bold researcher.

“Something like that,” he said curtly.

They continued to stare at him, eyes narrowed, before shrugging again and gesturing to the boat. “Well, whatever. Come on. The butterflies should be waking up now.”

-<◇>-

Just as they had said, the butterflies were starting to pour out of the sphere and head towards their typical spots for the day as the two of them stepped off the boat. It was a beautiful sight, although she doubted Resh appreciated it. Still, it meant they could start for the day.

Like before, the butterflies came willingly to them, as long as they stayed away from the King's Will. At one point, six were perched on her hands, which she then promptly, and smugly, showed them. Their response was to turn away with a grunt. Tav snickered and lifted their hands, releasing the butterflies to return to fluttering about the flowers of the field.

“Here. Let's try this,” they said, drawing the light staff from their back. She held it out, and soon enough, a butterfly perched delicately at the diamond-shaped tip. Then they slowly moved their end towards him, holding it out for Resh to take.

Instead of grabbing it, however, they stared at it. Tav's arm began to ache as the seconds dragged on. When Resh showed no sign of accepting it, they snapped and said, “Would you take the staff already?”

“And just why should I do that? For all I know, you're planning to attack me as soon as I try.”

“It's a light staff. The only thing it can do is bruise that thick skull of yours. Now take it.”

He glared at them, but begrudgingly took hold just below their hand. With her hand on the staff, the butterfly remained even as they grasped it. When they removed their hand, however, and left only his, it squeaked, quivered, and flew off. Tav watched in bewilderment as it returned to its flock.

“...Well, then. I can't say I've seen that happen before.”

“And here I thought you were the expert on light creatures, my dear.”

“And I thought you were someone who could be reasoned with, darling. Looks like we were both wrong, hm?”

She turned away to study the butterflies, wondering just what exactly was driving them away. They were normally such friendly creatures, often taking a break from basking in the sun's rays and pollinating the prairie lilies to loop around nearby spirits. To have them avoid a person like this...

Something must be very, very wrong.

That niggling discomfort over the coldness of Resh's skin and eyes rose up once more, and Tav avoided his gaze as they called for a lunch break.

-<◇>-

As she chewed on a piece of crab meat, Tav considered the issue with the butterflies. Like any other light creature, they were drawn to flame and light. It was their bread and butter, so to speak. As spirits had an inner flame granted by Megabird when they were born, a light creature could simply be near them and feed on the warmth given off. It wasn't much compared to the innate light of another creature, but it was enough that spirits were often accepted as members of the flock, so to speak.

Was something wrong with Resh's inner flame?

It would explain the unusual color of their skin, and the butterflies' behavior. Then again, was such a thing even possible?

Their inner researcher burned to figure out more, but Tav beat it back down. There wasn't time to travel to the Vault, let alone search its archives, and Resh was too irritating and evasive to hope for an actual answer. It was bad enough they had to put up with his dour attitude. Trying to pry information from them would be a nightmare.

Tav swallowed and stood up, stretching with a soft groan. The hill they had chosen to take lunch on was near the butterfly sphere, with a small cave underneath that where Resh was currently skulking. And... talking to someone?

Someone actually wanted to talk to them?

They knelt and leaned closer to the edge of the hill, straining their ears to catch a snippet or two of the conversation.

“...so lucky to have a partner like you. With someone like you around, I'm sure they'll have much less trouble getting things off high shelves.”

The spirit chuckled, and Tav had the sudden urge to throw something. Or scream. Either worked.

“I shall, of course, do my best to assist them with any high shelves they may encounter,” Resh replied. She could practically feel the smirk on their face.

Bastard.

The spirit laughed again, and Tav crouched a bit lower as they left the cave, the puff of the two buns atop their head bouncing slightly with each step. More footsteps sounded, and soon Resh was also leaving the cave. Unlike the spirit, however, they stopped and turned to look up at her.

“Do you need help getting down from there? I've heard you have difficulty with heights,” he said, eyes crinkled in amusement.

Tav glared back. She stood up and walked down the side of the hill, then past Resh, making sure to whack their shoulder with the light staff as they went.

“Come on. The butterflies don't have all day.”

-<◇>-

Butterflies are curious light creatures. While birds and jellyfish are content to keep to themselves when it comes to spirits, butterflies (and mantas) possess a kind of empathic sensitivity that, more often than not, draws them towards spirits. Whether it was a sad spirit in need of comfort or a spirit blazing bright with joy, they would soon find themselves with a squeaking companion looping about their body before flying off into the distance. The only spirits they tended to avoid were those with a great deal of aggression.

They avoided both Tav and Resh this time.

-<◇>-

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

[azvolrien]

Two Months

This is another little Asta-and-Roan vignette series, this time featuring the run-up to their wedding. Maybe a bit shorter than the last couple, with only four relatively short segments, but it gives a little more detail to some stuff that, while it’s been part of the setting inside my head for a long time, hasn’t really come up on the page before.

---

           15th of Messis – Two months to go

           Auchtertan Public Library

           Auchtertan was a small town – only a couple of thousand people called it home – but it drew custom from dozens of small farms up in the hills and tiny fishing harbours along the coast of Loch Gorm, people who either could not or did not want to make the long ride up to Duncraig, and so it had far more on offer than some of the bigger towns nearer the city did. Market stalls were set up in the town square every weekend, forming a loose ring around the ancient carved stone in front of the temple, but even during the week the grocer, butcher and baker were well-stocked. The post office was constantly bustling, there was almost always smoke rising from the bathhouse’s furnace chimney, and the library above the beach boasted two storeys filled with books on all subjects.

           Roan padded along one of the rows on the first floor, running her hand over the spines of the books on their shelves, to the desk Asta had claimed below one of the windows overlooking the sea.

           “Were the librarians able to give you the forms?” asked Asta without looking up from the slim paperback lying open on the desk.

           Roan laid the forms on the desk beside the book and sat down opposite her.

           “Good, good,” said Asta, still without looking up. Roan smiled and propped her chin on one hand, taking a moment to just admire her new fiancée. At this hour of the morning, the sun hit the library window at exactly the right angle for Asta to glow in its light. It drew out the warm gold of her skin and the black-tea chestnut brown of her eyes, and cast enchanting bluish highlights on her deep black hair. One lock had escaped her ponytail, falling forwards over her face. Roan reached out to tuck it back behind her ear, trailing her fingertips gently over Asta’s cheek.

           Asta finally glanced up from the book. The sun caught her eyes, turning them a beautiful reddish amber for an instant. “What?”

           “I like seeing you in your element for a change,” said Roan. “You do love your books.”

           “Yes, I’ll have to have a browse in their fiction section before we head home,” said Asta, turning her attention back to the book. “I’ve been meaning to find something new to read of an evening.”

           “Has that one been useful?” asked Roan.

           “Yes, as a matter of fact,” said Asta. “It’s a very comprehensive guide to marriage in the Sea Lochs. It’s actually a lot more straightforward than I was expecting – things would be more complex if we needed to arrange a temple service or book a venue for a big reception or get the registrar to come to us, but since we agreed we don’t need any of that, essentially all we have to do is fill out these forms telling the registrar that we want to get married and confirming that we’re both of age and of sound mind and so on and so forth, post them up to Duncraig, and they’ll get back to us with an appointment to actually go and get married.”

           “You don’t have to… I don’t know, get your House’s permission or anything? I don’t know how it works with the nobility.”

           Asta glanced back up and shook her head, smiling. “I would if I was in the core family or just outside it, but I’m so minor a branch of House zeDamar that I doubt I even qualify as a leaf. The only reason they would arrange a marriage for me would be if they wanted to emphasise how unimportant my potential spouse was to them.” Her smile faded and she cast her eyes back down at the pages. “Besides,” she muttered. “House zeDamar abandoned me when I needed them. I don’t owe them anything any more. I’d even give up the name if I could.”  

           Roan leant over the desk and kissed her forehead, bringing the smile back for a moment. “Can you not?”

           Asta shook her head again. “It’s not allowed. If you’re born to a noble house, you’re a part of it for life – and if you weren’t, you can’t claim the name through marriage or adoption. Which I suppose at least saves us any arguments over who’ll be changing their surname.”

           “‘NicBruide’ isn’t really a surname anyway,” said Roan. “Let’s get these filled out – they can be in Duncraig tomorrow if we get them posted by lunch.”

           ---

           13th of Sanguis – One month to go

           Dun Ardech, just inside the outer wall

           Asta knelt in front of the little shrine beneath its wooden shelter and lit three small cones of incense, one in front of each pewter god-figure on the flat slate altar, then clapped three times to draw the gods’ attention.

           “Mighty Voynazh,” she murmured, and laid a small beaker of wine before the god of war. “Great Siraki.” She placed a sprig of rowan-berries in front of the goddess of commerce and the protector of travellers. “Blessed Kura.” An ear of wheat for the goddess of agriculture and fertility. “Grant us your protection and your guidance.” That much was a standard invocation. Asta fell silent, considering what else to say. Whatever prayers her parents had offered during their engagement, they had never told her any of them. What was one supposed to say at a time like this?

           “I… am getting married.” Well, that was a start. “We received a letter from the registrar in Duncraig. They have availability in the middle of Gracilis. It’s sooner than we expected, but we decided to take it.” She lifted the beaker and poured the wine out on the ground before the little statue of Voynazh. “Mighty Voynazh, keep the shadow of war far from our doorstep,” she went on quietly. “Whether a blessing from Torravon is the same as a blessing from you or not… Please, let us live in peace, and make it so Roan never has cause for battle-madness.” She crushed the rowan-berries with a mortar and pestle, then tipped out the resulting paste on the flat stone before Siraki. “Great Siraki, clear our path on all our journeys; grant us safe passage over land and water, and be generous in the markets.” She picked up the wheat and rubbed it between her fingers so the grains scattered on the altar. “Blessed Kura…” She paused. “I suppose this is where newly-betrothed people would usually ask you to bless them with children, isn’t it? I suppose that would take divine intervention for Roan and I, at least without involving a third party in some way. But they never featured in our plans anyway, so… Help the hens to lay, keep the vegetable garden going, and I think we’ll be content.”

           The wooden chimes hanging above the shrine clicked gently and spun in the wind; the galloping horses carved around the top chased each other in circles. Perhaps that was an answer. Asta straightened her back and closed her eyes, breathing slowly and deeply as she listened to the wind rustling gently through the trees and the waves lapping against the rocks outside the wall. A couple of the hens wandered over to take charge of the wheat.

           After little while, Asta got to her feet and brushed the dust from her skirt. “How long have you been standing there?” she asked without turning around.

           “Couple of minutes, maybe,” said Roan. “I was wondering if I should chase the hens away from your offering.”

           “No, they’re fine,” said Asta. “I think Kura takes everything she can from it fairly quickly.” She did have to step in to set the statue of Voynazh back upright when one of the hens knocked it over.

           Roan picked up the hen, tutting in amused disapproval. “That’s probably heresy, you know,” she said to one beady yellow eye.

           “From a chicken?” asked Asta.

           “Henresy, then.”

           “Yes, they are known for their schismatic temple practices,” said Asta as Roan put the hen down and shooed her back towards the coop. She closed the shrine’s shutters and turned the little wooden bolt to secure them.

           “It’s not too late to try and arrange a priest for the wedding, if you want,” said Roan, chasing the other hen off for good measure. “I’m sure there’ll be at least one in Duncraig who’s free.”

           Asta shook her head. “I’ve never liked having a go-between – if I need to speak with the gods I’m quite capable of doing it myself.” She paused. “Roan?”

           “Mm?”

           “Do you believe in the gods?”

           “Are you calling off the wedding if I say no?”

           “No, of course not. I was just wondering – I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pray. There wasn’t even a household shrine until we built this one.”

           Roan didn’t answer immediately; instead she pursed her lips and folded her hands behind her back, watching the hens.

           Asta went on. “There was a wizard I knew in Stormhaven who didn’t. Believe in them, I mean. I asked him why one day, once we were on good enough terms that he wouldn’t take it as either an insult or a challenge. He just shrugged and said he’d never encountered a good enough reason to.”

           Roan nodded thoughtfully. “I… believe that they exist in some shape or form, aye. Granda raised me on tales of the fearsome goddesses of the Sea Lochs – Torravon, the Cailleach, the Storm Hags – and I reckon I’ve seen enough of their work. I’m just not convinced they pay any attention to us.”

           “Maybe not.” Asta smiled and brushed her fingers through the windchime. “But I suppose it won’t hurt to try and stay on their good side just in case.”

           ---

           11th of Gracilis – Three days to go

           The City of Duncraig

           It was mid-morning by the time Pardus set its paws on the Kingsferry Bridge. At a gallop, the construct could have covered the distance between Dun Ardech and Duncraig in less than a day – and had done so more than once – but they hadn’t wanted to rush the journey and so had broken it at a coaching inn at a village halfway up the coast.

           Roan’s arms tightened around Asta’s waist. “I haven’t been back here in a very long time,” she said, her voice subdued, as Pardus strolled along the bridge. It was a spectacular piece of engineering: four towering stanchions of concrete and steel supported dozens of seemingly slender cables – each one thicker than Roan’s arm in truth – which in turn supported the roadway itself, high above the surface of Loch Gorm. At the far end loomed the city of Duncraig, creeping down the steep, rocky hillside from the crag-top fortress of the High King – now the seat of the Imperial Governor – to the hundreds of docks and jetties along the edge of the water.

           “Nor me,” said Asta, steadfastly keeping her eyes on the city, refusing to let her gaze drift to Castle MacArra atop the ridge on the other side of the loch. “Not since I came back through the portal from Stormhaven, and I was only passing through then; I didn’t stop to look around.”

           “I never wandered all that far from the university when I lived here,” admitted Roan. “Chances are you probably know the city better than I do.”  

           They rode up through the city streets until they reached Siraki Square, the wide granite-paved marketplace up against the cliff face below the fortress. The market itself was not yet open, though the stallholders were setting up in the stone-built booths around the fountain at the centre of the square. Around its edges, would-be customers killed time in other shops or waited at pubs and cafes. Roan eyed them with distinct wariness as Asta reined Pardus in outside the four-storey hotel that took up almost one whole edge of the square. Flags hung from a row of poles jutting out along the façade of white marble, displaying the rampant bear of the Empire, the dragon ship of the Sea Lochs, the striking wildcat of the monarch of Loch Gorm, and the castle-and-mountain of Duncraig itself. Above them, tall glass windows looked out across the square to the fortress, while the rooms on the other side would gaze down the loch towards the distant sea.

           Asta double-checked the letter from the hotel, nodded firmly to herself, and dismounted. Roan followed her a second later, casting another wary glance at the square behind them.

           “We’ll check in just now and leave our bags in the room,” said Asta, unstrapping the suitcases from behind Pardus’s saddle. “Then we can maybe go out for an explore, find somewhere to have lunch…”

           “Aye, that sounds like a plan,” said Roan absently, lifting one of the bags under one arm and hefting the other onto her shoulder. “I… Never mind.” Asta gave her a searching look, but did not press her.

           Their room overlooked Siraki Square from the second floor. It was not lavishly decorated – the walls were painted a plain, warm cream colour, their only extra adornment a small painting of a stag hanging on the wall above the bed – but the bed was wide and soft with a heavy feather quilt, a pair of comfortable armchairs and a small coffee table were arranged by the full-length window, and the bathroom was equipped with a long tub of enamelled cast-iron. Hinged wooden shutters – currently folded back against the thick stone wall – could swing across to block the light from the windows, while thin linen curtains could be pulled over to soften their lines.

           Roan placed the suitcases carefully on the floor behind the door, straightened up to roll her shoulders back, and flopped face-down on the bed. “Give me a few minutes before we head back out,” she said, her voice rather muffled by the quilt.

           “You can’t possibly be tired already,” said Asta, kneeling beside her. She pulled back the hood of Roan’s sealskin cloak so that the skull rested between her shoulder blades. Roan turned her head slightly to look up at her out of one eye. “You, of all people? It’s not even lunchtime yet!”

           Roan made a noncommittal sound.

           “Well…” Asta lay down so they were face to face. “I’m sure we can find some way to entertain ourselves if you’d rather stay in here.” She grinned, poking the tip of her tongue out between her teeth, and slowly ran one finger down Roan’s nose to her lips.

           “Tempting,” said Roan, smiling at last, “and for more than one reason. But I’m sure there’s a museum or something you want to visit.”

           “Well, I wasn’t going to push the matter if you didn’t want to, but I did see a poster for an exhibition on aquatic constructs-”

           Roan laughed, rolled over onto her back, and sat up. “Sounds good. Let’s have a look.”

           The market outside was in full swing by the time they walked back down to the hotel entrance. There wasn’t a single stall without a queue of waiting customers, and the crowds had spilled out from the cafes and shops to mill around in the square itself. Roan took one step over the threshold and froze at the sight.

           Asta looked back over her shoulder. “Roan?”

           “I…” Roan’s eyes were wide and staring, her pupils dilated despite the bright sunshine in the square. Teeth bared, she groped blindly for the doorframe and clutched it, the tendons on the back of her hand standing out like wires.

           “Hey! Hey.” Asta caught her other hand and reached up to stroke her cheek. “It’s all right. Look at me.”

           Roan closed her eyes hard for a few seconds, pressing her lips together and breathing heavily through her nose, before she obeyed. Her pupils had shrunk back to a more normal size, but her eyes were still wide and her breath still trembled.

           “Come with me,” said Asta. “There’s somewhere I want to show you.”

           She led Roan out of the square and down a series of side-streets until they reached a gate in a waist-high iron fence. It was only locked by a simple sliding bar, clearly more to stop animals than humans, and they walked through into a steep-sided ravine lined with dense bracken – now mostly dead and brown for the winter – and tall pine trees. The path of packed earth and scattered bark zigzagged down the slope until it levelled out by the shallow, swift-flowing river at the bottom. Asta sat down on a wooden bench by the river and patted the seat beside her. Roan lay down on her side on the bench and rested her head in Asta’s lap, closing her eyes.

           “I used to come here on the weekends, or when I had an hour or so away from Lady MacArra’s office,” said Asta, stroking Roan’s hair. “It was quiet, a good place to read – I’m not sure if even many life-long residents of the city know about it. South Craig – Lady MacArra’s house – is just downriver of here, down at the seafront.” She paused. “I knew you didn’t like crowds. I never realised you were afraid of them.”

           Roan took a long, deep breath in through her nose and slowly let it back out through her mouth. “I’m fine with thirty, forty people,” she said without opening her eyes. “A bit more if there’s enough room for them to spread out, like at the market in Auchtertan or out on the island. But when there are hundreds all close together like there were back there, it… It feels too much like a threat. And that doesn’t mix well with battle-madness, however well I have mine under control.”  

           “No, I suppose not. Gods, if Duncraig bothers you this much, you would hate it in the Imperial City.”

           Roan just nodded without sitting up. “Never felt any urge to visit it. Don’t think that would end well anyway.” She turned onto her back to look up at Asta. “Did you ever want to go back there?”

           “There’s nothing left for me in Kiraan,” said Asta. “Just a lot of memories, and the good ones are too tangled up with the bad. I do miss it sometimes, all the places I grew up with… but no, I never wanted to return.” She brushed Roan’s fringe back out of her face and leant down to kiss her forehead. “We can go back to the hotel if you want.”

           Roan took another deep breath and shook her head. “I don’t want to keep you cooped up all day. I’ll be all right if we can avoid the crowds.” She sighed and sat up. “So, did those posters say where this exhibit of yours is?”

           Asta smiled. “It’s at the Marine Museum down at the quayside. Don’t worry, I know a few shortcuts that’ll get us there without any crowds.”

           ---

           14th of Gracilis – A few hours to go

           The City of Duncraig

           Roan carried her plate back to the table. “I’m not sure about hotels,” she said as she sat down. “I don’t like hearing strangers moving around nearby at night. But it is nice to have a breakfast we didn’t have to make ourselves.”

           “They lay out a good one here, too,” said Asta, checking over the day’s itinerary in her notebook. “So, our appointment at the registrar’s office is just at the back of five and then we have dinner in the evening, but the day isn’t too busy up until then. Did you have any plans?”

           “I booked us a tub for a couple of hours at that huge bathhouse near the university. You know the one I mean? Our slot starts at half-ten, so we can find somewhere for lunch afterwards.”

           “Oh, is that where you vanished to when I was in the library? You were oddly evasive about that.” Asta added it to her notes, then glanced up, frowning. “There’s a bath in our room here.”

           “Aye, but it’s not very comfy. Not for two people, at least.”

           “True. Well…” Asta reached back over her shoulder and beneath the collar of her blouse, rubbing her fingertips against the raised cords of old scarring.

           Roan caught her reluctance immediately. “It’s a private tub,” she assured her. “No one has to see your back. Not even me, if you don’t want me to.”

           “Oh, I’m used enough to you seeing it,” said Asta with a small smile. “So, two hours at the bathhouse, maybe another two for lunch…”

           “If we make it a very leisurely lunch.”

           “Then that still gives us two and a half hours in the afternoon.”

           Roan scooped half a fried egg into her mouth and swallowed. “I… have a couple of things to take care of then,” she said. “But I’ll meet you at the registrar’s office.”

           “Will you be all right by yourself?”

           “I… will manage.”

           Asta silently searched Roan’s eyes for a few seconds before she nodded. “Five o’clock sharp, then,” she said, giving Roan’s chin a little shake between thumb and forefinger.

           Roan caught her hand and gently kissed the backs of her fingers without breaking eye contact. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

           After a long, relaxing soak in the bathhouse’s steaming, floral-scented water – “I’m very fond of our little bathhouse at home,” Asta commented, “but you have to admit it smells a bit eggy.” – and a lunch that was indeed leisurely in a neighbouring café, they split up outside the gates of the university. Roan gave Asta a quick farewell kiss on the forehead – as much for her own reassurance as Asta’s – before she pulled up the hood of her cloak, squared her shoulders, and strode away. Asta watched her until she had disappeared around a corner, then sighed and returned to the hotel. There were a few things of her own she needed to organise.

           Much to Asta’s relief, as the afternoon wore quietly on she received no word of anyone going berserk in the street and getting either injured or arrested. Five o’clock approached; Asta donned her new blue dress, gave her hair – loose from her usual ponytail – one last careful brushing, and took several slow, steadying breaths in front of the bathroom mirror. She didn’t usually bother with makeup, but for the occasion she had added some pinkish polish to her nails, a subtle shading above her eyes and a hint of a deeper red around her lips. Finally she put on a pair of earrings, each one a plain gold hoop about an inch across – a little showier than the simple cuffs or studs she usually wore, but not to the point of discomfort or distraction.

           “Everything’s going to be fine,” she said to her reflection, before she picked up her satchel containing her purse and the ring box, draped a woollen shawl around her shoulders against the chill of a Gracilis evening, and left the hotel. The sky was almost fully dark, but the streets were busy and well-lit and it wasn’t a long walk to the registrar’s office.

           Like most of Duncraig’s buildings it was a stern construction of grey stone, with a short but impressively broad flight of steps leading up to double doors of sturdy oak, but the windows showed a welcoming gold light from the offices and meeting-rooms behind them. Asta waited at the foot of the steps. A bell chimed somewhere, perhaps from one of the city’s temples. Five chimes. Asta bit her lip, glancing up and down the street and wondering how long she should give it before she started getting worried. She had no fear of Roan getting cold feet, but if something else had happened…

           “I’m here, I’m here! Sorry, not quite five sharp, I know.”

           Asta smiled; a tension she hadn’t really noticed until it was gone fell from her shoulders. She turned towards Roan’s voice and her jaw dropped.

           Roan gestured down at herself, grinning. “How do I look?”

           She still wore her usual cloak, plain yellowish-tan trousers and tough leather boots, minus her gaiters for a change, but one of her afternoon tasks had clearly been to pick up a new tunic. The fine woollen cloth was dyed a rich blood-red, trimmed around the hems with intricate patterns of interwoven vines with strange creatures – birds, dragons, even a water horse – hiding amongst them, all embroidered in varying warm shades of yellow and orange. It was still sleeveless and knee-length like her everyday tunics, but was split into two wide panels front and back, slit up the side from the hem to her hips, and was tailored to accentuate her bust and her waist. A strip of red-and-gold cloth had been tied around her brow, keeping her hair out of her face. Perhaps she had had someone see to that, as well – it had been unbraided and allowed to flow in loose waves down her back, brushed until it shone like polished copper.

           “Great gods,” was all Asta managed. “I – gods.”

           “Not often I render you speechless,” said Roan. Her grin widened. “Not without the use of my hands, at least.”

           “Roan!” Asta blushed and looked away, but she was still smiling.

           Roan ran one hand down over Asta’s hair, combing her fingers gently through it. “You look perfect, mo chridhe. Utterly perfect. Oh, I almost forgot – these two are Kirsty and Erik. They’ve agreed to be witnesses.” She jabbed a thumb at the two people who had been standing behind her.

           Asta gave them a polite nod, returned by both of them, before a flash of white in the corner of her eye caught her attention and she looked down at Roan’s left arm. There was a bandage of some odd, faintly shiny material wound securely around it just below the elbow. “Your arm – are you hurt?”

           “Hm? Oh, that. No, it’s fine – I’ll show you after the ceremony. Shall we?” She offered Asta her other elbow and they walked arm-in-arm up the steps. A clerk met them just inside the doors and led their little group through to one of the offices, where the registrar had already laid all the relevant paperwork out on his desk.

           “Wedding party of zeDamar and MacBride?” he asked.

           “NicBruide,” corrected Roan, her tone suggesting it was not the first time she had encountered this error. “But aye, that’s us.”

           The registrar glanced down at the forms. “Yes, I apologise – I misread.” He cleared his throat. “We are here to witness and register the marriage of Asta zeDamar and Roan NicBruide. Have you written any personal vows you’d like to say or shall we proceed with the standard version?”

           “I… have a few words,” said Roan. She turned to face Asta and clasped both of her hands between her own. “Asta zeDamar. I… I have spent a lot of my life alone. I’ve never made friends easily, not as a bairn or as an adult. Sometimes people would come into my life, but… sooner or later they all left. Because they had to. Because they were afraid.” Her voice trembled. “Because I sent them away.” She released Asta’s hands and held her shoulders instead. “You are the only one who ever came back. That alone would amaze me every day if nothing else did – and believe me, much else does, from the strength of your heart to the sharpness of your mind, every single day since that night you first showed up on my doorstep. You’ve put up with me for longer than anyone but my grandfather. You are the best friend I have ever had, the most trusted ally of my heart, and the love of my life, and I can’t bear to spend one more day of that life without being married to you.” She sniffed and scrubbed at her eyes with the back of one hand.

           Asta reached up to wipe the not-quite-shed tears away with her thumb. “You saved my life,” she said, “and I mean that in so much more than the purely literal sense. Yes, you treated my wounds and rescued me from the people who wished me ill – but more than that, you made sure I had the time and space and help I needed to heal, in that heart and mind you love so much as well as physically. Nobody has ever understood me – has ever listened to me – the way that you have. You make me happier than I’ve ever been before just from being your own kind, capable self, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” She pushed herself up on her toes to kiss Roan softly on the lips.

           “That part comes later,” the registrar reminded them with a smile. “Do you have rings?” Asta fished the little box from her satchel and handed one ring to Roan.

           “Silver,” commented Roan, holding the unengraved band up to the light.  

           “Gold felt a little too much like brass,” said Asta quietly, rubbing her throat with one hand. Roan just nodded, understanding immediately.

           “Asta Irina zeDamar,” said the registrar. “Do you assent to marriage with Roan NicBruide?”

           “I do.” She slid the ring she still held onto Roan’s finger.

           “Roan NicBruide. Do you assent to marriage with Asta zeDamar?”

           Roan placed the other ring on Asta’s finger. “I do.”

           “Then I pronounce you married.” Roan didn’t wait for any further instruction and swept Asta right off her feet in a long and thorough kiss.

           “Well, then,” said Asta, resting her forehead against Roan’s. “There we go.” Roan just grinned and kissed her again.

           They all signed the forms to render everything properly official and left the building, bidding farewell to Kirsty and Erik at the bottom of the steps.

           “Do you really not have a middle name?” asked Asta as they strolled back to the hotel together.

           Roan shook her head. “I’m just Roan.”

           “It suits you, somehow. Very straightforward. You were going to tell me what happened to your arm?”

           “I was, wasn’t I?” She carefully loosened and unwound the bandage from around her arm. “The cloth is spelled and treated with a special ointment,” she explained. “It helps to quickly heal the skin without fading the ink.” Bandage removed, she held out her arm to reveal a dark blue, five-pointed star inked into the soft skin of her inner forearm, just below the crease of her elbow. Inside its crisp outline, each segment of the star was decorated with similar knots and spirals to the rest of her tattoos. “I get them to mark important occasions, remember?”

           Lost for words for the second time that evening, Asta reached out with one hand, but pulled it back a hair’s breadth before her fingers met Roan’s skin. “It won’t smudge or anything, will it?”

           “No – it won’t be fully healed yet, but the bandage moved things along enough that the ink is set.”

           Asta smiled and brushed her fingers against the star. The skin around it was still a little pink and swollen from the needle, the lines of the tattoo a little raised, but it would settle back as it healed the rest of the way. “It’s very neat work.”

           “Kirsty’s, as it happens,” said Roan. “She’s my tattooist. Erik, now, he’s just a random man who had some time to spare.”

           Asta had to laugh. “It’s beautiful. Thank you. Although… You do know that the origin of my name doesn’t actually have anything to do with stars, right?”

           “I do, but ‘divine beauty’ is a lot trickier to make a tattoo design of.” Roan smiled and ran her fingers through Asta’s hair again. “However well it suits you.”

           Asta leant against her side with a smile, winding one arm around her waist as they walked, and said nothing.

           Roan laid an arm around her shoulders. “Our table at the restaurant won’t be ready for another hour and a half, ish.”

           “Oh, no.” Asta half-closed her eyes, her smile growing a little more suggestive. “However will we fill the time?”

---

What did you think she had in mind?

Roan has had her star tattoo in a few pictures I’ve drawn of her, but this is the only time the personal meaning behind it has actually been pointed out. ‘Asta’ is a diminutive form of the name ‘Astrid’, which does indeed mean something like ‘divine beauty’.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

God's Blessing upon Solomon

There is a measure of moral safety in work. While Solomon was busy with all his great plans, he was in less danger of being led away from God. At length, however, his magnificent projects were all completed and he was ready to enjoy the ease and the fame which he had earned in his twenty-four years of wonderful activity. Instead, however, of being a time of security - this was Solomon's time of danger. There is peril in popularity. It brings adulation, which ofttimes becomes almost adoration. This is apt to turn one's head. One who is honored so by the world - does not always remain humble and lowly.

Then Solomon's greater leisure since his buildings were finished, also brought danger. We are more open to temptations when we are idle - than when we are busy. Work is always a means of grace - and idleness brings peril. Luxury also has its dangers, and often saps the spiritual life of its vitality. In all these ways, Solomon found himself now in danger. He was unconscious, however, of his peril, and this made it all the worse!

We think that seasons of trouble, sorrow, and hardship - are the times when people need sympathy and help; but really they need the grace of God most - when they are in the midst of worldly favor and prosperity! A saintly man said to his friend, "If you ever see me beginning to get rich - pray for my soul."

The Lord appeared to Solomon when he was beginning his reign, when he was making his choice of objects in life. Then all was bright. He appeared to him the second time because he was in danger. He saw that the world was throwing about the king, its glittering charm, and He came with earnest warning. Warnings are always blessings, or are meant to be blessings; if we heed them - God will save us.

Not many people are afraid of prosperity. They do not think of it as dangerous. They do not pray to be kept from harm in it. Yet our Lord gave no warnings more solemn and earnest, than those which He gave against the perils of riches and prosperity. It is sad to remember that even after this divine warning, Solomon did turn away from God. Even God's appearing to him in person, and speaking to him - did not save him from going after the gods of the heathen! Warnings, too, make the sin of our failing, all the greater. Forewarning ought always to be followed by forearming .

God had accepted Solomon's work and had blessed it, accepting at his hand, the house he had built. No privilege that could be granted to anyone in this world is so great as that of being used of God - of having God accept something of ours. For example, one writes a hymn, like the Twenty-third Psalm, or "Rock of Ages," and God accepts it and uses it. Thousands sing it, putting their hearts into it, and are lifted by it nearer to God. Or one writes a book and dedicates it to Christ; Christ accepts it and allows it to carry blessing to many of His people, giving comfort in their sorrow, strength in their weakness, light in their darkness, guidance in their perplexity. To be thus honored by God - puts upon one new responsibility for living worthily.

Instead of making one proud to be thus honored and used - it should make one humble. Especially should he walk softly and carefully now, for God's seal is on him. He is Christ's, and dares not turn back to the world. That is what God meant, when He said to Solomon that He had heard his prayer and had accepted the temple which he had built, putting His name there, and taking it into His heart. He meant that the acceptance of this, Solomon's work, put the king under new obligations to be faithful, made his life sacred thenceforth forever. The Lord promised Solomon, that if he would be faithful, his kingdom would stand.

God will build true prosperity only upon one foundation: righteousness and truth. This is true of the individual, and is true also of nations. The Bible is full of promises of goodness and mercy - but every one of them, rests upon a condition of faithfulness on the part of those who claim them.

We have an example of this in Joshua, where the Lord gave His servant a clear explanation of the foundation of all true success. "Only be strong and very courageous, to observe to do according to all the law, which Moses My servant commanded you: turn not from it to the right hand or to the left, that you may have good success wherever you go." Success can be reached - only in the doing of God's will. Anything else that men may call success, will only be a failure. It is built upon the sand, and the floods will sweep it away by and by.

"But if you shall turn away from following Me - then will I cut off Israel out of the land which I have given them." Here is another "if". The first told of blessing - if they would obey God's commandments. This second showed a dark picture of those who will not go in God's way. The end of this path is destruction.

Think of the human hopes which have been lost, the innocence, the purity, the holy aspirations and desires, all the possibilities of noble spiritual life; think of the wrecks of all these precious things which lie at the bottom of the great sea of life .

When we think of the temptations, the sorrows, the trials through which we must pass in living - it is enough to alarm us. People talk much about the terrors of death - but life has far more and far greater terrors, than dying!

In the poem a child asks, "What is life, father?" and gets the answer that life is a sore battle, where many fail and yield; and then asks, "What is death, father?" We are not surprised that when she hears that death is the rest which comes at the end of the strife, she says, "Let me die, father; I fear to live!" But the wise answer is, "You must live first - and win your crown on the battlefields of life."

Life is indeed full of perils - but they need not affright us. If we pass through them safely, we are sure of the crown; and those who fight the hardest battles and get the noblest victories, are those who shall receive the highest reward. Paul gives to us the assurance that even life, with all its dangers, cannot separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus. We know that if we trust in Christ and rest in His hands - nothing can snatch us out of His clasp! We see here very plainly, how we may go safely over life's wild and tempestuous sea. If we keep the commandments of God - we shall get the blessings of victory and honor. But if we disobey God and break away from His commandments, we shall wreck all our hopes upon life's ocean!

[richmond-rex]

What do you think Henry VII remembers, if anything, of his other uncle Henry VI?

This is such an interesting question and something that I myself have been wondering, so thank you for providing me with the opportunity to expand my thoughts on here 🌹

We know that Henry VII only ever saw his uncle King Henry VI once during his life, when he was 13 years old. However, I’d argue King Henry must have caused quite a great impression on him, and considering Henry Tudor was old enough at that time, also a profoundly lasting one. So far young Henry Earl of Richmond had been living as a ward of his uncle Jasper’s enemies, the Herberts. By 1470 his old guardian, William Herbert, had been executed, and then, as the Earl of Warwick changed sides and brought about Henry VI’s readeption, Henry Tudor was returned to his uncle Jasper who took him to London to meet King Henry VI. That Jasper felt like acquainting his nephew with his brother denotes a special degree of closeness and advocates for his idea of family, in my opinion.

According to André, Henry VII’s court poet and self-styled regius historiographus, on 27 October 1470 Henry VI held ‘a splendid feast with the nobles and best men of the kingdom’ to commemorate his return to the throne. As the king was washing his hands, young Richmond was brought to his presence, and according to André, ‘the king prophesied that someday the boy would undertake the governance of the kingdom and would have all things under his own power.’ Polydore Vergil, a historian that began his service under Henry VII in 1506, wrote in his Three Books that in that 1470 meeting ‘the king... is reported to have said:’

“This truly, this is he unto whom both we and our adversaries must yield and give over the dominion.”

It seems not even Vergil lends much credence to this tale as expressed by his choice of words: reported to have said. As expected, this myth has largely been viewed as Tudor propaganda and indeed the episode has been immortalised in Shakespeare’s Henry VI part III. In the play, King Henry VI meets a toddler Henry Richmond (then escorted by Somerset), calls him ‘England’s hope’, and says Richmond was ‘Likely in time to bless a regal throne’. Given that King Henry VI had his own son Prince Edward as his heir at the time, it seems unlikely he would ever have said such a thing. However, if anything remotely close to that happened, then I agree with Leanda de Lisle in saying that it must have been King Henry VI taking Henry Tudor to be his own son Edward, who thanks to his imprisonment in the Tower he had not seen for five years (and would not ever see again). It’s absurdly sad to think King Henry VI would confound his nephew with his son but arguably also not out of the realm of possibility. We don’t know if Henry Tudor saw his uncle King Henry again, but it’s also not unlikely that he, his mother and uncle Jasper stayed at court for the feast of All Hallows’ (1 November) and All Souls’ Day (2 November).

If King Henry VI ever made such prophecy, wittingly or not, then it must have greatly impacted on Henry Tudor. Henry VII believed to have been chosen by God to, against all odds, become king of England. He once wrote about ‘the crown which it has pleased God to give us with the victory over our enemy at our first field’. Henry Tudor was reported to be very pious—he made pilgrimages to the shrine of St Thomas Becket at Canterbury every Easter, as well as frequent pilgrimages to the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham and donations to the shrine of St Vincent Ferrer in Brittany. He also founded the cult of the Breton saint St Armel in England and boosted the teachings of St Francis by his patronage of the Franciscan order. He especially favoured the Observants (the Franciscans, also known as the Greyfriars), granting them annuities for the establishment of monasteries in England and abroad. It seems he also favoured staying at religious houses when travelling or going on progress around the kingdom.

Most importantly, Henry VII held a singular devotion to the Virgin Mary and his adoption of the red rose as his personal symbol—aside from dynastic reasons—had everything to do with the religious connotations of that flower. Henry VII could have associated himself with his uncle Henry VI by adopting his antelope badge, for example, but instead, he chose the five-petal flower associated with the Virgin Mary and the Passion of Christ. The Franciscans were noted for their devotion to the Passion, and Henry VII had come in contact with the Observants during his exile in Brittany. The rose had five petals like the five wounds of Christ—St Bernard of Clairvaux once stated: “As many wounds as there are on the Saviour’s body, so many roses are there! Look at His feet and His hands; do you not see roses?” 

Forgive me for still going on a tangent about it, but Henry VII’s personal devotion to the Virgin Mary and the doctrine of her Immaculate Conception is exemplified in his Book of Hours, where a miniature shows a figure representing the king kneeling at a prayer desk before a vision of the Virgin as a baby held by her mother, St Anne (or, alternatively, The Virgin and the Child Jesus). His devotion to the Virgin was also highlighted in his rebuilding of the Lady Chapel (now Henry VII’s Chapel) at Westminster Abbey which I will return to in a moment.

I’m not sure but I think it was Vergil who reported Henry VII as having said that religion was his ‘continual refuge’ during exile. His piety has been largely attributed to the influence of his mother Margaret Beaufort, herself also a very pious woman. But given how many years—and formative years those were—they spent apart, I imagine that Henry must have looked up to someone closer to him at the time, namely his uncle Jasper Tudor. We know that after the death of Catherine of Valois Jasper and his brother Edmund were raised by nuns at Barking Abbey, and that then at some point they joined King Henry VI’s court. According to John Blacman, Henry VI’s biographer and chaplain writing in 1485:

[…] and like pains did [Henry VI] apply in the case of his half-brothers, the Lords Jasper and Edmund, in their boyhood and youth; providing for them most strict and safe guardianship, putting them under the care of virtuous and worthy priests, both for teaching and for right living and conversation, lest the untamed practices of youth should grow rank if they lacked any to prune them.

Blacman also claimed that the king personally protected his half-brothers from sexual temptation by keeping ‘careful watch through hidden windows of his chamber’ (yes, I know). Like his uncle King Henry VI, Henry VII would also set a court that ‘maintained the highest standards of sexual behaviour’. Indeed, Retha Warnicke made an extensive compilation of scandals during the first two Tudor reigns and not a single case of sexual misconduct was found to have taken place during Henry VII’s time, marking his court as a decidedly different one than Edward IV’s had been.

Going back to Henry VI’s supposed prophecy, his words surely must have acquired a great weight in Henry Tudor’s mind by 1483 when he made his bid to the English throne. By that time King Henry VI had become a popular saint in England and even though Edward IV had tried to have him modestly—and somewhat obscurely—buried in Chertsey Abbey, Surrey, people had started to flock to his grave. A peasant claimed that Henry VI helped him when he had a bean trapped in his ear, which only popped out after he prayed to the king. Painted images of King Henry VI began showing up in churches around the country, like this one at Barton in Norfolk:

One of King Henry VI’s most ardent devotees was Henry Tudor’s mother Margaret Beaufort (Jasper’s feelings towards the cult are unknown) who had met her kinsman when she was about nine years old. When King Henry VI allegedly offered her the option of remaining married to Suffolk’s son or be remarried to his brother Edmund, Margaret says St Nicholas came to her in a dream dressed as a bishop, telling her to choose Edmund. Again, if this story is true or not, we may never know, but Margaret told that to her confessor John (bishop, then saint) Fisher—why would a famously pious woman such as Margaret Beaufort lie to her own confessor, thus committing a sin? It might be that the events took a mystical turn in Margaret’s imagination as a young girl, but that she associated divine intervention to hers and her son’s fate, and likewise to King Henry VI’s proposal, is clear.

It seems Richard III tried to control King Henry VI’s ever-growing cult by moving Henry VI’s body from Chertsey Abbey to St George’s Chapel at Windsor, a place where visitors wouldn’t have easy access to the king. Nevertheless, when Henry VII came to the throne he wholeheartedly encouraged pilgrimages to the place. Henry VII launched an official campaign to have his uncle canonised, with several petitions to popes Innocent VIII, Alexander VI and Julius II. Henry also ordered the compilation of a book of miracles worked by his uncle, and a biography of Henry VI was published in 1500 claiming that Henry VI had been ever pious and chaste during his life, towards his queen never behaving ‘unseemly ... but with all conjugal honesty and gravity’. Henry VII planned to have the body of King Henry VI re-interred at the heart of the new Lady Chapel he was planning at Westminster Abbey. 

However much Henry VII enjoyed good relations with the papacy, especially Pope Innocent VIII, his campaign to have his uncle King Henry VI canonised never came into fruition. Henry VII decided for him and his wife to be buried at his new Lady Chapel instead, next to the tomb of his grandmother Queen Catherine of Valois. In his will, he stated his wish for his body to be buried:

“in the Chapell where our said graunt Dame laye buried, the which Chapell we have begoune to buylde of newe, in the honour of our blessed Lady.”

That doesn’t mean Henry VII set aside the memory of his uncle King Henry VI. He employed the same man that was overseeing the construction of the Lady Chapel at Westminster, Reginald Bray, to continue the rebuilding of St George’s Chapel at Windsor set in motion by his predecessor Edward IV (it came to be informally known as the Bray Chapel). The modest thirteenth-century chapel of Edward the Confessor was expanded into a vast cathedral-like chapel where, importantly, Henry VI’s body was placed alongside a famous relic, the fragment of the True Cross (a reliquary known as the Cross of Gneth) and the bones of John Schorne (revered for curing gout and toothache).

We may argue that Henry VII’s campaign to have King Henry VI’s canonised was fundamentally political (much like Richard II’s campaign for Edward II) as many historians have done. King Henry VI as a saint, combined with his supposed prophecy, would successfully contribute to the image of Henry VII’s reign as one chosen by God. When we put Henry VII’s religious devotion into perspective, though, his efforts to have ‘the glorious King Henry’ canonised take another dimension—in fact, there’s no doubt that in Henry VII’s eyes God had intervened in his favour. Henry VII’s will also stated his wish for an image of himself to be placed in St Edward’s chapel at Westminster, depicting him returning to God and the Virgin Mary the circlet with which he had been crowned at the Battle of Bosworth.

This is me purely speculating, but I think that even though Henry VII only came in contact with King Henry VI once in his life, his half-uncle might have exercised a great influence on him through his uncle Jasper. Jasper seemed to have been genuinely attached to his brother Henry on a personal level as well as devoted to his political cause. If Henry VI’s saintly qualities had been enough to impress Margaret Beaufort, it is very likely that they might have impressed young Henry of Richmond as well.

[dudeandduchess]

Ok, since you’re willing to write for him (YAY! May you be blessed!), can I have a smut scenario where the reader is Giyuu’s friend that has a big PHAT crush on Sakonji Urokodaki? 😂 Mr. Sakonji Urokodaki knows it since he can smell it 😂 one day, the reader goes with Giyuu to visit his former teacher, Giyuu leaves for a bit and things gets hot and steamy with the reader and Mr. Urokodaki. Maybe add a breeding kink??? Hehe thank you love!

Hi, bby! Hope you like this one. Oof. I think I need to bathe in holy water now. This is much more sinful than the Shinjurō x Reader x Kyōjurō piece. Omg.

I... I am just so sorry. I want to crawl into a hole now. Oof. Lmao.

***

Urokodaki Sakonji x F!Reader (NSFW Scenario):

Warnings: Language, Smut, Daddy Kink, Breeding Kink, Creampie, Impregnation, Dirty Talk (?), DVP, Object Insertion, Mating Press, Age Difference

“Oh no, I think I dropped my wallet somewhere along the way.” (Y/n) searched the pockets of her skirt frantically, even though she knew that she had left the particular item at home. It was safely tucked beneath her futon, where she was sure Giyuu wouldn’t notice when he came to pick her up.

And Giyuu, being the kind friend that he was, played perfectly into her plan.

“Go knock on Urokodaki-san’s door. Stay with him while I look for it around here. I’ll be back soon,” The Hashira answered softly, before making his leave.

Just as she had anticipated would happen, she sidled up to her long time love interest’s door and knocked softly. “Hello, Urokodaki-san. It’s (Y/n); Giyuu’s friend.”

Hesitantly, the older man opened his door to let her in. He knew what she had done, since not only did he hear what she had said earlier, but he could also smell the lingering stench of having told a lie coming from her.

Also, he could smell the sweet scent of arousal. It had been faint a few minutes ago, but had increased after he had opened the door.

So, he had no doubt that (Y/n) had come there specifically for him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to take advantage of the opportunity, but he was held back by his own lascivious thoughts of how he wanted to impregnate his former student’s friend.

Everytime she came over with Giyuu was a challenge within itself, and the opportunity presented in front of him at that time was almost too good to pass up.

Still, he kept his hands to himself and offered her some tea. She declined the polite offer, and even did something as daring as to sit beside him by the hearth.

Her skirt was purposely shorter that day, as opposed to the knee-length ones she usually wore, because she knew that she had to take matters into her own hands.

She wanted to get fucked by Urokodaki Sakonji, and she wanted to get fucked bad.

They spent a few minutes in thick silence, just watching the small flames lick up at the air, before (Y/n) spoke, “I’m not dumb. I know you want this as much as I do.”

Urokodaki turned his head towards her, his face a display of shock behind his mask. Yet, he remained quiet as he tried to get a tight reign over his lust.

“I want you to fuck me so badly. I want to feel that mask of yours deep inside me. Fuck, I want you to fill me up with your cum and get me pregnant,” (Y/n) uttered in an even tone, even though she was shaking like a leaf on the inside. And then, as a last-minute blind prayer, she threw out, “Daddy.”

And that did it for Urokodaki.

He pinned her down on the floor, with his hands on her shoulders and his torso parallel to hers.

“If you want this, Giyuu must never know.” He warned quietly, even has his own hands had begun to unbutton the young woman’s Slayer uniform.

“He’ll never know. I swear.” She agreed amicably, before proceeding to bend her legs up at the knees— which afforded the older man a view of her bare cunt beneath the skirt.

(Y/n) was already wet with desire, as she had been fantasizing about what would happen while on the way over. She was just thankful that Giyuu was too polite to say anything about it, if he even noticed how wet she was.

Then, in a bolder move, she propped herself up on her elbows— unmindful of Urokodaki’s grip on her shoulders— and took the nose of his tengu mask in her mouth.

She licked around the smooth wood, coating it with her saliva before sinking down on it until the hilt. She wanted to hum around it, as force of habit dictated, but she held herself back from doing so; as she was preparing it to enter her, not because she wanted to please its owner.

“Please, daddy. I want to feel this inside me,” The young woman pleaded once she deemed the lengthy object slick enough.

And Urokodaki couldn’t argue, because with every chance that she said ‘daddy’ his cock got harder and harder, as he fell deeper into her spell.

So, without any protest, the older man positioned himself between her legs; holding them apart by her thighs, as she rubbed the tip of his mask’s nose against her clit.

Then, he ran the blunt tip along her slit— teasing her tight opening until the lewd sounds of her wetness permeated the room. And when Urokodaki was satisfied with how wet she was, he pushed the tip of his mask inside her.

Which elicited such a sinfully relieved cry from (Y/n). The sound went straight to his cock; further making it hard within his pants.

He began with slow and shallow thrusts, listening to his lover’s pleasured mewls all the while. Until she placed a hand in his hair and urged him to go faster and deeper.

Urokodaki could feel his mask slowly slipping off with every harsh thrust, but he couldn’t care less about exposing his face. All that mattered to him was making (Y/n) scream even louder as he pushed her closer and closer to her orgasm.

And when she tumbled off the edge of pleasure, he easily slipped the mask off of his face and sat upright to admire her in that position.

Sometime while he was fucking her with his mask, she had unbuttoned the rest of her shirt and had begun to play with her right breast. She looked so sinfully spent with his tengu mask still inside her that he couldn’t resist looking for just a little longer; to have something to help him ease his loneliness after she left.

However, when he’d had his fill of her, he undid the waist of his pants and set his hard cock free. It bobbed in the air for a few seconds, before he took it in his hand and aligned it next to the mask still inside his lover.

(Y/n)’s eyes widened at that, right before her eyes rolled to the back of her head when she felt the head of Urokodaki’s cock enter her alongside the tengu mask.

She hadn’t expected such an outcome from her boldness, but she really couldn’t complain. Especially when Urokodaki started moving his hips.

His movements were slow and shallow, so as to avoid hurting her, but it was killing him not to have been able to fully claim her, so he pulled the mask out of her and tossed it to the side; uncaring of where it landed.

Then he was back on her; slinging her legs up onto his shoulders and tilting her hips in into a mating press. He began thrusting with earnest, taking pleasure in the lewd sounds of their skin slapping together, while (Y/n) cupped his cheeks and peppered kisses along his face.

It was the first time that she had ever seen him without his mask, so she took that moment to memorize his kind-looking features. She also took that time to wish that their child would look like him, if she got pregnant.

Which was a certainty, as she would keep coming back to him until it happened; maybe even after it happened, just because the way he was fucking her was too good to be true.

His cock kept hitting spots inside her that her previous lovers could only ever dream of reaching, which resulted in such lascivious cries from her mouth.

She kept begging Urokodaki to cum inside her, to fill her with his cum and wreck her, while the older man kept silent; with only quiet moans and groans cluing her in to his own pleasure.

When he smelled Giyuu beginning to head back to them, however, he increased his pace even more— until (Y/n) had no choice but to wrap her arms around his neck for something to hold on to.

His thrusts were so rough and powerful that it made her inch up along the floor. Yet, she couldn’t deny how pleasurable it felt as he pounded her core insistently.

She felt her walls beginning to pulse around his cock, and it didn’t take long after that for her to let out a loud cry as her orgasm washed over her.

Her entire body was shaking with the intensity of it, but Urokodaki still kept thrusting inside her; clearly desperate for his own release. He could taste it on the tip of his tongue...

And when he came, he slammed his lips against (Y/n)’s, as he buried his cock inside her— down to the hilt.

He didn’t want to leave her cunt after that, but he had to do so, since his former student was but a few minutes away from discovering what had happened between him and (Y/n).

[actuallykiwi]

Inner Dragon, Chapter 1: The Fall of Helgen

**DISCLAIMER: The character Kaidan is a mod created by Liv Templeton. This character, as well as most of his dialogue, belongs to her. Annie Sinclair is my OC, she belongs to me. And the world of Skyrim belongs to Bethesda.** 

Anneka “Annie” Sinclair is the Last Dragonborn, but she has no idea. When she came to Skyrim with her Imperial soldier brother, the last thing she expected was the return of dragons, and on top of that, there's a civil war already going on! When she and her brother become separated, she must find him and figure out why dragons are coming back. She, as well as a mysterious swordsmen, will unravel mysteries about the Dragonborn and fight their way through the chaos of Skyrim, and hopefully, save the world. 

“Do you really think they caught the Ulfric Stormcloak?” Annie wondered aloud. 

She, her brother Alec, and several other Imperial soldiers were waiting in Helgen for the troop’s arrival. They had just gotten word that they captured Ulfric and some of his followers at Darkwater Crossing. He had been so elusive before, not to mention a challenge in combat, that some were finding it hard to believe it was finally happening. The war was about to be over. 

“I believe it. Why else do you think General Tullius would have called so many of us here?” Her brother stood almost anxiously beside her, clad in his broad Imperial armor. Had it not been for the nearing climax of the war, they would have both been back at home in Cyrodiil with their parents. Their father was a personal guard for a noble family, otherwise he would have been there as well. Annie was here to make sure he was safe in his place, despite not being a soldier herself.

“That’s true...” She nodded. There certainly was an air of... tension. Sure enough, that tension was confirmed when the town gates opened and several horses and carts of prisoners poured in. 

And among them, Ulfric Stormcloak sat bound by his hands and mouth. 

She had heard the stories. How the great and terrible Jarl Ulfric Shouted the High King of Skyrim to pieces. How could something like a Voice be so powerful? And how in Atmora did they capture him? 

Alec stood at attention and gently pushed Annie behind him, her cue to stay out of the way, out of harm’s way. She obliged and stood beside some of the bystanding citizens. 

All was silent as the carts and horses strode into the city square. The Thalmor High Elves looked down their noses at the passing crowd. Each prisoner was led out of the carts one by one, but Ulfric had at least a dozen soldiers with arrows and swords at the ready for him. He kept his head down. When he landed on the ground, a chill went through Annie. And maybe it was all the rush and excitement, but she could’ve sworn he ever-so-slightly glanced up at her as he passed her. She was frozen to the spot. 

The Imperial Captain and another soldier went through the names of each prisoner, including Ulfric. Annie watched one of them try to escape. claiming he wasn’t a Stormcloak soldier. She grimaced as an arrow pierced his back, his body flying to the ground. Soon, the prisoners were rounded up to the square, where the chopping block was waiting for them. General Tullius approached Ulfric, an almost smug look on his face.  "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like The Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." Ulfric grunted, his voice muffled by the cloth around his mouth. If looks could kill, the daggers in his eyes would have plunged directly into Tullius’s heart by now.  "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace." 

Tullius seemed like he was about to say something else, but he was stopped by a sound. An indescribable roar, coming from somewhere beyond the mountain range. “What was that?” The soldier with the list asked. Tullius’s eyes never left Ulfric’s. “It was nothing. Carry on.” 

“Yes General Tullius! Give them their last rites.” The captain ordered. A priestess stepped forward and began her prayer, “ "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for-” A red-haired Stormcloak stormed up to the chopping block. “For the love of Talos, shut up, and let’s get this over with!” 

The priestess seemed taken aback and genuinely offended, but stepped back. “As you wish,” she spat. The captain stomped up behind him as he yelled more, “Come on! I haven’t got all morning!” She scowled and shoved him hard onto the stone block. The executioner took his place and raised the axe. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?” were his final words, before the axe was brought down and the block was stained as red as his hair. His headless body was tossed to the side to make room. Sounds of outrage and cheers sounded across the square. “Well, Ulfric, I was going to let you have the honor of leading your little rebellion into Sovngarde, but second will do just fine.” With that, the general grabbed Ulfric by the back of his collar and lead him to the block. 

Everyone was on edge. The end of the war mere seconds away. Tullius was not gentle as he threw the jarl onto the stone, and received no resistance from him. Annie held her breath as the axe was raised. 

And then the unthinkable happened. 

The roar sounded again, much louder this time, and a great, black, winged beast appeared in the sky. “What in Oblivion is that!?” Tullius cried. Annie instinctively ran to her brother, who already had an arm out for her, his other gripped his sword. The beast then landed above the square, and Annie made direct eye contact. It’s as if she was looking at Death itself. Black and dark silver scales shaped its entire body, flowing from it’s menacing horns to its massive onyx wings, and glowing red eyes pierced through the darkness it seemed to emanate. She was once again frozen in place, and time seemed at a standstill, until- 

“DRAGON!!” 

And all hell broke loose. The dragon Shouted, sending everyone flying in all directions. Annie lost grip of her brother, and slammed into a wall somewhere, the world going black for a moment.

When she came to, she was on the ground, ears ringing and eyes blurry, delirious and in pain. “Unghh.. Alec..” she coughed and tried to sit up, “Alec..!” Someone ran up to her and draped her arm around their shoulder. “Come on, Imperial, get up! The gods won’t give us another chance!” When her vision became clear as the stranger helped her towards a tower, she saw the carnage: the sky was raining fire, the cries of men and the roars of the dragon sounded through the town, and bodies lay strewn and on fire all around them. Once inside, the door was shut behind them and the stranger let her go. She realized she was now face-to-face with Ulfric Stormcloak, unbound. 

 “Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?” The stranger asked. Annie now recognized him as one of the prisoners, Ralof she thought. Ulfric scowled, “Legends don’t burn down villages.” His booming voice shocked Annie into full consciousness, just in time for a meteor to slam into the tower from outside, almost caving it in. “We need to move, NOW!” Ulfric yelled. “Come on, Imperial, up through the tower!” Ralof pulled on her arm. “Wait, my brother is still out there!” He pulled her along. “There’s a lot of people out there, but we can’t afford to-” As they reached the top of the stairs, the dragon slammed through the wall, and sent a rush of flames inside. “GET DOWN!!” He dove onto the staircase and Annie with him as the flames burned above them. “Gods above, this thing is relentless,” he muttered as it flew off and they charged to the gap it made. “I’m sorry, but you need to get moving. Jump through the roof of that inn and keep going!” “But what about-” “You’ll find him, just GO! We’ll follow when we can!” She gulped and jumped from the tower, through the hole of the roof of the inn, and rolled painfully onto the floor. She pushed past the pain and dropped to the ground, running as fast as she could.

 A citizen, young boy, and an Imperial soldier stood by a burning building ahead. The boy was running from the street to the soldier. “Haming, you need to get over here, now! Atta boy, you’re doing great-!” Just as the boy reached him, the dragon landed on the street he was just on, rearing to blow. “Gods, everyone get back!” All of them dove behind the debris, including Annie, as a rush of fire roared around them. The heat was so intense that she forgot to breathe momentarily. She realized she was behind the debris alone a second later. “Still alive, girl? Keep close if you want to stay that way.” He leaned down and helped her up, then turned to the man and child. “Gunnar, take care of the boy! I have to find General Tullius and join the defense!” 

“Gods guide you, Hadvar.” The man said. “Come on!” Hadvar grabbed Annie’s arm and pulled her across the street into an alley outside of the wreckage. “W-wait! Do you know my brother, Alexander? I have to find him!” She panted. “No, I don’t, I’m sorry. Stay close to the wall!” She had no time to argue before Hadvar pushed her to the wall, and the dragon landed above them. She held her beath, because one if its wings was mere inches from her face. Time to slow in terror before it finally lifted itself, and she nearly collapsed. “Quickly, follow me!” He pulled her along again through a collapsed house, and when they appeared from the other side, General Tullius stood gathering soldiers. 

“Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier, we’re leaving!” Annie wouldn’t miss this chance. “General Tullius, please, have you seen Alexander anywhere?” Tullius grunted as they braced from the ground shaking. “No, I haven’t! Maybe he made it out, but you need to go, NOW!” Hadvar rushed her along. “Come on, we need to leave!” She hesitated, but eventually followed. 

They entered another courtyard where the keep lay. Ralof, the Stormcloak soldier from before, entered through the other side. He and Hadvar almost slammed into each other. “Ralof! You damned traitor, out of my way!” 

“We’re escaping, Hadvar! You’re not stopping us this time!” Hadvar grunted, “Fine, I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!” Ralof shot him one last glare and headed into the keep. Hadvar shook his head and did the same, and lead Annie in as well, just as the dragon flew right overhead.

Both of them were panting heavily once they were inside. The only other sound in the room was the roars and crashes coming from outside.  “Looks like we’re the only ones that made it. Was that really a dragon, bringers of the End Times?” He wondered. “It sure seems that way. I’ve never seen anything like it...” They took a moment to catch their breath. Annie looked at him and noticed his arm was red and beginning to blister. “You’re burned!” 

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. It’s nothing-” Annie immediately began rummaging through the room and found some linen wraps. “It’s not the best bandage, and I’m not yet the best healer, but it’ll do for now.” Despite his attempts at refusal, Annie forced her away around his arm and used some healing magic on it, then bandaged it. He winced. “Thanks. But we really should get moving.” He smiled at her briefly before heading further into the keep. Annie cast one more glance at the door, quietly hoping her brother would barrel through at any moment. “Come on!” Hadvar snapped her out of her thoughts, and she hesitantly followed him. 

“These Imperials should have left some supplies we can take...” “Just give me a minute.. I’m out of breath...” Hadvar paused and lifted a hand to Annie. “Hear that? Stormcloaks. Maybe we can reason with them...” He crept forward into the room the Stormcloaks were rummaging in. “Now hold on, we just want to-” 

“You Imperial bastards!” They all drew their weapons and began approaching Hadvar, who in response unsheathed his. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait! Wait!!” Annie ran out between them. “Out of the way, girl!” One of them yelled. She realized they saw her as just a citizen, due to the fact she was wearing her leather armor instead of Imperial. “Guys, there is a literal dragon attacking Helgen. You have bigger problems than the war right now, like getting out of here!” As if on cue, a roar sounded from above. “Whatever differences you have can be put aside for now, until that.. thing is gone.” They all seemed to hesitate. “Please. We’ve already lost so many lives today. No more needless bloodshed.” 

The Stormcloaks looked at each other for a second, then sheathed their weapons. “Fine. But make no mistake, Imperial, the minute we sense hostility from you, you’re dead.” Hadvar sheathed his own. “Right back at you.” Annie looked at both parties and sighed. “Good. Now come on, Hadvar, lead us out of here.” He eyed her wearily, but lead on, Annie and Hadvar taking the front, and the Stormcloaks following carefully behind. 

The entire length of the trip was spent in awkward silence, and a tension just below the surface. As they moved on, they found another group of Stormcloaks and faced a similar problem as before. But this time, the original group decided to stay behind with their fellow soldiers and find another way out. “Suit yourself.” Hadvar seemed a little relieved when it was just him and Annie moving on. 

Eventually, they reached the torture room. Annie gasped, “A... torture room? Why in Atmora would you need one of these...?” Hadvar sighed. “I wished we didn’t. Hey, torturer. We need to get out of here! A dragon is attacking Helgen!” The torturer scoffed. “A dragon? Don’t make up nonsense. You have no authority over me, boy.” “It’s true! We’ve got the burns to prove it!” Annie pointed at Hadvar’s bandaged arm. “Come to think of it, I did hear strange noises coming from above... But even still. If a dragon is attacking outside, what better place is safer there than in here?” The torturer shrugged,

“That’s not the point, we need to get to safety!” Hadvar argued. The torturer’s assistant stepped forward. “Forget the old man, I’m coming with you.” Hadvar nodded and looked at Annie. “Grab what you can and let’s move.” She did as instructed and began taking any useful supplies. “Yes, take all my things, please.” The torturer rolled his eyes. She came across a book on an end table, labeled “The Book of the Dragonborn”. She wasn’t sure why, but something prompted her to grab the book. Maybe it had something to do with the return of a dragon... 

Once finished, the now group of 3 moved onward. Hadvar pulled a lever in a corridor that let down a small drawbridge. There was rumbling above them, and Annie gasped as she saw the roof begin to cave in. “Look out!” She cried, and she and Hadvar leapt forward as the roof caved in onto the bridge, blocking the path. She coughed and sat up, calling back to the assistant. “Are you okay?” 

She heard his coughing from the other side. “Yeah, I’m fine! You two go on ahead, I’ll stay behind with the old man!” Annie stood and helped Hadvar. “If you’re sure! Be safe!” They examined the pile of debris that blocked the corridor. “No going back now. Come on, I think we’re almost to the end.” He continued to the lead the way into a cave with a stream flowing through it. Soon they came across a cavern with one of Annie’s biggest fears: spiders. Big ones. 

“Ohhhh, gods no, you’ve got to be kidding me!” She shakily drew her dagger and readied her lightning when she saw the spider-webs begin to surround the cave. Hadvar couldn’t help but chuckle. “Not a fan of spiders, eh? Stay behind me, then.” So she did. When the battle began and the spiders began to swarm them, Annie let him take the lead and supported with lightning from a distance. When a giant one lowered down from the ceiling, she shrieked and cast a massive bolt at it, sending it launching across the cavern. She panted and sank a little, her magicka drained from the last blast. Hadvar laughed again, “What’s next, giant snakes?” She shot him a glare and pointed her dagger at him. “Do. Not. Jinx it.” 

When they entered the next cavern, he suddenly stopped and crouched down, beckoning her to do the same. “Hold up. There’s a bear just head, see her?” Annie crouched next to him and followed his finger. She sighed when she saw the huge, furry beast fast asleep in a clearing. “They couldn’t have made this keep a little easier to traverse?” He nodded. “Agreed. Regardless, I’d rather not tangle with her right now. We can try and sneak by. Just take it nice and slow, and watch where you step. Or if you’re feeling lucky, you can take my bow, might take her by surprise.” Annie chuckled. “With our luck today? I’m not taking chances.” He grinned back. “Good. I’ll follow your lead and watch your back.” She nodded and began creeping along the edge of the cave slowly. Hadvar stayed close behind, keeping an eye on the bear until they reached the connecting tunnel. 

“Alright, I think we’re in the clear. And there’s the exit! I was starting to wonder if we’d ever make it!” Indeed, just ahead the light from outside was pouring into the cave, and Hadvar and Annie smiled with relief as they reached the exit. 

“Well, at least the land out here looks- wait!” He ran to take cover by a boulder when he heard the flapping of wings overhead. Annie dove down with him and watched as the black dragon flew directly over them, heading northwest. They waited and watched until they were sure it didn’t see them. “Looks like he’s gone for good this time. But I don’t think we should stick around to see if he comes back.” Hadvar began walking away from the keep. “Wait! What about my brother, Alec? He might still be there!” 

“I don’t think anyone would have stayed in Helgen, not after that. Closest town from here is Riverwood, I think that would be your best bet if he... made it out.” Annie bit her lip in worry when he said that. She looked back at the wall of smoke coming from behind them. “Look... my uncle’s the blacksmith there. I’m sure he’d help you out. And maybe someone has seen him there.” He reassured her. She thought for a minute. “...Yeah, maybe you’re right. Lead on, then.” He nodded and walked down the hill. “I never caught your name by the way...” 

“Oh, my name is Anneka, but I usually go by Annie.” She said. Hadvar shook her hand civilly. “Thank you, Annie. I wouldn’t have made it without your help today.” She smiled at him, and they began to make their way to Riverwood, where  hopefully, Alec would be there waiting for her.

Next

[cultivatxr]

@giftofthegodess​ whispered: silence. 

nsfw prompt list || our muses having to keep down during sex.

Laughter lingered in the balmy evening air, the melody of young love flourishing in the wake of earlier frivolity. She could’ve just said goodnight and been on her way; but there had been so much promise in the sway of hips and the deviancy of a smile, it would be rude to just abandon him. And so the impulse had been born, a beckoning finger having  lured him in and led him, like a piper from the bright lights of a dancefloor and out into the streets of Midgar. It wasn’t something she made a habit of, but there was a time for spontaneity and this was apparently it.

Fingers intertwined against the warm sanctuary of a palm, Aerith had led him home; barely checked carnality residing in the slew of open mouthed kisses upon her doorstep, hands knotting in strands of copper while she’d tried so hard to stifle the breathless amusement that had ensued. Gaia, she was happy. Intoxicated and high on his heady mix of love and distraction. “Shhhh.” She warned with a finger to her lips, hoping to avoid waking her mother and explaining this irritatingly handsome house guest as she led him inside and stumbled into her own umbrella stand in the process.

“You’re the one making the noise, love.” It’s a purr against her neck and she can’t even argue, teeth biting down into her lip to stop the giggle that wants to ripple forth. Her hand tugged his own, footsteps measured and well practiced to avoid creaking floorboards as she leads her beloved Freckle up the staircase, with an expression that is far more mischievous than it ought to be. She’s almost sorry he’s not getting the full house tour, although perhaps a little glad too that the blanketing shroud of darkness has masked a multitude of cluttered sins.

It isn’t a long journey and yet it feels like an age, seconds stretching into what feels like days until the door of her bedroom can safely click closed behind them and usher the redhead into her own little piece of the world. It’s all down hill from there; restraint forgotten in a flurry of hands and lips, clothes shirked off beneath wandering digits and scattering themselves across a darkened floor. As frantic as it is frenetic, her mouth claimed his throat, nipping at tender flesh, marking out all the promises she’d made earlier in the evening, until he returned the favour.

It’s carnality plain and simple; when Genesis snaked his arms beneath her thighs and hoisted her up, legs encircling his waist with a hitch of breath that was unexpectedly sinful. The feel of him was dizzyingly addictive; the warmth of his skin, the sturdiness of his chest, the insistent hardness pressing just shy of where she’d very much like him to be. It was maddening - and he knew it.  

Their eyes locked briefly, even beneath the inky shroud of her unlit room; vibrant green drowning in storm flecked blue to affirm consent before everything becomes a sordid blur. There was never really any doubt, but there’s an understanding there, a mutual respect and consideration underpinning the more provocative of actions. The act warranted a kiss, something drawn out and sensual, tongue probing, exploring the intricate caverns of an overly dramatic mouth until her backside met with the cold grain of a paper strewn desk.

Aerith had barely realised they were moving until she was there; rolled her eyes too at the complete disregard for her bed some six feet away, but there was excitement in the spontaneity, something distinctly Freckle about it too, although she didn’t have much time to tell him. Groping sideways for her bedside lamp, soon the room was awash with a muted yellow, light casting streaks of shadow across his toned musculature and her own corresponding curves. Yet it was a magazine that had served to distract, smug amusement stretching far and wide across the First’s face at the image of himself daubed on the cover of Firaga, the resident gossip rag, just shy of their position.

“Think about me a lot in your bedroom, do you?” The tease was inevitable, the barest hint of a whisper against her skin accompanied by an intrepid hand sliding between her legs. “About these hands…” His mouth found her neck. “…and this mouth…”   It earned him a smack. Or rather a stuffed panda to the head, as it’s all she can reach, but there’s no denial in it, just the subtle arch into his touch and half stifled laughter against his shoulder. It’s all it takes in the end, flirtation paving the way to action as hands had seized her hips, drawing her down onto his throbbing length in a single fluid motion.

Lips part in a satisfying ‘oh’, nails clamouring at his shoulders as the flower girl leant back, tugging him with her in a tangle of warm limbs and lust strewn debauchery. It takes more effort than she’d like to bite back the sounds he conjures, his body playing her own like a harp with every well timed thrust. Aerith’s breath falls in delicate pants, chest rising and falling, until the beginnings of a moan part her lips and she has to bite down to stop it, red blooming across her own flesh in a sanguine smear.

The salve to her own self inflicted injury came in the form of a kiss, a soft and tender thing amidst such lubricity; but it was also a mouth to muffle her moans as he continues to conjure them, the rhythmic rock of his hips remarkably soundless, all too well practiced in the art of covert affection. The thought made the ancient blush, pelvis rising to meet him, to deepen that connection and edge closer to a release. Knotting her fingers in strands of vivid copper absentmindedly, there’s no hiding the moment it hits, her tug suddenly involuntarily sharp as her back arched and she clenched around him, wordless prayers sung against his lips in a connection forged of tongue and teeth.

In the throes of an orgasmic haze, her arms slackened against him, fingers splayed across his back, holding him there, so intimately connected as Genesis sought his own release. Ever obliging, the brunette rolled her hips, rising to meet him as much as their position would allow, coaxing out a hard won degree of mutual satisfaction until at last she could feel the tension ebb and the warm glow of post coital contentment danced across freckle strewn cheeks. Aerith exhaled as he withdrew, trailing sticky life down her thigh as a lofty sigh ensued. She shouldn’t pout at his absence, but it was inevitable, an unconscious act, forged from the sudden loss of contact in a way that was so intimately vulnerable it held a meaning that transcended mere carnality.

The pout warranted another kiss; a blessing of lips far more sedate than all that had come before. Maybe it was a come down, but it was still enjoyable, still cherished and pivotal even in the wake of such an improvised high. Coiling his arms around the brunette’s form, the redhead stepped back, tugging her with him towards the softer promise of a mattress, plushies unceremoniously knocked to the floor to make room for them both beneath a patchwork shroud. There was only one thing left for it; fingertips dancing up and down a bare arm, heralding sleep in a sweat slicked tangle of limbs as he became a defacto pillow.

He’d definitely slept in worse places and with worse company; and while the occasional mouthful of curls nearly strangling him had proven to be a small health hazard, there was something sweet about the tranquility of falling asleep with someone in his arms. Particularly when that someone had stolen his heart from his chest the very first moment they’d met and was now a welcome dose of sunlight in a sea of clouds. For a good five hours he’d managed to stay like that, nose pressed to the slope of a creamy neck, his own eyes closed and content in this, the most innocuous of pastimes. Yet like any good thing, it couldn’t last forever.

As the sun began to creep across the horizon and birds began their incessant cheep, Genesis stirred, a quiet kiss blessing a sleepy temple, as he pried himself from their contortion worthy sleeping arrangement. “Blossom, where’s the bathroom?”  Without cracking open an eye, Aerith gestured vaguely sideways, her face buried in the pillow as she mumbled her own response. “Second door on the left.”

Resisting the urge to chuckle, the auburn soldier rose to his feet, eyes scanning the room for something to lessen the likelihood of streaking through the unfamiliar house. While he certainly had no problem with displays of nudity; there was still an element of good manners to be had while occupying someone else’s space. Besides, there was an awfully tempting looking bath robe just begging to be modelled for his sleepy-headed paramour.

And so it went, the famed and revered Genesis Rhapsodos, clad in a fuzzy lilac robe that didn’t strictly cover all that much, had emerged from the recesses of a flower girl’s bedroom, after a night of being magnanimously and dare he say it, diligently discreet only to come face to face with the stern and unyielding face of her mother. A lesser man might’ve panicked. Might’ve dropped everything and simply run; but where was the sense in that? He may as well own it. Sheepishly the first grinned, hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he ignored the glaring daggers being burned into his soul.

“Good Morning; where’s your coffee maker?”