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novaursa · 8 months ago

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Fire and Blood (reader's choice)

- Summary: For as long as Maegor could remember, you were denied to him by others. By his own father, by his half-brother, by the gods themselves. They saddled him off with a barren bride and locked you away on Dragonstone. And once Aenys died and Maegor has returned from exile to take the crown, he also takes you, as was his right. But before the wedding could happen, you disappear. You never arrive at the capital with your royal procession. And Maegor tears the realm apart.

- Pairing: niece!reader/Maegor I Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne

The air was heavy with the heat of the afternoon sun, and the sky above King's Landing was an expanse of pale blue. The waters of Blackwater Bay sparkled under the light, and the wind carried the scent of salt and stone, mingling with the hum of the city behind. The Red Keep loomed in the background, a skeletal structure still rising from the hill, its walls unfinished, its towers yet to scrape the heavens as Maegor intended. The clatter of hammers and the creak of scaffolding were distant echoes, reminders of the power he was building, brick by brick.

But today, all of that faded into insignificance. Maegor Targaryen stood with his mother, Visenya, the only one who had ever stood by him. His bannermen, royal retainers, and lords stood at a respectful distance, their whispers nothing but gnats in his ears as he stared out at the empty horizon. You were supposed to arrive today, your royal procession expected any moment, the ships that carried you from Dragonstone cutting across the bay.

You. His bride. His blood. His right.

His gloved hands tightened around the pommel of Blackfyre, the ancient sword of his house, as his mind drifted, despite himself, back to all the times you had been denied to him.

His father, King Aegon the Conqueror, had made the first refusal. Maegor had been young then, but old enough to know what he wanted. You were young too, of course, but even then, Maegor saw the fire in your eyes, the way the blood of Old Valyria ran through you. You were his match in every way. He had stood before his father, demanding you be betrothed to him.

"It is not your place to demand, Maegor," Aegon had said, his voice calm, but his eyes cold. "Your brother's daughter is not for you. Aenys' children will be wed to strengthen the realm, not to satisfy your desires."

It was the first time Maegor had felt the sting of denial, but it would not be the last.

His half-brother, Aenys, had been no better. When he became king after Aegon’s death, Maegor thought surely now, with the crown on his brother’s head, he could finally claim what was his. You had grown by then, blooming into a woman with the beauty and strength of their ancestors. Maegor had approached Aenys, who sat upon the Iron Throne, looking every inch the weak ruler he was.

"You will not have her," Aenys had said, shaking his head. "She is promised elsewhere."

"To whom?" Maegor had demanded, his voice laced with barely contained rage. "Who could be more worthy of her than I, her blood and kin?"

"A match will be made in time, but not to you, brother," Aenys had answered, his tone patronizing. "I have other plans for her."

Other plans. The words still tasted bitter on Maegor’s tongue, as though they had been spoken only yesterday.

He had begged. Yes, even he, Maegor the Cruel, had begged. But only to one person. His mother, Visenya. The warrior queen, the woman who had conquered Westeros by Aegon’s side. The only person who had ever truly understood him.

"I will not be denied her," he had told Visenya, pacing the halls of Dragonstone in frustration. "Father, Aenys, the gods themselves conspire against me. They will not give her to me."

Visenya, regal and fierce, had looked at him with those sharp, violet eyes of hers, the eyes of a dragon, and she had smiled—a cold, knowing smile. "They fear you, my son," she had said. "They fear the strength of your blood. Aenys and his ilk think they can control you by keeping her from you, but they are fools. They do not see what I see."

"And what do you see, Mother?" Maegor had asked, desperate for the answer he knew only she could give.

"I see the future of our house," she had answered, stepping close to him, resting a hand on his armored shoulder. "And I see you at its head, with her at your side. The dragons of Old Valyria will rise again, Maegor. And no one—no one—will deny you what is yours."

Her words had kept him sane through the years of exile, through his marriage to Ceryse Hightower, a woman who had proven barren, and a marriage that had been nothing but a chain around his neck. All the while, he had thought of you. You, locked away on Dragonstone, hidden from him by his enemies, the gods, the world. But now, none of that mattered. Aenys was dead, the throne was his, and soon, you would be too.

And yet... the ships did not come.

The sun was sinking lower, casting ghastly shadows over the unfinished Red Keep, over the city of King's Landing, over the assembled lords and banners. Maegor’s patience was wearing thin, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface like wildfire ready to consume all in its path.

"They are late," he growled, his voice low, but his anger clear. "Where are they?"

Visenya stood beside him, silent and still as ever. Her presence was the only thing that soothed him, that kept him from mounting Balerion and flying to Dragonstone himself. But even her patience had its limits, and he could see the tightness in her jaw, the tension in her shoulders. She felt the delay, the insult, as keenly as he did.

"They will come," she said, though there was a note of uncertainty in her voice that Maegor did not like.

And what if they did not? What if something had happened? What if your brother, Aegon, or even that fool Rhaena, had interfered, whisked you away before you could reach him? The thought sent a surge of fury through him, and he gripped Blackfyre tighter, his knuckles turning white beneath his gloves.

"No one will keep her from me," he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Not this time."

Visenya turned to him, her sharp gaze cutting through his anger. "If they try," she said, her voice cold and final, "then we will burn them all."

Maegor’s heart beat with the promise of fire and blood. They had all denied him for so long. His father. His brother. The gods themselves. But he was king now, and no one could deny the King of the Iron Throne.

You would be his, one way or another. The realm would tremble at his wrath if you were not.

But still, the horizon remained empty.

Maegor’s patience shattered like glass underfoot. The stillness of the harbor, the absence of the royal procession, and the delay that felt like a deliberate insult boiled within him until he could bear it no longer. His fury was a living thing, a fire in his chest that demanded release.

Without a word to anyone, Maegor turned sharply on his heel and stalked away from the gathered lords and his waiting bannermen. Visenya's gaze followed him, but she did not call him back. She knew what was coming, and she would not try to stop him. No one would.

He marched through the half-constructed Red Keep, past the workers who hastily moved out of his way, their eyes wide with fear at the sight of him. His blood thundered in his veins, his mind consumed by a singular thought: you. You were not here. Someone had kept you from him again, and he would have answers. One way or another, he would have answers.

Balerion waited for him, the great black beast shifting restlessly as though sensing the storm of rage within his rider. Maegor did not hesitate. He approached the dragon without a word, his dark cloak billowing behind him as he climbed onto Balerion’s back. The dragon’s scales were hot beneath his hands, and the air filled with the smell of smoke and brimstone as Balerion opened his massive jaws, letting out a low growl that reverberated through the air.

"To Dragonstone," Maegor commanded, his voice sharp and cold as steel.

With a mighty beat of his wings, Balerion launched into the air, and the city of King’s Landing fell away beneath them. The wind roared in Maegor’s ears as they ascended, higher and higher, until the Red Keep and the harbor were nothing but distant specks below. His eyes narrowed against the rush of air as they flew toward Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, a place that should have been your prison but was now the key to your disappearance.

The journey was swift. Balerion’s immense wings cut through the sky, and soon, the looming shape of Dragonstone appeared on the horizon, its dark, foreboding towers rising from the volcanic island like jagged teeth. The familiar silhouette of the castle did nothing to soothe Maegor’s fury. If anything, it fueled it. Whoever had dared to take you from him was hiding here, he was certain of it. And they would pay.

Balerion descended with a roar, his massive form casting a shadow over the castle courtyard as he landed with a thunderous crash. Maegor dismounted swiftly, his boots hitting the ground with purpose, and strode toward the keep without hesitation. The guards, clad in the black and red of House Targaryen, scrambled to stand at attention, but Maegor paid them no mind. His eyes were fixed on one figure—Alyssa Velaryon, Dowager Queen, widow of his late half-brother Aenys.

She stood at the entrance of the great hall, flanked by her own royal guards, her expression calm but her eyes wary. She had been expecting him.

"Where is she?" Maegor’s voice was thunder, echoing across the courtyard as he approached. His gaze was locked on Alyssa, his hands still resting on the hilt of Blackfyre at his side.

Alyssa’s lips thinned, but she did not answer immediately. Her silence was an insult in itself.

"Where is she?" Maegor demanded again, his tone darkening, his patience long gone. "The ships have not arrived. My bride is not here. Where is she?"

Alyssa lifted her chin, her eyes meeting his with a quiet defiance. "I do not know," she said, her voice steady, though her guards shifted uneasily around her. "She is not here, Maegor. I swear it on the blood of my children."

His anger flared like a flame doused in oil. He stepped closer, towering over her, his eyes burning with rage. "You lie. Do you think me a fool, Alyssa? Do you think I will believe your false words? You know where she is. Someone here knows."

Alyssa did not waver, though there was a flicker of fear behind her eyes. "I do not lie, Maegor," she said, her voice firm. "Your niece is gone, but I do not know where. You think you can demand answers, but the gods have taken her from you."

"The gods?" Maegor spat the word as if it were poison. "The gods have no power here. I am king. I am the only god that matters in this realm."

He drew Blackfyre from its scabbard with a vicious hiss of steel. The sight of the ancient Valyrian blade, its edge gleaming in the waning sunlight, caused Alyssa’s guards to stiffen, their hands moving to the hilts of their swords. But Maegor did not care. He had faced armies and dragons alike; these men would not stand against him.

"You will tell me where she is," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Or I will take this castle stone by stone and burn it to the ground. I will burn you all."

Alyssa stood her ground, but her defiance was waning. Still, she did not answer.

Maegor’s grip on Blackfyre tightened. "Very well," he said, his voice cold and final. "If you will not speak, then I declare war on you, on this entire realm, and on the gods themselves. I will rip the truth from your dying lips if I must."

He raised the sword high, and Balerion let out a deafening roar, his fiery breath licking at the sky, as if in answer to his rider’s fury. The ground beneath Maegor’s feet trembled as the beast’s wings unfurled, casting the courtyard into shadow once more.

"Do you hear me, Alyssa?" Maegor shouted, his voice carrying across the castle walls. "I will bring fire and blood to this land until she is returned to me. Every house, every banner, every village will burn. No one will be spared."

Alyssa’s face paled, but she held her tongue, her defiance crumbling under the weight of his rage.

With one final, furious look at her, Maegor turned and mounted Balerion once more. The dragon’s wings beat against the air as they took to the skies, leaving the castle of Dragonstone behind, but not forgotten.

War was coming. The realm would know the full wrath of Maegor Targaryen, and nothing would stand in his way.

Not even the gods.

The sky had darkened with storm clouds, a fitting shroud for what was to come. Maegor could feel the death in the air as Balerion, the Black Dread, flew low over the countryside, the sound of his massive wings beating like the drums of war. Beneath him, the land stretched out in peaceful ignorance—green fields, small villages, and the occasional hamlet, all unaware of the doom that was about to descend upon them.

His fury had not abated. If anything, it had grown, simmering inside him like the flames that Balerion carried in his belly. For days, he had waited—waited for some word, some message, some whisper of where you had been taken. But there had been none. Not from Dragonstone, not from King's Landing, not from any corner of the realm. Silence. It was as if the earth itself conspired to keep you hidden from him.

And so, Maegor had decided to speak in the only language he knew would reach them all—fire.

The town below was small, insignificant in the grand scheme of his rule. It had no great lords, no strategic importance. It was nothing more than a farming village, its people simple, its streets quiet. But that did not matter to Maegor. He was no longer a king seeking strategy. He was a dragon in search of blood.

Balerion let out a growl as they descended, and the townspeople, who had begun to gather in the streets, looked up with wide, terrified eyes. They had heard tales of dragons, but few had seen one in the flesh, let alone the Black Dread himself. Some screamed, others fled, scattering like ants before a boot.

But it was too late.

Maegor did not speak as they approached. He did not announce his arrival or give them time to prepare. His rage did not allow for such mercy. Instead, he gave the only command he had come to deliver.

"Dracarys."

Balerion unleashed his fury with a deafening roar. Flames erupted from his jaws, a torrent of fire that engulfed the first row of houses in an instant. The wooden structures went up like kindling, the dry summer heat making them burn even faster. Screams filled the air, high-pitched and desperate, as people fled their homes, only to be caught by the flames that licked at their heels.

The fire spread with terrifying speed, consuming everything in its path—roofs, walls, fields. The village was alight, a beacon of destruction visible for miles around.

Maegor watched from above, his face cold and impassive, his grip on Balerion’s reins tight as the dragon circled over the burning town. The people below looked so small, like insects scurrying for cover, trying to escape the inevitable. But there was no escape. Not for them.

A handful of soldiers, likely from a nearby lord's keep, arrived, rushing into the chaos with spears and shields. They might have hoped to protect their people, to fight off the monster in the sky, but it was a hopeless effort. Balerion roared again, and another wave of fire descended, swallowing the soldiers in flames before they could even raise their weapons.

Still, Maegor felt nothing. No satisfaction, no relief, just the same gnawing fury. This town was but the first of many. If no one would give him what he demanded, then they would all burn.

Balerion landed in the town square, his massive form crushing the few remaining carts and stalls beneath him. The fires crackled and raged around them, the air thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh. Maegor dismounted, his black armor gleaming with the reflection of the flames, and strode through the smoldering ruins. The people who hadn’t already fled or died in the fire cowered at the edges of the square, their faces streaked with soot and tears, their eyes wide with terror.

One man—a farmer by the looks of him, his face blackened with ash—dared to stand before Maegor. His legs shook, and his hands trembled as he held out a crude pitchfork, a pitiful weapon against the man who wielded Blackfyre.

“Please!” the man cried, his voice cracking. “We’ve done nothing! We don’t know where she is!”

Maegor’s gaze fixed on him, cold and unfeeling. “Then you are of no use to me.”

With a swift motion, he drew Blackfyre and swung. The blade cut through the air with a whistle, and the man’s head rolled to the ground, his body collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed. Blood pooled at Maegor’s feet, mixing with the ash and dirt.

He turned to the remaining villagers, their tear-filled eyes pleading for mercy. “Where is she?” Maegor demanded, his voice cutting through the crackling flames. “Tell me, and you will be spared.”

But there were no answers. Only silence, punctuated by the occasional sob or gasp. They knew nothing, and he could see the truth of it in their frightened, helpless faces. These people had never laid eyes on you. They did not know your name. They were caught in a storm that was not theirs, a storm they could not hope to survive.

“Then burn,” Maegor said, his voice flat, his heart devoid of pity.

Balerion roared once more, and fire swept across the square, swallowing the villagers where they stood. The screams of the innocent echoed in the night, but they were distant to Maegor, drowned out by the roar of the flames. He mounted Balerion again, his mind already turning to the next town, the next village. There would be no end to his wrath until you were returned to him.

As they lifted into the air, the once-quiet town was a sea of fire below, the smoke rising in dark plumes that would be visible for miles. The next town would see the flames and know what was coming. They would know the price of silence.

But as they flew over the burning ruins, a grim thought gnawed at Maegor’s mind: even this, even the screams of the dying, had not brought forth any word of you. No ravens, no messengers, no spies. It was as if you had vanished from the face of the earth.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes hard as stone as he looked out over the darkened horizon. Let them hide you. Let them try to keep you from him. He would burn every inch of this realm to ash until they had no choice but to deliver you back into his hands.

War had come, and the realm would know the full measure of his wrath before it was over.

And still, you remained lost to him, as distant and unreachable as ever.

The halls of Oldtown’s grand keep were filled with the scent of burning torches and incense, the air heavy with the weight of old stone and old gods alike. Maegor strode through the corridors, his armor clinking with each step, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. The lords of the Reach had gathered in the great hall ahead, awaiting his arrival, their banners lining the walls like silent witnesses to the war he was bringing to their doors.

He would have their armies. He would have their swords and their oaths. And soon, the realm would bleed for keeping you from him.

Yet, as he approached the towering doors of the hall, he was intercepted by a voice that grated on his already thin patience.

“Maegor.”

He halted but did not turn immediately. He recognized the voice, the cold, haughty tone that had once filled his ears with promises of alliances and power. Ceryse Hightower, his wife—the woman the Faith of the Seven deemed his lawful bride. The one who had failed him, who had borne him no heirs, no strength. She was a chain, an anchor from a life he despised. And now, she stood between him and the destruction he sought to bring upon the world.

With a slow turn, he faced her. She stood in the narrow corridor, her expression as cold as the marble pillars that flanked her. Her gown was white and gold, as befit a woman of her station, but there was no warmth in her. She had never had any warmth for him, nor he for her.

Ceryse’s eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, her chin lifted in defiance. "This madness must stop, Maegor. What you are doing—it is unholy. This war you wage for your niece, this obsession, it will bring the gods’ wrath upon you. Upon us all."

Maegor’s eyes, dark and brooding, bore into hers. "The gods?" he scoffed, his voice laced with venom. "Which gods, Ceryse? The Seven who gave me nothing but a barren wife? The gods who have denied me my rightful bride and my throne time and again? They are nothing to me. I am the king, and I will take what is mine."

"You are the king," she snapped, stepping closer, her voice rising, "but I am your wife. The only true wife you have before the gods. I was wed to you under the light of the Seven. I am your queen, not some girl you lust after because she shares your blood and your fire."

Maegor’s lips curled into a sneer. "Do not speak of things you do not understand. She is more than fire. She is mine by right, by blood, by destiny. You are nothing but a symbol of a failed marriage and the weakness of the Faith. Your gods mean nothing to me, Ceryse. They have never meant anything."

Ceryse’s face flushed with anger, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “The Faith is all that holds this realm together. The Seven bless our rule, and you spit on their favor. Do you truly believe this war you’ve started will end with your niece in your arms? The realm will turn against you, the Faith will rise—”

“The Faith?” Maegor’s laughter was dark, a cruel sound that echoed off the stone walls. “The Faith cowers beneath the strength of dragons. I have already broken their High Septon, and I will do it again if they dare stand in my way. Do not speak to me of the Faith when they have already bled under my blade.”

Her eyes flashed with fury. “And what of me? Do I mean nothing to you, Maegor? I am your queen. I stood beside you when the world was against you, when you were exiled, when you returned to take the throne. I have endured your temper, your ambitions—everything. And yet you throw it all away for her, for a girl who should never have been yours.”

Maegor stepped closer, towering over her, his voice low and filled with menace. “You have never stood beside me, Ceryse. You have stood in my way, like all the others. The day you failed to give me an heir was the day your use to me ended. You are not my queen. You are a symbol of weakness and failure.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but her pride would not allow her to shrink before him. She held her ground, her chin raised defiantly. “This war is blasphemy. Even your late father would not stand for it. You break every sacred vow for this—this madness. And for what? For a girl who may be dead already, taken by the gods to punish your arrogance.”

Maegor’s hand shot out, gripping her throat, though not enough to truly harm her. His eyes were burning coals, his patience long gone. “Speak of her again,” he growled, his voice dangerously low, “and I will end you here and now, wife or not.”

Ceryse’s eyes widened, but she did not flinch, even with his hand at her throat. “Do it,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but steady. “Do it, and see how the realm turns against you. They already whisper of your cruelty, your madness. Kill your wife, and you will become the monster they fear.”

For a long, tense moment, Maegor said nothing. His grip tightened slightly, the temptation strong, but he released her with a shove, sending her stumbling back a step.

"You are a fool if you think I care for their whispers," Maegor said, his voice filled with disdain. "I will rule through fear if I must. The realm will submit to me, whether they love me or hate me. And you will stay out of my way, or you will burn like the rest of them."

Ceryse straightened, her hand to her throat, her eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and fear. She had pushed him as far as she could, and she knew it.

“You will destroy yourself,” she said quietly, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to hide it. “This war, this rage... it will consume you.”

Maegor turned his back on her, his cloak swirling in the dim torchlight as he moved toward the doors of the great hall. "Then let it," he said coldly, without looking back. "I would rather burn the world to ash than live in a world where I am denied what is mine."

The heavy doors of the great hall swung open before him, and Maegor strode inside, leaving Ceryse standing alone in the darkened corridor, her hands shaking, her heart pounding with a fear she had never known before.

The lords inside turned as one to face him, their faces pale with the knowledge of the man they served. Maegor took his place at the head of the long table, his eyes sweeping over the gathered men like a predator surveying its prey.

"You will gather your armies," he said, his voice echoing through the hall, "and you will march with me to war. I care not for the gods, nor for the Faith. Those who stand against me will burn, and those who submit will live. But I will have my bride, or I will see this realm consumed by fire."

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared defy him. They knew the price of disobedience under Maegor’s rule.

"Are there any who would challenge me?" Maegor demanded, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light.

Silence fell over the hall, thick and suffocating. Not a single voice rose in opposition.

"Good," Maegor said, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Prepare your men. The realm will bleed until she is mine again."

And with that, the great hall of Oldtown descended into preparation for war, while outside, Ceryse Hightower stood in the shadows, her heart heavy with the knowledge that her words had fallen on deaf ears.

The battlefield stretched wide before Maegor, a patchwork of torn earth, trampled grass, and bloodied banners. His army stood in sharp contrast to the smaller force across the field, led by his nephew, Aegon the Uncrowned. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a bloody hue over the land, as if the gods themselves had abandoned all hope of peace.

Balerion, the Black Dread, shifted beneath him, his great black wings stretching wide as the dragon growled, sensing the impending battle. Maegor’s grip tightened on Blackfyre, the weight of the ancient sword familiar in his hand as he surveyed the field below. The banners of House Targaryen and Velaryon fluttered in the wind, a cruel mockery of what should have been unity between their blood. But unity had long been shattered.

On the opposite side of the field, Aegon sat astride Quicksilver, his dragon a flash of silver-white scales that shimmered in the dying light. Aegon’s army was smaller, but it was fiercely loyal—men who believed in the legitimacy of his claim, men who called Maegor a usurper and a tyrant. Men who were willing to die for a boy who had been denied his crown.

Maegor’s jaw clenched as he gazed across the field at his nephew, the boy who had dared to raise arms against him. Aegon had your blood running through his veins, and that alone made Maegor’s rage burn hotter. But it was not just Aegon’s challenge to the throne that stoked Maegor’s fury—it was his insolent defiance in keeping you from him.

The armies stood still for a breath, the wind carrying the sound of clinking armor and the distant neighs of restless horses. Maegor’s soldiers waited, their faces grim, their hands tight on their weapons. His bannermen were eager for the bloodshed to begin, eager to crush the boy who dared challenge their king.

But Maegor had eyes only for Aegon, who met his gaze across the field with the same cold intensity. Even from a distance, Maegor could see the steely resolve in the young man’s face. Aegon was no longer the boy he had once dismissed, and that truth gnawed at him.

Without a word, Maegor spurred Balerion forward. The great dragon let out a thunderous roar, his massive wings lifting him from the ground in one powerful sweep. The air around them seemed to hum with tension as Balerion soared into the sky, circling high above the battlefield, casting an enormous shadow over the armies below.

Aegon wasted no time. With a sharp command, he urged Quicksilver into the air, the silver dragon shooting upward with graceful speed. The two beasts circled one another in the sky, the gathered armies below looking up in awe as dragon met dragon.

Maegor’s eyes locked onto Aegon, his blood boiling with the need for victory. He would crush this boy, as he had crushed all who had stood in his way. Blackfyre was already in his hand, the sword gleaming as he prepared to strike.

Quicksilver let out a high-pitched roar and dove toward Balerion, claws outstretched. Aegon, no doubt thinking speed would be his advantage, urged his dragon forward with a deadly precision. But Balerion was no ordinary dragon—he was the Black Dread, the most fearsome of all Targaryen dragons, and his size alone was enough to instill terror in any opponent.

With a bellowing roar, Balerion met Quicksilver head-on, jaws snapping as the two dragons collided in a flurry of wings, fire, and claws. The sky around them lit up with dragonflame, bright orange and yellow in the fading light. The sound of their clash echoed across the battlefield like thunder, and Maegor felt the familiar thrill of battle pulse through his veins.

Aegon swung his sword at him, their blades clashing as Quicksilver veered away, trying to outmaneuver Balerion. But Maegor was relentless. He urged Balerion onward, following the silver dragon, breathing down its neck with every beat of its wings. Aegon was skilled, but Maegor could see the hesitation in his strikes, the uncertainty in his eyes.

"You will never have her, Uncle!" Aegon shouted over the roar of the wind and the battle below, his voice laced with both fury and desperation. "She is free of you! The gods will never let her fall into your hands."

Maegor’s face twisted into a snarl, his fury consuming him as he swung Blackfyre toward Aegon with all the strength he could muster. Their blades met again, the force of the strike sending sparks flying between them. "The gods be damned!" Maegor roared. "You think they care for your claims, boy? I will have her, and no man or god will keep her from me!"

Aegon’s lips curled into a bitter smile, his eyes flashing with defiance. "You’re a fool if you think she would come to you willingly," he spat. "She despises you. She will never be yours."

Maegor’s rage flared hotter than dragonfire. He urged Balerion forward, closing the distance between the two dragons, but Quicksilver darted away, its speed giving it the advantage. Maegor’s strikes were powerful, but Aegon’s precision allowed him to evade, always one step ahead, always just out of reach.

Below, the armies had clashed. The sounds of battle—clanging steel, screams, and the thunder of hooves—rose from the ground, but Maegor cared little for what happened below. His focus was entirely on Aegon, on the boy who had denied him his rightful bride, on the nephew who dared to defy him.

Suddenly, Quicksilver darted upward, high into the clouds, and Aegon disappeared from sight. Maegor cursed, pulling Balerion up after them, but by the time he broke through the clouds, Aegon and Quicksilver were gone.

A howl of frustration escaped Maegor’s throat. He scanned the skies, his eyes searching for any sign of the silver dragon, but Aegon had vanished, leaving nothing but the roar of the wind and the distant sounds of the battlefield below.

"Damn you, Aegon!" Maegor bellowed into the empty sky, his voice echoing across the heavens. His blood boiled with fury, his vision clouded with rage. Once again, Aegon had slipped through his fingers, just as you had been denied to him time and time again.

He descended with Balerion, landing amidst the chaos of the battlefield, his soldiers still locked in fierce combat with Aegon’s forces. But it was not enough. The battle, the bloodshed, the cries of dying men—all of it paled in comparison to the rage burning inside Maegor. He had come for victory, for vengeance, for you—and he had been denied once more.

The soldiers around him fell to their knees, their faces streaked with blood and mud, their eyes filled with terror at the sight of their king. But Maegor’s gaze was distant, his thoughts consumed by the promise Aegon had made before vanishing into the clouds.

You were free of him, Aegon had said. You would never be his.

But Maegor was not a man who accepted defeat. Not now. Not ever.

The realm would continue to burn until you were in his hands, and not even his nephew’s empty threats would change that.

With a final, chilling glance at the battlefield around him, Maegor mounted Balerion once more, his mind already racing with thoughts of what was to come. The war was not over. Aegon may have escaped, but Maegor would hunt him down. He would tear the realm apart, piece by piece, until there was nowhere left for his enemies to hide.

And in the end, you would be his.

Whether you wished it or not.

The second clash between Maegor Targaryen and his nephew, Aegon the Uncrowned, was inevitable. The gods had no place on this battlefield; only dragons, fire, and blood would decide the victor. Beneath the clouded skies of the God's Eye, the two riders faced one another atop their colossal beasts. Quicksilver, the pale silver dragon, hovered in the air with Aegon astride him, eyes blazing with defiance, while Maegor sat atop the mighty Balerion, the Black Dread, a shadow over the land, a force of destruction waiting to be unleashed.

Aegon was no child, but neither was he the match of his uncle. And yet, as they circled high above the waters of the God's Eye, you could almost feel the weight of his resolve. Maegor could sense it, too—a determination to stand, to fight, to protect what little remained of his claim. But Aegon was a fool to believe he could stop what was coming. Maegor had returned, stronger than ever, and no man, no dragon, no usurper would deny him what was his—neither the throne nor you.

The dragons roared and circled, Balerion’s immense shadow darkening the sky. Maegor’s heart was black with fury, the rage of the denied, of one betrayed by his own kin. For years, he had been denied you, stolen from him by a weak brother and a cowardly nephew. Aenys had never been strong enough to hold the kingdom together, nor had he the will to make the hard choices. Now Maegor would show Aegon the price of such weakness.

“Tell me where she is,” Maegor bellowed, his voice a force of its own, carrying across the winds between them. “Tell me, and I’ll make your death quick.”

Aegon’s expression hardened, but his lips remained sealed. He said nothing, his jaw tight, the defiance in his eyes unbroken. It was clear that he would rather die than betray your whereabouts, and for a brief moment, Maegor almost admired the boy's stubbornness. Almost.

But that would not save him.

Quicksilver lunged first, his bright scales gleaming like molten metal in the dim light. His teeth snapped, his wings beat the air, and Aegon drove him forward, spear in hand, hoping to catch Balerion’s flank. But Balerion was no ordinary dragon, and Maegor was no ordinary rider. The Black Dread twisted mid-air with terrifying speed, jaws snapping shut around Quicksilver’s wing. The smaller dragon shrieked, a sound that echoed over the lake like thunder, and his body faltered as he was dragged downward, closer to the earth.

Balerion's fire erupted, black and red flames that swallowed the sky. Quicksilver was engulfed, his silvery scales turning black as smoke and ash filled the air. Aegon fought back, his dragon resisting, but it was clear to all who watched that there could only be one outcome.

With a final, sickening crunch, Balerion’s teeth sank into Quicksilver’s neck, tearing through flesh and bone. The dragon screamed, a high-pitched, agonizing cry that seemed to go on forever. And then, with a sickening crash, Quicksilver and Aegon were flung into the earth below, the ground trembling from the impact.

Maegor descended slowly, his eyes never leaving the crumpled form of his nephew. The once-proud Aegon, Uncrowned and unbroken, now lay battered and broken beside his dying dragon. Maegor dismounted, stepping down from Balerion’s back as if descending from a throne. The grass beneath his feet was scorched from the battle, and the air smelled of death and fire.

Aegon coughed, his body shattered, blood pouring from wounds too numerous to count. His breaths were labored, each one a struggle. Maegor stood over him, the weight of his fury and triumph heavy in the air.

“Where is she?” Maegor demanded once more, his voice like steel.

Aegon lifted his head weakly, his eyes meeting Maegor's with the last of his strength. Blood bubbled on his lips as he smiled—a bitter, bloody smile.

“You’ll never find her,” Aegon rasped, defiance even now.

The anger that surged through Maegor was all-consuming, a wildfire burning through his veins. He had half a mind to rip his nephew’s head from his body then and there, but he knew Aegon would welcome such an end. No, his death would come soon enough. But it would not be swift, nor merciful.

With a final look of disgust, Maegor turned his back on the dying boy, mounting Balerion once more. There was no more time to waste on the Uncrowned. He would find you, with or without Aegon’s cooperation. And when he did, nothing and no one would ever separate you from him again.

After the battle, as Maegor's forces regrouped, a rider approached him. The man, bloodied and worn from the fight, bowed low before his king.

“My lord, we have received word,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. “It is said... she is being held in Lys.”

Maegor’s eyes narrowed, his blood roaring in his ears. Lys. So far away, beyond the sea, beyond his immediate reach. But no distance was too great. He would cross oceans, burn cities, and tear apart entire kingdoms if need be.

“Prepare the fleet,” Maegor ordered, his voice like iron. “We sail at once.”

Balerion let out a low rumble, as if sensing his master’s intent. There would be no peace until you were his, no rest until the blood debt was paid in full. The dragons were coming, and all of Lys would burn if it meant bringing you home.

The sun had long begun its descent when the black sails of Maegor's fleet appeared on the horizon, darkening the waters that surrounded Lys. The city, gilded with beauty and wealth, stood as a gleaming jewel in the far east. But to Maegor, it was a den of thieves—those who had dared to steal what belonged to him. As Balerion descended from the skies, casting a vast shadow over the city, panic spread like wildfire through its streets. The people of Lys had never seen the likes of such a beast, nor the wrath of a king who had come to reclaim what was his.

You had not expected him so soon.

The small tower in which you were held offered little more than a view of the sea and distant freedom, but you knew that no bars or walls could hold you forever. You had seen the men sent to guard you, faces hardened by greed and violence, yet even they had begun to whisper in hushed tones over the past days—of dragons, of black sails, of the King who would come. Maegor.

For weeks, you had wondered if it was only a matter of time before your captors sold you to another—or worse. But it was not the men of Lys who had taken you—it was Aegon. Your own brother. He had sent you here, far away from Maegor, far from the throne. He believed it was for your own good, to keep you safe from the king who had burned through the realm to take the Iron Throne. To keep you from the man who had claimed you as his.

But your brother had gravely underestimated the lengths to which Maegor would go to have you back.

And now he had come.

The tower trembled beneath your feet as Balerion’s roar split the sky, shaking the very stones of Lys. The dragon’s fire lit the horizon, the harbor a hellscape of flames and destruction. You could hear the distant cries of men fleeing from the wrath of the Black Dread, and in that moment, a strange calm settled over you. You knew Maegor. You had known him since childhood—his strength, his darkness, and above all, his possessiveness. He would burn this city to the ground for you. He would raze every last building, tear every stone apart brick by brick, until he had you back in his grasp.

The door to your chamber flew open, splintering as it slammed against the wall. The guard who had been stationed outside was gone, replaced by men bearing the black and red sigil of House Targaryen. They moved aside without a word, and there, standing in the doorway, was Maegor.

He was just as you remembered him, but now there was a fierceness in his gaze that you had never seen before. His armor, still streaked with blood from battle, glinted in the dim light. His silver hair, windswept from the flight atop Balerion, framed a face carved from stone, hard and unyielding. And his eyes—those dark violet eyes burned with a hunger, an obsession, that had only grown stronger with time. He had come for you.

Without a word, Maegor strode into the room, his presence filling it like a storm. He did not wait for pleasantries, nor for explanations. He reached for you, his hand closing around your arm with a grip that was firm but not painful, his eyes searching your face as if to assure himself that you were real, that you were truly here.

"You’re coming with me," he said, his voice low and rough. There was no question, no hesitation, just the ironclad certainty that had always driven him.

"Maegor," you began, your voice quiet but steady. The words you had rehearsed in your mind seemed to dissolve as you looked into his eyes. The fury, the relief, the need—it was all there, laid bare. He was not a man to be denied.

"You will never be taken from me again," he growled, his fingers tightening slightly around your arm as if to emphasize his point. "I’ve burned half the world to get to you. No one will stand between us now."

You had heard tales of what he had done—of how he had torn through Aegon’s forces at the God's Eye, of how he had set the seas aflame in his pursuit of you. But you never imagined that it would come to this—that your own brother would try to keep you from him. And now that he stood before you, towering, unyielding, you realized that there was no escaping the inevitability of what came next.

"You were mine from the moment you were born," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And they kept you from me. All of them—my father, your brother, the gods themselves. But no more. You will be my queen, and no one will ever take you from me again."

His words, raw and fierce, echoed in the space between you, and for a moment, all you could hear was the distant roar of Balerion outside, the great beast that had carried him across the skies to find you.

You met his gaze, and in that moment, something shifted within you. You had known Maegor your whole life. You had seen the violence in him, but you had also seen the man beneath it—the one who, for all his ruthlessness, had always looked at you as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered. And now, standing before him, you understood that there was no escaping him, not now, not ever.

"Then take me," you whispered, your voice soft but clear. "I’m ready."

Maegor’s eyes darkened, and in one swift motion, he pulled you into him, his lips crashing against yours with all the pent-up fury and longing that had driven him to Lys. His kiss was fierce, possessive, and you knew then that the man who had come for you was not just the king, but the dragon itself—untamable, unstoppable, and wholly yours.

When he pulled away, his hand still cradled the back of your neck, his eyes locked on yours. "We leave now," he said, his voice a low growl. "There’s nothing for you here. Nothing but ash."

He led you from the room without another word, the tower and all its horrors fading behind you as you stepped out into the night. Balerion waited, his massive form dark against the sky, and as Maegor helped you onto the dragon's back, you knew that whatever fate awaited you, it would be by his side.

And so, with a single command, Balerion’s wings unfurled, and together you soared into the night, leaving Lys in flames behind you.

#fire and blood #game of thrones #house of the dragon #hotd #got #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf x reader #maegor x y/n #maegor x you #maegor x reader #maegor targaryen #maegor the cruel #maegor i targaryen #house targaryen

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mononijikayu · 9 months ago

Text

chasing heaven — geto suguru.

“You shouldn’t love me.” he finally said, his voice low, almost pained. “It’s unequal. I would taint your name, your reputation. You’re much younger than me, and you deserve someone who can offer you the future you deserve. I can’t… I’m not looking to marry, not now. I have my duties, my career—” “I don’t care about any of that.” you interrupted, your voice firmer now, driven by the strength of your feelings. “I don’t care about reputation or duty. I only care about you, about what we could have together. I want you to be with me, Suguru. Not as my brother’s general, but as the man I love.”

GENRE: alternate universe - sengoku jidai au!;

WARNING/S: angst, fluff, romance, love, age-gap (reader is in her early 20s, suguru is early 30s), hurt/comfort, nsfw, mild smut, falling in love, friendship, comfort, hurt, pregnancy, sexual intercourse, protectiveness, subsequent marriage, happy ending, depictions of misogyny, depiction of pregnancy, mention of parting, mention of war, mention of misogny, mention of children, mention of seppaku, satoru is an overprotective, loving brother, general-warrior! suguru!, lady gojo! reader;

WORD COUNT: 9k words

NOTE: some of this is a bit inspired by abelard and heloise, who are like one of the most interesting love depictions and intellectuals in history. and bit of the ending came from the outlaw king??? the meeting at the beach??? yeah, we got that in the temple. i wanted to keep this short, but it ended up getting longer and longer and i feel like you're sick of reading long fics. i'll try to do better next time~ anyway, i still hope you enjoy this. i love you!!! <3

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•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

YOU THOUGHT THIS DAY WOULD NEVER COME. But somehow, it has. In the quiet stillness of the temple, you had grown accustomed to the gentle rhythms of monastic life. The mornings began with the melodic chime of bells, the scent of incense filling the air as you joined the nuns in their prayers. Your world was small, contained within the temple walls, but it was peaceful—a safe haven amidst the chaos of a warring Japan.

But that peace you knew of, in this aloof mountain temple, was shattered the day your brother came.

You had always known of him, the brother who was more myth than man, a legend whispered among the nuns, among servants, among town’s folk who visited the temple. Gojo Satoru, the warrior fighting to bring the country out of disaster, was a name that carried weight even within these sacred walls.

He was the eldest, the one your mother had borne long before the war consumed the land. But you had never met him, had only the faintest memories of a mother who held you close before the temple became your home.

When the day arrived, you were summoned to the temple gate. The nuns had prepared you, dressing you in the finest robes the temple could offer, your hair carefully arranged as befitting the sister of a warrior. They had spoken in hushed tones, reminding you of your duty, of the homage you owed to the man who was your blood, your kin. But you felt a tremor of unease, an uncertainty that gnawed at the edges of your calm.

And then he appeared.

Tall, imposing, with a presence that seemed to command the very air around him, your brother was unlike anyone you had ever seen. His hair, stark white like the snow that capped the mountains, caught the light of the setting sun.

But it was his eyes that struck you most—eyes as clear and bright as the sky itself, filled with a depth that seemed to see through you, to the very core of your being. Just like your own. You had never found anyone that looked like you before. Somehow, you were not alone anymore.

For a moment, you stood frozen, uncertain how to greet him, this man who was both a stranger and your closest kin. But then he smiled, a smile that was warm and reassuring, and something in you eased.

"You’ve grown, little sister." Satoru said, his voice gentle, as though he feared to startle you. "I was worried I wouldn't recognize you. But I suppose….I suppose it would be normal, wouldn’t it? You and I have been apart long before you were born, little one.”

You found your voice, though it came out softer than you intended. "Brother…"

The word felt foreign on your tongue, a title you had never before spoken, but it also felt right, like a missing piece sliding into place. Satoru stepped closer, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder. His touch was firm, but not unkind.

"You will come and live with me now, hm?" he told you, his tone leaving no room for argument, but there was no harshness in it. Only certainty. “You will not be apart from me again.”

You nodded, the weight of your new reality settling over you. The life you had known, the only life you remembered, was ending. But this was your brother—your family—and though you did not know him, you knew that you owed him your loyalty, your respect.

"Yes, brother." you replied, lowering your gaze in deference.

Satoru squeezed your shoulder, his smile widening just a fraction. "Good. There’s much for us to do, but we’ll manage together, little sister.”

He turned, signaling to the men who had accompanied him, and they began to prepare for the journey. You looked back at the temple, at the nuns who had raised you, their faces serene yet tinged with sadness. They had known this day would come, had prepared you for it, but it was still a farewell, a parting of ways.

As you followed your brother, leaving the temple behind, you felt the weight of the future pressing upon you. You were no longer just the orphaned daughter raised by nuns. You were the sister of Gojo Satoru, a daughter of the Gojo clan and that meant something in this world torn apart by war.

And as you walked beside him, his presence a shield against the unknown, you felt a glimmer of hope that perhaps, in time, you would come to know this brother who had claimed you from the shadows of the temple.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

IT WAS A WHOLE NEW WORLD FOR YOU. But perhaps it was because you had not grown into the life that your brother had been consumed by for years. Yet you were not going to be left behind, that was a promise you made to yourself. You were going to catch up and serve your brother, as destiny had intended for you.

It hadn’t taken long for you to prove your worth in the world your brother had thrust you into. From the moment you had joined Satoru's side, your intelligence shone like a beacon, drawing the attention of those who served him.

You were quick to grasp the intricacies of strategy, the delicate balance of politics, and the subtle art of diplomacy. Satoru, ever perceptive, saw in you the sharp mind that had been honed within the quiet confines of the temple, and he wasted no time in bringing you into his fold.

He did so without hesitation, without shame, despite the murmurs of discontent that rippled through his ranks. You were a woman in a man’s world, but Gojo Satoru was unbothered by such conventions. What mattered was that you were like him, a Gojo. And as such, you had the same power too. Perhaps it was why he trusted you more than anyone, and he made that trust clear by placing you at his side, seeking your counsel in matters great and small.

And so you sat with him, advising him openly in front of his men, your voice carrying the weight of his trust. You spoke with confidence, your mind as sharp as any blade, and Satoru listened, often nodding in agreement before issuing commands that bore your influence. It was a sight that unsettled some of his warriors—men hardened by battle, who found it difficult to reconcile the image of their fierce leader relying on the wisdom of a woman.

But Satoru was adamant. “She is my sister, and I trust her above all.” he would say, and that was that. His word was law, and most of the men knew better than to question him. “Do not make light of my sister. A Gojo is a Gojo, regardless of sex. Do not dishonor me with your pitiful pride.”

However, the day came when your brother had to leave, called away by urgent matters elsewhere in the battlefield. He left you to lead his council in his absence, placing upon your shoulders a great responsibility. “They will listen to you, sister.” he assured you before he departed. “And if they don’t, remind them who you are.”

For a time, it seemed Satoru’s confidence in you was well-placed. You led the council with the same decisiveness and intelligence that had earned you your brother’s trust. Yet, despite your best efforts, there were those who could not look past your gender, who saw your presence at the head of the council as an affront to their honor.

The murmurs of discontent grew louder, the defiance more overt. They spoke over you, dismissed your ideas, and questioned your authority at every turn. It was subtle at first, but it quickly escalated into open disrespect. The council chamber, once a place where your voice had carried weight, became a battleground for your credibility.

You stood your ground, unyielding, but it became clear that your authority was being eroded with every passing day. The men who defied you believed that without your brother’s immediate presence, you could be undermined, your power stripped away.

It was during one of these tense council meetings, as the murmurs of dissent reached a fever pitch, that Geto Suguru intervened. Suguru, your brother’s general and most trusted right hand, had watched the unfolding situation with a quiet intensity.

He had always been a man of few words, but when he spoke, his voice commanded attention. That day, as you stood before a council of men who dared to challenge your authority, Suguru rose from his place, his expression one of stern resolve.

“Enough.”

The single word silenced the room, the weight of his presence alone enough to command respect. He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping across the gathered men, who now shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

“This woman,” Suguru began, his voice calm but edged with steel, “is not just anyone. She is Gojo Satoru’s only sister, and she speaks with his voice. Any defiance of her is a defiance of Satoru himself. And if there is a man among you who believes he can dishonor her without consequence, then he dishonors Gojo Satoru. Such a man should commit seppuku to preserve Satoru’s goodwill with him.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the implications of Suguru’s words settling over the men like a shroud. You could see the way their expressions shifted, the bravado draining from their faces as the gravity of the situation became clear. To defy you now was not just to defy a woman—it was to defy the very man they served, the man who had led them through countless battles and brought them victories beyond measure.

Suguru’s eyes bore into each of them, leaving no room for doubt. “If there are any among you who wish to test this, step forward now.”

No one moved. The silence stretched on, thick with unspoken tension. Finally, one by one, the men lowered their heads, offering the respect they had withheld before. Suguru’s gaze softened as he turned to you, a subtle nod of reassurance in his eyes. You returned the nod, grateful for his intervention, knowing that his words had restored your authority where it had been threatened.

From that day forward, the council meetings proceeded with the respect you had earned, the respect that Suguru had demanded on your behalf. The men no longer questioned your place at the head of the table, for they knew that to do so was to challenge not just you, but Satoru himself.

And in those moments, as you continued to lead in your brother’s stead, you felt the strength of your bond with him, a bond forged not just by blood, but by the unwavering trust that had brought you to this place of power.

As the council meeting came to an end, the tension that had filled the chamber slowly dissipated. The men dispersed, their heads bowed in respect, a far cry from the defiance they had shown earlier. You remained seated, your hands resting on the table, the weight of the day’s events heavy on your shoulders.

Geto Suguru lingered behind, his presence a comforting anchor amidst the sea of uncertainty. He approached you quietly, his movements deliberate and calm, and as he drew closer, you found yourself exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“Thank you, my lord.” you said softly, turning to face him. The gratitude in your voice was unmistakable. “Your words... they meant a great deal to me, my lord. I don’t know what I would have done without your support.”

Suguru met your gaze, his expression warm yet composed. “There’s no need to thank me, my lady.” he replied, his tone sincere. “What I did was nothing more than what was necessary. You are Satoru’s sister, and he is like a brother to me. By extension, you are family to me as well. I would do anything for the both of you.”

His words, so simply spoken yet filled with such conviction, touched something deep within you. The bond between Suguru and your brother was well known, but hearing him extend that sense of loyalty and kinship to you was both comforting and humbling. You had not had a true family before. The nuns were kind to you and treated you well. But they were not family. They never will be. BUt maybe, just maybe — Satoru and Suguru could be what family means to you.

“Family…” you echoed, a small smile forming on your lips. “It’s strange to think how quickly that word has come to mean something so new and important in my life.”

Suguru nodded, his eyes holding a gentle understanding. “It’s a powerful thing, family. It binds us in ways that go beyond blood. And now, you’re part of that bond, just as much as anyone else.”

You looked at him, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. For a moment, there was a comfortable silence between you, the kind that only existed when words had already said enough.

A thought crossed your mind, and you spoke before you could second-guess yourself. “Suguru… would you like to share dinner with me before you leave?”

The invitation was simple, but it carried a significance that you hoped he would understand. In this world of shifting alliances and uncertain loyalties, there was something to be said for breaking bread together, for sharing a moment of peace in the midst of so much chaos.

Suguru’s smile widened just a fraction, a rare softness in his usually stoic demeanor. “I would like that very much, my lady.”

The two of you made your way to the dining hall, where a modest meal had been prepared. The setting was humble, far removed from the grand feasts that often accompanied council gatherings, but it was welcoming in its simplicity. The table was set with warm rice, grilled fish, and a selection of seasonal vegetables, along with a pot of fragrant tea.

You took your seats across from each other, and as the first course was served, the tension of the day seemed to melt away. The conversation flowed easily, a mix of light banter and deeper reflection. Suguru spoke of the campaigns he and Satoru had led, the victories and the losses, and you shared your experiences of life in the temple, the wisdom imparted to you by the nuns who had raised you.

As the evening wore on, you found yourself laughing at a story Suguru told about Satoru—how your brother, for all his prowess on the battlefield, had an unfortunate habit of getting lost in the most mundane of places. The image of the great warrior wandering aimlessly in a village square, confused and exasperated, was enough to bring tears of mirth to your eyes.

Suguru chuckled, his own laughter low and warm. “He’d kill me if he knew I told you that, my lady.” he said, shaking his head. “But it’s true. Satoru may be brilliant, but even he has his moments.”

“I’ll keep your secret, my lord.” you promised, still smiling. “It’s good to know he’s human, after all.”

Suguru’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he simply looked at you, his expression thoughtful. “You’re a lot like him, you know?” he said quietly. “Not just in the way you think, but in the way you carry yourself. Satoru may not say it often, but I know he’s proud of you. You’ve come into this world with such strength and grace. It’s no wonder he trusts you so completely.”

His words struck a chord within you, and you felt a swell of emotion that you hadn’t expected. To be compared to your brother, to hear that he was proud of you… it meant more than you could put into words.

“Thank you, my lord Suguru.” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “That means a great deal to me.”

He nodded, and the two of you fell into a companionable silence, content to simply enjoy each other’s presence. The meal continued, and as the last of the dishes were cleared away, you felt a sense of calm settle over you—a feeling that, despite the challenges you faced, you were not alone.

When the evening finally drew to a close, Suguru stood, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of respect. “I should be on my way, my lady.” he said, though there was no rush in his voice. “But I want you to know, if you ever need anything, you can always call on me.”

“I will.” you replied, rising to see him off. “And thank you again, my lord Suguru. For everything.”

He smiled, a small, genuine smile that seemed to light up his features. “Take care, my lady. And remember—family sticks together.”

With that, he turned and made his way out into the night, leaving you with a sense of warmth and a newfound understanding of the ties that bound you to those around you. And you think to yourself that you wanted it to last for the rest of your lives.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

YOU THINK SATORU HAD LEFT SUGURU FOR YOU TO HAVE A FRIEND. Many days and weeks pushed on, but Geto Suguru made it a point to stay by your side.You think that Satoru was smart with such a thing, keeping his trusted sister and friend together. So far, it had worked like a wonder, keeping all the men in line.

And Suguru had been gallant, in trying to appear for each and every session of the council. He knew all too well that in a world dominated by men, your authority could easily be questioned in Satoru’s absence, and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

With Suguru’s steady presence, the council meetings continued to run smoothly, the men now fully aware that any disrespect towards you would not be tolerated. His mere presence was enough to quell any lingering doubts or challenges, and in time, the council began to accept your leadership with the same respect they afforded Satoru.

But it wasn’t just in the council chambers where Suguru’s support made a difference. Beyond the formalities of the politicking in the clan hierarchy, Geto Suguru became your intellectual companion, someone with whom you could share ideas freely. He did not once mock you for your interest in many things, in fact — he encouraged it, with every meeting, with every conversation, he indulged your wants.

The two of you spent countless hours long after council was over, engrossed in discussions that ranged from the teachings of the Buddha to the intricacies of clan politics.

Suguru had a way of making even the most complex topics seem approachable, and you relished every moment spent with him, whether it was delving into the nuances of the emperor’s court, debating the merits of various poems, or considering new ideas for education reform. His intellect challenged you, and you found yourself growing in ways you hadn’t expected.

One evening, as the council hall emptied and the candles flickered in the growing darkness, you lingered in your seat, knowing that Suguru would join you soon. When he did, he settled beside you with a thoughtful expression, his eyes filled with the calm intensity that had become so familiar to you.

"You’ve been quiet today." he remarked, his voice low and steady. "Is something on your mind?"

You glanced at him, feeling the weight of your thoughts but unsure how to express them. "I’ve been thinking about the future," you admitted. "About what happens after the war… after everything settles."

Suguru nodded, understanding your unspoken concerns. "It’s natural to wonder. But the future is not something we can control, only prepare for. And you’ve done more than anyone to prepare our clan for what’s to come."

His words were reassuring, but they didn’t dispel the unease that had settled in your heart. "I just… sometimes I wonder if all these preparations, all these plans, will truly lead to peace. Or if we’re simply paving the way for another conflict."

Suguru considered your words for a moment before replying. "Peace is always fragile. It requires constant vigilance and wisdom. But I believe that with the right leadership—your brother, and perhaps even you—peace can be more than just a fleeting moment. It can be a legacy."

His faith in you was unwavering, and it touched you deeply. "I hope you’re right," you said softly, your gaze dropping to the parchment on the table before you. "But sometimes, I feel like I’m just grasping at straws, trying to make sense of a world that’s constantly changing."

Suguru reached out, gently lifting your chin so that your eyes met his. "You’re doing more than that. You’re shaping that world, guiding it towards something better. And you’re not alone in this. I’m here, and I’ll continue to be here, to support you in any way I can."

His words sent a warmth through you, one that made your heart ache in the most bittersweet way. "Thank you, Suguru," you whispered. "For everything."

A small smile curved his lips, and he withdrew his hand, though his presence remained as steady as ever. "There’s nothing to thank me for. This is what I want to do, for you and for Satoru."

As the night deepened, your conversations continued, flowing from one topic to another with ease. And when Suguru was away, he would always write to you, his letters filled with the same thoughtful insights and challenges. Each letter pushed your boundaries, urging you to think more deeply, to see the world through different lenses.

One day, as you read through one of his letters, you found a passage that made you pause:

"The world is vast, and our understanding of it is limited by the walls we build around ourselves. But if we can break down those walls, if we can push beyond what we think we know, then perhaps we can find something truly extraordinary. It is you whose intelligence I hold dearest and in truth, the person who can do things that would change the world.”

You traced the words with your fingers, feeling the weight of them settle in your chest. Suguru’s challenges were never just intellectual exercises; they were a call to action, a reminder that the world was still full of possibilities, and that you had the power to shape it.

And so, you wrote back, your reply filled with your own questions, your own thoughts, eager to see how he would respond. The correspondence between you became a lifeline, a connection that sustained you both through the trials and tribulations of the war.

Suguru had always been a thoughtful man, deeply reflective and wise beyond his years. His understanding of the world was shaped by both his experiences on the battlefield and his deep respect for philosophical teachings. You found his insights fascinating, often finding yourself lost in the depth of your conversations, which ranged from the practical to the profound.

During those moments, Suguru couldn’t help but notice the way your eyes lit up when you spoke of something you were passionate about, the gentle curve of your smile when you made a point that resonated with him. He had always thought you were beautiful—anyone could see that—but it was your tenacity, your intelligence, and your gentleness that truly captivated him.

You were unlike anyone he had ever met. In you, he saw a rare combination of strength and compassion, a mind that was as sharp as any blade and a heart that was kind and forgiving.

The way you navigated the complexities of your new life, balancing the demands of leadership with the grace and wisdom you had learned at the temple, left him in awe.

Yet, despite the growing admiration he felt for you, Suguru kept those feelings buried deep within. To him, you were someone beyond reach, not because of any external barriers but because of his own sense of unworthiness.

He was a warrior, a man forged in battle and bloodshed, while you were a beacon of light, someone who had been touched by the serenity of the Buddha’s teachings. In his mind, the distance between who you were and who he was could never be bridged.

There were moments when he caught himself lost in thought, watching you as you spoke with that quiet authority, your words shaping the course of decisions that would impact the lives of many.

In those moments, a part of him longed to reach out, to tell you how much he admired you, how much he cared. But he never did. He couldn’t. To him, you deserved someone who was your equal, someone who could match your intellect and your spirit in ways he believed he could never hope to.

So, he stayed by your side, offering his loyalty and his companionship, content to be whatever you needed him to be. He ensured that no one dared to disrespect you, not just because of his loyalty to your brother, but because of the deep respect he had for you as an individual. He became a constant presence in your life, a steady rock in a world that often seemed to shift beneath your feet.

And while you might have seen him as a trusted ally and friend, for Suguru, every moment spent in your company was a reminder of what he could never allow himself to hope for.

You were, in his eyes, someone too precious, too good for a man like him. And so he kept his feelings hidden, choosing instead to honor you in the only way he knew how—by standing by your side, protecting you, and cherishing every conversation, every shared idea, every moment of quiet companionship.

In this way, Suguru made himself an indispensable part of your life, not realizing that his quiet devotion, his unwavering support, and the way he truly saw you for who you were had already made him far more worthy than he could ever imagine.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

YOU WERE GLAD TO KNOW THAT SATORU WAS COMING HOME. The day your brother, Satoru, returned from the front was filled with anticipation. The courtyard was alive with the excited murmurs of those gathered to welcome him home, the air thick with the scent of incense and the rustle of fine silks as the crowd shifted in expectation. Your heartbeat a little faster, not just from the prospect of seeing your brother again, but from the knowledge that he would be pleased with the work you had done in his absence.

As Satoru arrived, tall and imposing in his armor, the crowd parted to allow him passage. His white hair gleamed in the sunlight, and despite the long months of battle, his step was as sure and confident as ever. His gaze swept over the gathered people, but it was your face he sought first. When his eyes found yours, a smile broke across his face, and he quickened his pace to reach you.

Without hesitation, he pulled you into a warm embrace, his laughter rich with relief and pride. "Dearest sister!" he greeted, his voice filled with affection, "I’m home."

You returned his embrace, feeling a wave of emotion at having him back safely. “Welcome home, brother!” you replied, your voice steady, though your heart swelled with joy. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “Thank you,” he said earnestly, “for all your hard work on my behalf. I knew I could trust you to lead in my stead, and you’ve done more than I could have ever asked.”

The warmth in his words settled deep within you, a validation of all that you had done in his absence. “I did only what was necessary.” you replied, though the gratitude in your voice was clear.

Satoru turned then, his gaze shifting to Suguru, who stood a respectful distance away. The moment their eyes met, Satoru’s expression softened further, a familiar tenderness evident between the two men.

“Suguru!” Satoru called out, beckoning him forward.

Suguru approached, bowing his head in respect before speaking. “Welcome home, Satoru. I’m glad to see you returned safely.”

Satoru’s smile broadened, and he clasped Suguru’s shoulder in a gesture of deep friendship. “Thank you, Suguru, for being a confidant to my sister during this time. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to know she wasn’t alone.”

Suguru shook his head, his expression as composed as ever. “It is nothing but a great duty to fulfill for my vassal lord and friend,” he said, his tone formal and deferential.

But Satoru frowned at that, his grip on Suguru’s shoulder tightening slightly. “Don’t be so formal with me, Suguru,” he chided, though his tone was light. “You know better than that. You’re more than just a vassal. You’re my brother in arms, my friend. And you’ve done more for me and my sister than I could ever repay.”

Suguru’s gaze flickered with something unreadable, but he quickly schooled his expression. “I appreciate your words, Satoru.” he replied quietly. “But my duty calls me back to the front. I must return soon.”

Satoru’s frown deepened, and he shook his head, refusing to let go of Suguru’s shoulder. “No, I won’t hear of it!” he insisted. “You’ve been at the front longer than anyone. You need rest, and I won’t have you running off the moment you’ve set foot here. Stay as long as you can. That’s an order.”

Suguru hesitated, clearly torn between his sense of duty and his loyalty to Satoru. But seeing the determination in your brother’s eyes, he finally nodded. “If that is your order, Satoru, then I will stay.”

“Good.” Satoru said, his tone firm but kind. “That’s settled then. You’ll stay here with us, and you’ll take the time you need to rest and recover. The front will still be there when you’re ready to return.”

As Suguru accepted the command, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. Having Suguru stay, even for a little longer, was something you hadn’t realized you’d wanted until now. He had become an important part of your life in your brother’s absence, and the thought of him leaving so soon after Satoru’s return had left you with an unexpected emptiness.

Satoru, ever perceptive, caught the fleeting look on your face and smiled knowingly. “You see, sister?” he said, turning to you. “I’ve managed to keep our dear Suguru here for a little longer. We all need him here, not just on the battlefield.”

You smiled, grateful for Satoru’s understanding, and nodded. “Yes, we do. Thank you, brother.”

With the matter settled, the three of you made your way into the inner chambers, where preparations had been made for a private celebration of Satoru’s return. The atmosphere was light, filled with laughter and the shared relief of being together once more. As you sat together, the bonds of family and friendship felt stronger than ever, and for that moment, the weight of the world outside seemed to fade away.

As the weeks passed, you found yourself spending more and more time with Suguru. The bond between you deepened, the trust and respect that had grown in your brother's absence now blossoming into something more complex, something that you couldn’t quite name but felt deeply. Suguru was older, wiser, and had seen so much more of the world than you had, but there was a connection between you that transcended those differences. Slowly but surely, you realized that you were becoming enthralled by your feelings for him.

Despite the age difference, despite his steadfast focus on his career and his role as your brother’s most trusted general, you couldn’t help the way your heart quickened when you were near him. Suguru, ever the composed and duty-bound man, never gave any indication that he was aware of your feelings. He was kind, respectful, and treated you as an equal in your discussions, but there was always a certain distance, a formality that he maintained, even in the quiet moments you shared.

One evening, after the council had ended and the palace had settled into the calm of the night, you found yourself wandering through the lily gardens with Suguru. The moon was full, casting a soft, silvery light over the still waters of the pond and the delicate white lilies that floated on its surface.

The air was cool, a gentle breeze stirring the leaves of the nearby trees. It was a serene, almost otherworldly setting, perfect for the conversations you often found yourselves having under the cover of darkness.

As you walked side by side, your footsteps soft on the stone path, you spoke of the future. Of what might come after the war, when the battles were over, and the land was finally at peace. You talked of the things you wanted to do—small, simple things like traveling to the nearby villages, visiting the temples you had only heard of in stories, and seeing the world beyond the palace walls.

Suguru listened, his expression thoughtful as always, but there was a trace of something in his eyes that made your heart ache—a longing that mirrored your own, though he would never voice it.

But tonight, there was something more pressing on your mind, something that had been weighing on you ever since your brother had returned from the front. After a pause in your conversation, you gathered your courage and spoke, your voice soft yet firm. “Suguru… Satoru has begun to find a husband for me.”

Suguru stopped walking, turning to face you. His expression didn’t change, but you saw the subtle tension in his posture, the way his hands clenched slightly at his sides. “It’s what’s best, my lady.” he replied after a moment, his tone carefully neutral. “A marriage to form alliances would strengthen your brother’s position and secure your future.”

You shook your head, the words catching in your throat. “I don’t see it that way,” you admitted, your voice trembling with the emotions you could no longer contain. “Because… I’ve fallen in love with you, Suguru.”

For a moment, there was silence. The world around you seemed to still, the only sound the gentle rustling of the lilies in the breeze. Suguru’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or maybe something deeper, something he had kept hidden for a long time.

“I don’t care about any of that.” you interrupted, your voice firmer now, driven by the strength of your feelings. “I don’t care about reputation or duty. I only care about you, about what we could have together. I want you to be with me, Suguru. Not as my brother’s general, but as the man I love.”

Suguru looked at you then, really looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time. There was a deep conflict in his eyes, a battle between his sense of duty and the emotions he had tried so hard to suppress. He took a step closer, and for a moment, you thought he might reach out to you, might take your hand or pull you into his arms. But he stopped himself, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“I’m not worthy of you, my lady.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just a soldier, a man who has done terrible things in the name of duty. You deserve someone who can give you the life you’ve dreamed of, someone who can stand beside you in the light, not someone who is forever tainted by the darkness of war.”

Your heart ached at his words, at the pain you could hear beneath them. But you refused to accept them. “I don’t want someone else.” you said, taking a step closer to him, closing the distance between you. “I want you, Suguru. I don’t care about the past or what you think you deserve. I know who you are, and I love you for it. Please… don’t push me away.”

Suguru’s resolve seemed to falter then, his purple eyes closing as if trying to block out the reality of your words. He was silent for a long moment, the only sound the distant chirping of crickets and the soft rustle of the wind in the trees. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw with emotion. “I don’t want to hurt you, my lady.” he said, opening his eyes to meet yours. “But I’m afraid I already have.”

You shook your head, tears gathering in your eyes. “You haven’t, my lord.” you insisted. “But you will if you walk away from me now.”

Suguru looked at you, his expression filled with a sorrow that you hadn’t seen before. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, resigned. “If I stay, if I allow myself to feel this way about you, it won’t be easy. There will be challenges, people who will try to tear us apart. Your brother might not even approve…”

“I don’t care, my lord….Suguru.” you said, stepping even closer, so that you were only a breath away from him. “I’ll face whatever comes if it means being with you.”

Suguru looked at you for a long moment, his purple eyes searching for yours, as if trying to find the strength to say what he needed to say. Finally, he reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. His touch was hesitant, as if he was afraid to break you, but you leaned into it, closing your eyes as you felt the warmth of his skin against yours.

“I wish I could be the man you deserve.” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet despair. “But if you’re willing to take this risk, then I won’t let you face it alone.”

You opened your eyes, looking up at him with a mix of relief and determination. “I am willing, Suguru.” you said softly, your heart full of the love you had for him. “As long as you’re by my side.”

Suguru nodded, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “Then I’ll stay, for you.” he said, his voice firm with resolve. “And I’ll do everything I can to protect you, to make this work… even if it means defying everything I thought I knew.”

With those words, you knew that the bond between you had changed, deepened in ways that neither of you could have anticipated. The future was uncertain, the challenges ahead daunting, but for now, in the quiet of the lily garden under the moonlit sky, you had each other. And that, you knew, was more than enough.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

THE MORE YOU WERE TOGETHER, THE MORE YOU FELL FOR HIM. And along with the flow of time, the boundaries between you blurred until they disappeared entirely. What began as stolen moments in the lily gardens turned into lingering touches, soft words whispered in the dark, and eventually, the first tentative kiss. That kiss led to another, and then another, until you both could no longer deny the passion that had ignited between you.

Geto Suguru, ever the restrained and disciplined man, tried to keep his distance, to maintain the boundaries that he believed were necessary. But you could see the way he struggled, the way his resolve weakened whenever you were near. And you, in turn, found yourself growing more insatiable for him, drawn to his quiet strength, his intellect, and the gentleness that he showed only to you.

It wasn’t long before your relationship became intimate. The nights you spent together were filled with whispered confessions, tender caresses, and the kind of closeness that left you breathless, yearning for more. Each touch, each shared moment, only deepened the bond between you, until it became something undeniable, something that you couldn’t hide, even if you tried.

Suguru’s movements were rhythmic and deliberate, each thrust a testament to the intensity of his feelings. Your body responded instinctively, shivering under the persistent wave of pleasure that seemed to emanate from every part of him. The connection between you both was palpable, a perfect union of touch and desire that left you breathless and yearning.

As he pressed closer, the heat between you became almost unbearable. You could feel every inch of him, his length moving with a purposeful glide that seemed to match the cadence of your own heartbeats. His focus was unwavering, his gaze locked onto your expressions of bliss, as if he were memorizing each fleeting moment of your shared ecstasy.

Suguru’s lips were gentle yet insistent, trailing a path of fiery kisses along your skin. He started at your jawline, moving down to your neck, where his kisses became more fervent, brushing against the sensitive spots that made you moan uncontrollably. His touch was a mix of tenderness and passion, each kiss a silent declaration of his love.

The way his lips traveled over your shoulder blades and collarbone, down to your breasts, was both reverent and adoring. He seemed to savor every inch of you, each kiss a testament to his longing and his desire to make you feel cherished and adored. His breathing grew ragged, his desire for you as evident as the ardent affection in his kisses.

Suguru’s love was consuming, a powerful force that seemed to envelope you both in a cocoon of heat and intimacy. His movements were a dance of devotion, each motion and kiss an expression of his deep-seated love. He wanted to give you everything, to love you with a passion that knew no bounds, until either of you could bear the intensity any longer.

Suguru’s senses were overwhelmed by the intense heat enveloping him. Each time he pulled back, he felt the burning warmth of your inner flesh clinging to him, a tantalizing reminder of the connection you shared. The contrast between the cool air and the searing heat of your body created a heightened sense of urgency, making every moment even more electric.

He withdrew momentarily, the emptiness only intensifying his need to be reunited with you. His breath came in ragged bursts, a mixture of frustration and desire fueling his movements. When he finally pressed back into you, it was with a force that spoke of his longing and the sheer intensity of his passion.

Suguru’s hands gripped your hips firmly, guiding and angling them to better meet his thrusts. His movements were decisive and powerful, each push and pull a testament to his deep-seated desire. The rhythm he established was relentless, his member driving into you with a raw, unrestrained energy. Every thrust was accompanied by a shudder of pleasure, both from him and you, as the heat between you built to a fervent crescendo.

His focus was entirely on you, the way your body responded to him, the way you felt around him. The sound of your moans and the look of sheer pleasure on your face drove him to new heights, his need to be with you, to feel this connection, only growing stronger with each passing second.

But as much as you tried to keep your relationship a secret from your brother, it wasn’t long before the truth could no longer be hidden. The realization came with a sudden, undeniable clarity: you were pregnant.

The days following that intense night were filled with a mix of excitement and anticipation. As you navigated through your routine, you began to notice subtle changes in your body. What started as a vague sense of nausea and fatigue soon became more pronounced, prompting you to a conclusion.

The morning understood what was going on, a whirlwind of emotions took over you. You stared at yourself and then your belly, your heart pounding in your chest. Fear and excitement warred within you as you grappled with the reality of your situation.

You were carrying Suguru’s child, a life born from the love that you shared, but also a secret that could change everything. You knew that your brother, Satoru, would not take the news lightly. He had always been protective of you, and this… this would be seen as a betrayal.

The day your brother discovered the truth was etched into your memory with vivid, painful clarity. You had dreaded this moment, knowing that the inevitable confrontation would come, but nothing could have fully prepared you for the storm that followed.

The atmosphere was thick with tension as you stood in the living room, your heart racing. Satoru stormed in, his eyes blazing with a mix of fury and hurt that made your stomach churn. His usually calm demeanor was shattered, replaced by an intensity that you had never seen before. He had sensed something was wrong for weeks, and the truth had hit him like a sledgehammer.

“Who is he?” Satoru’s voice was a harsh whisper, laced with a barely contained rage. His eyes locked onto you, his gaze piercing through you as if trying to unravel the truth hidden within your silence.

"Brother, please...."

“Who’s the father?” His demand echoed through the room, each word sharp and accusatory, slicing through the fragile veneer of your composure.

The weight of his anger was suffocating. You stood there, feeling small and vulnerable, your hands trembling at your sides. The emotional turmoil inside you was overwhelming, a tangled mess of guilt, fear, and sorrow. You wanted to explain, to find the right words to make him understand, but the sheer intensity of the moment left you paralyzed.

Suguru, who had been silently supporting you, stepped forward, his own face a mask of regret and determination. He had been waiting for this confrontation, knowing that it was his responsibility to face the consequences of their actions. With a deep breath, he took the weight of the situation onto his shoulders.

“Satoru,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with a sorrowful undertone, “I’m the father.”

The revelation hung in the air, heavy and oppressive. Satoru’s expression shifted from anger to disbelief, and then to a deeper pain that seemed to cut through his very core. The anger that had once burned so fiercely now gave way to a profound sense of betrayal and heartbreak. His eyes, usually so full of warmth and understanding, were now clouded with tears that he fought to hold back.

Suguru’s admission was met with a silence that was almost unbearable. The tension in the room was palpable, each of you waiting for the other to break the silence. You could see the struggle in Satoru’s face as he tried to process the reality of the situation, the hurt and confusion evident in every line of his expression.

“I never thought...” Satoru’s voice faltered, his anger giving way to a raw, aching sadness. He looked between you and Suguru, his emotions a turbulent sea of conflicting feelings. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why keep this from me?”

Suguru’s gaze was steady, but his heart was breaking as he met Satoru’s eyes. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Satoru.” he said softly. “But I know that’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

“You do not have to worry.” Suguru said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. He met Satoru’s gaze head-on, not flinching even as the anger in your brother’s eyes intensified. “It was not planned….But I take full responsibility, Satoru. Please.”

Satoru’s reaction was immediate and explosive. “You’re supposed to be my most trusted general, my friend, and you… you’ve done this? With my sister? And you didn’t marry her?”

Suguru’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “I never intended to disrespect you or your family. I care for her deeply, and I will do what is right.”

The words only seemed to fuel Satoru’s rage. “You should have done what was right from the start! How could you let this happen, Suguru? How could you—”

“I didn’t need to marry him.” you interrupted, your voice shaking as you tried to step between them, to defuse the situation before it spiraled out of control. “I love him, Satoru. We love each other, and I don’t need a marriage to prove that.”

But your words only seemed to make things worse. Satoru turned to you, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief. “You don’t understand what this means, how it looks. If you’re with child and not married, it could ruin everything. Our alliances, our reputation—everything we’ve fought for…..”

Suguru placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch grounding you even as the storm of emotions swirled around you. “I will marry her, Satoru.” he said firmly, his voice calm but resolute. “You don’t have to worry about shame. We will marry and no one will know.”

Satoru stared at Suguru for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with the force of his emotions. It was clear that he was torn, caught between his duty to his family and his loyalty to Suguru. Finally, he let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“I have no other choice about this.” he said, his voice heavy with resignation. “If you’re going to marry her, then you need to do it soon. We’ll make the arrangements, and you’ll stand before everyone and make this right.”

Suguru nodded, his grip on your shoulder tightening slightly as if to reassure you. “I will. You have my word.”

You looked up at Suguru, your heart full of a mixture of love, relief, and anxiety for what lay ahead. This wasn’t how you had imagined things would unfold, but you knew that as long as you had him by your side, you could face whatever challenges came your way. And so, with a heavy but hopeful heart, you took a deep breath and prepared to face the future together.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

YOU NEVER EXPECTED ALL OF THIS, BUT LIFE IS STRANGE. And perhaps you were now more resigned to it than ever before. The day of your wedding to Suguru was both solemn and beautiful, a ceremony that cemented not only your love but also your shared commitment to the future.

Despite the circumstances that led to it, the vows you exchanged were heartfelt, and as you stood beside him, you felt a deep sense of belonging, knowing that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.

Suguru remained by your side through the remainder of your pregnancy, refusing to leave even as the war called to him. He was there for every moment, every kick, and every anxious night as you awaited the arrival of your children. When the day finally came, and you bore twin daughters, his joy was immeasurable. He held you close, kissed your forehead, and whispered his gratitude for the family you had given him.

The day Suguru had to return to the battlefield was a poignant reminder of the harsh realities that overshadowed your time together. As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room, the reality of his departure loomed heavily over both of you. The weight of impending separation was unbearable, each moment stretching painfully as the hour of his departure drew nearer.

You found yourself clinging to him, your grip firm yet trembling, as tears streamed down your cheeks. Every part of you ached with the fear and sadness of watching him leave for another dangerous mission. His presence had become your sanctuary, and the thought of him stepping back into the chaos of war was almost too much to bear. Your sobs were muffled against his chest, the fabric of his uniform a stark reminder of the danger he faced.

Suguru’s hands were gentle as he reached up to wipe away your tears. His touch was tender, yet firm, as if he were trying to transfer some of his strength to you. His own eyes were filled with a sorrowful resolve, the weight of the duty he was about to undertake clear in every line of his face. Despite his bravery and determination, it was evident that leaving you behind was a painful sacrifice.

As he held you, his gaze shifted to the cot where your daughters, Mimiko and Nanako, slept peacefully. Their innocent faces were serene, their small bodies rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep. Suguru’s heart ached at the sight of them, his love for them and the desire to protect them a palpable force. His eyes lingered on them, a silent vow passing between him and their slumbering forms—a promise to return safely, to be there for them and you.

"I don’t want to leave you." he murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he held you close, feeling the warmth of your daughters swaddled in his arms. “All three of you.”

"I know that." you whispered back, your voice breaking. "But you must. For Satoru, for our peace… But promise me, Suguru, that you'll take care of my brother. Bring him back to us. And…And come back to us too. Please."

"I promise, my love." he vowed, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "I will protect him with my life, just as I will protect our family. I will come back to you, I swear."

The parting was an agonizing ordeal, each moment stretching into an eternity as you watched Suguru ride away. With your daughters, Mimiko and Nanako, nestled in your arms, you felt the weight of the world press heavily upon your heart. The sight of him disappearing into the distance, framed by the setting sun, was a poignant reminder of the uncertainty that lay ahead. As the last glimpse of him vanished, you could only hold your children tighter, whispering prayers for his safety and for a swift end to the unrelenting war.

Days turned into months, and months into years, each passing moment a relentless reminder of the ongoing conflict. The once-familiar rhythm of life had been disrupted, replaced by an enduring wait for peace. The world outside was fraught with turmoil, but within the sanctuary of the temple where your journey with Suguru had begun, you found a semblance of tranquility.

Returning to the temple was a return to roots, a place of peace amidst the chaos of the world. It was where you had first found solace and a sense of purpose alongside Suguru, and now it became a refuge for you and your daughters. The temple's serene environment provided a safe haven where you could nurture them, shielding them from the harsh realities of the outside world.

Every corner of the temple held echoes of the past—memories of quiet moments shared with Suguru, of dreams and plans woven together in the tranquil surroundings. It was a place that had once symbolized new beginnings, and now it served as a testament to endurance and hope.

As you raised your daughters in this sanctuary, you immersed yourself in the rhythms of temple life, finding comfort in its routines and in the community that embraced you. You taught them the values and lessons that had been so important to you and Suguru, hoping to instill in them the same strength and resilience that had guided you through these challenging years.

The temple, with its tranquil gardens and reverent halls, became a living monument to your waiting, a symbol of the enduring love that bound you to Suguru. Every day was a step closer to the dream of seeing the land united and your husband safely returned to you. Until that day came, you held onto the hope that peace would prevail and that your family would be whole once more.

In the stillness of the temple, surrounded by the quiet hum of prayer and the gentle presence of your daughters, you found a sense of purpose and patience. Your love for Suguru remained a guiding light, illuminating the path through the darkness of uncertainty and keeping the promise of reunion alive in your heart.

Years passed, and news of the Gojo clan's victory spread across the land and peace was finally achieved. The land was finally unified, and the long years of war had come to an end. You clung to the hope that with this victory, Your Suguru would return to you, that the promise he made would finally be fulfilled.

And then, one day, as you stood at the steps of the temple, you saw him. Geto Suguru, looking weary yet strong, with the weight of years and battle etched into his features. He stood there, gazing at you with eyes full of longing and love, and you felt your heart leap in your chest.

Without hesitation, you ran to him, your daughters' voices calling after you, but you couldn’t stop. The world seemed to blur around you as you crossed the distance between you and the man you had been waiting for all these years. When you finally reached him, you threw yourself into his arms, holding him as tightly as you could, as if to make up for all the time you had spent apart.

"Welcome home, my love." you whispered, your voice thick with tears, your face buried in his chest. The scent of him, the feel of his arms around you, it was all so familiar, so comforting, that it felt like a dream.

Suguru held you close, his embrace fierce and full of the love he had carried with him through every battle, every hardship. "I’m home, my dear." he murmured into your hair, his voice choking with emotion. "I’m finally home."

Your daughters, now old enough to understand the significance of the moment, stood a little ways off, watching with wide eyes as their father returned to them. You turned to them, beckoning them forward, and they ran to join the embrace, their laughter and tears mingling with your own.

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dreamdragonkadia · 1 month ago

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As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - IV.I Word Count: 5.8k A/N: Meanwhile, Estella’s out here living her adventure, while her Mama is most definitely having a full-blown meltdown in a court away. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

She had never done this before. Not by herself.

Winnowing was supposed to be a grown-up thing. A Mama-and-Auntie-Vas thing. Estella didn’t know how it had happened—one second she was so scared, thinking someone might try to take her away from Mama, and the next, the shadows had wrapped around her like a too-tight hug and whoosh—gone.

Vanished.

Her stomach still felt funny from it.

The shadows had meant well. She knew they were trying to help. She hadn’t meant to leave. She just didn’t want to be taken. She hadn’t wanted the new man to say something that would make the world tip sideways again. And now…

Now she was here.

Alone.

Estella stood tucked into a narrow alleyway, pressed between two stone buildings that smelled like sun-warmed bread and riverwater. She hugged her arms around her chest, her back slightly hunched so her wings were tucked tight.

A way to comfort herself.

Because no one else had wings.

Not out there.

She’d peeked. Peered out from behind a barrel earlier and watched the strange, glittering city go by. The people here walked with laughter on their lips and flowers in their hair, wearing clothes in every color she could name and some she couldn’t. There were children chasing paper kites, and fae lounging on balconies with books and wine, and music—music—floating up from somewhere close by like the city itself was humming.

But none of them had wings.

None.

Her fingers curled tighter into her dress. Mama always said to be careful. To be smart. To never, ever let someone see what made you different unless you were ready.

Estella wasn’t ready.

And she was all alone.

But… this place. It was pretty. It was like a storybook Mama used to read to her at night. It smelled like cinnamon and sea salt and something a little like starlight. It felt like something important.

Like maybe she was supposed to be here.

Her boots scuffed softly against the stone as she crept to the edge of the alley, peeking around the corner again. There was a fountain nearby, carved from white stone, glimmering in the afternoon light. A little girl was tossing flower petals into it while her mother looked on. A fae male with brown hair painted lazy strokes onto a canvas in the shade.

It didn’t feel like danger.

It felt like… waiting.

Something in the cobbled stones and golden air tugged at her. A quiet pull, just beneath her ribs, humming like Mama’s magic. Like she had come back to a place she had only ever known in dreams.

Just like the mountain.

Estella blinked, the memory stirring like a ripple across still water. That other place—high and old and cold, where snow clung to the stones and the wind howled like wolves at night. That place had felt like this, too. Scarier. But, like it had waited for her. Like it had recognized her.

And the boy—no, not a boy. A little one like her, but older. Wiser. With eyes like the sky and a voice like old trees. She had known, deep in her chest, that he was someone different. Not like her, not really. Not like Mama.

But he hadn’t hurt her.

He had tried to help.

And he hadn’t locked her away again.

Not like the first one had.

This place felt… like belonging. Like it remembered her. Even if Mama had never spoken the words, even if the ache in Mama’s eyes had said we can’t go back, Estella had known. Mama wanted to be here. She ached to be.

But she was scared.

Scared to hurt Papa. Scared to unravel something precious and fragile that she’d worked so hard to protect. Estella hadn’t asked. Not once. Not when Mama cried in the garden at night. Not when Mama stared at the stars too long.

Because she didn’t like seeing her sad.

And this place, it felt like the same kind of right. The same kind of memory she didn’t have but felt anyway, tucked beneath her skin like a song she hadn’t learned but somehow knew.

She didn’t know the name. Not really. But it thrummed through her anyway, deep and quiet.

A home. If they wished for it.

She felt her shadows curl up her legs, tugging her softly to the right. She tried to tell them off. There was nowhere to hide. It was all streets and restaurants and many people. But they were relentless.

So, Estella tried to stay small.

Tried to shrink her steps as her boots moved softly against the cobblestones, keeping to the edge of the street where the shadows clung longer. The buildings towered on either side of her, painted in soft pastels and bathed in gold from the sun overhead. Laughter echoed from storefronts. A male with gleaming earrings strummed a lyre beneath a flowering archway, his music dancing alongside the breeze.

Everything was bright. Beautiful.

It was nothing like Scythia’s palace halls.

She saw a river—broad and glittering like a ribbon of stars winding through the city. She crept closer, passing painted doors and flower boxes, and stared with wide eyes at the flowing water. The scent of bread, lilacs, and warm stone filled her nose. The hum in the air buzzed along her skin. Magic. But soft. Warm. Not scary. So similar to hers and made her wings itch to unfurl. To Fly.

Yet people were beginning to notice.

Whispers followed in her wake. Fae with pastries in hand, shopkeepers sweeping steps, artists and children and couples strolling arm in arm—they all paused. Some turned to look. Some did a double take. And others—

“Is that…?”

“She looks like the High Lord.”

“No—impossible. But those eyes—”

“That scent—”

Estella’s wings clenched, tight and trembling, and in a burst of fear, she pushed them inward, folding them close to her back, wrapping a glamour around them like Mama had taught her in case of emergencies. She hadn’t perfected it—but it was enough. Enough to make her feel small again. Hidden.

She wanted Mama.

She didn’t like this. Didn’t like the eyes, the murmurs, the way the city was too big and the people too close.

Home. I want to go home.

She turned to bolt, head down, too-fast footsteps drawing her toward the alleyways, toward any place that felt quieter—but as she rounded the corner, she slammed into someone. Hard.

Estella stumbled back, breath caught, only for hands to catch her by the shoulders.

“Woah,” a female voice said coldly. “Watch it.”

She looked up.

And stopped breathing.

The woman was tall and fierce and beautiful in a way that made Estella feel like a mouse looking up at a silver flame. Her golden-brown hair was swept back in a braids, and her posture radiated strength. Cold, like a mountain—but the kind you could shout into and hear secrets echo back. And something about her... something stirred in Estella’s chest.

She stared at her, and whispered, “You.”

The woman blinked. “Excuse me?”

This feeling. Estella was sure of it. The ghostly feeling of Mama was faint but there. “I know you,”

The woman blinked again, frowning. “What?”

“You’re… You’re in the dreams,” she said, stepping back just enough to look up fully. “You’re with my mama. A lot.”

Something flickered in the woman’s eyes—confusion, maybe even concern. She crouched slightly, lowering herself just a fraction. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“No,” Estella insisted, shaking her head. “You’re in her dreams. I know it.”

“Dreams?” the woman echoed.

A new voice entered then—male, low and rough, shocked and disbelieving all at once. “Estelle?”

Estella stiffened.

She turned around slowly, finding a towering male with broad shoulders, hazel eyes that sparkled like firelight, and wings—real Illyrian wings. Like hers, like Uncle Azzy’s. He looked surprised. Shocked. He looked like he knew her.

But she didn’t know him.

It was that name.

“No!” She shouted, and the sound cracked down the quiet alley like thunder. “I’m not! I’m Estella!”

And as if her body couldn’t hold it in anymore, her wings burst free from their glamour—snapping open behind her in a flare of midnight violet, brushing the walls on either side. Powerful for someone so small. Beautiful. Unmistakable.

The woman gasped softly.

The male’s mouth fell open.

Estella was already breathing too fast, her little fists clenched at her sides. “I’m not her! I don’t know you! I want my mama!”

And then she did the only thing she could think to do—she turned, and clung to the fierce woman who felt safe. Her arms wrapped around her legs, face pressed against her thigh, tears slipping down her cheeks now that she couldn’t hold them in.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

It had taken a long time to calm her down.

The poor woman hadn’t known what to do—torn between snapping at the Illyrian brute (her words, not Estella’s) and crouching to soothe the little girl’s tears. Her voice had been mean at first, clipped and exasperated. But then gentler, more uncertain, as she crouched in front of Estella.

That was how she’d learned the woman’s name was Nesta. And the male with the wings and muscles and loud voice was Cassian.

Something in her memory tugged at that name—Nesta. She had overheard it before. But she couldn’t remember clearly, and that made everything worse.

Especially when Cassian mentioned taking her to someone named Rhysand.

Nesta had recoiled like he’d slapped her. “I’m not going anywhere near there,” she’d snapped. “If you want her brought in, you do it.”

That had made Estella panic again. Full-on, breath-gone, throat-closing panic.

She didn’t know this Rhysand. She didn’t know any of these people. Except… maybe Nesta. A little. In that dream-way that made no sense and yet felt like everything.

“Please stay,” she’d begged her. Quiet, shaky, eyes wide and terrified. “Please don’t leave me.”

And Nesta had sighed, deep and long and full of the kind of tired Estella had only ever seen on her mother’s face. But she’d nodded. And held her hand a little tighter.

The walk was strange and quiet.

Estella kept her small hand firmly in Nesta’s, casting a wary glance every time the tall Illyrian male—Cassian—drew too close. Nesta didn’t speak much, not to her and certainly not to him. Her jaw was set in a way that made Estella think of Mama when she was very, very annoyed, and her eyes were distant, like she was somewhere else entirely.

She didn’t look happy to be going wherever they were going. In fact, she looked like she’d rather walk barefoot through the snow than enter this pretty house perched along the river.

And Estella… Estella was overwhelmed.

The house was huge and glowing and beautiful in a way that made her chest feel tight. Like she might break something if she breathed too hard. Like if she wasn’t careful, it would vanish—and take her with it. And there were people inside—people who smelt powerful and important and… familiar.

Then her attention caught when they entered. Her eyes caught on a painting in the hall.

It stopped her heart.

A lady. Elegant and tall, draped in twilight, golden thread curling along her sleeves like constellations. Her eyes… her eyes were the ones that looked at Estella with all the love in the world everyday. The same calm power. And she was smiling, just barely, in that way Mama did sometimes when she thought no one was watching.

It was her. Her mother.

Not as Estella knew her—tired and stubborn and beautiful in quiet, secret ways—but as someone the world had once seen. Someone who had been honored. Painted. Belonged somewhere.

That was Mama. That had been Mama. Before.

Before the hiding. Before the fear.

Before her.

The painting radiated something old and proud and heavy. Something sacred. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Then the doors to another room opened and Cassian stepped in first, and the quiet inside the house shattered.

Voices stilled mid-sentence. Chairs shifted. A tea cup gently clinked against porcelain as someone set it down. All heads turned toward the doorway.

Estella stood very still beside Nesta, who still hadn’t let go of her hand. Even gave a small squeeze. There was a woman who looked like Nesta—kind of. Not in the scary way, but in the soft way. Like looking at the moon after seeing the sun. Her hair was golden-brown, her lips parted slightly like she might speak but couldn’t quite find the words. Estella blinked at her.

And then her gaze shifted.

And froze.

Because standing just beyond the nearest couch and fully still, was a male with her eyes.

Not similar. Not close. Identical.

Violet. Deep and endless and brimming with stars. The same tilt, the same flicker of intensity beneath his lashes. The same quiet pull she saw in herself when Mama brushed her hair in the mirror and said, “There you are, Starling.”

He wasn’t smiling.

He was staring.

And something inside her—a string too tight for too long—snapped. Not painfully. But like something that had been locked had finally come loose.

She ducked behind Nesta before she knew she was moving. Her small fingers twisted into her dress, crumpling the soft fabric as if that would shrink her small enough to disappear.

She did not need to name him to know who this was. For how many times had she been told she was her father’s daughter.

‘Anyone who truly sees her will know. She’s not just his daughter. She is him. In miniature.’

No one spoke.

The silence was a vacuum. One that sucked all the air from the room and left behind only static.

Then a voice. Soft. From the black haired woman near the fireplace, eyes of silver. She whispered, like seeing the dead come alive again, because there was only one explanation for who this could be. “Estelle?”

Estella flinched.

Her wings twitched in warning. Something flared inside her. Like she had to run, to leave, danger. But something in her wanted to tell them, no, she was not her aunt.

“That is not Estelle,” the male with her eyes said suddenly, his voice wrapped in velvet. Stunned. Distant. “That is not my sister.”

And it made her want to run. Or cry. Or scream. Or—

Her eyes slid to the shadows at the edge of the room. To the male half-wrapped in them, darker than the rest, quieter than any of them. His scarred hands were folded loosely before him, his eyes shadowed, unreadable.

Uncle Azzy.

Her heart fluttered at the sight of him. He hadn’t told them. He’d kept the secret. Her Mama’s secret. Their secret. Estella did not call out to him. She did not run to him. Even though every piece of her ached to. She looked away quickly, like if she looked too long, the others would see what passed between them. See what she knew. See the truth.

She turned her face toward Nesta’s skirts again, burying herself in them. But even that wasn’t enough. Her panic was rising like a tide she couldn’t stop. And then her hands moved on their own, tugging—soft at first, then more urgently—at Nesta’s dress. She stepped backward, just an inch. Then another.

Nesta looked down at her, confused, but Estella’s eyes pleaded.

They had to go. Now.

But no one else noticed. The room had erupted. The voices were getting louder. A blur of questions. Cassian’s voice rising above the rest, saying something about bringing her here—telling them her name.

Estella’s ears rang.

“We need to leave,” she whispered up to Nesta, the words barely more than a breath. “Before they know. Before Mama gets found out.”

Nesta tensed. Her mouth parted, as if to say something, but then someone from across the room made a comment she didn’t catch—something about Estella’s wings, or who she could possibly belong to, or why she was with Nesta.

“I am not asking her to cling to me!” Nesta snapped suddenly, her voice dangerous enough to cut the room clean in two. “She won’t let go!”

The silence that followed was worse than the noise.

Estella’s chest stung. Her eyes burned, hot and full and miserable. She hadn’t meant to cling. She hadn’t meant to cry. She hadn’t meant to make this into something big and awful—but it was too late for that. She hadn’t meant to cause trouble. Hadn’t meant to pull so tightly to the female who felt safe.

She just hadn’t wanted to be left alone. Not here. Not like this. Not in this glowing house with all these people and all those eyes, not when her Mama was so far away, and they were all looking at her like she was a ghost. Like she was someone she wasn’t supposed to be.

That familiar tingle slid across her skin. A soft warning. Like silk brushing over her arms and legs, brushing against her thoughts. Her breath caught in her throat. She knew that magic. Knew it in her bones. Knew it the way she knew her mother’s laugh, her smell, her lullabies. Knew it like sunlight on her skin. Her heartbeat jumped.

It curled around her ankles, climbing up her calves in lazy, knowing spirals. Their whispers were not with words but with feeling. Gentle brushes across her own magic. Comforting.

Do you need help?

Yes.

Do you feel unsafe?

Yes.

Do you want a part of your mother with you?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

She didn’t even realize what she’d agreed to—who she’d agreed to—until the moment the room shifted.

The shadows responded to her desperation before she could even blink. Before she could warn them. Before she could stop to ask if this was a good idea.

The other one—the woman who looked like Nesta, whose wide, shocked eyes made Estella blink twice every time she looked at her—she moved. The spell of confusion shattered across her face in an instant, her body launching upright, knocking something over in her rush to stop what she somehow knew was coming. Her voice broke through the silence, panicked and startled, a single desperate plea flung across the space between them.

“Wait—!”

But it was already too late.

The shadows exploded outward. Not dangerous or harsh, but purposeful. Protective. A wall of magic pulsed from Estella’s core, curling around her like wings, like armor, like love itself had taken shape. The air thickened. Shimmered. The room dimmed around the edges.

And then it appeared.

A creature made of starlight and smoke. Massive, horned, shaped like a wolf but glowing with threads of deep twilight—purple and grey with glints of gold like the stars were hiding in its fur. Its eyes were two golden suns. Calm. Watching.

It stepped between Estella and the others without a sound. A line drawn. A warning given.

Her mama’s magic in living form.

The creature huffed, almost lazily, as if deeply unimpressed by the panic. Like it had been roused from a nap only to find this mess. As if the mere presence of these wide-eyed Fae, even the High Lord himself, warranted no more than a sigh.

The beast tilted its head—not at them, but at her. As if puzzled. As if asking why she’d called for help when these were people its mistress had once fought beside. Had trusted. Had bled with. Why her daughter was afraid of them.

She barely caught it through the roaring in her ears, through her thudding heart and the way her feet were already preparing to flee—but the voice pulled through the noise anyway.

“—that is her beast. Rhys, that’s her magic! Nocthera could not exist without her.”

The words rang like a bell. Emotional. Desperate. A plea and a confirmation and a storm of disbelief all tangled together.

Estella didn’t wait to hear anyone’s response. Didn’t dare. Because now it would all come spilling out. The secrets. The truths. Her mama’s name on their lips like a spell finally remembered. And if they knew—really knew—then they would come for her. They might not let her go back.

And Mama must’ve sent it. Or at least—she had left something behind to protect her daughter if this moment ever came.

And so Estella ran.

She didn’t wait to explain. Didn’t look back. Her legs carried her fast, faster than she ever thought she could run, through the hallway and out the front door. Back into Velaris. Back somewhere no one could find her.

She did not know this place. But Estella was very good at hiding.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

It felt like a long time before Nocthera found her in the quiet corner of that little alleyway—tucked beneath a sagging awning, knees hugged to her chest, tears long since dried on her cheeks. Estella had felt the shadows move before the creature arrived. They flitted past her like fish in a stream, soft and cold and wordless. They didn’t speak. Not really. But when she whispered to them—please don’t tell—they had paused. Hummed. Skated past without a sound. Without a promise, but without a betrayal either.

That was enough.

And—pat-pat-pat.

Not loud. Not heavy. Just a quiet tread, impossibly gentle for something so large. Then a snout nudged beneath her arm, warm breath huffing against her neck. The scent of stars and stone and something green and endless, like the middle of the forest during a new moon. Estella blinked once before lifting her head.

Nocthera.

Towering and terrible to anyone else, maybe. But not to her. Never to her. To her, the beast was safety. Sanctuary. It pressed its snout into her shoulder again, as if to say I found you. I’m here. You’re safe now. She sniffled, one small hand curling into its thick fur, the other rubbing at her face.

“Can we go home now?” she whispered.

But Nocthera didn’t answer in words. Instead, it huffed—low and soft—and nudged her ribs firmly, the same way her Mama did when she overslept. Up, it seemed to say. Get up. We have to move. Then its head snapped slightly to the side, one ear twitching like it had caught a sound she hadn’t. Something distant. Someone still searching.

Estella didn’t ask how it knew. She didn’t ask where they were going. She just followed.

She was tired. And hungry. And her feet hurt. And her chest hurt worse. The whole world felt too big and too loud again, and her magic kept wanting to crawl up her throat like it could take over if she let it.

Nocthera walked slow enough for her to keep up, circling back when she lagged too far, pausing to sniff the air before they crossed busy intersections of cobblestone and light. The city was quieter now, the sun dipping lower and casting soft shadows across painted storefronts and quiet gardens. But even the silence made her bones feel heavy.

And then, finally—they stopped.

A townhouse. Small compared to the River House, but still grand. Still full of something old and careful and important. Magic shimmered across its stones like a sheen of dew, like the wards were alive. Estella felt it before she stepped close—something brushing against her skin, against her magic. A hum of question. A cautious tug.

Who are you? it seemed to ask. What are you doing here?

She stumbled back half a step—but Nocthera didn’t pause. It simply stepped forward and through the threshold without hesitation, without resistance. The wards parted for the beast like reeds around a boat.

And—welcomed her.

The magic reached for her again, gentler this time. Curious. Confused, maybe, but no longer wary. She could feel it trying to place her—trying to recognize something in her. In her blood. In her presence.

And it did.

She didn’t know how she knew. But she felt it the moment the wards shifted. As if they’d said: She’s theirs. She’s ours.

They let her pass.

Inside, everything was warm. Dim and quiet and warm. As if the house had been waiting. Nocthera padded through the front parlor like it knew every corner, every thread of the rug, every creak of the wood. It found a blanket first—tugged it from the back of a couch with a flick of its snout and dropped it beside the hearth before circling and laying down.

Those golden eyes blinked at her once, then twice. A silent check-in. A you are safe now. And then its head lowered to its paws, and those sunlit eyes dimmed until they were nothing.

Like it had done what it was asked and now, finally, could rest.

Estella stood there. Torn. She almost climbed into the blanket beside it, into that warm fur and safety, but something about the house tugged at her curiosity.

She wandered instead.

There was a dining room with a long, red wood table big enough for alot of people. A small library tucked behind velvet curtains. A cozy sitting room with soft chairs and pillows too pretty to sit on. And the kitchen—her favorite. She lingered there the longest, opening cabinets and sniffing at jars, delighted when she found a basket of bread and slices of dried meat. She took a handful and nibbled at it quietly, perched on the edge of a stool like she might get in trouble just for existing.

She was wiping breadcrumbs off her mouth when it happened.

A sound.

The front door.

Estella froze.

Her heart slammed into her ribs, the half-eaten bread falling to the floor with a muffled thud. Her body moved before her thoughts could catch up—rushing back to the parlor, feet whispering against the wood as she slid behind Nocthera’s still-sleeping bulk. She crouched low, clinging to its side. Holding her breath.

The door creaked open.

Footsteps followed—soft, cautious. The kind that didn’t want to startle, didn’t want to scare.

Estella didn’t move.

Nocthera stirred.

Its head lifted slowly, golden eyes narrowing—not in threat, but in question. The beast did not growl. Did not bare its teeth. It looked. It smelled. And then it breathed in deeper.

Huffed.

Like a sigh through its nose.

It tilted its head and looked toward the doorway—but its body remained relaxed. As if the answer it had found in that scent was enough. As if the scent carried a familiarity it didn’t understand, but trusted all the same.

The beast blinked once, then dropped its head back onto its paws and promptly fell asleep again.

Like whatever had entered the house was no threat at all.

A woman stepped through the doorway.

The one that looked like Nesta.

She wore a simple tunic and pants, though her fingers fussed with something gold and silver on her hand. A ring. Spinning it around her finger like it was a nervous habit.

She didn’t come close.

Not at first.

She paused just inside the room. Her gaze flicked briefly to Nocthera, perhaps still processing the fact that a glowing, half-starlight wolf was curled up on the rug like it owned the place. But then her attention settled on the little Fae.

“Hello,” she said gently. Her voice was low, warm like sunrise after a storm. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Estella only peeked out from behind Nocthera’s thick fur, fingers still tangled in the soft curls along its ribs. She didn’t answer.

The woman hesitated, then slowly lowered herself to her knees a few feet away, careful not to make any sudden movements. Her hands rested on her thighs, open and relaxed. Like she was trying not to look bigger than she was.

“I’m Feyre,” she said, voice still quiet. “Nesta is my sister. She said you… seemed to know her.”

Estella’s brows pulled together, just slightly. She didn’t know how to explain it. She looked at Feyre longer. There was something else in her. Something Estella didn’t have a name for. Something in the way the air around Feyre felt familiar. Like warmth in the cold. Like moonlight on river water.

And like Mama.

Not exactly—but close. Like this Fae carried a piece of it. Of her.

Estella blinked again. Her lip trembled, and she buried her face into Nocthera’s fur for a moment, pressing herself tighter into its side.

“I know this is scary,” Feyre continued, not moving closer. “You don’t have to talk to me. But I wanted you to know… we’re not going to hurt you. I know Cassian can be loud and how Nesta can be…very straightforward.”

“...She didn’t let go, either.” Estella muttered, her wings twitching once. “She kept me from being taken away alone.”

Feyre didn’t smile—but something in her eyes softened, as if those quiet words had settled somewhere deep in her chest. “No,” she said gently. “Nesta doesn’t let go. Not when it matters.”

A pause.

“You’re very brave, you know,”

Estella scrunched her nose, skeptical. “I don’t feel brave.”

“Bravery doesn’t always feel like roaring and flying and sword fights,” Feyre told her. “Sometimes it feels like hiding until you can breathe again. Sometimes it’s holding on until help finds you.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Her wings gave a little twitch, then drooped again. She finally sat up a little straighter. She looked at Feyre again. The woman didn’t press her. Didn’t reach for her. Just waited.

And that… that helped more than anything.

Feyre’s head tilted gently. “Do you know where you were? Before you came here? Do you know how you got here?”

The little Fae just nodded. But said nothing more. No elaboration. Just the barest flicker of acknowledgement in her wide violet eyes.

The older Fae exhaled, pushing her hands into her thighs, leaning forward ever so slightly. “I think…” she started, carefully, “I think I know who you are.”

“I’m not Estelle,” Estella huffed, her nose wrinkling with childlike irritation, like this was a conversation she’d already had too many times today. It startled a soft laugh from Feyre, who shook her head lightly.

“I know. Rhys said you weren’t. But I think the other alternative is something he doesn’t understand yet. Something none of us really do. But I’d like to understand. Will you help me?”

Estella blinked once. Shifted. Thought about it. Her small hands twisted in the hem of her dress, and she drew in a shaky breath. “I want my mama,” Her voice cracked just a little.

“Do you know where your Mama is?”

Estella nodded. But gave no answer.

“Can you tell me at least what she looks like?”

That was a question. But it felt like a safe question. There had been paintings of her mama in that house—the big one with all the powerful Fae.

So she started to describe her.

She spoke of her mama’s hair—Of the way it curled at the ends when she didn’t braid it, and how sometimes it shimmered like starlight had gotten caught in it.

Her eyes, Estella said, were always serious when they needed to be, but full of sparkles when she told bedtime stories. They could be stormy, too. Not like thunder, but like something deep and powerful. Sometimes sad.

“She wears a necklace,” Estella added, almost proudly, like it was her favorite part. “A black moon. Like a crescent. With a little star that hangs from it.” She reached to trace her own collarbone. “Mama says it’s very special. She never takes it off. Not even in the bath. She says it’s the most important thing she owns. A gift from Papa.”

Her voice was calm at first. Soft. But the more she talked, the harder it was to stop the tremble in her throat.

“She always smells like books. And ink. And sometimes... lavender when she’s sad. And she sings sometimes, really quiet, when she thinks I’m asleep.”

Each word was like brushing color onto a memory. Each syllable painting her mama in the air, until it felt like she was sitting beside her again.

And as Estella spoke, she didn’t notice right away—but something in Feyre changed.

Her hands had gone still, completely still. And her eyes, blue-grey like clouds before a storm, or like the boy’s in the mountain, were suddenly dimmer. Not with tears, exactly. But something deeper. Her breathing, too—slow, like she was trying not to feel whatever it was she was feeling too fast.

Estella blinked, sensing it. The shift. The tightening in the air around them. Like the room had stopped breathing.

Her own small fingers clenched in the hem of her dress again. She didn’t understand what she’d done. What she’d said.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked, barely more than a whisper.

Feyre snapped out of it almost too quickly. “No. No, you didn’t,” she said, her voice gentle but strained. “You just… reminded me of someone I’ve never met.”

That didn’t make sense.

Estella frowned, her brows crinkling. “How can I remind you of someone you don’t know?”

The older Fae’s throat bobbed with another swallow. “Because I’ve seen her in paintings. I’ve heard stories. And now I think... I might have just heard the truth.”

A pause stretched between them. Quiet and careful.

Then, Estella sat up straighter, like she was gathering all her courage in one big breath. “I want to go home,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word. “I want my mama. Can you take me back?”

There it was.

The plea.

The truth wrapped in tiny, trembling words.

Feyre didn’t respond immediately. Her lips parted, then closed again. Estella’s heart pounded harder, the silence between them stretching too long.

But finally, Feyre gave a small nod. “If I can,” she whispered, “I will. I promise. We’ll figure this out. Okay?”

“Okay,” Estella murmured.

“Do you know where your mama is?”

A nod.

“Can you tell me what it’s called? Or where it looks like?”

Estella hesitated, then shook her head. Her little fingers twisted together, her wings giving a small flutter.

Feyre offered the smallest of smiles. “That’s fair.”

Then she stood, slowly brushing the dust from her knees, playing briefly with the ring on her finger, again. Estella watched the motion carefully. The way her shoulders were held straighter now, the air around her taut.

A new scent hung in the air. One Estella didn’t know how to name. Not fear. Not anger. But something like realization.

Feyre was hiding something. Or had just figured something out. But the little Fae didn’t press it. She didn’t want to talk about Mama anymore.

“But,” Estella said suddenly, her voice soft—softer than a secret, really. Like she was still deciding if it was okay to share. Maybe just a little. Maybe just enough. “Uncle Azzy might.”

#✨️by yours truly✨️#acotar #a court of thorns and roses reader insert #a court of thorns and roses fanfiction #a court of thorns and roses #rhys x reader #rhysand #acotar x reader #as written above so shall it be below #awassibb #feyre archeron #nesta archeron #inner court

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numenoria · 3 months ago

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⚔The River Warrior⚔

Ratings: None

Word Count: 930~ (Just a brief drabble/ficlet)

Warnings: Mentions of death and grief, brief mentions of the supernatural, non-rom intimacy, brief mentions of war.

Genre: AU, OC POV, Grief/Mourning

Summary: Myain (Pronounced My-ain (like ai in aim)) is an intuitive and spiritually gifted member of a small river tribe. They catch sight of Boromir’s boat along its journey to Gondor.

A/N: Myain is genderless, but you can imagine them as any gender you would like. Oc reference here. 🏵️

While out foraging with three of my young kin, we caught sight of a beautiful ivory boat floating in the river. It wasn’t unusual for lost and damaged boats to float this way, but this one was different. It had the make of a boat unfamiliar to me. “Stay here”, I instructed my younger cousins. I left my basket of herbs and berries with them, and ventured from the fertile greenery and carved my own path towards the bank. Among the tall reeds, I could see the boat had no captain, at least one not visible. I stood on my toes in the damp soil, but I could not see over the edges of the boat. “I’m going further, keep watch!” I said to my kin as I looked back and gave them a confident smile. As I wade into the water, I felt excitement in my heart. “What would I find among this boat? Is there food? Maybe treasures?” I thought to myself. Although I was a skilled swimmer and found it easy to stay afloat, I sensed a slight unease as my anticipation grew. As I waded closer, the unique craftsmanship became more apparent. "This vessel was not made by human hands," I thought to myself. I continued wading until it became necessary to swim.

The closer I swam, the heavier my heart felt. I sat still in the water a few moments about 10 feet from the boat. I noticed the boat radiated a soft airy glow, almost aura-like. The weight in my heart transitioned into a sense of foreboding. I was gifted with this special sight, and I knew this was a sign. I swam closer until I could reach for the side of the boat. On the floor of the vessel was a man. I could tell he was not just any man, but a warrior. “Oh no, I was right!” I gasped to myself, he was dead. Three arrows pierced his broad torso. Arrows I recognized all too well, the same arrows that took my parents years past. I pulled myself onto the boat gently so as to not disturb the departed. It was evident that he had been placed there with great love and respect.

I reached over slowly and traced my hand along his rugged but noble face. “Whoever you were, you fought valiantly, my friend.” My gaze fell upon the sword resting in his hands, a grand sword it was. Observing his shield, I thought, “You must be a protector by nature”. I looked towards his horn, broken in two. “Ah, and a rallying figure as well. You’ve had your share of war and adventure. Rest now.” As I continued to study the warrior, I caught sight of the symbols on his clothing, “A man of Gondor? I haven’t seen your kind in ages.” I whispered as if he could hear me. Questions began to race through my mind: Did he have a lover who prayed for his victory and a passionate reunion? Did he have parents longing for his safe return? Did he leave behind hopeful children or siblings who thought the world of him?

As the boat flowed slowly I heard the voice of my cousins calling out to me “Hurry up it’s almost night Myain”. “I’ll be just a moment” I called back. I couldn’t leave just yet not without doing this one thing. It was customary in our culture to wish the departed well along their journey into the afterlife. I didn’t know this man but I felt compelled to express my sorrow. I brushed my hand across his sandy colored hair and placed a light kiss upon his cheek. “May the forces of nature be gentle to your vessel and may this journey lay your soul at peace.” I exhaled and looked towards the lavender shaded sky. A slight breeze picked up and I felt the brush of it on my left side mostly towards my face. Perhaps that was his way of saying thank you. I turned my head from his body and climbed from the boat. I swam without turning back.

When I reached the bank my cousins surrounded me. “What did you see Myian?”, the youngest one asked. They started to swarm me with questions until I stopped them “Sshhh, there is nothing in the boat for us. Only a man whose family will miss him dearly. Stay quiet for a moment until his boat leaves our sight.” They did as I instructed and whispered words of well wishes to his spirit and vessel. They understood, as I did, the grief his family would endure. As we took a moment of reflection, I could feel warm tears gently streaming down my cheeks. I allowed them to flow freely, much like the river that carried this brave warrior back home. Although the sight of this man left me in sorrow, I also felt hope. These times have grown dark, but if there are more as brave as this warrior, may they guide us towards brighter days again. We must continue to take up arms, push forward, and extend our compassion to one another. I felt a bittersweet optimism as I glanced up at the twilight sky one final time.

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are greatly appreciated. You can view more of my writing here ✨

I hope your day is lovely. Whatever is bringing you hardship will soon pass. 🩷 🫶🏾

-Davi ☽︎♡︎☾︎

•Credit(s) : Dividers via @edensrose 🥀

•Tagging 🥰

@iwanderbecauseimlost @medievaltemptress @celeregion @daughterofthesunlands @rainyobservationblizzard @onebillionblorbos @emmaandorlando @cathymee @elowyn-took

If you'd like to be tagged for future works please lmk! 💚🌹

#Lotr #Tolkien #lotr fanfic #Boromir #Lord of the Rings #writers of tumblr #fanfiction #boromir x oc #davi writes #Dws #writeblr #writers of color #Fanfics #Ficlet #drabble #My man my love my captain #Gondorian Jock

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astr0-philia · 11 months ago

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𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

What do men know?

Just because they haven't seen unicorns for a while,

Does not mean that we have all vanished.

We do not vanish

There has never been a time without unicorns

We live forever.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

She was a unicorn, and nothing could change that. From her magic, to her mane and to the horn above her head, she was a unicorn. Living in a peaceful forest, she lived unnoticed and unbothered as she and her kind ran free in the fields of flowers and grass.

Unicorns were different from humans. For a unicorn was never born to regret. They are created to be as carefree like the winds blowing through the valleys. To be as graceful as snowflakes dancing in the air. To be as curious as a newborn, fresh out of the womb exposed to the new world. To be as beautiful as the stars that shine in the dark sky. To be as lovely as the flowers that bloomed in fields, but never to regret.

Humans were blind as they were dumb. Their human eyes could not process and more or less see a unicorn if their life depended on it. They lived their lives in fear of the future, of the past and of the present. They were afraid of the life they had created ahead of them. Cowards, I say. They could not see unicorns, because of their beliefs.

Only one who truly believes in unicorns can see unicorns. She believed that there was hope for humans, she believed and believed and believed. Until one day that spark had disappeared.

Running from the Red Bull was tiresome, somedays, she was confident she could outrun it but, somedays she thought that she'd rather give herself up to it instead of resisting any longer. She was confused and tired. One day while getting chased by the Red Bull she was hit, hit by a large ebony carriage led by horses.

Life was unfair, but it was never as cruel as the Red Bull, so she accepted her fate. As she closed her eyes, she thought of her kin captured by the Red Bull, she thought of her kin. Would she never find her way back, is she really going to die?

•• ━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━ ••

IN WHICH a unicorn naive and timid gets transported

in to world made of magic and filled with boys.

IN WHICH a school full of boys fall in love with an

unicorn from another world.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Am I really the last?

Am I really the only unicorn there is?

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Some more information:

- All characters will be aged up to 17 and above.

- There will be no romantic behaviour between any of the professors and children.

- A little profanity will be there sprinkled around chapters and so on.

- Hey! Reader you there! I hope you enjoy this book!

- Don't forget to leave small comments here and there, I'm sure they will light up my day.

- And don't forget! Have fun reading!

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girlkisserr · 2 years ago

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#flutter......... its been so long.............#this was my old look b4 i realised i prefer presenting masculine to the world #but tbh. a part of me wishes i could dress femme again #sky children of the light #sky cotl #//flutter #sky oc #||lost kin doodles

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underdark-dreams · 2 years ago

Text

Not sure if anyone is still following this oneshot, but I ended up writing a second chapter. Turns out I couldn't stop thinking about giving them a happier ending. (Rated M now 👀)

Rolan x Fem!Tav (Unnamed)

Good Night For Company - ch. 2

Tags: Mild Angst, Sexual Content

Word Count: 4,794 [Read on AO3]

Rolan had spent many hours cursing his timidity that night.

He’d lain sleepless at his camp as the sky lightened outside the Emerald Grove, replaying each moment in his mind. The look in her eye when she asked to kiss him—her hand tugging him toward her tent—the lovely way she collapsed against him when his lips found her soft neck.

He'd escaped the very fires of Avernus itself with his whole family miraculously alive and in tow. Yet confronted with the puzzle of her hands drawing him down to her bedroll, his mind had seized up in uncertainty. How much easier could she have made it for him?

Although, he allowed himself, he had made some sense that night. For one who daydreamed of her face as often as Rolan, the strain in her features was instantly noticeable by campfire light. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and shadowed with dark, tired circles. Even her skin seemed drained of its usual color. She needed a good night’s sleep more than anything.

But as they said their goodbyes that night outside his campsite, Rolan's hands still holding her shoulders, he could have sworn she wanted him just as badly as he did her.

Rolan shut his eyes with a groan—her face only swam behind his eyelids, that same invitation drawing him into her gaze. He pressed palms to his eye sockets until she burst apart into popping stars.

When he opened them, he was back in the torchlight of Last Light Inn and sitting in his grim new reality. There was empty silence on either side of him where Cal and Lia should have stood chattering.

Rolan dragged his tankard back towards him across the bar, until he peered down and saw the bottom.

"You two," he snapped at the little Tieflings behind the bar. The boys' conspiratorial giggles hushed immediately as they both looked at him. "Are you tending bar or not?" He waved his empty mug toward them.

"I don't know," Ide said, brows lowering in a skeptical line. Rolan tutted at him.

"It's not difficult. Bottle," he pointed at the open dry red behind the bar. "Cup," he continued, waving a hand in front of him.

"Mistress Jaheira said not to over-pour," Umi piped up, clearly not knowing the term but understanding the sentiment behind it.

"Mistress Jaheira didn't save both your hides from the Shadow Curse, did she?" Rolan snapped. He badly needed another drink; unwelcome lucidity threatened to close in. "If it weren't for me, who knows whether you two would still be out there right now."

“Stop it, mister Rolan,” Ide insisted. Rolan was opening his mouth to chastise him before he caught sight of Umi’s lip trembling.

The child was already a timid thing. Through the recent memories of too many kin lying on the road, Rolan recalled Asharak, the childrens’ fighting instructor from the Grove. He’d been cut down before their young eyes just days ago. Umi seemed especially affected by the loss. No doubt the man’s body still lay spread-eagle on the path up the hill; the urgency of survival had left no time to bury their dead.

Rolan gave a heavy sigh as he watched the child’s forlorn face. Yet again, he felt like a monster. “Go. I swear I’ll practice moderation. And if Jaheira asks, tell her I ordered you off.”

The two of them scampered away without a response, clearly eager to get away from Rolan at the first chance. If only he could escape his own unpleasant company just as easily.

But that, Rolan reminded himself, was what all this wine was for. He lurched across the bar for the bottle and tipped the rest of its contents into his tankard. Its heat down his throat welcomed him back toward oblivion.

If he still lived, their errant paladin had everything to answer for. Whether he’d lost his senses to the curse or just lost his mind entirely, Rolan cursed Zevlor for the umpteenth time for fucking off with the cultists and landing him in this unwelcome position of authority.

Rolan was no leader…at best a very, very uninspiring one. The yoke should have fallen to someone brave and selfless. Someone like broad-shouldered Ikaron. But Ikaron was now another empty body lying along the Risen Road, to be slowly consumed by the shadows.

Rolan knew he was no beacon of encouragement. He’d done his best to herd the other panicked survivors onward, however, using every last bit of evocation knowledge he had to keep them surrounded with light and flame.

He also knew it was sheer good fortune that saved them in the end. If they hadn’t found the sanctuary of Last Light Inn when they did, they’d all be shambling undead by now.

Yet somehow in the days since the ambush, he found all the children hovering around him with frightened eyes, asking him questions he barely knew the answers to himself. How were they going to save the ones who’d been taken by the cult?

Perhaps his unpleasant habit of ordering others about was finally coming around to bite him in the ass.

Nevertheless, Rolan felt vexed and inconvenienced by the unasked responsibility. Weren't his siblings enough of a weight on his shoulders already? Saving everyone would be a miracle; all he could privately hope for was Cal and Lia returned to him.

If they’re still alive. Those were the thoughts that drove him to drink, and drink he did, tipping back the pewter vessel with abandon. In between bouts of liquor, however, Rolan’s mind was working as hard as it ever had.

Cal and Lia would be at Moonrise Towers. No question. Moonrise was the headquarters of this insane Absolute cult, the one whose small patrol had butchered their numbers on the road. And a fortress of that size had to have a dungeon of some sort on the lower level. Why would they go through the trouble of taking them alive just to kill them? They must have plans for them all—ones Rolan tried not to imagine in detail.

He had to think of a way to slip through unnoticed—possibly by river, if the rumors he’d overheard from the Harpers were right. How far could he get on his own? Asking any of his fellows for help was out of the question.

Rolan glanced across the common room at what pitiful few remained. Alfira sat near the open hearth, fingers going through the motions of tuning her lute strings. Her usually cheerful eyes were blank and distant. Rolan hadn’t heard her play a single note since Lakrissa had been taken with his siblings. He should have thought to comfort her, but that kind of gentleness never seemed to occur to him.

Rolan crossed his arms on the bar and dropped his horns to them. If only he’d thought faster, acted sooner, left the others to fend for themselves in order to grab hold of his brother and sister before their screams grew distant. His sharp nails dug into his palms as the sound replayed in his mind.

He wished he had anyone besides himself to be angry at. He wished he could be angry at her.

If only she'd never taught Cal and Lia how to hope to fight back or be heroes. If only she'd never taught him how to hope…for anything, he decided. For any single single thing he might wish were possible.

Through his haze of drunken self-pity, his ears pricked at some kind of shouting and commotion out front. No doubt another attack by some new shadow-cursed horror. Rolan heard one of the little ones begin calling his name.

"I’m coming, I’m coming,” Rolan spat, sliding petulantly to his feet as one hand reached for the quarterstaff leaning against the bar. “The damned hells is it this time?" He didn’t care what language the child might hear, but young Mattis was unphased.

“Stow your frown—” Mattis was grinning toothily. “Goblin killer finally made it!”

“What?” But the boy was already gone, bounding away from him through the front doors. Rolan swallowed dry against his fuzzy tongue. He felt fully awake for the first time in days, and he gripped the bar to steady himself before his feet stumbled forward.

Jaheira's enchanted vines were disentangling from her legs just as Rolan entered the courtyard. It was fortunate; he'd grown to respect Jaheira, and it would've been a shame to have to hex her. Rolan jostled through the gathered Harpers without a care in order to push closer.

She and her companions had been waylaid just past the bridge. Harper Lassandra was relaying a report in her defense, it seemed, but all Rolan could concentrate on was her face.

Her cheeks were splattered with dark, shadow-magic blood. One of her sleeves was ripped open at the shoulder, displaying another patch of blood-stained skin at the seam of her leather jerkin. By the dark circles under her eyes, she still hadn't slept properly since the Grove.

She was the most beautiful thing Rolan had seen in weeks.

Her eyes came to rest on his own face then; he watched her blink hard, as if she might be dreaming.

"Rolan?" She croaked out softly.

He had already half-closed the gap by the time she started toward him. They caught each other so hard Rolan felt the air leave his lungs in a huff, but he gathered whatever of her familiar scent he could, tinged with coppery blood though it was.

“I’m so glad you’re—I’m so glad,” she laughed shakily into his shoulder. Rolan wished he could kiss her, but it didn’t feel right in front of so many other eyes. He settled for standing back with his arms circled tight around her middle.

"Where's Lia and Cal?" She glanced around behind him, her smile fading. Rolan should have expected her constant concern for others by now, but could only look at her. Her eyes landed back on his face. "Zevlor?" She added quietly.

“Come inside.” Jaheira’s voice interrupted the silence between them. “We can talk over a drink.”

As the druid directed forces back to their posts, Rolan felt her slip out from under his arms. She approached Gale to ask something—Rolan saw the wizard glance his direction before he replied.

“Come on,” she said, jogging back into his embrace.

“What about Jaheira?”

“Gale can handle it, he’s good at talking.” She notched herself back firm against his side as they walked in. “I’d rather hear from you.”

Rolan tried his best not to stumble up the stairs beside her. He cursed his impulse to reach for the bottle at any sorrow—he must reek of it. If he did, she was kind enough not to say anything.

He led her to the empty room beside the cleric’s and shut the heavy door behind them.

“We were ambushed,” he said in a rush, before she could open her mouth. “Cal and Lia were grabbed up by those monsters on wings. Along with others. They’re being held at Moonrise.”

“We’ll find them.” Her voice was automatic and steely-certain.

Rolan nodded, borrowing what strength he could from her eyes. “We will.”

“I thought…Zevlor was leading you,” she prompted him slowly, as if she might not want to know the answer. He only shook his head at her. How could he explain what he didn’t understand himself?

“We took the same path here that you did,” she admitted to him. Rolan knew what she was saying. He remembered each and every blank, upturned face that shrank to a pinpoint in the darkness as he led the survivors away.

“I’m so sorry, Rolan.” His numbness was broken by her two hands rising to hold his face. “I just—I’m so fucking sorry—”

For some reason, his grief felt more real than it had yet. Rolan looked down at her bloodstained face and folded his fingers around one of her wrists. It would be idiotic to cry in front of her, so he kissed her instead.

His lips shook against hers, from sorrow and from want in equal measure. Rolan didn’t want to think about his dead friends, or his family waiting for rescue in a dark dungeon—just for a moment, he wished he could lose himself in her. She was the one person he could let himself unravel with.

“Rolan, wait—” But she didn’t want him to wait. Rolan heard it in her breathless voice against his lips, felt it in the way her hands clutched at his clothing to pull him closer.

He knew she must taste the alcohol on his breath. Hadn’t he said something to her that night in her tent? Something about wine and sex being a bad mix.

Foolish words of a foolish man who still thought he'd have time to do things properly. Rolan couldn’t remember them, and right now, this seemed like the best thing that could ever happen in such a desolate place.

Was it so wrong to want her? Even now, with the rest of his life crumbling around him?

Only his very real feelings for her could have broken through the haze. With a lurch of effort, Rolan stumbled back from her. The four walls of their room pressed in unbearably quiet without the sounds of hands and lips filling the air. Her eyes shone dark to him in the candlelight, pupils blown wide in a way that his deepest instincts recognized with primal satisfaction. He was certain his eyes blazed with just as much desire.

Rolan licked his lips, gathering his last shreds of control. “Tell me to go,” he rasped. “Say it, and I will.”

He was rooted to the spot to await her judgment. She was silent before him, only a soft pant from between her lips. Rolan stood there for what felt like an agonizing eternity as her eyes traveled over his face.

So slowly it felt like a dream, she raised one arm across to her opposite shoulder. The gesture made no sense to him at first. Until Rolan heard buckles clicking and watched the plates of her leather armor shed from her chest like scales to the floorboards.

Her tunic was next, and before Rolan could ready himself it was up over her head and thrown on top of her armor, her bare breasts covered only by a few stray wisps of her hair.

He swayed where he stood, lightheaded; her darkly shining eyes didn’t break from his for a moment, even as her hands were already moving to the fastenings of her belt.

Rolan felt an ache like loss. Those should be his hands—gently undressing her, taking his time as he slowly unveiled each new and beautiful expanse of her flesh—not the two of them rushing through this first moment of newness that they’d never get back. Because even as the thought occurred, he himself was ripping his own robes off his shoulders without a care for the state of them. They would have time enough some other night.

She was faster, already kicking her pants off her bare feet. She wore nothing underneath—the realization brought a groan from his throat. Once his last garments dropped forgotten to the floor, she practically pounced.

Rolan had just enough reflex to catch her as she threw her body against his. Her bare skin on his was electric, filling his mind with wild want even as he tried to take in every sensation at once. Her taut breasts pressed against his chest—fingers lovingly exploring the ridges on his shoulders and back—the heat between her legs barely grazing against his thigh, yet enough to send his mind reeling. She made him feel real again.

And her lips—how could he have already forgotten how sweet she tasted? He kissed her back with hunger, wishing he might dissolve into her soft warmth for good.

Rolan wasn’t as strong as he wished, and he was tipsy as all hells, but he did his best as he guided their bodies down on top of their clothing. Her hips and shoulders thumped under his weight against the wood boards. Surely it must have hurt her—but then he felt her legs cross behind his bare flanks, rutting their hips together, and every other concern was lost.

Slick wetness pressed against his pelvis as she rolled herself against him. The proof of how much she wanted him, if Rolan had any lingering doubts. He fell braced on his forearms around her.

“I missed you so much,” she gasped against his lips. Rolan paused everything as his eyes opened to meet hers, almost too close to focus. “Rolan, I wish we—I should have—” Her face shone with more yearning than he could bear.

"I know, dearest, I know—" The endearment fell with shocking ease from his lips. Though he might share them, tonight was not for regrets. There were enough of those going around to last a lifetime.

Rolan stopped them with his mouth, licking and tasting her as deeply as she would let him, one hand splaying under her thigh to angle her hips deeper against his own.

With anyone else, Rolan might have felt self-conscious about how hard he’d been since the moment she undressed for him. With her, what would be the point? She'd confessed more with her body and her words than he'd ever expected.

His ridged length pressed between them, his underside slickening with each rocking motion she made against him. He broke from her slightly.

"Tell me." The words came out husky. Rolan didn't mean them to tease her, only wanted her to direct him, but the way she squirmed under him was addictive.

"I want you," she breathed, and he felt fingers clasp behind his neck. "Please, Rolan—"

How could he deny her anything? Rolan grabbed himself to guide and nudge his tip to her folds, spreading her wetness along his length best he could. She deserved so much better than a hard floor in the middle of nowhere. But everything felt too urgent, like they were at the edge of the world’s end. And her face held nothing but eagerness as she watched him.

Gently, slowly, he guided himself just inside her. She was perfect; Rolan's head dropped to her chest as he exhaled with a shudder.

"Oh—" She only let out the little gasp, but her hands hooked under his ears, tilting his head back up so she could press lips to his forehead and eyelids.

"More," she purred against him.

Reflexive, Rolan pushed into her to the hilt and let out a groan at how perfectly she gripped him. She hummed in satisfaction, her legs pressing tighter around his hips to hold him there.

It was somehow tender and frantic all at once. Rolan's hips rolled into her with increasing urgency, even as he cradled her face up toward his with both his forearms, wanting to watch each sensation play out over her face.

When he hit a new angle inside her, her fingers actually gripped one of his horns as her lips gasped open. It sent a shudder reverberating through his core.

"So good," she gasped. "You feel so perfect—"

He would do anything to keep it feeling that way for her. He ducked his mouth to her breast, sliding his tongue over one tight bud and sucking her into his mouth.

"Fuck, Rolan—" Her voice canted up a register, and he felt her walls tremble and grip around him with each thrust. Her fingers clutched sweetly at the ridges over his shoulder blades.

In the back of his mind Rolan wondered whether the whole inn could hear his name on her lips, but he wasn't sure he cared, wasn't sure he didn't fucking love the idea in fact.

Both of them were starved for it, and neither of them could last much longer. Rolan groaned something into the flesh of her breast, words lost to the way her body shook under him just as he unraveled all around her. He collapsed against her soft chest and held her tight with trembling arms.

—---

"What did you say before?"

As he drifted back to reality, Rolan lifted his head from her to rest his chin on her stomach. "Hmm?"

She was looking down at him with shy curiosity. "When you came," she said. He loved hearing words like that casually tumble from her. "You said something, I didn't recognize the language."

Rolan realized with some embarrassment that she was right. "I did, didn't I." He moved to press his lips along her abdomen, as if it might distract her from the topic. But she was far too stubborn for that.

"Going to tell me or not?" He felt his insides melt as she traced her thumb along the lines of one of his pointed ears.

Rolan regretted letting her in on that fact about Tiefling anatomy, and he told her so with a grumble. She only laughed and gave his ear point a teasing tug.

Rolan closed his eyes against the feeling instead. "It's Infernal," he admitted to her. He hadn't spoken the tongue in many years; the fact he remembered any was a surprise even to himself.

"Oh." She didn't sound put off, only curious. "What did it mean?"

He carefully considered how to answer. "There's…not a word in Common that directly translates." Rolan met her eyes as his lips brushed absently near her navel. "A feeling that cleanses like holy fire. 'Love of salvation.'"

She gazed down at him. "That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard," she whispered.

Rolan reached to smooth her hair across her forehead. "Is it? To be cleansed, you have to be corrupted first."

"Is that an offer?" she asked, a grin teasing at the corners of her mouth. “I mean, we’re all pretty corrupted around here. Don’t forget I’ve already got a worm in the head.”

Abruptly, she pushed herself seated upright; Rolan caught himself back against his knees.

"I’m an idiot," she gasped. “Rolan—that’s how I get to the Moonrise dungeons. This tadpole makes me a True Soul. I can walk right through the fucking front door!”

Anxiety gripped him as he watched the excitement unfold on her face. Rolan wasn't sure he could watch her willingly rush into a den of vipers.

"I'm coming with you," he insisted, already knowing she would tell him no. She shook her head at him.

“I wish you could,” she told him, and he believed her. “You're not tadpoled, the guards would know. But I'll take as many of my companions as I can, I swear. We can do this," she added, gripping his forearm.

It was all too fast; Rolan caught her hand before she could rise. "Wait," he implored firmly. “Let me travel with you to the bridge, at least.”

That she agreed to. They dressed quickly—though Rolan couldn't resist grabbing her a few times to kiss what bare flesh was still exposed, absolutely adoring the way she melted under his hands and mouth each time.

When he and her party stood at the bridge to the Tower, Rolan regretted agreeing to this all over again. She only gave him a quick peck on the lips with the soft promise of more later, and headed down the walkway with her companions.

Rolan stayed back in the shadows to watch her speak with the guards. His heart pounded in his throat. There was a short exchange; even his sensitive ears couldn’t catch the words. But then the guards stood down, and she and her friends walked freely through the front doors of Moonrise Towers. He allowed himself to feel a sliver of hope.

Back at the Inn, Rolan paced around the hall for what felt like an eternity. Mol complained he was making her dizzy. In reality, it couldn't have been more than a few hours.

When he heard the soft shout of the patrol below, Rolan rushed through the wide doors and down to the underground port.

Cal and Lia stood alive and well on the wooden docks. Her too, further down the line—she even caught his eye with a smile. Rolan could have laughed in relief, but the guards curtly ordered him back while the Harper on duty checked them over with Jaheira's bottled tadpole.

Rolan deeply wished to aim a cantrip at the man's skull, but he clenched his fists to gather his last remaining shreds of patience.

When they were cleared, all of them dashed together. Rolan gripped Cal and Lia's heads with a hand each, holding them tight against him.

"You absolute fucking idiots—" Rolan was half scolding, half trying not to cry. "Don't you dare stick your necks out like that again, do you hear me?"

"I'll remember that the next time we get kidnapped by murderous lunatics," Lia's voice said into his shoulder, but she was squeezing his ribs tight.

"Sorry," was Cal's only meek response, and Rolan stifled the juvenile urge to rumple his little brother's hair.

"Just get inside," Rolan said as he released them. "When was the last time you both ate?"

They both complained over his continued fussing, but each of them obeyed him in the end. The return of bickering and normality somehow eased a weight from Rolan's heart.

As the Tieflings he knew and the deep gnomes he didn't all made their way up the stairs to the Inn, Rolan linked his arm around her waist beside him.

"I love you," he told her first, low so that only she could hear. Then—"thank you."

"Thank those lot up there," she told him, though he heard through the smile in her voice that she hadn't missed his confession. "They were ready to fight tooth and nail out of there. I just unlocked the bars."

In the dark Rolan placed a swift kiss on the crown of her head, and was rewarded by the feel of her cheek leaning sideways against his shoulder.

Last Light Inn still had an undeniable gloom to it, but it was lightened considerably by the reunions of friends and lovers. To Rolan's eye the hall seemed practically packed compared to a few hours earlier.

His siblings settled back at the bar, removed from the chatter at the hearth. Rolan watched them toast each other with two very well-earned pints. As they both launched into conflicting narratives of their adventure, Rolan felt a deep sense of ease soak into his bones.

"This one's fucking amazing, by the way—" Lia was gesturing her mug to the woman at Rolan's side. "Watched her cut down a Moonrise guard with one swing of a sword. You better have thanked her properly, Rolan," she added.

His sister was clever; Rolan strongly suspected she knew what she was doing. He decided to play dumb for the sake of the dear person beside him, whose cheeks he could practically feel burning from here.

"Believe me, I will," Rolan said. As he spoke, he drew her toward him again with an arm around her middle.

Cal was significantly slower on the uptake. "Eughh." He let out an amused noise of disgust. "Why don't you two just kiss each other alre—"

But Rolan's lips were already on hers, tilting her chin up and back with a hand so he could capture her mouth. His other arm wrapped her shoulders back against his chest, and he felt her fingers grip tight over his forearm. As they gently broke apart, the quiet lasted only for a second.

"Twelve pints at the Elfsong." Lia smacked the bar next to Cal. "That's it, you owe me."

"Taking bets on my fucking love life now?" Rolan began, his indignance slightly undercut by the fact that his love in question was shaking with laughter under his arm, both hands clasped over her face.

In the end, Rolan left his siblings to argue over the details. He was too overwhelmed with embarrassment and the desire to save her from any of the same.

As he drew her back up the stairs, Rolan felt her shoulders shaking with laughter again under his arm. He glanced sideways, wondering what had ruined the mood now.

“What?” he prompted her.

“Nothing, it’s just—” She was positively sparkling as she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Can we use the bed this time?”

With a mortifying jolt, Rolan realized there was indeed a perfectly serviceable bed in the room where he’d unceremoniously taken her on the floor.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

“Plenty of time for that,” she agreed, biting her lip as she drew him with her hand. “Now come on.”

#back to classic rolan pov because i am weak #rolan x tav #bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #underdark-dreams #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 spoilers #rolan

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xximmortalkissxx · 3 months ago

Text

Be Welcome in the House of Fëanor Chapter Two:

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Art Credit: @silmaspens

(Day three of potentially the worst flu I've ever had...so I wrote some more Fëanorian comfort fluff. 🤧 Hope you enjoy!)

Summary: You find yourself on an outing with the Fëanorians, who have been summoned by King Finwë and Queen Indis, to discuss a mysterious proposal. While there, you also get the chance to meet the entire extended family...and experience the friction that comes along with a gathering of the entire House of Finwë.

*She/Her Pronouns / Elven Reader.

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Months pass after your first fateful dinner at the home of Fëanor and his family. You are now not only a regular guest within their halls, but a close companion to all of their sons, especially Celegorm, who shares your love of wild places and restless spirit.

Your own family quickly takes notice of how much happier you are, now that you finally have found true friendship outside your kin. It isn’t that the other Vanyar children are cruel to you, but you are…odd, hard for them to fully understand. Preferring to run wild through the woods rather than sit still and serene, crafting poems and singing praises to the Valar.

With a heavy heart, your parents write to their dear friend Queen Indis, requesting that you be placed under the wardship of one of King Finwë’s sons. The Queen of the Noldor agrees to the arrangement wholeheartedly, having heard of your close friendship with her step-grandchildren and hoping to strengthen her kinship with them…eventually. It is, of course, also Indis’ suggestion that the proposal come from Finwë himself instead of her. Not wanting the opportunity to be taken from you simply due to Fëanor’s open disdain of her.

On this auspicious day, the entire House of Fëanor walks briskly through the streets of Tirion with you in tow. As you skip along, your feet meet the sandy streets with soft crunches, and you marvel at the way the grains glisten in the light like tiny sparkling diamonds.

Nearing the Great Square, the sight of Galathilion the White Tree catches your eye. While it doesn’t produce a light of its own, you think to yourself that it is no less beautiful than Telperion and much more… climbable.

Your feet barely begin to sprint, when a hand firmly grasps the back of your dress and lifts you in the air like a kitten caught by the scruff.

“Not for climbing Songbird,” Fëanor chides with a light chuckle, before setting you back down. You groan with disappointment but obey, and fall back with the others.

“What he means is, not for climbing until Laurelin wanes,” Celegorm whispers covertly with a grin. “Just wait, I’m sure Íryë will jump at the chance to join you.”

“I’m excited to meet your cousins.” You reply with a skip returning to your steps, your fresh scolding already forgotten.

“You’ll get along with Íryë exceptionally well,” Maedhros interjects, ruffling your hair. “She shares your love of… spontaneity.” he adds, finding a more charitable word for your mischievous nature.

“Fun Nelyo, it’s called fun.” Maglor chuckles, rolling his eyes.

“I know what fun is, Kano.”

“Sure, when Finno’s there to get you in and out of it.”

Their bickering fades into background noise as your focus drifts to the great tower of Mindon Eldaliéva, rising high enough to pierce the sky. Craning your neck, you become dizzy trying to peer at the silver lantern perched at the very top. Caranthir places a gentle hand on your back and pushes you forward so you don’t fall.

“Come’on Songbird, focus.” he coaxes, his voice lacking any real frustration as he guides you to follow his siblings through the imposing double doors.

Upon entering, your eyes sweep the grand foyer of the House of Finwë, and it nearly takes your breath away. The high stone walls shine with colorful refracted light, illuminated by majestic stained-glass windows. Even the floor beneath your feet is a work of art, inlaid with gold geometric patterns that stretch the full length of the hall.

“By the Valar…” you murmur, eyes wide with wonder. You could have lost yourself completely gazing at the craftsmanship, if not for a blur of white fabric rushing past you to tackle Celegorm and Curufin with surprising force.

“Took you all long enough! We’ve been waiting forever..” Aredhel grumbles, releasing her hold on her cousins.

“Hardly, we’ve been here for what? Fifteen minutes?” Turgon replies, rolling his eyes with his arms crossed.

“Thirty.” Argon corrects, helping Curufin and Celegorm to their feet.

“In Íryë time, that may as well be a century.” Fingon counters, stepping forward to wrap an arm fondly around Maedhros’ shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

“Ah, leave it to my ever dutiful half-brother to arrive thirty minutes early…typical,” Fëanor scoffs, earning a subtle sharp look from Nerdanel.

“He’s in the audience chamber with Natto and Nammë,” Fingon replies with an easy smile, “But not to worry, your other brother has not yet arrived.” he adds innocently, putting emphasis on just the right word to earn a faint eye twitch from his uncle.

“That was never in question. Arafinwë couldn’t arrive anywhere on time for all the gems in Aman.” Fëanor responds with a bitter laugh.

“Peace husband,” Nerdanel gives an exasperated laugh while taking Fëanor’s arm and giving it a firm shake. “What did we agree?”

“Not in front of the children,” she repeats in unison with him. “Yes, now let’s go see what this mysterious proposal is.”

As the adults take their leave, you raise a brow and turn to Maglor.

“Um. Kano, what was that about?”

“Oh that? Just Atto’s incessant rivalry with his brothers,” he replies, crossing his arms with a heavy sigh.

“Half-brothers,” Fingon corrects with a laugh. “Very important distinction.”

“Songbird, this is Findekáno, Írissë, Turukáno, and Arakáno.” Maglor introduces you to each of the children of Fingolfin and Anairë, who nod to you in turn. “Cousins, this is Songbird.”

“Odd for Aratar Fëanor to host a Vanyar in his halls…” Turgon mutters, looking you over inquisitively.

“Only if You-Know-Who was the Vanyar in question,” Curufin responds with a chuckle.

“You-Know-Who?” You ask, your interest peaked.

“Queen Indis, our grandmother,” Aredhel answers, giving her cousins a pointed look.

Maedhros gives an apologetic shrug, “It’s best not to use her name within earshot of Atto, or to refer to her as our grandmother. That’s a surefire way to earn his wrath.”

“Why does he hate her so much?” You ask with furrowed brows, reflecting on the numerous interactions you’ve had with the gentle queen back home with your family.

“Who can say?” The eldest son of Fëanor replies gently with a sigh.

“I can. It’s clearly jealous-” Aredhel is interrupted by the double doors of the palace opening, followed by laughter and a cluster of gold filling the hall. Finarfin, the family’s patriarch, is leading the line, followed by Finrod with Galadriel hoisted on his back and ending with Angrod and Aegnor close behind.

“Ah, my soul sings to see you, dearest ones,” Finarfin’s smile is warm as he greets his nieces and nephews. “Tell me, what mood can I expect my beloved eldest brother to be in today?”

“Aratto Ñolvo arrived thirty minutes early.” Curufin responds with a smirk.

“Mother is with him, however,” Maedhros adds quickly, earning a good-natured laugh from his uncle.

“Thank the Valar for small miracles.” Finarfin replies, kissing each of his children on the forehead before turning on his heel to hastily make his way down the hall.

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The audience chamber is bathed in golden light as King Finwë sits upon his carved throne with Queen Indis at his side, and his sons gathered before them. Fëanor’s posture is rigid, his sharp gray eyes betraying a simmering impatience, while Fingolfin and Finarfin are more composed, though their gazes hold their own measures of wariness. Nerdanel stands calmly beside her husband, an arm linked with his, as if anchoring him to her.

“We have called you here,” King Finwë began, his tone cordial despite the obvious tension lingering in the air, “to discuss an important diplomatic matter. A well-respected family among the Vanyar have written, asking if one of you would be willing to take their child as a ward.”

“An odd request,” Fingolfin remarks.

Fëanor scoffs. “Hardly, would this happen to be the same plucky child who has befriended my children?”

“The very same,” Queen Indis replies with a knowing smile.

“Then they could have saved us all the trouble and written Nerdanel and I directly,” Fëanor continues, earning a muffled chuckle from Fingolfin.

“Oh yes, how silly of them. What with your close rapport with the Vanyar...” Fingolfin replies sarcastically, earning a sharp elbow from Finarfin and an even sharper glare from Fëanor.

“We will happily take her in as our ward.” Nerdanel interjects, seeking to defuse building hostility.

Before either Finwë or Indis can respond, Fingolfin turns to Nerdanel and Fëanor, his voice more careful this time, almost hesitant. “With all due respect, would it not be the more… appropriate arrangement for the girl to live with myself or Áro?”

“Meaning?” Fëanor asks through gritted teeth.

“Yours is a loving household, but a loving household of all boys. Would she not be more comfortable living amongst more gentle companionship?” Fingolfin clarifies.

“I would hardly call Íryë or Artë gentle,’” Finarfin chuckles, earning an exasperated look from his brother. “But I take your meaning.”

Fëanor’s temper flares. His jaw is tight, and a sharp retort hovers on his lips, but Nerdanel speaks first. “Surely, it is not a question of who possesses the more fitting household, but rather where the girl herself feels most at ease?”

The tension in Fëanor’s posture softens, if only slightly, his wife’s presence, the one force that can steady him when fury threatens to consume him whole.

King Finwë observes them all in silence for a moment before nodding to Indis. “Nerdanel speaks wisely. The girl has already chosen where her companionship lies. To separate her from those she calls friends would be a cruel thing, done only for the sake of formality.” His gaze settled on Fingolfin and Finarfin. “I do not deny that she would be well cared for in your homes, but the girl should dwell under Fëanor’s roof, if that is her wish.”

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“Alright, best out of ten.” Galadriel pants with her hands resting on her knees. To stave off boredom, you, Galadriel, Celegorm, and Aredhel have been racing to see who can reach the other end of the grand hall first. Having been blessed by the Vala Nessa herself, you win each and every time, but Galadriel has not made it easy.

“Oh give it a rest, Artë, even I haven’t been able to best her…yet.” Celegorm groans, panting with his head resting on the cold stone floor.

“You should come riding with us sometime, that might actually make it a true competition.” Aredhel suggests to you with a strained laugh, sitting with her legs crossed on the ground equally out of breath.

“I’ve…never ridden a horse before.” you confess sheepishly, bracing for any sign of mockery or rejection from your new friends.

“Truly?” Galadriel asks, her excitement palpable. “There is nothing like it, you’ll love it.”

“Not to worry, Finno’s an excellent teacher,” Aredhel says with a fond smile. “He even got Caranthir to become a decent rider, and he was terrified of horses.” she adds, scrunching her nose at Caranthir who in turn becomes beat red.

“Come off it Íryë, I was not,” Caranthir snaps.

“Oh please, yes you were.” Celegorm replies flippantly with a laugh, not moving an inch from the floor.

“I just don’t like their eyes…they’re unsettling, alright?”

“No more unsettling than what you see in the mirror, I’m sure.” Celegorm snickers before emitting a loud groan, as the breath is knocked out of him by Caranthir.

“Nienna’s tears, a moment’s peace, I pray.” Maedhros sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before rising to pry his younger brothers apart. Fingon and Finrod quickly follow suit with practiced ease. Maedhros grabs Caranthir, while Fingon takes hold of Celegorm, with both boys still swinging wildly. Finrod kneels between the two, his eyes kind as he takes one of their small flailing fists in each of his hands and lowers them slowly.

“Tyelko. Moryo. What happened?” Finrod asks gently. The boys begin yelling over each other and Finrod shakes his head. “One at a time, Moryo, you first.”

“What else? Tyelko is being a jerk,” he mumbles in response. Finrod bobs his head slowly, encouraging Caranthir to continue. Their elder cousin listens carefully to both sides, and after a moderate amount of mediation and no small amount of compassion and compromise, the fight is squashed.

A sense of fellowship soon returns to the hall, as the cousins break off into smaller groups again. Galadriel is deftly braiding your hair while animatedly discussing the finer points of horseback riding. Aredhel and Celegorm arm wrestle nearby with Curufin mediating. Maedhros, Maglor, Fingon, and Finrod are sitting by the hearth sharing stories punctuated by periodic bursts of laughter. While Caranthir, Turgon, Argon, Anrod, and Aegnor play a game of cards at the long table in the center of the hall, each trying desperately to figure out if Turgon is bluffing or not.

A sharp whistle breaks the peace of the moment and all eyes turn to Fëanor and Nerdanel walking down the hall. “Say your namáries, we’re leaving.” Fëanor announces.

“Can we not stay for dinner?” Caranthir asks, moving a pile of small gems towards himself after a winning hand.

“Not tonight dearest, I’m sure the twins have run poor Núre ragged.” his mother replies, kissing the top of his dark hair.

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Eager for dinner, the sons of Fëanor are the first through the front doors and quickly burst into the dining hall. Each talking over each other as they fill their plates with meats, breads, roasted vegetables, and all manner of other delicious fare.

“Hang tight a moment Songbird, Fëanáro and I have something we’d like to discuss with you.” Nerdanel takes a drowsy Amras while Fëanor takes Amrod from the ever patient, but exhausted Núre, who quickly takes her leave from the home.

They guide you into the formal sitting room and gesture for you to take a seat. You do, fingers fidgeting slightly, though neither Fëanor nor Nerdanel seem ill at ease or angry with you in any way.

“In a surprising turn of events,” Nerdanel begins, gently rocking Amras against her chest. “The audience with King Finwë this afternoon happened to be about you.”

“Me?” You ask, choking out a surprised laugh, searching their faces for any sign of jest.

“Mhm, your parents have asked if we would be willing to take you in as our ward,” Fëanor answers. “Now, Nerdanel and I would be delighted to have you. We have longed for a daughter of our own, especially one as spirited as you…clearly to no avail. But that is of secondary importance. All we need to know is, is this something you would like?” he asks, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. There is a pause as you look between the two, unsure now if this is jest or a dream?

“I-yes, I would like that.” You reply, your eyes welling slightly with happy tears. Before Fëanor or Nerdanel can respond, the door to the sitting room bursts open and the five remaining brothers fall unceremoniously to the floor, having clearly been trying to listen in to the private conversation.

“Songbird’s going to stay with us?” Celegorm asks excitedly, squirming out from underneath two of his brothers.

“For as long as she likes,” his father replies, shaking his head fondly at the state of his children.

You smile softly as you look around the room, filled with warmth and love, but also finally a feeling of acceptance.

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