#skyward inn

[phaedraismyusername]

Hi hello I have been knee deep in a genre binge so here are some literary sci-fi books that deal with loneliness as a core theme

I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman

Translated from French this book follows the youngest girl in a group of 40 women who are being kept in a cage underground in an unknown place, for unknown reasons, until one day they get the chance to escape triggering a search for answers and survival on a desolate surface.

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

This is a very subtle dystopian story about a group of people who spend their childhoods at an extremely secretive english boarding school, the course of their relationships, and where they are at the end of their lives. There's a subtle feeling of wrongness from the first chapter and the author spends the rest of the novel very slowly revealing the reasons why.

Everything You Ever Wanted by Luiza Sauma

The super short form pitch for this book is 'Fleabag if there was an option to yeet herself to another planet'. Iris is in a long term relationship with depression, kind of hates her pointless job, sometimes hates her family, and is generally overwhelmed by the weight of existence, when she hears about Nyx - earth's first space colony - and thinks that just maybe it could be the answer to all her problems.

Remnant Population by Elizabeth Moon

When the population of a company sponsored colony finds out they have been designated a failure and the people are to be packed up and shipped off to another planet to try again, one little old lady decides that for the first time in her long life she's going to break the rules - she's going to stay and live her best life alone on the planet, and finally get some peace and quiet. What could go wrong?

Skyward Inn by Aliya Whiteley

Skyward Inn is an odd little book set in a future where Earth has come into contact with an alien world that quickly surrendered to humanity. The story follows a small group of kind of unlikeable people who live behind the walls of the 'western protectorate' - a place in the moors that's decided to isolate itself and live like the old days with rudimentary technology for a simple life. Until strangers appear and things start to get... weird. Slower, stranger and with more body horror than you might expect.

[haveyoureadthisbook-poll]

[planet4546b]

really funny that i read skyward inn and the seep essentially back to back, both of which were concerned with physical transformations removing individuality but skyward inn sucks and was just about xenophobia + the seep was like. an actually interesting character study about the ways in which loss of individuality was a concern specifically for flawed reasons for one specific person. we all hate skyward inn LOLLLLLL

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part iv)

a/n: MDNI, rated 18+ ! soooo today on your weekly dose of Stark fluff, Kook Claere and Simp Cregan attempt to move their love language from acts of service to, ahem, physical touch.

The journey back to Winterfell had been quiet, the cold edge of the North still riddling them as they left the Wall behind. The vast, forlorn stretch of backvelds seemed to reflect their silence. Cregan had said nothing thereafter, allowing Claere her space to regain composure. He knew better than to provoke his wistful wife—knew that whatever mysteries she brought from beyond the Wall were hers to bear until she was prepared to unburden herself to him. And so, he let her stew in her mind's eye, his gaze wavering on her occasionally, wishing to trot his horse by her side, as she stared out the road.

He could tell she sensed his worried scrutiny, the implicit queries that clung to the air between them like her silver dragon that soared overhead. Nevertheless, he refrained. If the icy unknown beyond had terrorised her, he wouldn't be the one to pick apart the pieces. Not yet.

By the time they stopped at a small, weather-beaten inn along the Kingsroad, dusk had settled over the land, the last golden traces of daylight waning into the horizon. Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the smell of bubbling broth and firewood, but neither of them seemed inclined to feast as compared to the rest of their party. The weariness of the road remained, though Cregan suspected something graver ate at his wife.

He found her later, seated on the floor near the long, narrow window, her gaze turned skyward. The room was dim, the half-moon and stars luminous through the glass, and she sat in silence, as though the world beyond the window held more comfort than the inn’s fire. Wordlessly, he joined her side, his motions unimposing, as though he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled over her.

Claere didn’t acknowledge him at first, lost in whatever thoughts churned beneath that placid exterior of hers. But after a long stretch of silence, she spoke, her voice soft, almost hesitant.

"Ask me," she murmured, still looking at the stars. "You must have a thousand."

Cregan only smiled, his lips curving into a small, teasing grin. "You can keep your secrets."

He could be patient. Whatever haunted her would come out in time, as all things did. Let her hold onto them, for now.

Her indigo eyes flickered at him briefly, and for a moment, reassurance passed over her features. "I saw nothing," she echoed from before. "Nothing clear. Nothing I wanted."

He tilted his head. "What did you want?"

"Proof of my sanity," she muttered. Her gaze paused on the stars, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Proof that I haven’t slipped into madness… or that it won’t contain me yet.”

Cregan’s teasing grin faded, his expression hardening with understanding.

“Madness comes for us all in time. Wears many disguises, but you'll feel it," he said his voice a quiet rumble. "And you're still here. That’s proof enough for me.”

She huffed lightly, not quite convinced, but something in her softened at his words. The silence that followed was thick, not with tension but with the soft comfort of shared understanding. He made space for her, and it made her want to draw closer. So she did. She shifted to him, ever so slightly, her shoulder brushing his.

After a while, she leaned in closer, her voice no louder than a whisper as she raised her hand toward the glass pane, pointing out a faint cluster of stars.

“That one,” she said. her voice quiet, “I’ve always adored it. I call it drūmā—‘the dream.’”

"Drūmā," he managed a murmur.

He turned his head to the sky, but he was hardly glimpsing at the stars. All he could see or think was her—the way her lips curved around the word, the sweet reverence in her tone as if that distant constellation held some deep, unstated meaning. Cregan felt a swell of emotion rise in his chest. She was this beautiful secret wrapped in fire and caution, a valiant princess who had crossed the Wall on dragonback and yet still found splendour in the stars.

His heart leapt to his throat as he moved scarcely, offering her the comfort of his shoulder. Claere accepted it, fitting herself into the curve of his arm, her head resting back into the burrow near his collar, her gaze still fixed on the night sky.

Then she traced an invisible path in the air, drawing with the stars. "And there. They remind me of a dragon falling asleep. Sōvīr zaldrīzes."

Cregan, however, was watching her—studying every line of her flawless face, every swift flit of her eyes as they tracked the stars. She possessed every fibre of his being. She had him entirely.

Deaf to restraint, his hand moved to her face, fingers brushing over her cheek. “And what do you call this?” he asked, almost a rumble in the stillness.

Claere blinked, a little surprised at the question. "Mēre," she answered softly, her Valyrian slipping from her lips like melodies.

He let his forefinger graze the length of her bent nose, his eyes never leaving her face. “And this?”

“Lāmas.”

Two fingers hovered over the fullness of her lips, his breath catching as her violet gaze veered to meet his, the anticipation between them taut as a drawn bowstring.

"And these?" he asked, the words a bare whisper.

“Lēda,” she answered, voice fainter now, nearly breathless.

A lopsided smile curled on his lips. "And what do you say when you want to kiss them so desperately?"

She swallowed hard; unguarded, unspeaking.

Cregan didn’t hesitate, he had waited too long for this. He leaned in, slowly, delicately, until his lips brushed hers. The kiss was gentle, glorifying—as if he feared shattering the moment if he pushed too quickly. His palm, calloused from years of wielding weaponry and enduring the ironhearted North, cradled her face with unexpected tenderness, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. When he pulled back, it was with both relief and strain that he searched her face for any sign that he had overstepped.

But Claere didn’t pull away. Rather, with a spontaneous boldness that startled even her, she lifted her hand to his, slender fingers soft yet confident as they wrapped around his wrist, holding him close, bringing it to her fluttering lips. Her touch was gentle, wavering at first as if testing the warmth of his skin.

But when she leaned in again, kissing him back, her grip tightened—not out of force, but need. Her soft moan speared right into his tongue, robbing him of his breath. The pads of her fingers squeezed into his hand, her other palm lain against his chest, feeling the sporadic beat of his heart beneath the thin layer of tunic. She could've reached right in and crumbled it to dust, he would've gladly let her.

This time, it was she who deepened the kiss, her lips crashing his with a fervour that sent a tremble down his spine. Her fingers slid up from his chest to his jaw, stroking at the hair that brushed his shoulder, tracing the line of his powerful neck, her touch both curious and loving. It wasn’t hurried, but it was deliberate—every brush of her fingers, every urge of her lips, drawing him further into her as if she was memorising him through touch alone. Cregan could do nothing but follow, lost in the sensation of her, the heat of her skin against his.

When they finally pulled apart, they stayed close, foreheads relaxed together, sharing the same breath and heartbeat. And in the peace, the quiet between them now felt different—more familiar, more certain. It wasn’t simply a kiss. It was an oath.

His fingers threaded through her hair, lightly scratching at her scalp, drawing her closer.

"Did you like it?" she asked, her voice a fragile whisper, almost unsure. Her violet eyes flickered between his, searching for something.

He grinned, the warmth of it softening the usual harshness of his features, though his grey eyes owned their intensity, locked on her as if she might vanish in the next breath.

"Aye, more than I can say," he rasped, his voice roughened with affection and awe. His thumb now brushed at her red lips, studying the little divots there. "I'd like to do it more often."

“You would?” she murmured, her breath ghosting over his hand.

Cregan’s grip tightened on her, his thumb moving from her lips to her jaw, tracing the line of her face with a gentleness that belied his strength. "If you'd allow it, I'd spend every breath seeking more."

A hint of a smile stretched across her face, her eyes flickering between his with something like wonder. “I’ve never shared much."

He tilted his head slightly, studying her at that moment—the way her features softened in the dim light, the way her presence, quiet and strange as it was, had become something he cherished.

"I will spend my time earning them." He brushed his lips against hers, with a newfound ease that urged him to stroke her thighs and waist, striking his fingertips with lightning bolts.

"One kiss at a time," he vowed.

X

The return to Winterfell was far from triumphant. There were no banners raised, no songs sung. The people did not look upon Claere with admiration or awe; instead, they continued to whisper behind closed doors and cast nervous glances in her direction. Word had spread of her crossing beyond the Wall, and in the minds of many, it had become a tale twisted by fear. How had she returned when so many before her had been lost? What had she seen? Why did she refuse to speak of it?

Still, Claere persisted. It was unlike her to make do with her quiet resolve in such matters. Especially those he knew would never concern her. She walked through the kitchens, speaking softly to the cooks, inquiring about the meals being prepared, offering a recipe she had learned in Dragonstone.

"No, my lady. That is not the way here," one of the kitchenmaids would murmur, polite but dismissive.

Claere’s attempts to suggest improvements to the weaving of the tapestries were met with similar disinterest. "We’ve always done it this way, my lady," they would say.

She was there, present in her part, yet treated her as light as the wind. She was seen, but never truly heard.

What stung more, though, was how the mothers kept their children away. The same little ones who once flocked to her side, wide-eyed and eager for tales of her homeland, were now kept at a distance by protective hands. She had shared stories of Dragonstone, of King’s Landing, of tasting exotic Tyroshi fruits and scouting for dragon eggs in the wilds. The children had adored her for it—had laughed and clung to her skirts, fascinated by Luna, the gentle beast who towered over them, but never harmed a soul.

Claere knelt in the courtyard with her harp on her thigh, and a small group of children gathered around her. Their eyes were wide with wonder as she described the hatching of a dragon’s egg, her songful voice painting pictures for them. One of the littlest girls, with a shock of red hair, reached out timidly, wanting to touch the dragon bone pendant that hung from Claere’s neck.

Just before the girl's fingers could graze it, a sharp voice called out from across the yard. "Ellys, no!"

The child froze, her hand dropping back to her side as her mother hurried forward, her eyes darting nervously between a stoic Claere and her daughter.

"It’s time we go, love," the woman said quickly, scooping the girl up into her arms. "Let's not bother Lady Stark any longer."

The girl whimpered, still looking at Claere. "But I want to hear what happened to the pink egg!"

Her mother cast a wary glance at Claere, voice low but trembling as she clutched her child. "We’ve heard enough stories."

Then, she turned and hurried away, whispering something under her breath to another woman nearby.

From a distance, Cregan observed this, his jaw tightening. He could see Claere’s smile falter slightly as the children were excused and led away one by one, their innocent excitement replaced by a quiet, uncertain look over their shoulders. He said nothing, though it tore at him. He couldn't. These were mothers, protectors of their own, and in the North, no lord could command a mother’s fears away. Not even the gods themselves.

Later that evening, as they sat together in the Great Hall for supper, Cregan caught her drifting gaze while sliding a few more slices of honeycakes onto her plate. Claere began to pick them apart with her fingers, reducing the golden pastry into small, crumbled pieces.

"Your heart shines brighter than a few whispers," Cregan said gently, his voice meant to pull her back from her inner thoughts. "They’ll see that, in time. You need to give them that chance."

Her fingers paused, holding a tiny morsel. "Yes," she said flatly, "but time isn't always kind."

Cregan's eyes softened, seeing through the mask she wore. He leaned closer, brushing his hand along the back of her head in a gesture meant to comfort, to encourage.

"Don’t give up on them, Claere. You’re their lady, and the North is not easily won, but it can be won."

Claere’s expression barely shifted, her lips twitching into a faint, thin smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She pushed the crumb between her lips carefully.

"It does not bother me," she muttered, almost too quickly. "I have come to understand the way things are here."

He frowned slightly, knowing her well enough to sense what was left unsaid. "You may not show it, but you don’t have to carry this load alone. I am here."

She gave a small, tight nod, her voice quieter now. "I’m not giving up. But if they can’t see me, perhaps I wasn’t meant to be seen."

Cregan’s chest tightened at her words, but he stayed silent, only watching her, his hand resting protectively against her neck as she turned her gaze down, once again retreating into herself.

So Claere, ever watchful, stepped aside. She ceased trying to win the adults’ favour, knowing now that every attempt was met with indifference. Instead, she continued to watch. Like a ghost in her own home, she floated through the halls, spending hours in the glass gardens she had devised, silently overseeing their construction. Once, she had imagined them filled with life—blue roses blooming in defiance of the North’s frost—but now, they seemed as far away as everything else she touched.

It frustrated Cregan. It wasn’t enough that Claere tried, that she performed her duties with respect and vigilance. His people had judged her the moment she returned from beyond the Wall, and no amount of goodwill could shift that perception.

But it wasn’t the whispers or isolation that stirred at Cregan; it was how the distance between Claere and his people widened, even as her subtle feelings for him deepened. He was the one thing in Winterfell that did not change, that didn’t turn cold. And though she felt more and more like a foreigner in the keep, with Cregan, she had found her home.

Claere had always marvelled at Cregan’s patience—the way he tempered the demands of leadership with calm strength. But there was something else now, something more primal in her admiration, as her attention faltered on him from the castle balcony. The training yard below was alive with the sounds of clashing steel and gruff commands, yet her gaze was drawn only to him.

He cruised with effortless power, his sword sinuating around his fingertips, his broad shoulders and thick arms bared to the cold as he sparred with his men. The North had sculpted him into its image—formidable, headstrong, every inch of him hardened by years of combat and the harsh winter winds. His skin, sunkissed, stretched over taut muscles, and his stance, solid as the very stones of Winterfell, left no question that this man was the embodiment of ancient Stark blood.

Cregan had become a gentle giant of the North, the spitting image of his forebears, a regal wolf among his men. And Claere was suddenly, inexplicably lured to it—the rawness, the sheer force of his presence. She had never truly admired this side of him before, having always been more attuned to his compassion, his unfailing patience.

But now, she found herself watching him as she never had, from the eyes of a spellbound girl. Her lips parted for air, her hand curling around the cold stone of the balcony, and for a brief moment, she was lost in the sight of him. Her husband, she thought. Remarkable.

He caught her. His grey eyes flicked up, meeting hers, and though he had pretended not to notice at first, a flicker of amusement crossed his face.

With a playful grin, he raised his hand and beckoned her with a single finger.

She felt her heart skip, heat rushing to her face. Shaking her head quickly, she broke the gaze, ducking away as if she’d been caught in some intimate moment, her mind reeling from the sudden rush of feeling. She liked the excitement, the pulsations—whatever it was—a lot.

Claere had been standing so still, so intently focused on Cregan, that when she finally turned to leave, she nearly collided with a nearby servant. She staggered back, her hand brushing against the woman’s arm.

"My apologies," she murmured, eyes downcast as she quickly regained her footing. The servant, wide-eyed and unsure of how to respond, merely dipped her head, and Claere hurried off, her cheeks burning as she escaped into the corridors, her heart still racing.

Down in the yard, Cregan caught the whole exchange. He watched as she retreated, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Got her good, my lord," one of his men said with a grin, leaning on his sword. "Thought she might’ve fallen right into you this time."

Cregan’s own smile was barely contained. “She’s no doe to be startled into my arms."

"A dragon, my lady is," one of them laughed.

“Yet it seems she has taken more than a few looks at her huntsman,” another chimed in, and the others chuckled.

Cregan shook his head, though the light in his eyes betrayed his delight.

"She’s got a mind of her own," he said, turning back to the practice, though his thoughts were still on her. He pointed his sword at his men. "More stubborn than any of you lads."

As they went back to training, the conversation shifted, and for a while, Cregan focused on the clang of swords and the weight of his shield. But when Claere crossed his mind again—her shy retreat, the way she had tried to disappear after that small, flustered moment—he couldn’t help but feel ten pounds lighter. The way she was beginning to see him differently was a triumph in itself. A sweet adoration that bloomed outside of auguries and omens.

As the sun began to set, his men’s teasing returned in full force.

“Mark my words,” one of the older guards called out as they packed up for the day. “It’s about time Winterfell welcomes another Stark. A summer child, heh?"

Cregan wiped the sweat from his brow, smirking as he sheathed his sword. “When it happens, I’ll let you pour the first ale—if you can still lift the barrel.”

Subsequently, as he stood before his small council, the rising tension returned. The air in the room was thick with unease, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows over the stone walls. Every mention of the dragon princess seemed to knot their nerves tighter. They were still wary, questioning what Claere had seen beyond the Wall. While she had spoken of it to Cregan in private, with words that rang true to him, the men around the table were not as easily convinced.

“What does it mean for the North, my lord?” one of the men snapped, his voice laced with accusation rather than fear. “She flew beyond the Wall, into lands none return from. Not even crows. She’s not like us. Who knows what kind of darkness she brought back?”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the small council, emboldened by the man’s sharp tone. Another voice, colder and crueller, chimed in. “We’ve heard the whispers, my lord. Bloodmagic, hexes—things no Northerner should meddle with. What if she’s hiding something? What if her silence masks the real threat?”

The room stirred with growing boldness, the men exchanging conspiratorial glances as if they had forgotten whose hall they were in. One of them leaned forward, his eyes narrow and calculating.

“The people are afraid, and fear breeds rebellion. The longer you keep her here, the more they’ll question your judgment. Is that the kind of lord you want to be remembered as? One who brought a Valyrian sorceress into Winterfell?"

Their words were sharp as blades, probing, testing his resolve, as if daring him to falter.

He did. Cregan’s patience snapped. He rose to his full height, his shadow stretching long across the room as his eyes darkened like storm clouds brewing overhead. The council fell silent immediately, the weight of his authority pressing down on them. His voice, low and controlled, carried the kind of steel that had made men follow him into battle without hesitation.

“I will make myself clear once and for all. Claere saw nothing,” Cregan said, his words cold and unyielding. His gaze swept over the table, landing on each man in turn. “Nothing but ice and desolation. There is no curse on my wife. She flew beyond the Wall and returned for one reason: to feed her dragon. And that dragon now sleeps outside our walls, not as a harbinger of doom, but as her loyal steed."

The men shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but none dared to meet his gaze. His presence commanded the room, the force of his conviction quelling any further protest. Still, one of the older lords, his voice a murmur barely above a whisper, tried to speak again.

“My lord, we mean no disrespect, but if—”

Cregan’s hand slammed down onto the table, cutting the man off. The sound echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap.

“Enough! I've had it all!" His voice was as sharp as the Valyrian blade at his hip. “Another word of dissent against Lady Stark’s sound mind, and I swear it upon the old gods and the new—heads will roll.”

A deadly silence followed his words. The men around the table bowed their heads in submission, their once-nervous glances now replaced by wide-eyed fear. They knew Cregan well enough to understand that his threats were never idle.

He straightened back up. “Claere Stark is of this house, of this land. She is your lady. You will treat her as such. If any of you think otherwise, say it now and face me.”

None spoke.

"Fair choice. Then it is decided."

He dismissed the council and as they hurried out of the hall, their whispers stilled in their throats. Yet, even as they left, Cregan stood alone by the fire, his jaw clenched. For all his power, for all his belief in Claere, a shadow of doubt clung to the edge of his mind. She had shared little of her journey beyond the Wall, and though he trusted her with his very life, the silence that followed her return weighed heavier than he dared to admit. Something remained hidden beneath her quiet resolve. Something he could not yet see.

Later, in the hush of their chambers, the flicker of firelight danced across the stone walls. Claere sat by the hearth, pricked fingers deftly stitching the embroidery she had been labouring on for weeks. It was still sloppy work, as Cregan loved to tease her about. He lay with his head in her lap, watching her more than the flames.

These evenings had become their tacit routine—a time of shared silence that he had come to treasure. The peace wrapped around him, soothing the doubts that lingered, though they rarely exchanged words. In these quiet moments, he felt most at ease, their closeness needing no explanation.

Tonight, however, the silence felt different. Claere's hands paused in their careful craft, her gaze dipping as if gathering her thoughts. The fire crackled softly, but it seemed distant, overpowered by the tension in the room.

“Are you burdened by me before your council?” she asked, her words hesitant, hedging.

Her fingers stilled on the embroidery, resting just above Cregan’s brow where his head lay on her lap.

Cregan’s brows furrowed, his eyes searching her face. He understood what she was trying to say—her isolation, her distance from the little ones, their fear. It was finally getting to her, as it did to every person despairing in silence.

But he only shook his head, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Claere, I’ve carried steel, fire, and the weight of a thousand dead Starks on my shoulders, but you?” His thumb traced the side of her leg, playful and reassuring. "Your heft is that of a feather compared to all that."

Her eyes met his, doubt still lingering in their violet depths. "I hear them talk to you. Endlessly."

He snickered. "Well, you should join next time."

She pursed her lips, dismissive.

He rubbed her knee beneath his cheek, voice lowering. “Let them talk. Their empty words mean nothing when they’re blind to the truth. What matters is what you've done despite it all. Tending to the hold, hunting... the glass gardens. Their opinions change nothing.”

She opened her mouth to protest again, but before she could, he suddenly pounced, tackling her to the ground with a fluid grace that left her breathless. His arms wrapped around her waist as they tumbled, her startled gasp filling the room before it veered to their soft, unrestrained laughter.

"Cregan!" she managed, trying to push him off with little strength behind her effort, her hands half-heartedly pressing against his chest.

“You thought I didn't notice?” he teased, hovering over her with ease, his broad frame casting a shadow. His smile was wide, mischievous, as though he held a secret she had yet to discover.

“You’ve been watching me train, princess. And rather intently, might I add. Devouring me with those enchanting eyes.”

Claere’s cheeks warmed at his words, the colour blooming faintly against her pale skin. It was an expression he loved—a rare slip of emotion that made her otherwise cool demeanour seem fragile.

“I have not—”

“Little liar,” he chuckled, lowering his head toward hers, close enough that his breath ghosted over her lips. “I caught you staring more than once. You’re not as subtle as you think.”

She tried to avert her eyes, but his hand came up, cupping her jaw in his roughened palm, guiding her gaze back to him. Her protests died on her tongue, replaced by uncertainty. The playful glint in his eyes softened, a deeper warmth replacing it. He was in no rush now, not when her heart raced beneath him, not when the space between them grew thinner by the second.

Her breath hitched, and her usual blankness seemed to melt away, giving way to the bare bones of Claere—joy, tension, the edges of a smile twitching at her lips.

“I was simply appreciating the view,” she mumbled, her eyes darting away.

“The view, is it?” Cregan’s grin widened, mischief in his tone. “And here I thought your attention was elsewhere.”

She huffed, trying to maintain her composure. “I’m capable of admiring more than one thing at a time.”

He arched a brow. “Though somehow, I think it wasn’t my swordsmanship that had you swooning. Something under my plates? Or perhaps... my breeches?”

He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above hers. Their laughter had long died out, the air between them thickening with tension, but it was the kind that felt like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

He could feel her heartbeat quicken, her breath coming in soft, shallow puffs, and it was all he needed. His voice dwindled to a near-whisper, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth with deliberate slowness.

“Say my name again.”

Her violet eyes flitted up to his from staring at his lips. "Why?"

"I'd like to hear it from your mouth."

She breathed out, "Cregan."

He needed no more invitations. He closed the gap, crushing his lips to the ones that were spoken for in his name, with the care that gainsaid his size like she was a glass doll he wanted to protect. But the kiss carried more than just tenderness—it was a slow burn of the long-awaited as if he had been waiting for this moment for years. And in that kiss, he felt her response, moving her lips with his to mimic him, graceless but sweet in her own way.

As they pulled apart, her eyes fluttered open, dazed and unhesitant. She blinked up at him, lips slightly parted, and though she didn’t say a word, he could see the answer written in her expression—a soft, implicit permission.

It wasn’t long before Cregan had pulled the heavy furs from the bed, laying them out on the stone floor to make a makeshift bed. His coarse hands stretched toward her in an invitation that was far gentler than anything he had ever given her before.

Though Claere hesitated, bringing her hand to her chest, a shadow of reluctance crossing her face. “My Lord, I—"

"No, I want none of that. Speak like my wife." He abraded at her courtesy rather than anything.

"Cregan," she corrected quietly. "I don’t want to be a young mother."

An invisible fist gripped his throat. He hadn’t expected her to voice such a fear, although some of him understood. He didn’t need to hear more to know that the idea of maternity, of the expectations it carried with it, terrified her in a way she would not easily admit.

Looking at her now, so frail in her admission, he realized that what he wanted most wasn’t bound by obligation or lineage. He didn’t need heirs or any responsibilities others might want to place on them. It was her. He wanted her. Just her.

"Nor I, a young father," he shared in a rumble of breath, stretching his arms further for her.

"Until then we'll simply be us," he promised.

It was all the assurance she needed. Bearing a relieved grin, she placed her hand in his, letting him pull her into the warmth of the furs.

Claere sat on her heels, back to him, and piled her thick silver braid over a shoulder. Cregan, much obliged, opened her bodice and petticoats one by one while she sat motionless, staring into the flames. He caressed the lune of her spine, his entire hand spread over the span, her skin burning under his touch, unmarred, smooth, seeming like silk stretched over glass.

She glanced at him, uncertainly gliding off her sleeves, now bare-skinned and impassive. As if prompted by the strings of a puppeteer, she slid away from her dresses and laid back on the furs, shutting her eyes. It fell far from what Cregan had envisioned, his wife lain for him like awaiting a death knell.

Rather, he raised a quizzical brow at her. "What are you doing?"

Claere opened her eyes, startled by the question. "Isn't this what you wanted?" Almost like she was trying to puzzle him out, calm and detached. "You can... take me now. I know what is expected of me. My maidenhead is unsullied."

Cregan blinked, utterly taken aback, and then a soft chuckle escaped him, one he didn’t intend but couldn’t help.

"Take you," he repeated to himself, incredulous. His grin widened, full of humour and fondness. "What do you think this is?"

Instinctively, her hands went to cover her breasts. Her brows furrowed, confusion spreading across her features as she squinted at him, her cheeks flushing faintly.

"Is this not what happens between a husband and wife?" she asked, her voice no longer carrying the confidence she had tried to summon.

He sighed, pulling her hands away from her chest, gentle but firm. There was warmth in his gaze, despite the humour. He threaded his fingers through hers.

"Aye," he said softly, "but not like this. You’re not spoils of war, Claere. I am no king to conquer you. Or your enemy to face."

Her shoulders, once tense, unwound as she looked up at him, understanding him.

"No," she agreed.

With a tender smile, Cregan reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. His hand moved down to her cheek, cupping it gently, and he looked her in the eye.

"I will have you in love, or I will not have you at all."

And so it went—their night of perfect pleasure, ruptured only by their awkwardness about what followed next. Platitudes fled replaced by yearning, Cregan ripping at his padded tunics and eager to bring her onto his lap until the distance was insignificant. She went all too gladly, bestraddling him, and he guided her hands from his waist to his neck.

Claere followed his lead with a tentative curiosity, her body flush against his chest. But he didn’t rush her—didn’t demand. Instead, he reached for her hands, gently guiding them from his thighs, where they’d instinctively gone, up toward his neck.

His fingers wrapped softly around hers, urging her to trace the roughness of his stubble and the solid strength of his shoulders. To the lines on his chiselled chest and the bow of his lips.

“Here,” he whispered. “I want your touch, all of you.”

Her breath hitched as her fingertips brushed over the nape of his neck, hesitant but trusting. He guided her the rest of the way, showing her the places that made him shiver beneath her touch, the places he wanted her to claim as her own.

He gently closed her warm hand over his hardness, her eyes flitting up to his, confused.

Their foreheads pressed together as he sighed, his eyes half-lidded, savouring the feeling of her palm around his length. It was a distinct kind of familiarity—intimate in a way that felt more sacred than godly vows. In a trail of white-hot kisses up her neck and claiming her lips once more, he adjusted her over his lap, until she was centred right over him.

Their eyes met—he melted, burned, raged, all but perfection until mending and finding the right symphony. At that moment, no one could've loved someone the way he was loving her.

In a single movement, she plunged down, perhaps some inherent impulse, and he buried himself deep inside her. Deeper, until every fragment of space in that heat between her legs was swelled with him. Her face strained as she welcomed him, and a rasping cry muffled into his neck.

"I have you," he reassured breathily, past the stars that roiled behind his eyes, holding her at her head and waist. "I have you now."

She nodded hard against his shoulder.

"Move for me, my love," he urged.

It wasn’t possession in the slightest, not when they made those noises, not when they collided like that; especially her, like she had mounted her dragon and taken to the skies. No, this was release. This was frustration that needed to end. This was her coming undone before him, subject to sensations like she was untethered from the world itself, weightless in a way she never knew she could be. The wrath of fire and the patience of ice found a way to coexist between them. They simply were fire and ice.

Cregan's hands slid up her sides, panting in husky grunts, rough nails digging into the smooth skin on her back, anchoring her deeper into him. He revelled in the way she responded, the way her lips parted for a breathless gasp, her fingers twisted in his hair, and how his name fell from her lips like a prayer. He bore her unravelling braid like a pearly rope around his wrist, tugging her back to grant him access to her throat. Sweet and sweeter, like nectar. He expected smoke and soot when he kissed her skin.

Every gentle rock of her saintly hips sent a shiver down his spine, her breath growing shallow, her violet eyes fluttering closed as though the world had fallen to ash around them. Here, in the bare intimacy, Claere was simply herself, vulnerable and powerful all at once.

For once, there was no restraint, no hesitation. She wasn’t holding anything back, and neither was he.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice rough and ragged, needing to see her, to meet her gaze as the distance between them disappeared entirely.

Her eyes fluttered open, heady with lust but shining with something more—conviction, maybe, or something even deeper, something he knew they both sensed but hadn’t quite named.

At this moment, they weren't simply lord and lady, wolfblood and dragonblood—they were something else, elsewhere entirely. Bound not by titles, but by the intensity that had grown between them since the first time they met. She was his match, his equal, and he swore he would follow her to the ends of the earth if only to touch her like this again.

It was as though every wall she'd ever built came crumbling down. She didn’t resist it—couldn’t, really—because with him, there was no need to hold on. The pace became feverish, rushing quicker, desperate to chase that high. Her breaths came faster, and her heart raced, but none of it felt overwhelming. She let herself fall apart for him in a sharp, trembling cry, clutching him tight.

He smothered his gruff groan and expletive into her shoulder, getting a mouthful of her hot skin, conscious of the consequences through the dizzying drop, and gently pulled her off him to empty his spend into his breeches. The waves of pleasure ravaged him, he could hear the blood coursing in his ears as he embraced her to him with an arm, coiled taut yet loosened soft, all at once.

They came down together, back to their continent, back to Winterfell, back by the fire, as a tangle of limbs over the fuzzy down, slick in sweat and gasps. Claere’s arms stayed wrapped around Cregan’s neck, her breath still coming in soft, dreamy puffs against his skin. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, not easing her grip, as if reluctant to let go of the warmth they shared.

Cregan’s tough hand continued its slow, soothing path up and down her back, tracing the soft ridges of her spine and the delicate curve of her ribs. He kissed her jaw, her temple, the spot just below her ear.

“Claere,” he murmured against her skin, his breath warm, “I could stay like this forever.”

Again, his words went by unheard. It so happened that he got used to it, that sometimes she just refused to leave her head.

As they lay in the warmth of the furs, the world beyond nothing but a memory, Claere’s fingers moved dreamily through the air, tracing invisible lines as if drawing constellations on the weathering ceiling. There was a faraway look in her eyes, as though her thoughts had taken flight somewhere beyond the stone walls of the keep.

Cregan’s eyes followed the gentle dance of her fingers, the way her hand swayed back and forth, almost in a trance, lost in some quiet reverie. He could feel the soft rise and fall of her breath against his chest, each exhale like a whisper of the wind, and yet her mind seemed elsewhere, reaching toward a distant idea.

“Do you ever wish we could just… fly away?” she asked softly, her voice drifting like her fingers, her words delicate.

Her eyes remained on the imperceptible path she was tracing, not daring to look at him just yet. Cregan felt a small tug at his heart, the way she asked not with fear but with the consequence of hope, a dreamer trying to keep her visions alive in a world that so often crushed them.

He let out a soft chuckle, his hand coming up to catch hers mid-air, stopping the slow, swaying motion of her fingers. He grasped it gently, his thumb brushing the back of it in calming strokes.

“Fly away?” he echoed, a teasing smile curving his lips as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “With Luna or..." his voice dipped lower, "have I replaced her as your favourite mount to ride?"

A small, breathless laugh escaped her. "Truly, the wolf of the North."

He bit at the skin of her jaw and pulled. "I strive to please, princess."

“Not leave for long. For a while,” she murmured, as though speaking of some impossible place, a dream she couldn’t quite grasp.

Cregan’s brow softened, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand. He understood that yearning in her voice—the wish to escape the weight of Winterfell, the duties, the judgment—but he couldn’t help but grin at her.

“Well then,” he said with a playful glint in his eye, “perhaps one day I’ll steal you away to Dornish warmth. Summer beneath a blood orange orchard. But I’m not sure the wolves would forgive me for that.”

Her lips quirked, a soft smile touching her face, though her eyes remained far off, still seeing that distant place. For a girl who owned a dragon, she ought to be well-travelled. Dorne must've been one of the many places she must've flown to.

Cregan leaned in, his forehead resting on hers, their breaths mingling.

“Tonight, I believe you belong right here,” he whispered, his voice low and affectionate.

Her fingers, no longer suspended in the air, curled around his, the trance broken but the dream still lingering in her gaze. She shifted closer, her bare skin brushing against his, her head resting on his chest, the far-off look in her eyes slowly fading.

"Yes," she eventually said, soft and certain. "Here is good."

Cregan kissed the top of her head, his lips brushing the silken strands of her hair, and as she nestled deeper into his embrace, he whispered. “Always here.”

She traced wistful, circuitous patterns on his chest, a fleeting touch that soothed the storm inside him. The words were unnecessary now. He knew, and so did she. The quiet between them was no longer a vacuum—it was full, full of everything understood, a second sight they both shared, woven between heartbeats and breaths.

Outside, the winds of winter howled, but within, they had found their haven. Now, that was enough.

X

still a little to come, I promise! hope you felt luuuuurv!

question of the day for those of you still here: what song reminds you the most of claere? what song reminds you most of cregan & claere?

taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @lv7867 , @cosmosnkaz , @beingalive1 , @piper570 , @tigolebittiez

thank you all so much for your support and comments! it's what drives me to write these days <3

[kikker-oma]

FAN JOY JULY MASTERLIST

If a writer isn't tagged in their post, it means I couldn't find a Tumblr account for them - let me know if you know of one for them!

Link for the art is in "Day _" and the link for the story is in the title.

Day 1 - A Piece of Heart by @shearlin

Day 2 - I'll Hide Myself Behind You by @polynomialpandemic @locus-p0cus and Heademptilee

Day 3 - Travel Through the Darkness by @mariasparrow

Day 4 - Unraveling by @majorproblems77

Day 5 - Elastic Heart by @skyloftian-nutcase

Day 6 - Brothers Becoming by @turtleduckcrossing

Day 7 - Too Little, Too Late by @breannasfluff

Day 8 - The Inn at the End of Time by @musical-chan

Day 9 - Brothers Blood by @alicewritingstories

Day 10 - Follow the Lights by @cluelessmoose

Day 11 - Thin Ice by @rrainydaydreams

Day 12 - The Most Sincere Kind of Lie by @seekingseven

Day 13 - Do You Trust Me by @batrogers

Day 14 - A Knights Heart by @ajscico

Day 15 - The Broken Promise by @bokettochild

Day 16 - Frostbite by @theprequeltocrabs

Day 17 - Relaxing in Firelight by @freezingwhitefire

Day 18 - Recharge by @unexpectedstormy

Day 19 - Time Loop by @miladyh

Day 20 - Begging by @arecaceae175

Day 21 - Curse Breaker by @rebornofstars

Day 22 - Men's Boots, Too Big by @uncleskyrule

Day 23 - Bad Hand by @quirkle2

Day 24 - So, When's the Wedding? By @thetoyboxs

Day 25 - What Hero? By @aimeelouart

Day 26 - What's the Opposite of Tunnel Vision? By @enjolras-out

Day 27 - Drive a Man Mad by @adrift-in-thyme

Day 28 - Further by @gemglyph

Day 29 - The Bridge Over Lake Hylia by Rivernight

Day 30 -Swaying by @theoneeyedgoldenwolf

Day 31 - How Long Can a Man Endure by @telemna-hyelle

Day 32 - The Cat's Out of the Bag by @skyward-floored

[skyward-floored]

Dawn part 4 analysis, here we go! At it again with my ramblings.

Starting off with THE GLORIOUS RETURN OF THE MAILMAN! The moment I saw the flag I was like :O HE’S BACK!!!

(I also got the blue’s clues mail song stuck in my head)

Hey look, it’s Warriors’ money! And the inkeeper who’s happily admiring the ridiculous amount of rupees Warriors now does not own!

Rip Warriors’ money. It will be dearly missed.

Also no vacancy?? I mean, it’s possible there’s other people staying there, or it’s just a small inn, but... it kinda looks like Warriors literally bought every available room there was. Mad lad.

I (like everybody else lol) took a crack at figuring out who’s signature was who’s, based on their respective game’s Hylian texts/scripts, order of when they got there, and the OG tags on the comic. So here’s my best guesses—

1. Time is first, which makes sense based on him being the one to take Twilight to the inn

2. Hyrule appears to be next— his games don’t have a written script, but the hylian here is close to Legend’s, so I’m assuming it’s his, based on the fact that he was part of the next group to get to the inn.

3. Four is who I’m least sure about I’ll admit, but seeing as how he came with Hyrule, (and he’s the only Link left I couldn’t identify at all), I’m assuming it’s his.

4. Warriors we know for sure, since the tags say this signature is his. He gets a shout out for being the only Link who can actually write in the lines.

5. Wind seems to be next, as his hylian is very close to what’s here (his signature partially obscures Warriors’ XD)

6. Legend is who I’m going with for this one, but I’ll admit it could be Wild’s since their script is pretty darn close. But once again, based on when they all got to the inn, Legend would make the most sense to be here.

7. Sky is definitely here. His hylian is very unique compared to the others (I think it’s my favorite)

8. Wild is probably next, but same case as Legend, they could be swapped. But once again, probably not, since Wild was the last to get inside.

9. Twilight bringing up the rear! His hylian is unmistakable, and it makes sense that he’d mark his name last. I don’t think he could handle it until he woke up that morning, though I do wonder which arm he wrote it with...

(Rip Mr. Mailman in trying to figure all this out)

Moving on!

It’s gotta be close to mid-morning by now based on the light, but Sky obviously does not handle waking up at dawn well. It’ll be interesting to see if he stays sleepy during the rest of this arc, or if he'll wake up a bit.

(Side note, Sky looks so soft and fluffy here, I want to hug him)

Sky is so relatable in this update, he’s got some serious “I have no idea what’s going on” vibes. That first one he's got such a deer in the headlights look XD

The mailman is just like “you! I’ve been looking for you! Great to see you!” and Sky’s just “I have never met this man in my life” (probably forgot he actually did see him once (because he’s sleepy))

Four letters, all different languages and dialects... I’m guessing at least one Zelda based on the seal on that blue letter (it seems fancier to me), but I don’t know about the rest. I would guess Malon for one, and maybe another Zelda? Warriors or Wild or Four’s Zelda maybe? Maybe Twilight got a letter from someone in Ordon, or the Resistance!

Only thing I do know is that there’s probably not one for Sky, since he wasn’t immediately like “letter for me! :D”

Four trying to do something nice and fix Wild’s sword and this guy just laughs at him, rude 😤 At least he didn’t make a short joke, which was honestly what I was expecting. I mean I get knowing that your equipment won’t be enough for the job, but sheesh.

(Also the blacksmith’s goggles look a bit like Gondo’s in skyward sword’s, plus the ones the rescue knights wear, thought that was interesting).

(Cool pose mode: engaged)

I love this panel!! They all decided to follow Four and help him out just like they did last time, fix the sword and get Wild a good, reliable weapon.

I’ve also never noticed how similar these guy’s hair looks before, especially Warriors and Hyrule’s— if Rulie’s hair was a little shorter and blonde, it would be pretty near identical. Very interesting...

(Plus Wind has the funniest expression, he's so cute)

We interrupt this rambly analysis to bring you a brief moment of me yelling about Warriors' smile ABHDGFSFKHSBBG LOOK AT HIM that stupid cocky grin and the way he's rolling up his sleeve I'm *swoon*

Four absolutely losing it over Warriors’ jab about teamwork is SO funny, Captain you have no idea how good your joke was. (also Four, bud, you good? Little hysterical there pal)

Also he looks so happy!!! Compare that to any of the faces he was making the night before, he's doing so much better. I’m so glad he’s happy and smiling now, even if it was just at a dumb joke :)

I don’t even have anything to say about this panel. Just look at it. Glorious.

And one last thing...

MULTILINGUAL WARRIORS HOLY CROW that's such a cool trait to give him, I am in love with it now that's awesome.

An amazing update as always, it was fantastic all around <3

[nayru-s-clay-tablet]

Comic Retrospective: Ghost Inn

What is it about?

Ghost Inn, to the surprise of absolutely no one, is about a haunted inn. One could also say it's about man's inhumanity to man, specifically regarding these two idiots:

When writing any comic, long or short, a key thing is to identify your main focus -- is it a message, a theme, a setting? Triforce of Power as a whole is about Ganondorf and Link (a buddy comedy of sorts), so every side comic needs to do something with them, like:

Exploring an aspect of their personalities

Looking at something new about them (while still staying in-character)

Playing with their weird dynamic

In this case, it was about how their lines of communication break down when faced with bizarre stressors. Like a ghost inn.

Main characters turning on each other, in a true horror story, would be played for horror. Here it is played for comedy. (And winds up being a little heartwarming in the end... kinda.)

Where did the idea come from?

If ideas are hard to come by, I sometimes take two topics, mash them together, and go from there. In this case, the two ideas were:

The creepy woodcutter couple in Okami:

2. And the toilet ghost from Zelda games like Majora's Mask and Skyward Sword:

I just needed a setting in which both a creepy couple and ghost would be together. Hence, the inn!

But something interesting needs to happen regarding Ganondorf and Link, specifically. Which led to the question:

"How would each of them respond to a toilet ghost?"

And the story just kind of wrote itself from there.

Not all character-focused stories need to be about two characters that are so different -- but it does make it really easy to find points of conflict that can propel a story forward in an organic way.

Favorite things about it?

The entire comic being black, white, and red. It was so much fun to do and presented an interesting challenge, especially when it came to Ganondorf's magic.

It also has some of my favorite jokes -- not just for the bonus comics, but for everything ToP-related (including the entire main comic).

Would I make it again?

Basically, if I had the idea but had not completed the comic when I did... would I still make it, knowing what the outcome would be?

Yes. Definitely. Absolutely!

...Also, while rereading it for this post, this part stood out:

^ So, the info about roasted dead people being followed by Link saying he got a lot of free food is....... something I never noticed before.....

But is this story canon?

It could be. There's nothing in it that contradicts the main story, and there are a couple points in the storyline where it could fit. This is up to the reader, I think!

But it is canon in my heart ❤️🤍🖤

[dragon-ascent]

Mora For Your Thoughts?

Zhongli is always interested in what you have to say, no matter what it is.

★彡penny for your thoughts, zhongli edition.

"Mora for your thoughts?"

You smile up at your husband, whose question has pulled you out of your midday reverie. Zhongli sets the tea tray he’s been holding on the table, settles beside you on the couch with a tender smile and kisses your cheek, eagerly awaiting your answer.

"Well," you begin, "I was wondering why cats get nine lives, but dogs don't."

Zhongli rubs his chin thoughtfully. "A fascinating question. In fact, I seem to recall a story from centuries past that tells the story of a cat and his dog companion, and how they once compete for immortality." He pauses, knowing that the story will take all evening to narrate - which he will only do if you're fine with it.

You rest your head on his shoulder, knowing full well that any story from Zhongli's internal archives is bound to be a treat. "Go on." There is tea, and there is time.

******

"Mora for your thoughts?"

Sitting by the windowsill, you keep your gaze upon the clear sapphire sky up above. "I was just wondering what it would feel like to soar in the sky, unfettered by the troubles of the world below."

Zhongli hums. "If I weren't living strictly as a mortal, I would love to let you ride on my back across the skies."

You turn to him, a big smile on your face. "Wow, really? In your dragon form?"

"Of course, dearest. Though I doubt that would be possible at present, but perhaps one day." He, too, now looks up into the blue, blue sky.

You shake your head. "It's the thought that counts! Just imagining it makes my heart race! I've always wanted to ride you - I...I mean ride on your back while you're in dragon form..."

Zhongli throws his head back and laughs, a pleasant, rumbling baritone that never fails to make butterflies erupt within you. With golden eyes full of mirth, he says, "For now, I shall regale you with descriptions of the sky and clouds from my own experiences. Would you like that?"

"Yes please! Tell me all there is to see and experience alongside the loftiest birds!"

And thus, your husband kisses your forehead and begins to narrate his skyward anecdotes, each description more vivid than the last, until it feels like you are up there in the skies atop a draconic Zhongli, feeling the wind race across your face and the clouds split into tendrils like cotton.

******

You narrow your eyes down at the book you're reading, utterly displeased with the direction the author's taking. Though you suppose it's to be expected of a run-of-the-mill romance... still, you sigh and look up from the novel, finding Zhongli's own inquisitive gaze upon you. He is reading a book as well, but for now chooses instead to focus on his beloved.

"Mora for your thoughts?"

You smile at the fondly familiar question. "I just find it frustrating how, in the novel I'm reading, the main character is more attracted to the man with anger issues and a drinking problem, rather than the level-headed and genuinely kind man."

"Ah, a case of second-lead syndrome, hm?"

"Yup," you affirm, and then sigh again, "it wouldn't be so bad if the romance scenes were at least well-written. None of them seem romantically-charged at all. It's frustrating. There's so many things the author could have done..."

"Is that so?" Zhongli sets aside his book, his eyes carefully trained on you. "Have you any suggestions?"

It's an innocuous question, so you answer without hesitating. "They could've had a scene where they were pressed together in a tight space, or had to share a single bed at a busy inn...and their kissing scenes are drier than the Desert of Hadramaveth! I would've liked it if their kisses had both passion and tenderness."

A soft chuckle, and Zhongli is now cupping your cheek. You lean into his touch contentedly as his thumb draws soothing circles along your cheek. "Shall we enact your romantic fantasies and make them a reality?"

Saying this, your husband kisses you, equal parts tender and passionate. What follows makes sure you know firsthand that what you two have is miles more powerful than words in the pages of a book.

[adrift-in-thyme]

@skyward-floored I know you’ve been sick all week so I wrote you a little something to help cheer you up. It’s short and probably not wonderfully edited but I hope you get some joy from it anyway :)

——————————

“Up and at ‘em Captain!” Legend calls as he stomps down the hall. “The day’s wasting away!”

The sun is already high in the sky. The other heroes are already dressed and packed and well into eating their breakfast. Yet, the captain is still snoozing away, snug as a bug beneath his blankets.

Must be nice being able to sleep through all that ruckus, Legend thinks, grumpily.

Though, now that he ponders it, it is rather unlike Warriors to slumber on like this. Usually, he is one of the first to awaken. By the time anyone else rises, he is already washed and dressed and looking entirely too well-kept for someone who catapulted out of bed before even the sun dared peek over the horizon.

A small shred of worry worms its way past Legend’s careful defenses. But he pushes it aside as he steps into the doorway.

“Hey, pretty boy! Did you hear me?”

By all appearances, the bed is occupied solely by blankets. And save for a few sniffles, their occupant remains steadfastly silent. Frowning, Legend steps closer.

“Warriors? You alive in there?”

“Mmph,” groan the blankets.

Legend grasps the nearest edge and flings them off. A very miserable-looking Warriors blinks up at him.

“Vet?”

Legend winces. His voice is painfully hoarse. Speaking must be agonizing.

His eyes are glossy too, he sees now, and his cheeks unnaturally flushed. A layer of sweat coats his forehead and drags down his curls. When he pushes himself upward, the movement is accompanied by a violent shudder that nearly lands him back on the bed.

The captain presses his fingertips to the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry, is it time to get up? I-I didn’t realize…”

He trails off, blinking into the rays of sunlight that waft through the blinds. Panic streaks across his face.

“I overslept.”

“Yeah, you did.”

Legend puts a hand to his chest, pushing him back as he tries to get out of bed. He shivers beneath his touch, breath hitching.

“And it’s no wonder that you did. You look like crap, Wars. How long have you been sick?”

Warriors swallows, cringing as he does it.

“Don’t know.” He shrugs, weakly. “I haven’t felt well all week but I thought…I thought I was fine.”

His eyes widen.

“I’m gonna get everyone sick!”

“Well, yeah, probably. But we’ll be fine.”

Legend presses the palm of his hand to Warriors’ head, ignoring his weak attempts to shove him off.

“You’re burning up, captain. Lie back down.”

“But we-we need to get going…” Warriors looks up at him, eyes wide and pleading. “We were so close to the…we were so close…”

Legend sighs. “The monsters can wait. You need to rest.”

“Is everything alright in here?”

Time peeks around the door, now, a concerned expression on his face. When he catches sight of Warriors it deepens. In two strides, he is within the room.

“Captain, are you well?”

“He’s definitely not,” Legend says before Warriors can try and make excuses. “He’s sick as a dog.”

Time places a hand on Warriors’ forehead, then retracts it, a frown darkening his features.

“We will stay in the inn today. You must rest.”

“But Sprite…” Warriors begins. Time shakes his head.

“I’ll hear no arguments from the very man who forcibly snuggled me until I slept as a child.”

Legend snorts. “He did what?”

Time only smiles, his attention still on Warriors.

“Pushing on will only make you worse, captain. You would be the first to pause the journey if one of us were in your place. Let us take care of you.”

“Fine.” Warriors slouches, defeated. “Why’re you two so stubborn?”

Legend grins.

“You think we’re bad? Just wait until you see the others.” He winks. “Lemme go get ‘em.”

As he turns on his heel, Legend sees Warriors sink further into the bed. His grin grows wider.

Get comforted, captain.

Less than half of an hour later, the bedroom is swarmed by eight heroes, all armed with illness-fighting supplies. Sky and Wild, come bearing warm soup.

(“It’s the best for a sore throat,” Sky says with a smile and Wild nods, “yup, I cooked a big batch too, so you’ll have plenty of it.”)

Hyrule offers healing potions. Wind and Four bring armfuls of blankets.

(“Did you two raid every house in Castle Town?” Time asks in disbelief as he takes the small heroes’ bundles. Wind grins.)

(“Basically.”)

Twilight brings fresh water from the spring just outside of town, said to have healing properties…and also a stray cat to keep the captain company.

(“You sure that’s for his benefit?” Legend asks, narrowing his eyes as the rancher sets the animal on Warriors’ lap. Twilight just grins.)

Soon, Warriors is lying down once more, wrapped snugly in what Wind dubs a “blanket burrito,” with a belly full of soup and a cat on his legs.

Time brushes his bangs out of his eyes and places a cool cloth on his forehead. Warriors sighs at the touch.

“Are you feeling a little better now?” Wind asks, eyes wide with concern. Oblivious to the captain’s warnings about germs, he has managed to fit himself in between the eternal blankets and the cat, cuddled against Warriors’ side.

Not that the knight seems to mind overly much, now that all is said and done. And as he settles on the end of the bed, Legend can’t help thinking he looks glad to have the company.

Warriors nods, eyes drooping.

“Yeah, I’m better, sailor.” He sends the heroes a tired grin. “Thanks to all of you.” His gaze flicks to Legend. “Especially, you vet.”

Legend’s cheeks heat and he looks down, waving a dismissive hand.

“Ah, no big deal. I’m not so mean as to let you die in here all alone and snotty and miserable.”

Warriors chuckles and closes his eyes. “So, you decided to suffocate me with blankets instead?”

Legend shrugs, a grin playing on his lips. “What can I say? I’m merciful.”

The blankets in question look rather comfortable and he decides to lay down upon them. He’s not the only one either. All of the heroes have drifted over now, cuddling up on a bed not made for nine men and boys. But they make do. And Warriors seems to melt in their embrace.

Legend smiles at the peaceful look on the captain’s face as he drifts off. He guesses even someone like the pretty boy needs a break once in a while. And — he chuckles as Wind and the cat compete for space — some snuggles too.

[drgnrder82]

Fictober (belated) Day 4 - Scallywag

Summary: Asher (again) is not happy following Seren as she embarks on a new stupid plan.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1018

Original Fiction

Based on characters from my fantasy WIP Triton's Sanctuary.

Prompt - "No, we're not doing that."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“He will murder you. As in kill you before you utter a solitary word,” Asher whispered urgently. He felt them. Salty, drunken, vicious eyes followed them. The sneering men waiting with knives—or hooks! What if they have hooks concealed?—ready to tear their innards from their skin…

“You’re being dramatic. I’m just here to talk with the man.” 

That tone never meant Seren was just going to talk with someone. “Stormeye,” Asher swallowed and nodded at a scraggly-haired man, false eye somehow peering straight into Asher’s terrified soul as they passed by. “He won’t go easy on ya. You’re nothing—no, less than nothing. Less the dirt and worms… and… he’s not going to talk with you! You’re not one to just ‘talk’ anyway! No! We’re not doing that! We are turning around now and getting out of here ALIVE!”

They’d entered the Seafarer’s Fortune during the dinner rush. Asher’s mom told the tale that when Red took over the Seafarer’s Fortune, he’d not wanted the hassle of keeping an inn, and he’d let his friends, all the worst of the worst pirates, pilfer the rooms and tear them apart. The ceiling swept skyward, laden with nets and bits and bobs from ships amid the last debris of the former inn rooms. A piece of a mast, a crow’s nest, torn sails. It felt like living in a ship on land. And it would be far cooler to see in person was death not waiting upon the next words Seren uttered.

And here Seren was, walking through a proverbial sea of scoundrels and scallywags in her finest frock, feather bouncing in time with her rushed step. 

Asher hadn’t meant to fall behind, but he had. Fingers grazed his pants near the pocket, and he slapped a hand over the pocket to keep it closed. Pickpockets were everywhere, but a bar catering to the rogues of the world? Putting on his best glower, a young corsair grinned mischievously back. Asher and the young man both tugged at Asher’s pocket. Once free, though, Asher found Seren had called out, “Two ales.” 

Before Asher could make it even another step, she’d struck up a chat with Red, complete with friendly banter and giggles while Asher elbowed his way through, earning at least one foul-tempered grab at his arm. “Blimey,” he complained.

“Oy! Ya spilt me ale and runnin’ runt? Ain’t got no backbone, do ya, you scurvy runt!” 

And there was the other problem of walking into a bar full of the dregs of society. 

“Didn’t realize spilling ale was a capital offense…” 

Carrying two brimming mugs, Seren gracefully kicked out the stool from under the man, grabbing Asher without spilling a drop of ale. “Oy! Hands to yerself.”

“Oh, don’t tell me.” Asher sighed. “You’re gonna drink, too?” 

The man who’d lashed out, grabbing Asher when all he’d done was innocently bump the man’s back, jabbered silently for a moment before mumbling, “You wit her?”

Inexplicably, the man cast his gaze away from Seren’s and he froze on the floor.

“You really ought to,” Seren offered one of the mugs to Asher, ignoring the bumbling man on the floor. “Calm yer nerves, why don’t ya?” 

Asher shook violently, seething. “I have a right mind to leave you here.” 

“Alright,” Seren grinned, taking a swig. “Ah, there’s the man I need now!” 

“Oh, for the love of the sea…” Asher groaned, turning to see Bram ‘Stormeye’ Vane telling some tale to a rapt group of seadogs. “Just go home, Asher. You’re being too dramatic, Asher. Fine! I’m being dramatic. Let’s see you get the business end of a rapier in your face, Seren!” The man who’d tried to pick Asher’s pocket stared wide-eyed back at him. “What?” 

“That bit o’ coin you got is yours. You’ll need it sooner rather than later.” 

“Eh, Stormeye!” Seren shouted over the dinner rush, cutting the hustle and bustle down just as effectively as Seren cut through the crowd of dogs. Pausing, Seren took a long swig of her mug, then held the other out for Bram. 

Straightening his collar, Bram stood from his stool, pulling out a charming, if slightly rotting, smile. “Aye, miss. Did ya bring a gift fo’ me?” 

Seren’s eyebrows raised higher, a grin hiding behind the way she gulped down the ale. Finally, she lowered the mug and graciously said, “I did.” 

The entire bar stilled, all eyes flicking between Seren and Stormeye, like sharks circling their prey. 

Before Stormeye could take the mug, Seren threw its contents at him. Then came the crack. Seren smacked him with the mug, knocking Bram ‘Stormeye’ Vane into a bleeding heap. The seadogs scattered to the edges of the Fortune, eyes aglow, waiting to see what happened next. “Get up, ya scurvy, rat… and try explaining to me what you did to Miss Runa.” 

“Eh, Ser,” Red called from the bar. “You owe me another coin for the mug if ya break it!” 

“Noted!” Seren said, dropping the empty mug with a thud on Stormeye’s face, then took herself down to one knee, digging it into the man’s chest. Bram ‘Stormeye’ Vane, the scourge of the Dilah Sea, former second in command of Red’s fleet ship, The Bloodstained Horizon, let out a piercing wail and clutched his red-streaked face. 

“Why ain’t anyone beating on her?” Asher moaned.

“She’s yer friend, ain’t she?” the scallywag, who’d been ready to beat Asher for bumping him, balked. “You know how crazy she is.” 

“Your bloody pirates! And you’re scared of her?” 

The man—and so Asher too—glanced back at Red standing idly at the bar, drying a clean mug. Questions formed, but at the same time, Asher feared plausible deniability may be the better tactic should Admiral Minuit question him. “Tell Seren I’ll be outside when she’s done.” 

“Now,” Seren’s voice clearly carried across the whole bar. “Tell me, what you did to Miss Runa. Before I’m forced to jog your memory.” 

“What’s the worst that could happen, being friends with little Seren Minuit,” Asher mimicked his mother’s tone. “She’d never bloody believe me.”

[moonyasnow]

Li donia Fawq

—Act 1, Scene 1— [ Chapters list ]

Landing

OC(S) : Artemisia OTHER CHARACTER(S) : Jamil, Kalim

OC x TWST : Artemil 🐍x🦢

TYPE : Fic (~4.9k words)

After their fateful meeting, the Servant introduced himself to the Lady, and bid her stay the night at an inn, and he would come fetch her to escort her to her destination come morning...

Touching down amidst the soft white fabric of her feathered bed, fatigue weighted her body down like lead and coaxed her into a deep sleep she would not be woken from until forced back to the world of the living, remaining untouched even by the minaret...

-Artemisia-

The sun boiled high in the heavens, glaring down oppressively, its rays battering down against the modest shade her cloak provided her. The tiny openings at the bottom of the gauzy black cloth covering her eyes letting in slivers of light made her squint. She was at least grateful to have escaped the chatter in the streets which had boomed in her head, grating like cicadas chirping, bees buzzing and seagulls squawking right beside her ear all at once. Taking a deep breath in to relieve the headache and nausea she was not met with the cold and crisp air her body, seemingly ignoring the glaring presence of unfamiliar sensations all around, had expected. No, it was hot and dry.

"We're here."

"Oh—" She forced her feet to stop as he spoke, having entirely forgotten about the person she'd been following at the

Glancing up, she saw what appeared to her as a great palace. Yet oddly colorful, when compared to the silver stone and glass and iron lattice windows she was used to. The stone beneath her feet was a bright, glaring yellow that seemed to burn her eyes the longer she looked at it. Turning her gaze skyward instead, she saw three great domes, turquoise and clad in gold. In her mind she saw an image of one of her sister's perfume bottles, recalling the familiar shape.

The color of the sky surrounding it was less crisp than the cold blue of the winter sky she was used to, as though the sands had splattered a bit of its own color into the sky of the southern lands.

"Is this the Al-Asim manor?"

"It is."

She kept watching it. The only similarities found between this and the castle in which she spent her youth were towers and white walls. There were a few people here and there- someone tending to the soil of one of the large palm trees on either side of the walkway, another sweeping the golden path.

The doors leading into the structure were big and made seemingly of gold, exquisitely detailed and fashioned into a shape she thought she might have seen in an old fairy tale.

"We'll take a side entrance."

"Okay."

But suddenly, before they could reach whatever side-door he had them en-route to, one of those big, golden doors had begun to creak open. Through the opening she saw a young man with silvery hair, clad in white and a turquoise matching the domes pushing open the door. He peeked out of the golden port, and when he looked in their direction, his face lit up into a beaming smile.

"Jamiiiiiiiil!" he waved with one arm, forgetting he was using it to hold the door open and having to quickly shift to stand in a more stable position and hold it with his body.

Beside her, Jamil had tensed as the door was about to fall, and then merely sighed.

The boy had begun to jog over to them. Instinctively, Artemisia hunched up her shoulders and hid behind the one she followed.

"Hey, Jamil! Where'd you go earlier? I was trying to look for you but you—" Her skin prickled. He was looking at her. She closed her eyes and groaned internally.

"Who's this, Jamil? A new friend? Hi! I'm Kalim! It's very nice to meet you, and welcome to my family's home!" ''Jamil'…is that his name? Although there does exist the possibility of it being some form of adress…' she glanced briefly at him from the side. Her stomach fluttered. 'Yet if it is is his name, it is beautiful…' He tried walking closer to shake her hand. But she backed up, mouth having firmly shut of its own volition.

"What's your name? Oh, are you hungry? it's nearly lunch-time and—"

"Kalim."

"Yes, Jamil?"

"You're right; it's nearly lunch-time. I'll make something for you."

The energetic boy's eyes widened at the language he spoke, before his grin returned. "That sounds— that sounds great!" He turned to her again "Hey, you'll join us for lunch, won't you? Jamil's cooking is the best!"

Jamil just sighed quietly nearby.

"I suppose I could..." She spoke in a quiet voice, the loudest she could make her voice in that moment.

"Great!"

The word invaded her earls shrilly.

"Come on, I've just gotta give you a tour while Jamil makes the food! Oh, I'm Kalim by the way! What's your name?"

Shoulders squared and tense with an arm held across her torso as though a makeshift shield, she took up the fabric of her skirt with the other and slid into an unpracticed curtsy. "I am Artemisia…"

"Nice to meet you, Artemisia!" He forwent trying to grab her hand or wrist to drag her off, instead giving her a light push to her back and taking her away to go see the manor. For a second her gaze sought out Jamil to silently plead for help— though he was already gone.

"Where did…?"

"Hm? Where did who what?"

"...Jamil." The name, spoken from her lips for the first time, rang strangely fondly in ears.

"Oh, he's probably making lunch! Now come on, I gotta show you around the place! Oh, will you be staying—"

The boisterous boy's voice for just a moment seemed to fade as she saw, in the distance, a sling of long, dark hair disappear behind a small door.

She couldn't help but watch a second longer— until another push to her back sent her crashing back to reality, shoulders shooting forward and her legs carrying her away from his touch as quick as her body would allow.

-^-v-^-v-^- [ Al-Asim estate, hallway ] -^-v-^-v-^-

"Oh, and over there—!"

Her head was pounding. Each time he spoke, standing much closer to her than comfortable, it felt to her body the same as a shrill seagull squawking in her ear. She'd have described it more as a very blunt scraping instrument being dragged along the insides of her ear canals. The first few minutes had been, while not quite pleasant, bearable. Yet coupled with the lights and that she could hear people they passed whispering about her, feel them staring at her, and the constant bombardment of her mind by too many impressions, she had trouble keeping up with the speed of his monologue.

Her back ached from the tense rigidness her body had been locked into since the tour had begun. Her mind was spinning and spinning so quickly she could not make out a single thought, making her throat constrict as a light wave of nausea swept through her.

At last she could not help but stop dead in her tracks, closing her eyes in a vein attempt to ward away the headache, and putting her hands over her ears with gritted teeth to deprive her overstimulated senses.

"Hey, are you ok?"

She could not speak a single word in reply. Perhaps she could have, had she wished, but she did not. She squeezed her lips closed, as tight as they would go, pressed her hands tighter over her ears, and took a long, deep breath through her nose before exhaling shakily.

"I...I apologize..." She spoke in a small voice, eyes still closed and ears still covered. "I am...somewhat tired."

He stood on, merely watching her, and she was grateful for the silence. After a few more breaths, she removed her hands and opened her eyes into slivers.

She opened her mouth to speak—

[*gro~owl*]

"Ah!"

She suddenly felt very much like hiding her face behind her hair, her neck already bowing down.

"...I did not awake in time for breakfast..."

"Oh, why didn't you say so? Come on, let's go eat!"

"Huh? What of the tour?"

"Relax, relax! We'll finish the tour later; food comes first! What kind of host would I be if I let my guest go hungry? Ha-ha!"

Having realized the cue by now, she pushed her feet forward before he could push her again, and within long, they arrived at a pair of large doors at the end of an L-shaped hallway, situated in the corner. Next to it, an open arch lead a walkway out to a large balcony.

And beside the doors stood Jamil.

Her mind, like a mill without a stream, only seemed uninterested in focusing on anything but following where the other two lead.

Eventually she found herself seated inside a large room with shining marble floor smothered by piles and piles of rugs and sitting pillows in so many colors that it made her dizzy. The glassless windows were as tall as the walls themselves, and covered only by dark teal curtains hanging from the golden pillars.

She'd crammed herself as far into the shadows as she could, that being directly next to one such curtain, sitting on the opposite end of the low table from the two boys.

She digested the news she had been given slowly, watching the shoulders of the white-haired boy, drenched in too much sunshine for her to see.

"Are you...not the Head of House Asim?"

She could already feel the cogs in her mind speed up and send anxiety flooding through her chest, draining her body of warmth.

"Nope!" The red-eyed boy shook his head, causing the gold liberally covering his person to jingle. "That's my dad. He's off doing some important business this month. Soooooo! He put me in charge 'til he gets back!"

Beside him, shaded from the rays of light flooding through the room by the one sat next to him, Jamil shook his head and sighed.

"Only with small matters. Big decisions are to be put on hold until he gets back."

She clung to his every word with rapt antipication, even as they caused dread to fill her stomach.

"Speaking of..."

Her hairs rose up in warm goosebumps when she felt him level his gaze at her, and her skin subsequently catch on fire. She only dared a single, cautious glance at him, though the sight of his gaze shot through her body almost violently, and she aimed hers at her lap once more.

"Yesterday you said you had an errand here. What was it?"

"I..." Her voice almost faltered.

She cautiously withdrew the fresh parchment from the pile of time-worn ones, and placed it gently on the table in front of her, laser-focused gaze not leaving it even as the energetic young man tried to take it, only for the other to grasp it first, eyeing the red wax seal and gasping.

"This is— the Crest of the Silkmires...!"

"The royal family from the Land of Dawning?" Kalim loudly parroted.

"Shh!"

"Oh—" he covered his mouth. "Sorry!"

She was witness with bated breath to the two of them breaking open the seal to read the words written on the parchment-- one in pure silence, the other mouthing the words in a whisper to himself.

In that moment she didn't want to say or do anything at all. All she wanted was something, anything, familiar.

She put her hand over her left breast pocket, where the felt the crinkle of old papers filled with memories, granting her new resolve. Nothing was more important than the purpose which had carried her so far from home.

"Oh, you're a princess?" 'Kalim', as Jamil had introduced him, asked, head popping up from where it had been bent to better read the letter. She could feel Jamil's eyes boring into her as well. She flustered.

"Yes..." She nodded.

"And all the way from the Land of Dawning! So what made you come to the Scalding Sands? Did you just wanna visit? I've always wanted to see the Land of Dawning!" his eyes remained firmly on her.

"That is…"

She heard a gasp and crinkle of paper. ("The Sultana is...?!")

"My... My sister Cerise left our home to be married to the Crown Prince of the Scalding Sands many years ago. I have not seen her since. And now…"

She still recalled the sad smile on her sister's face the day she left.

"She is sick..." Her voice turned to a whisper. She swallowed, her voice already strained from talking for the longest consecutive time in her life.

"She...wrote to me to convey as such. It was the first correspondence I had received from her in years. And so I..."

She closed her eyes...

She imagined Cerise, her maroon hair and tan skin illuminated only by the few candles lit in Artemisia's dark tower chamber, yet seeming always to glow brighter than all of them combined. She sat backwards on a chair in her riding habit, having come straight to Artemisia after her lessons for the day were finished. With her arms crossed on the top rail, she listented to her with rapt attention and a genuine smile, nodding her head along and asking follow-up questions to subjects Artemisia would only years later realize she had no personal interest in whatsoever.

...and drew in a deep breath.

"I have traveled here with the goal to speak to my sister in person one last time…to be allowed to at the very least say goodbye…" Her brows scrunched together and she had to stop herself from palming the letters in her pocket too hard, lest the old paper tear.

"Did Franzesca let you on her ship?" She could hear the smile in the sunny boy's voice.

She nodded.

"I begged her to let me board her vessel, and for passage to the Scalding Sands. I offered to pay her in all the jewelry I owned... I was close to tears through my entire plea."

Cowering her head, she took a moment to swallow and breathe, bringing one pale hand up to wipe away the tears forming in her eyes.

"She— she took pity on me, and informed me that, were my parents to find out I had left on her vessel, she would claim she had no knowledge of me stowing away on the ship..."

"That sounds just like her!" He nodded along with his own assesment.

Artemisia nodded in response once more, unsure of what else to do.

"Well! Now she's entrusted you to me, of course I'll help you!" He clapped his hands together and leaned closer over the table. "I'll write to the Sultan, and ask to visit her! Or if she can come here!"

"Truly?" Her pulse surged to life with desperation in her ears.

"Of course! I've got some cousins who are royal, so I'm sure it'll work out!"

"Thank you...thank you..."

She bowed her head again, squeezing her eyes shut tight to keep back the tears threatening to run down her face.

-^-v-^-v-^- [ Later - Al-Asim estate, laundry room ] -^-v-^-v-^-

Sitting on a stool in a closed-off room filled with wooden buckets, instruments she'd read of in books as being 'washboards' and the scent of soapy water, she fiddled with her skirt for the nth time that day.

The steady, rhythmic sound of the wet fabric being dragged against the rivulets of the washboard was soothing, in a strange way.

Though her gaze still couldn't help but dart around the room, despite already having looked at every nook and cranny of it long ago. Her eyes settled on the one thing, besides from the turning of day to dusk outside the window, which did constantly change; the pile of laundry. It had become rather small at this point.

"...Pardon me..." Left her like a whisper.

"Yes?" His head didn't turn from where it was, neck bent to better see the laundry in the tub.

"Is there something I could help with?"

The sigh he let out came as expected.

'Yet what else could I say?'

"I've said it three times already; there's nothing you could help with."

Rising up with the latest cleaned cloth, he brought it over to one of the long lines of rope hanging from one side of the room to the other; only the foremost of which was not entirely covered in cloth. The floor beneath them had been fashioned into a long series of many grates, so as to keep the water which dripped from his work from staining the floor as they dried.

Clutching her skirts in her lap and bowing her head in shame, she spoke:

"I...am aware... My apologies..."

He sighed once more, quieter this time.

("If you're so bored, why are you even here?") He cursed something in a foreign language under his breath.

She deigned not to answer.

("...I guess it wasn't exactly her choice. I swear, he'll lead me to a death by stress.")

Feeling the seconds stretch on too long for her liking, she spoke up once more:

"Pardon me..." She could already imagine the new sigh he was sure to heave, so continued before he could utter it: "Might there be something for me to read? If not in this room, then somewhere close? If I cannot be of any assistance to you, I would like to request a way to engage my time. No matter what manner of book it is, I would not mind; even an instruction manual would do well."

He paused for a long moment, seemingly caught in thought. Before at last, he went to the small bag she'd seen slung over his shoulder previously that day, laying next to the entrance of the room. Going through the contents, he at last retrieved something. With each step he took closer to her, her heartbeat grew a few decibels louder as it rang through her ears.

When his at once both strong yet slender hand extended the object to her, she dared not raise her eyes to see his face.

"...Thank you..." She kept her voice steady with great exertion, and let go of a breath she hadn't been aware of holding when he stepped back to the tub.

She placed a hand over her heart.

'Oh pray be still, you dysfunctioning beast! What has gotten into you?'

Yet beat and beat and beat it still did for many long seconds. Her anxiety at feeling it act up likely didn't help relieve it.

When at last it had slowed and she leveled her focus at the book he'd brought her, she felt a warm light ignite in her chest, seeing the familiar name on the cover. She removed a glove to feel the material of the cover with her own hands.

'It is old... I must take care with it.' And so she did as she softly opened the cover.

"This is…" Covering a gasp with her hand, she carefully flipped through the pages of the old tome, treating each time-worn, wrinkled page with the delicacy of one handling a snowflake. She stopped to read the notes in the margins.

"The merchant said it was some kind of find. I assume your reaction means she was telling the truth."

Artemisia nodded. "Yes…this is incredible!" she felt the corners of her mouth be tugged up into a smile. "This is a truly antique copy of a book of old fables— one of the oldest written records of various Land of Dawning myths. As it is handscribed— it appears by a scholar by the name of Leveret— this may very well be one of the first copies!"

Glancing up, she saw a thoughtful expression on his face, bordering on a smile.

"It is a shame I do not currently have access to my family's repository of texts…" She flipped through the pages of the aged tome delicately, as though handling a snowflake. "I would have loved to comb through them to be able to place a definitive date for this copy. Yet, nonetheless, it is an incredible find. ...Though, I suppose I have said as much already. Pardon me…I become rather rhapsodic when it comes to all literary matters."

Enraptured in her joy at reading the familiar fables she had grown up with, he almost missed him mutter:

("I thought the Silkmire family only had two children…how come I've only heard of Sultana Cerise and Prince Valerian before?")

Like cold water being poured over an open fire, her shoulders sagged.

'...I should not be surprised that he would wonder… Anyone who meets me would, I am certain, knew they only of two royal children of my homeland.'

= Such is for the best. = Spoke a Dove from betwixt the frigid metal bars of a silver cage. = Mother always said as much. And was she not right? =

"...I was born a sickly child, and remained as such well into my early teens, and even now. It was not known whether or not I would survive childhood. I suppose that is why the King and Queen have not mentioned me much… As a precautionary measure…"

~ We are well-aware that is not the full story, are we not? ~ She made a vein attempt to tune the Swan out.

~ It is a lie, and we both know it well. ~ She shrunk farther into herself. ~ Logically the above statement would be likely. But prejudice against those who look different is not logical— at least not when it is your own child. ~

'...Mother had her reasons. She was merely worried for my sake.'

= And with the way people stare...do we not have proof her worries were well-founded? =

She could feel his eyes on her, prickling her skin, and glanced up from the book to see him staring at her. "Is…something the matter?" she asked, brows knitted in concern.

She gripped the edge of the book, careless at this point of bending the antiquity.

'Please do not say it…'

He stayed baffled for just a second, before he cleared his throat and answered:

"No, nothing." As he swiftly looked away.

Her shoulders lost their tenseness and sagged with an exhale of relief.

Letting a moment longer pass, she gazed once more at the book.

She couldn't decide whether she'd rather keep reading or hold it against her chest like a makeshift shield.

"...This 'Philosopher's stone'..." He spoke in the quiet. "Could you tell me more about it?"

The latter sentence sent a wind, light and airy, carrying away the heavy debris from her heart, igniting in its place a spark of hope.

"You...wish to hear more of it? Truly?"

She unconsciously leaned forward. Voice tinged with disbelief, she gripped the fabric of her dress as she felt familiar, beloved stories flood her mind.

"I haven't come across it in my—...supervision of Kalim's studies."

"I see..." She fought to keep a smile off her face, fiddling with her skirts.

She cleared her throat.

"The Philosopher's Stone is an old legend of my homeland. It is said it was created in some alchemical experiment an unknown time ago… What makes it special is that it is said to bring something to whoever is currently possessing it. The exact estimation of what that gift would be varies widely depending on which retelling you hear, and from whom…"

She raised one finger. "Yet they all, in the end, boil down to the same essence: power. Whether it be through gold enough to purchase an entire kingdom, magical knowledge enough to lay waste to civilizations, or merely just the essence— power, of some unspecified kind."

She spread her hands out as though to gesture to something laid before her. "It has sometimes been used as a fairy tale of sorts; a caution's word, speaking in warning to be wary of what one wishes for, and of the consequences wishes not-thought-through might bring."

She imagined before her tales of ancient kings, of desperate widows and widowers, of scholars seeking endless knowledge— tales cruel, of the desire of people eating like a rot at all they still had and stripping it from their begging hands.

"It is sad, and cruel...and yet it has fascinated countless generations of scholars and bibliophiles alike... And some people believe it's possible to master it. To not fall prey to whatever curse of misfortune has seen fit to haunt it."

She imagined where she was when she chanced upon those select tomes. Saw visions of a young girl standing on the tips of her toes, small hands reaching the very tips of her fingers higher and higher into the shadows of a library containing the words of people eons since passed on- to the next life, to some great journey perhaps, or simply snuffed out like the candlelight she relied on to read those very same passages, and snuffed out herself once her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open and the misty tendrils of sleep claimed her mind.

He scoffed lightly. She saw on his face what she perceived to be a troubled expression of some kind, his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth bent down.

"Do you not like the story?"

A moment of silence passed.

"...It's foolish, for anyone to think a stone could make any wish come true. It sounds too good to be true."

She paused. She considered his words.

"Perhaps it is... I have asked myself as such countless times."

She placed her hand over her heart.

The flapping of a bird's wings stole her from her visions with a soft gasp of surprise signalling her return to the waking world. She blinked, brows raised high, and the visions faded, replaced by her two white, smooth, empty hands.

Her eyes searched for the bird she'd heard. Upon not seeing one, she rose from her seat and went toward the window next to the counter. She felt his eyes on her.

"The bird…"

"Bird?" He parroted.

"...Perhaps…I simply imagined it."

"It's possible that you did hear one. Many migrate south this time of year." He gestured for her to gaze further down at the courtyard, where she saw a cluster of ashen brown birds.

"Yes, so I have read… To escape the cruel, frost-laden clutches of winter. I have seen them leave every year for all my life. Yet all I knew was they ventured to 'warmer climates'. I had not imagined they would go as far as to come here, so far from their homelands." Her sight trailed upwards to a single white dove perched on a rooftop. She followed its gaze to the crowd of its not-quite peers.

"...Logically I am aware the story is one of caution... And yet..."

She followed its gaze to the crowd of its not-quite peers.

"I can understand why so many would choose to believe the legend. The yearning for the mere chance, even if false, to change your fate, a yearning so strong it thrums through your very bones..."

The dove spread its wings and in a single leap, flew into the air. With another flap of its wings, it was off, setting course for the deep red dusk sky, the traces of her envious gaze clinging to its feathers.

Yet, inexplicably, it was the same sky that stretched to her homeland. A sky filled with so many birds, of so many lands.

Of endless possibilities.

And there she stood, watching on from the ground.

Just as she always had.

"...You sometimes feel it might drive you mad."

"If I may ask…" His voice snapped her out of her revelry.

"Hm?" She muttered on instinct, head turning to see him standing at the next window over, gazing too at something far away in the sky.

"You mentioned the White Rose, and captain Cross. Did she and her crew take you all the way to Silk City, from the Land of Dawning capital?" His voice bordered on disbelief.

Artemisia merely nodded.

"...If I ever see her again, I do not know how I would ever repay her. I never thought I would ever be able to come this far. Were it not for her, her crew and vessel, I am certain it would never have come to pass."

A blanket of silence fell over the room with finality.

As the last syllable left her lips, she swallowed at the feeling of her throat stinging faintly from overuse.

Her eyes widened in shock.

'We just…had a conversation. A real, full conversation!'

She'd spoken to others before, but never like this. It had never come so naturally. Throughout them all, she had always felt a cornered duckling, rightfully ashamed of daring to show her face, to be seen at all. Never before had her thoughts and ideas been taken seriously for what they were— even less so by someone who seemed so utterly unconcerned with her, for so she saw it, ghastly appearance.

No, this discussion was like one of the scenes she read and reread and yearned to experience over and over again in her favorite books; just two minds, on even ground, engaging in a discussion.

Her heartbeat pitter-pattered in her chest, her body floating amidst the twilight's gilded clouds.

'So this is what it feels like, to have a discussion with someone...' The tops of her cheeks warmed gently with the realization.

The quiet of the world outside her mind was only broken by the sound of the wind coming from outside the windows; the same wind which now played gently with his hair.

She couldn't tear her eyes away, the sight of his bangs fluttering gently in the wind, allowing for faint glimpses of his face to be seen through the curtain of his hair. Glimpses that made the loud beating of her heart swell in rhythm to the swaying wind.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ I had originally planned to use some Arabic in this fic— that's what the purple text is supposed to be— but then I realized that if I tried to do that, I would never actually get this out

So yeah just be aware that whenever you see purple text in the future, that means they're speaking Arabic Considering maybe changing it in the future, but for now I'll keep it like this

(side note if you find any typos please lmk bc I don't have time to go through and check right now)

Tag list: @another-random-paradise @thehollowwriter @faefum @cactus13-rolloflammesimp @beneathsakurashade

@nyx-of-night @theolivetree123 @babyghoul138 @skibidibabygirl @justm3di0cr3

@screamintoad

[mysterious-prophetess]

TIL that Skyloft was potentially going to be in TotK.

Kind of wish it was. I'm not as fond of Skyward Sword as I am Twilight Princess or Ocarina of Time, but despite everything, I have a soft spot for it, and being up in the sky, I would have liked even to see the Lumpy Pumpkin Inn Island instead if it was a size thing.

Though, don't even get me started on how empty the Depths were.

[planet4546b]

i really like it when you start a book and immediately grab onto it with both hands

[karaloza]

Legend of Zelda Theme Park - Skyward Realm (UPDATED)

The Skyward Realm was a later addition to my theme park concept (much like how fully explorable airborne environments didn’t become a thing until relatively recently in the franchise). It obviously draws inspiration from Skyward Sword and the sky islands of Tears of the Kingdom, but you can also meet the Rito here, and elements from a few of the LoZ series’ sky-themed dungeons are used for flavor.

Strikingly, the area is built to a much higher elevation than the rest of the park–it sits atop a structure as much as 100 feet tall (which doubles as a show building for a few rides). The edges of the structure are covered in artificial clouds to emphasize the “skyborne” nature of the area, and the buildings are decorated with colorful pinwheels and flags to catch the breeze. (Some of the larger ones are marked on the map with asterisks.) Only a small strip of the area’s footprint is at ground level, to contain the entrances and/or exits of the escalators, elevators, and rides that make the Skyward Realm accessible. A peaceful music loop of tunes associated with aerial environments, the Rito, and flight scenarios plays throughout the area.

Attractions

Ancient Cannon: The queue and loading area for this ride are actually at ground level, because the point is to be a more exciting means of traveling to the Skyward Realm. A powerful magnetic launch sends guests shooting up a steep slope to the upper level, where they disembark; the car then reverses gently down the track for the next bunch.

Sailcloth Plunge: By the same token, those looking to return to ground level might take this ride, a simple parachute drop.

Flight Range: One of the most technologically sophisticated rides in the park, this one combines arm-mounted vehicles with 3D screen effects and “virtual” bows and arrows so guests can test their archery skills at Revali’s own target-shooting range!

Landing Platform: A meet-and-greet for Rito characters (Revali, Kass, Medli, Tulin), who actually “soar” in from a nearby tower (via zipline) when they’re ready for the guests!

Wing Ceremony: Echoing Universal’s Dueling Dragons, this relatively gentle suspended coaster features two interweaving tracks and red and blue cars with a Loftwing motif.The track actually extends over the edge of the Skyward Realm for a sensation of true flight!

Astral Observatory: Officially the highest point in Hyrule, this mysterious tower contains many beautiful star charts, astronomical instruments, and other details to peruse while enjoying a mystical music playlist and waiting your turn to peer through one of the telescopes for an unparalleled (and AR-enhanced) view of the kingdom.

Eagus’s Sword Academy: Kids 12 and under receive foam swords and instruction in a variety of sword moves from none other than Eagus, the swordmaster of the Skyloft Knights Academy! Up to four “lessons” (shows) a day.

Shops

8. Oocca Pod Shop: Named for the odd little shop in the City in the Sky in Twilight Princess, this shop offers a variety of kites, gliders, and other airborne toys (but please don’t throw them off the edge of the Realm).

9. Brazen Beak Plumage Boutique: Named after the Rito Village clothing store in Breath of the Wild and providing much the same function here—souvenir clothing and feathered accessories such as headbands, hair clips, cockades, and costume wings.

Eateries

10. The Lumpy Pumpkin: Based on the inn of the same name from Skyward Sword, this buffet restaurant serves home-style food with pumpkin specialties.

11. Light Lunches: Heavy meals won't do for flying creatures, so this counter service restaurant offers a variety of prepackaged salads, fruit bowls, flaky pastries, and fluffy mousse desserts, for adventurers who don't want to be weighed down.

12. Luv & Bertie's Enhanced Elixirs: Another beverage location in the vein of the Potion Hut, this one themed to the potion-making couple from Skyward Sword.

Miscellaneous

Like Epona Ranch, the Skyward Realm has no Spirit Train station of its own. It is readily accessed from the one attached to Zora’s Domain (pictured, but not labeled).

The three pearl-like icons indicate the locations of Zonai Device Dispensers as described in this post.

[figkeele]

during the last two days, I finished reading 3 books.* my eyeballs feel like jelly, but my brain is so refreshed.

now maybe I can start editing this long-ass fic again. 😭😭😭

(*The Hobbit, Skyward Inn, and What Lies in the Woods if anyone's interested)

[mxdotpng]

i saw someone argue the other day that majoras mask isnt one of zeldas strongest stories entirely because the meat of the game lies in side quests. and its like. i dont know what to tell you. the side quests ARE the main story. to fully enjoy majoras mask you have to play the side quests. ironically enough, majoras mask wants you to take your time with it. it isnt meant to be rushed through like ocarina of time or skyward sword. its the one title in the series where the entire game has meaning. every single quest and dialogue and character has meaning. on the night of the third day, cremia tells you that she'll see you tomorrow. she gave romani something to sleep peacefully through the night, so she may not feel fear. she knows neither of them will wake the next day. anju waits alone in her bedroom in her wedding dress, on the night before her wedding, in hopes her missing fiance will find her before its too late. she does not flee, because this is the only place kafei will know to find her. there is a baby goron who is so hungry, he can't stop crying. sing him a lullaby, and all will be well. the deku butler aids you not only because he believes in your story, but because you look like his dead son, and he cannot imagine leaving you to fight without any help. the guards beg for you to flee the town, but they themselves stay, because if they can save you, then what are the odds someone else needs a guide, too? deep in the canyon, there is a little girl desperately trying to save her father, even though she is alone, because he is all she has. the old lady at the inn wishes to tell you a story, wont you sit and listen? and though the worlds end is wrought by his own hands, the skull kid did not want this. you saw the drawing in that tree stump, didnt you? hes so alone. everyone in this town is so alone. you're meant to give them company, and to know their sorrows. the world resets in three days, and only you will remember what it is you saw, but trying to spare them their grief matters, anyway. the world may have lost its proof that you were there, but you have not. its stuck with you, forever.