#slow fire burn

[theoriginalladya]

Yesterday I reblogged a post about the positive impact of fanart on a writer and, by association, other writers and, presumably, other fanartists. I have been fortunate enough to have this happen to me once, and I thought maybe starting off 2024 by sharing it might spread some positivity in the fandom writing/arting community.

It's been a while - I finished Slow Fire Burn almost four years ago (wow! It's really been that long???) - but I love this picture and I still pull it out often to look at, especially when I'm in a tough place writing-wise.

The picture by the lovely renegone is of Maleea Shepard and Kaidan Alenko sitting on the porch swing at her home on Mindoir with Chief (the varren) and LT (German Shepherd) lying beneath it.

I cannot put into words how shocked and amazed I was at the time (and still am, every time I look at it!), because it takes such a simple scene and really brings it to life for me.

Anyway, that's my story. Huge thanks to all the artists who give so generously of their time and talents to writers! I won't speak for everyone, but I know for myself, it really inspires me to keep on going, even when it gets hard to write.

Side note: Slow Fire Burn ended up having a long break in the middle because I did hit a wall with it, but this picture did help me eventually come back to it and finish. :)

[blurbery]

more 🩵🩷 bsky dump

[shihoerusu]

“you rise with the moon. I rise with the sun”

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Eternally grateful for my best gal @oceanview15 for all her amazing ideas and support

[rottenherbs]

In The Quiet

Paring: H.P x Reader Tags: slow burn / friends to lovers / Summary: its hard for others to see past the pain and burdens of Harry and his legacy, but not for you - though the quiet connection and bond may take time to grow ~ W/C: 2.1k A/N: SECOND PART IN MASTERLIST [masterlist] Much love, Saige

It was the little moments that you remembered most. The soft rustling of parchment as you sat next to him, the smell of the Library as it embraced the quiet of the late afternoon, the faint sound of quills scratching away at notes. 

You had always been the type to sit at the back of the room, not one for attention, preferring to observe the chaos from the sidelines.

Harry Potter, however, was impossible to ignore. Even in moments like this, where he was simply reading through his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook, his presence seemed to radiate, to draw attention without him trying. He’d always been the one who stood out — the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the hero everyone admired. But there was something else to him, something that not even the other students seemed to notice.

It wasn’t until you started spending more time around him that you realized how much of Harry’s world was hidden beneath the surface.

The first time you noticed was in Potions class, when you were paired together by Professor Snape. You had exchanged a few awkward glances when the assignment began, but Harry had immediately fallen into the rhythm of the task, a steady hand as he chopped the ingredients and stirred the cauldron. There was a certain determination in his movements, something that made you look closer.

His concentration was intense, but not in the way you’d expect from someone who was always being watched. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone; it was more like he was lost in the work, escaping into the task as if it was the only thing that made sense in the chaos of his life.

“Need any help?” you asked softly, breaking the silence between you.

Harry blinked, his glasses slipping down slightly as he turned to face you. His expression was one of surprise, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to notice him, let alone offer help. His eyes were a deep shade of green — bright, almost too bright.

“No, I’ve got it,” he replied, his voice a little rough, but not unkind.

You nodded, unsure of what to say next. The way he said it wasn’t dismissive, but there was a quiet edge to it, as though he preferred being left to his own devices.

The rest of the class passed in the usual blur of Snape’s reprimands and the clatter of cauldrons. But for some reason, you couldn’t stop thinking about Harry, about how he’d seemed so distant yet so very human in that brief exchange. His unspoken words weighed on you as you made your way to the library after class.

Later that week, you found yourself in the library again. It had become your sanctuary — the place where you could lose yourself in books, in silence. As you walked down the aisles, you spotted him. Harry sat at a table near the back, his head buried in a book. You hesitated, considering whether to turn around and leave, but something kept you rooted to the spot.

You couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, like there was something more you needed to understand.

“Harry?” you called gently, the sound of your voice surprising even you. It felt strange, even now, to speak to him this casually.

He looked up, and for a moment, his face softened. “Y/N,” he said, the faintest smile pulling at his lips. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I could say the same to you,” you replied, an awkward laugh escaping you as you pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. “I thought I was the only one who spent hours in this place.”

“Yeah,” Harry chuckled, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Guess I’m not as good at avoiding it as I thought.”

There was a long pause, the two of you both lost in your own thoughts for a moment. You could hear the faint rustle of pages being turned, the quiet hum of students in their own world. The longer you sat there, the more you realized how much Harry wasn’t saying.

“You don’t talk about it much, do you?” you finally asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He looked at you, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he was debating whether to answer. “Talk about what?”

“The whole… ‘Chosen One’ thing,” you said carefully. “I mean, everyone knows, right? But it’s like… it’s not something you talk about. It’s just always there, hanging in the background.”

Harry’s expression hardened for a moment, but then he sighed, closing his book. “I don’t like talking about it.” His words were quiet but firm.

“I know,” you said softly. “I don’t think that defines you. I think you’re… more than what everyone expects.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, but you didn’t regret it. Harry blinked at you, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual. For a fleeting moment, the distance between you seemed to vanish, and something unspoken passed between the two of you. But just as quickly, the wall was back up.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice low, almost inaudible.

You nodded, unsure of what else to say. Harry didn’t often open up, and you weren’t sure if he’d let you in, but in this moment, it felt like you were closer than before. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

The following week passed in a blur of classes, homework, and whispered conversations in the hallways. Yet, every time you found yourself walking through the corridors of Hogwarts, your thoughts would inevitably wander back to Harry. It wasn’t just his quiet intensity or the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was the moments when he let his guard down, even if just for a fleeting second — the moments that made you wonder who Harry Potter really was beneath the hero the world had come to know.

You saw him again the next day, in the library, as you expected. It had become a routine of sorts — Harry with his textbooks spread across the table, his brow furrowed in concentration as he studied. You couldn’t help but notice how often he seemed to sit alone, even though the library was always filled with students.

You were about to sit at your usual spot when you noticed that the chair across from him was empty. You hesitated for a moment, considering the decision. You had grown accustomed to your solitary study sessions, and yet something about Harry sitting there, alone in the midst of the crowd, made you feel like it was the right thing to do.

Without thinking too much about it, you made your way over to his table.

“Mind if I sit here?” you asked softly, a hesitant smile tugging at your lips.

Harry’s eyes flickered up, his gaze a little surprised but not unwelcoming. “Not at all,” he said, adjusting his glasses as he pushed several books aside to make room. “Sorry,I, uh, didn’t expect anyone to sit with me.”

You raised an eyebrow, unable to hide the slight laugh that escaped you. “Is it because you’ve got a reputation?” You teased, helping him patiently with the strewn papers.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, something like that.” He glanced down at his textbook for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts. “I suppose some people feel like they’d be bothering me.”

You smiled, settling into your seat. “I don’t think you’re that intimidating.”

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of Harry’s lips. “Maybe not, but… it’s easier to stay in the background. People don’t really notice me when I’m quiet.”

“I noticed,” you said without thinking, meeting his gaze. “I mean… when you’re not talking about all the stuff people expect you to. It’s like, you’re not just the ‘Chosen One’ or whatever. You’re… Harry.”

His expression softened, his eyes studying you for a moment. “I don’t talk about it because it feels like… like it’s the only thing people care about. But I get it. It’s a big deal, right? I just want to be more than that.”

“You are more than that,” you said, your voice firm. “People don’t always get to see past that.”

Harry seemed to contemplate your words, but before he could respond, a loud voice broke the quiet atmosphere.

“Oi, Potter!” came Ron’s booming voice from across the room. He was waving enthusiastically, his red hair unmistakable among the sea of students. “You're actually studying for once, mate?”

Harry sighed, but there was an amused twinkle in his eye as he looked up at Ron. “You’d think I’d learn by now, wouldn’t you?”

Ron grinned as he made his way over, dropping his bag onto the table with a thud. “Maybe. I’ve been trying to get Hermione to give me a hand with my Potions homework, but you know how she is.”

“Yeah,” Harry said dryly. “She probably expects you to read the book first, Ron.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the easy banter between the two of them. It was strange, how you had always seen Harry through the lens of his fame — the brave kid who saved the day. But now, sitting here with him, you are starting to see him differently. He wasn’t just a hero, or a legend. He was a person, full of quirks and insecurities, just like everyone else.

Ron looked over at you and grinned. “Oh, hey, Y/N. Didn’t see you there.”

“Hi, Ron,” you replied, trying to suppress a smile. You didn’t mind Ron — he was always good-natured and seemed to have a never-ending supply of energy. But there was something in his presence that made you feel like you were losing a bit of the connection you had with Harry. It was strange - how quickly things could shift when someone else entered the equation.

Harry seemed to pick up on your change in demeanor, his eyes flickering between you and Ron. “You’re not interrupting anything,” Harry said, turning back to you, though his tone was lighter now, almost playful.

“Good,” Ron said, flopping down in the chair next to Harry. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t brooding too much over your homework, mate.”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t respond, and after a moment, the conversation shifted toward something else — Quidditch, of course. It was always Quidditch with Ron. And though Harry joined in, you noticed that he didn’t quite seem as enthusiastic as usual. He was quieter, more subdued, his focus drifting back to his notes.

Later that night, after dinner, you found yourself walking back to the Gryffindor Tower. The halls were mostly empty, save for a few lingering students finishing up their late-night study sessions.

As you passed the corridor that led to the common room, you saw Harry standing by a window, staring out into the darkening sky. It wasn’t unusual for him to be somewhere alone, but something about the way he was standing there — his shoulders tense, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon — made you stop in your tracks.

“Harry?” you called out softly.

He turned, his expression surprised but not entirely shocked to see you there. “Y/N,” he said quietly. “Didn’t expect you to be out here.”

“I could say the same,” you replied, taking a step closer. “What are you thinking about?”

Harry hesitated, a brief flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “Nothing,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Just… everything, I guess. I keep wondering when it’ll all stop. When I’ll get a break.”

“You don’t always have to carry it alone, you know,” you said, your voice gentle but firm.

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment, the weight of his words hung between you like an unspoken truth. He didn’t reply, but there was something in the way he stood there, something in the quiet that passed between you, that felt… different.

Like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to believe it.

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

Why is it always a little dangerous with us? 

[anhandfulgirl18]

CHICAGO FIRE 13.09 -> Violet and Sam bickering like a married couple (but they're not even a couple and it hurts)

[thefandomsfervent]

Viktor x Reader Personal Pigments (Part 6) - Carmine Red

Longest one yet! A little more panic/PTSD mention, a lot more of Viktor being confused. Find my imagine that inspired it here. Previous and next chapter will be linked at the bottom. Thank you for reading <3

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You had finished the drawing a couple hours ago. Jayce and Viktor didn't let you throw it away after, which you didn't intend to do. But Viktor heard you unclip it from the board and simply raised his brows at Jayce before leaning his head in your direction.

The tan man was at your station in a heartbeat. Before you could say anything, he gently pulled it from your hands and posted it to the wall with some pins. It reminded you of your first days at the Institute, when the peers you had made forced each other to show their work. Not out of maliciousness this time, but out of care. Or like a proud parent posting a drawing to the cupboard. It was silly either way.

You laughed before saying "if you don't let me spray fixative on it, the charcoal will rub off"

"Good thing this room has great ventilation." Is all Jayce said. He sat back down at his station and kept scribbling in his notebook. Him and Viktor had stopped fiddling with the crystals for today. Both of them pouring over textbooks and pages of notes.

You decided to leave early for dinner and take a walk to clear your head. Then you could come back focused. Despite calming yourself down, your leg still bounced with an undirected energy. It waved the papers loosely hanging off your table, it made your shoe tap against the tile, it made every sound overwhelming. You bid the boys a quick goodbye, “I’ll be back later,” and headed out. The two of them wave you off without looking up from their texts.

A cool breeze greets you when you step outside of the Academy. It’s a welcome feeling, it pulls the residual anxiety from your chest. You walk around the whole building twice, letting the heat peel off you into the evening air. By the time you’re back inside, the sun has sunk below the horizon. A comforting chill settled into your bones. Dinner sounded amazing, although you hadn’t really stocked up on any cookable foods this week. A sandwich? 

It’d have to do. 

You make a beeline for your pantry as soon as you’re in your room. The sandwich didn’t stand a chance. Poor thing. You thought about making a second one as you sat in a chair. Exhaustion runs deep in your body. The room you were provided with was much warmer than the refreshing air outside. Before you know it, you’re leaning back and closing your eyes. Darkness a balm on the headache you’ve been sporting since this afternoon. 

It isn’t a dreamless sleep that greets you. 

It’s that damned bridge. It’s enforcers. It’s spilled paint. Broken glass. A scream. A hand grabbing at your shoulder. Fire. Heat. Burning pain. Running. You were running. Reaching towards something. Almost there, you were almos- 

The gulp of air you take is loud. It’s dry and you’re coughing on nothing but your own drool. You were already standing. The chair was laying on its back behind you. Your neck was stiff and a shooting pain makes you wince when you turn for water. It’s a slow walk to the sink. One that has you collecting your breaths, your thoughts. “What time is it?” A clock on the wall tells you it’s late. Really late. They were expecting you back in the lab hours ago. You hadn’t really given them an exact time, but guilt climbs its way to the top of your mountainous feelings. It slides back down when you realize how thirsty you were. You’re chugging two glasses of water, one after another, barely breathing between gulps. 

You were okay, you weren’t there anymore. It was a dream. A bad one, but a dream. You could forget it and move on just like the rest of the world wanted to do. You didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t have to. There was work to do. 

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Jayce had left for bed a couple hours ago. They moved on from trying to stabilize the crystals to talk more about what they could accomplish with them. There was no point charging at the same problem over and over again expecting change. They “needed to let it sit and come back to it later”. Or that’s what Jayce said when they reached an impasse for the hundredth time that week. It bothered him. It bothered both of them. Since you left, the two of them had bounced ideas and theories off each other.  Filling post notes and papers with equations and editing each other’s. He looks at Jayce’s barely legible scribbles and smiles softly. It is comforting to know that they are in this together. 

He turns to face your empty table. You had been gone for a while. He was not worried, per se, but it was peculiar considering your moment earlier today. He looks at the drawing Jayce pinned to a wall. You had replicated that harsh line several times over, smaller branches splintering off of them. They radiated around the center. Instead of just ovals, rectangles, and thin lines in the center shaping a body, you had refined them. Added details. Jayce’s broad shoulders leading to a barely shaded vest. A dark tie. His hands frenetically move around in almost every iteration. “She’s certainly captured his energy.” He thinks to himself, quietly chuckling at the depiction. His eyes wander around the drawing until something catches his eye. He looks at the lab as you’ve drawn it. The background is much simpler, unshaded planes to represent the walls and tables, he thinks that if you had drawn it all in the same detail it would have been overwhelming. Details that he finds himself looking at again and again. 

You drew Viktor with the same effort as you had drawn Jayce. His hair swept up in tousled curls. “It was not that unkempt today… was it?” He runs his hands through the dark chestnut locks. He fiddles with the handle on his cane, you had drawn that too. There were a few versions of him that didn’t have it, the ones where he was sitting, or leaning on Jayce. It is an odd feeling that sits in his stomach. When you painted him, would you painstakingly capture every detail on it? It should not bother him. He likes that you do not hide it. He doesn’t know what to do with that liking.  When this painting was displayed, and he stood next to his partner, would people see past it? He chooses to focus on that bitter question instead. It is an easier, more familiar feeling.  It doesn’t sit in his stomach, but his chest. A buzzing that irks him. Damn them if they do, damn them if they don’t. It did not matter. He was doing great things for himself, for Jayce. For Hextech. 

The huff that follows has more emotion to it than he would like to admit. Viktor turns away from the drawing, instead to your work space. Remnants of broken charcoal on your table and below it. You’d crushed it not just in your hand, but under your boots. He thinks back to that moment when you had stood. Like you had seen something when the crystal hadn’t agreed with their experiment. Not seen something, remembered something.  When you came back from the hallway he thought that was that. But while you were drawing he heard it. Your boot tapping on the tile and the way you had stopped several times during your process. He had seen you go at it for hours straight before, not stopping once. Yet you had paused several times over today. After Jayce had pinned your work to the wall, you had left rather quickly. You said you’d be back later. And it was late. 

It was late, and he should be working instead of wondering about you. So he stretches his arms out, flexing and unflexing his hands. He works for another 30 or 40 minutes when he hears the door open. The scrape of it on the floor pulling his head up from textbooks and notes. You walked in looking… tired. 

“You are back so soon?” The sarcasm in his question is not lost on you. You give a half-smile, not really reaching your eyes as you make your way to your chair.

“Lost track of time,” You look down at a crunch. Another piece of charcoal decimated under your boot. “I forget how messy this medium is, sorry.” You’re bending down to sweep it onto a piece of paper. He hums a reply but doesn’t look at you. “Is Jayce still around?” You’re scanning the lab, realizing he isn’t there. 

“It is late Ms. L/N.” He doesn’t use your first name yet. It has become habit to address you by your last. Again, you do not seem offended by it. This time it’s you who gives a wordless reply. You’re pulling out a sheet of glass. It clinks against your table and he looks at you. You’re bending behind your desk again, pulling out small jars of liquid, powders, and a jar of… bugs? Curiosity gets the better of him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m mixing paint.” You’re pulling out a mortar and pestle now, pouring some of the bugs into the bowl. They make a scratchy hollow sound. Dead bugs. Better than live ones he supposes, but interesting. He stands and makes his way over to you. You don’t look up when his cane taps along the tile, you don’t look up when he stands in front of you either.  You begin to crush them. At first they were brown. After a few pushes of the pestle, a red powder collects. 

“Paint?” He leans closer on the word. “From beetles?” 

“Not beetles, but close. These are female cochineal bugs. Parasitic from Shurima.” Expensive. You don’t say that part but he assumes. You’re handling them very carefully. “They make a beautiful purple-red, if you do it all right.” You’re grinding them down finely before pouring them into the water. You stir it with the edge of a pencil until it’s fully mixed. As mixed as dried bugs can be with water. You pour something white into it after, it turns it purple as you start mixing. At his raised brow say, “Sodium Carbonate. If I add heat to it, it’ll pull the acid out of the pigment.” Still mixing. “Can I borrow a burner?” You look tired. 

“You start all of this without your own?” He’s intrigued at your process, the question is playful. You hear the tone and this time the smile reaches your eyes. “Oh master scientist, please take pity on me.” Your voice is quiet, deadpan, but he plays along. 

“Since you are in such distress, how could I deny the plea.” He doesn’t grab it for you, you seem to have already known that they have one. He gestures to the lab behind you. You hand him the pencil and motion for him to keep stirring. He does. He stirs slowly and watches as you make your way across the lab and grab one. It is another odd feeling he can’t name. Watching you move around the lab with familiarity. What else did you take notice of here? This whole time he assumed that you were studying him and Jayce. He hadn’t realized you’d been taking it all in. You’re striking a match when you settle, lighting the coil. It comes to life and you take the glass from him. Your fingers were cold as they passed over his. You put the glass on the plate above the burner and lean back in your chair.  

“What now?”

“We wait, until it boils.” You grab something else, a filter, more powders, another glass. “Then I’ll filter it, mix it with some alum, boil it again,split some of it with something acidic to make purple, strain them again, and let them dry.“

“Do you mix all your paints?” You look up at him to respond. He tries to keep his focus on the now boiling mixture but a light catches in your eyes. The fire slowly licking around your irises. 

“Not all of them. But when I can, I do.” He swallows and that same look of observation you wore on that first day follows the bob in his throat. “It connects me to the process.” You look away and grab another small jar of powder. It was a bright pinky purple, almost empty save for what could have been a couple grams. “Eventually it’ll look like this before I mix it with binder. I needed to restock.” You gently dump the jar onto the glass plate you pulled out earlier. You’re grabbing something else when you glance at him again. “Thank you.” 

“For what?” He can’t hide the surprise in his voice.

“For listening.” You’re already focusing back on your mixing. Adding an oily substance to the plate and circling it over with some kind of glass tool. Even pressure, the grinding a satisfying sound. He doesn’t know what to say to that. So he just nods, unsurely, and goes back to his seat. This time the ambiance of the lab is made up of his scribbling and your tinkering. It goes on like this for about an hour. 

The bubbling of your mixture stops eventually. Loss of the sound pulls him from his work, he watches you pour it over a filter. Liquid starts dripping into the glass. You cross your arms on the table and lay your head down. He sees you shift in your chair a few times, your breathing moving your shoulders.

The clinking starts off fast but slows after a few minutes. And by the time the liquid fills the glass, no dripping at all, your breathing has evened out. Viktor keeps working. Reading a passage in one of the many books him and Jayce had checked out that week. 

“Every occurrence in Nature is preceded by other occurrences which are its causes, and succeeded by others which are its effects. The human mind is not satisfied with observing and studying any natural occurrence alone, but takes pleasure in connecting every natural fact with what has gone before it, and with what is to come after it. - J. Tyndall”. 

He marks the page.

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lol, so I loved the quote but the picture I found it on reallllly screams graphic design is my passion

--------------.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ Part 5-.-Part 7.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .-----------------

------------‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙· Master Fic List *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊--------------

[plusultraetc]

there are many wonderful interpretations of erasermic and they are all my favorite but I think the funniest possible version is that they were each other's unserious first kiss in high school but didn't start dating until post-canon

[toyastales]

Come on baby light my fire 🔥

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

A Court of Fire & Masks Master List

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 1

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 2

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 3

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 4

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 5

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 6

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 7

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 8

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 9

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 10

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 11

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 12

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 13

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 14

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 15

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 16

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 17

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 18

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 19

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 20

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 21

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 22

[hyakunana]

The Former Most Miserable Man That Ever Stepped in DGP is found saving the future with a shield and FIVE CHAINSAWS

[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.03 ~ ♆

“ Let the 67th Annual Hunger Games begin, “

{{ finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, insinuation of forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, death, nightmares, etc

{{ word count }} 4.5 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} The tribute Parade comes and goes as training begins and the next two weeks all but fly past. Then after an intrusive interview the day of the Games arrives.

{{ a/n }} Super quick “highlights” up ahead !! This chapter jumps around a bit and is much faster paced than normal but i swear it makes sense in the long run I just didn’t want to bore you all with regurgitated details to be revealed later on. enjoy!!

You didn’t see Finnick again.

Not even after arriving in the Capital on the train platform. A small piece of you had started to regret your outburst, but a bigger part was too stubborn to admit that. Besides, the likelihood of you seeing the boy again was slim. Thatcher was right in saying you’d be “whisked away” because everything moved incredibly fast from then on.

Your transport to the Tribute Center was quick and efficient. You were barely able to settle before a prep team all but kidnapped you and whisked you away once more to the Remake Center to prepare for the parade and opening ceremonies of the Games.

The prep team’s techniques were invasive, to say the least. Almost every inch of your skin was examined, prodded at, scrubbed, washed, plucked, waxed, moisturized, and polished when they finished the lengthy cleaning process. Even The dried blood under your fingernails had been picked away. As more time passed, the more you really did start to feel like some kind of show animal or “prize-winning salmon” leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

Managing a weak thanks as you’re handed a flimsy gown to cover up with, your prep team gives a nod before leaving. That too-clean feeling from the train ride sends pinpricks up your spine again as you sit up to slide the gown on and peer around the sleek room. It’s wide open and similar to some kind of medical bay, although much more modern than the small clinics back in District 4. Peacekeepers line the outside wall along slanted windows. There are many smothered voices behind plastic, vinyl curtains used to separate the small prep rooms down the open corridor. It’s safe to assume you’re surrounded by the other Tributes.

A stylist introduces herself to you as Hyacinth, briefly explaining the vision behind the luxurious garment as it’s pulled from a protective sleeve on the hanger in her hands. Every set of Tributes was given costumes to match their District’s core industry to wear throughout the parade. District 4’s costumes, obviously, represented their many fisheries. The garment was difficult to distinguish from any other fishing net made on your ports back home, but as the stylist began to wrap the intricate material around your exposed skin it began to look more like a costume.

You were right about the ensemble being mostly netting. Thankfully, you were provided a bodysuit that had been airbrushed to match your complexion and painted details to resemble gills across the sides of your ribs. Large iridescent blue-green fish scales had been woven in and across the netting on your chest as if splattered there, crawling up your collarbones and wrapping around your shoulders. More scales were placed down your arms towards your fingertips, and the same process was applied to your legs with a sticky substance. The bottom of the netted costume had more scales adorning the hemming, their colors changing under the lights. You were left barefoot, which you felt was a bit dangerous, but you were too focused on their intricate handiwork to object to. Your hair was left in its natural texture, although Hyacinth laid a few pieces just how she wanted them. Ear cuffs made to resemble fins wrap around the shell of your ears. Your makeup was painted on in colors to match the color-shifting scales, and your fingernails and toes were painted an ocean blue.

“You look absolutely stunning Darling,”

Hyacinth had stepped back to admire her finished product, and you couldn’t help the insecurity churning your insides. A bathing suit revealed more than a netted outfit, but you couldn’t help feeling completely exposed. “I-It is very beautiful. Thank you,” You try not to stumble on your words as you do a small twirl in the mirror. Hyacinth’s smile spreads, and she gives a giddy clap of her hands, largely appreciating the flattery.

“Wonderful Darling!! Now, come, come, we must get you downstairs. Your chariot awaits!”

You’re ushered away from the small prep room and quickly transported from the Remake Center to an open-air stadium for the Tribute Parade. Upon entering a large open hall connected to the stadium floor, you notice the twelve shiny mental chariots pulled by beautiful inky Clydesdales. The horse’s mane and tails are freshly groomed, and their coats shine in the stadium lights. You can’t help thinking what magnificent creatures they are as you approach. The other Tributes around you are resigned to themselves, talking only to their stylists or one another. Your district partner and their stylist are already beside your chariot as well. You offer a small hello but wander over to the beautiful inky-colored creatures attached to the chariot.

One of the Clydesdales gives a soft whinny as you gently reach out to stroke its mane. You’d only seen horses less than a handful of times but had always admired the strong creatures. The remaining minutes you have before the opening ceremonies begin are spent stroking the horse’s strong neck and muzzle while whispering sweet nothings to the creatures.

Once an announcement is made that the ceremony is about to begin, you give the horses a sweet smile in farewell before stepping up onto the chariot beside your District Partner. You hadn’t noticed the odd look they’d given you, but their eyes quickly averted upon you meeting their stare. That familiar anxious knot twists your insides as the gleaming chariot lurches forward to follow the procession. Your knuckles turn white from how stiff your grip on the front of the chariot is.

The parade runs smoothly, though you find the loud cheers and hollers of the hundreds of thousands gathered to watch the event extremely overwhelming. Bitterness sets in your jaw as you remember they only care about the entertainment your death will provide. Your promise echoes through your mind as you take your eyes from the grandstands to look ahead toward the President of Panem, Coriolanus Snow.

You will not die.

Training begins in the morning, bright and early. There’s officially less than two weeks before the Games. All twenty-four tributes are transported to the Training center from their quarters and dressed in nearly identical uniforms consisting of black athletic long sleeves and pants with sleek black combat boots. Burnt orange accents run up the side seams and across the shoulders of their uniforms. The only distinction between Tributes is their district number embroidered on their backs in the same burnt orange as the accents on their clothes.

You scan the large training area as everyone spreads out to show off their personal strengths. Shifting your weight between your feet, you try to focus on your brief discussion with mags over breakfast. The goal of the training is to be observed by potential sponsors who can send aid in the arena. The more sponsors you get, the better your odds of potentially surviving. Your goal wasn’t to gain as many sponsors as possible by showing off but instead focusing on honing your skills to survive without the extra gifts. With a deep inhale, you make your way to a tall rope course that stretches the expanse of the upper levels of the hall and get to work.

The first few days spent in the Training Center, you work on getting through the ropes course, then getting through the course with weights, then doing both things while being as light-footed and silent as possible. You try to distance yourself from the other tributes, especially the growing pack of careers. Your best bet is to blend in and remain invisible to keep others off your back. Tensions increase after the first week, and a fight inevitably breaks out between the careers. Two female tributes are arguing for power within the alliance, ending in the pack dividing in two. You can only hope the grudges they now carry become their downfall in the arena as you resume your knife-throwing practice.

You’re not the best, but you manage to at least hit the target a few times. By the end of the next day, you’re hitting the target, although nowhere near the center or any crucial extremities on the human cutout. It would be enough to slow an opponent but nothing lethal at long range. You tried to push away the bile that threatened to rise in your throat whenever you remembered the high possibility of actually facing another human being with these knives. You hoped it wouldn’t come down to that, but your rationale knew better. The claim you spat in that bronze-haired boy’s face rang in your ears.

“I’d rather choose death than a life with blood on my hands.”

You scrape by with a score of six during the private Tribute Showcase, nimbly traversing the ropes course with a heavy weight on your back with barely a sound. Your goal of staying under the radar had worked.

Tonight, Hyacinth was fawning over another luxurious garment designed for your impending live audience interview with the ever-charismatic and flamboyant Caesar Flickerman. The stylist monologues her vision while zipping the back of the ensemble. Your costume tonight was made to represent the sea itself, a deep aquamarine bodysuit covered in various droplet crystals hugging your form, and a makeshift cape of the same deep color fades into layers of progressively lighter sea greens and blues, mimicking the sea foam of rolling waves on the coast. The many layers of the waterfall cape move in a satisfying cascade down your back to the floor, trailing behind you.

You’re given slim boots to match the bodysuit, and your hair is pinned up to showcase your bare back and the excessive cape. Ear cuffs nearly identical to the ones you wore during the parade wrap around your ears, and your makeup is honed more to accentuate your natural features than cover them. The polish on your fingernails is a muted sea green that causes a twist in your chest. The color reminds you too much of a certain bronze-haired boy.

Regret flashes through you again.

“Alright, Darling, shoulders back. Head high, you’ll be a spectacle no one will look away from,” Hyacinth coos as she brushes the fabric across your shoulders and adjusts finishing minute details. You offer a small smile with a sweet thanks before she loops your arm in hers and leads you toward the wings backstage. You really weren’t fond of the many cameras or prying eyes that awaited beyond your shadowy safe haven out of view, but you didn’t have a choice but to smile and play the part.

The male Tribute of District 3 is wrapping up their brief interview, and that anxious knot contorts harshly inside your chest. Soon, the interviewer and interviewee stand, shake hands, and the Tribute exits stage left.

“Now, Our next Tribute hails from the northern end of our beloved District 4,”

Caesar chirps through his introduction, and a nudge from behind urges you forward at the call of your name. You startle forward but manage to keep a sureness in your steps. The bright flashing lights and mechanical snaps of cameras form an overstimulating cacophony between the roar of the Capital citizens. The host of tonight’s event is adorned in sparkling silver, from the top of his slicked-back hair down to piercing eye contacts and a monochromatic tux that you could’ve sworn was closer to chrome from the gleaming shine.

You offer a wavering smile as you approach the host. Caesar Flickerman motions you to the seat beside him as he descends to the eggshell-colored swivel chair. You take your seat, adjusting the cascading cape to flow over the arm of the chair to remain because of the audience. A chorus of “ooo’s” and “ahhh’s” reverberates through the auditorium, and you can’t help the burning flush at the tips of your ears. “You look absolutely stunning tonight, my Dear,” Caesar compliments through a picture-perfect smile. You nod in thanks as he dives right into the questions.

“So, how has Capital life been treating you?”

“Uhm, it’s been very.. different, to say the least,” You stumble a bit through your response, but Caesar simply nods and leans out to the crowd with that picture-perfect smile and a laugh. “Well, what’s the most?” and a chorus of hoots and laughter rises from the audience again. Your faux smile falters, and your hands wring together in your lap anxiously. “It’s just more..extravagant than back home, is all. More colorful.” You reply shakily. The host nods in encouragement before moving on to the next question.

“Well, a little birdie whispered that a certain Sweetheart of the Capital arrived with you on the Tribute’s train. Our beloved Finnick Odair, one might say. Correct me if I’m wrong, but is there possibly a star-crossed lovers situation on our hands?”

Your blood runs cold as the phrase leaves Flickerman’s lips. He’s leaned forward, clearly on the edge of his seat, with the microphone pointed towards you, and the auditorium falls deathly silent. Your throat feels tight as all you do is stare in pure disbelief. “W-What?” You choke out, bewilderment on your face as your ears flush red from a burning embarrassment in your chest. The audience scoffs in disappointment at your response, and your confusion grows.

Caesar’s expression shifts as his smile falters, his eyes all but telling you to answer or make something up so he can move on. You stutter in reply while firmly shaking your head from side to side,

“No, no! It’s nothing like that at all. Honestly, I find him more irritating than anything. Besides, I’d never fall for a stuck-up Peacock like Finnick Odair in a thousand years!”

Your embarrassment turns into anger at the question as the audience groans in further disappointment, a few “Boos” echoing through the rafters above. However, much to your dismay, a few conspiring whispers slip through under all the noise that signifies your words weren’t taken as truth. This makes your blood simmer as Caesar barks a laugh, slapping a tanned hand on his silver knee.

“Ah hah! Well, that’s a mighty claim my dear, but I’m not so sure you’re well believed seeing that blush on your cheeks!”

Your jaw sets as you sit through two more equally ludicrous questions about your life before you exit the stage and return to your living quarters for the night. Upon returning to the Tribute Center and changing out of your ocean blue costume with the help of Hyacinth and her team, you immediately sink into the heavenly warmth of the large tub in your private washroom. However, not before receiving a thorough chew out from Thatcher over your once again “unprofessional behavior” when answering Caesar’s questions and for apparently “disrespecting” the Capital’s Darling.

Gently, you scrub yourself clean but remain in the comforting heat and steamy air till the water is frigid, trying to soak in the pleasuring warmth as long as possible while enjoying the brief privacy the washroom allows. Eventually, you drain the tub and towel yourself off, slipping into soft, lightweight bottoms, similar to the ones Finnick had thrown at you on the train, and an oversized short-sleeved tunic.

Finnick.

Unwanted pinpricks of regret stab your chest again, and a crease forms between your brows as the remembrance of the bronze-haired victor brings the interview questions surging back to the front of your mind. You grip your toothbrush tighter as you try to push away the embarrassment from earlier tonight. You didn’t know or understand how a rumor like that could even be an inkling in someone’s mind. You didn’t even see the boy at the station platform, and what business was it of a bunch of old snobby Capital Elites to reach after the love lives of children picked to slaughter one another in less than a day? Your stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought.

Once you finished preparing for sleep, you pad your way over to your bed and find a comfortable seating position before flipping through a few of the ‘sleep aids’ with a small metal remote. The floor-to-ceiling windows in your luxurious, Capital-provided, bedroom flashed between different sceneries till you landed on one of the waves crashing on a foggy shore. The muddy sand of the beach drifted under the lull of the tide. Occasionally, seagulls cawed from the clouds above.

You knew you should be doing something with your last night of so-called ‘freedom’ before the Games begin tomorrow, but all you can do is stare at the waves. You wonder how your siblings and father are faring like you have every night since your departure from District 4. You could only hope they were learning to adapt with you being gone. Trying not to spiral over your fate, you drag your hands down your face to scrub at your eyes with a heavy sigh and thick swallow.

“I can do this…”

You mutter the mantra to yourself as you internally review the strategies Mags had made you memorize. There weren’t any clues given as to what the arena entailed. Rumors had been overheard in the Training Center, but the Gamemakers never repeated an arena. There could be anything in that dome of death tomorrow. The waves continue to crash on the screen, the whistle of a breeze blowing through the tall pines just beyond the beach that helps keep you grounded.

You could do this. You had to. Your father’s only word in farewell echos like many others.

“Survive,”

The morning comes too soon. You didn’t touch much of your breakfast even though you know you need as much energy as possible. Mags gives a pointed look your way, and you begrudgingly force a few bites down. Afterward, Mags, Hyacinth, and you are escorted by peacekeepers to a flight hanger near the Tribute Center. You receive an almost bone-crushing hug from your mentor that you graciously return with equal vigor.

“Thank you, for everything”

You murmur into the older woman’s hair. You feel her tears dampen the tunic covering your shoulder. Forcing yourself to pull away and wipe the tears from the elderly woman’s face as she signs her care for you. You offer a sweet smile and other thanks before a Peacekeeper takes your arm and leads you onto a hovercraft. Hyacinth follows, and you're pushed into a seat.

“Your arm,” The Peacekeeper orders while reaching out their hand. You hesitantly reach out, and they quickly place a device with an abnormally large needle into your arm. You grimace at the sting as a trigger is tugged, and a small glowing object appears beneath your skin. Your arm is dropped, and you place two fingers lightly over the slight bump caused by the device. “Don’t touch that. It’s your tracker.” The peacekeeper remarks, and you startle, returning your hands to your lap. The flight is long, but you don’t doze off as adrenaline pumps through your core. Tucking stray flyaways behind your ears, you look across to Hyacinth, who offers a solemn smile. The hovercraft eventually lands, a group of Peacekeepers in stark white uniforms meet you, and you’re quickly led to a small room.

The room is bare bones with only a rack containing your uniform for the Games, a small desk, and an overhead lamp. Two peacekeepers stand guard outside the door, and Hyacinth helps prepare you one last time. The uniform doesn’t give much away about what to expect of the arena besides its colors. Consisting of dark brown hiking boots, slim-fitted pants with multiple pockets in burnt umber, a warm brown skin-tight tank top, and a lightweight khaki-colored windbreaker. The possibility of a dry, warm climate arose in your mind as you examined the materials of your uniform. Hyacinth gave you a sad smile as she fixed the hood of your jacket.

“Good luck my Darling, it’s been my pleasure to know you.”

The stylist’s smile is sad, tears brim her eyes, and you can’t help feeling emotional. This was it. She would be the last person you saw before the Games began. You wrap your arms around the tall woman in a hug, surprising the stylist, but she gently accepts and returns the gesture. You give her your thanks before an announcement comes through a speaker somewhere in the room that the countdown is about to begin. With a thick swallow, you step towards the glass elevator indicated to ale you up into the arena. You hesitate, a shaky inhale entering your nose before gingerly stepping onto the panel. The glass door wraps around with a slick “shink” and your whirl to face your stylist. But she’s already left the room, probably unable to watch another one of her tributes enter the thunderstorm of the Hunger Games arena.

You don’t blame her.

A moment passes before the platform you’re standing on begins to rise, and your gaze turns skyward. The light is bright, causing your sensitive eyes to squint. You take note that you’re at least in an outdoor setting. The air that kisses your skin is dry and warm as your platform fully breaches the earth into the arena. Your head swivels as you take in the surroundings as a bright yellow countdown has begun in the sky above via hologram.

The arena of the 67th games was a ravine.

Half the tributes are spread on your side of the steep, open-mouthed drop, the other twelve across the wide mouth on a parallel cliff. There are trees behind, but there are no weapons because they’re all in the center across a woven net. The footholds are wide. If you’re not careful, you’ll trip and either plummet to the rushing water miles below or succumb to a Tribute’s attacks. Weapons and supplies are placed on a tarp in the center of the woven bridge. The Cornucopia. Maybe things would be over sooner than you thought.

The countdown is halfway.

Wetting your lips, you take a glance down and fight the urge to vomit, hearing someone else already do so over the side of their podium at the descent less than a foot from the cliff edge. Layers of cliffs jut out in makeshift ladders and walkways with alcoves to possibly hide in, but you quickly realize the only source of fresh water will be the rushing river at the bottom of the ravine. Glancing back up, you quickly try to stop the blanking panic in your mind as you try to recall everything Mags had taught you. Your best bet was to run. You can use your jacket as cover and get to the bottom to hide while everyone is too busy risking the crawl to the weapons. There was bound to be edible plant life at the bottom, or worse, you hunt for something better on the way down.

Ten seconds left.

Nine,

Eight,

Seven,

Six,

Five,

Four,

Three,

Two,

One,

“Let the 67th annual Hunger Games, begin.”

A bell sounds, and all hell breaks loose. No one yells, only the fierce grunts as Tributes race for the Cornucopia. You don’t see your District Partner, but you don’t stay static long enough to see the carnage that ensues as you bolt in the opposite direction. Two other Tributes bolt after you but veer straight into the trees beyond. Your heart feels like it’ll burst from your chest as you sprint down the edge till you find a slope to take you down. Falling to a slide, you slip down to another cliff as the first canon booms.

twenty three left.

Two more canons burst through the arena as you continue your rocky descent. Children are screaming above you, and you hurl what little substance is in your stomach as a body falls in front of you with a sickening crunch. The blood splatters across your skin, and you bite back your terrified scream. You have to keep moving.

Another canon.

Twenty left.

You dare take a glance behind and luckily manage to escape unnoticed. But you don’t hold hope on that factor as loud snaps reverberate down the canyon. Someone was cutting the net to the Cornucopia. There’s more screaming as you nimbly jump from the rocky slab you stood upon down to a jutting-out cliff, narrowly avoiding a fall to your demise. A pained scream catches in your throat through gritted teeth as your shoulder makes contact and you roll across the red earth. A dampness coats your tongue with a metallic taste of copper. Blood.

Forcing yourself to stand, your knees nearly fall out from under you, but you remain upright as you take another running jump to an even lower rock platform. By now, someone shouts above the screaming, “Go that way!” and you force yourself to move faster. You don’t have time to see what the voice originating the order meant. All you know is you have to get away. You land chest first on the edge of the cliff, and the wind is knocked from your chest. Blood splatters on the gravel, projected from the cough of air escaping your lungs. It’s an effort to pull yourself back up over the edge, slipping on sliding feet for a foothold on the rock wall, but you manage. There’s the crunch of boots above, and your terror amplifies tenfold as a spear shoots past you down to the depths. “S-Shit..” you gurgle on blood as you take off running once more, choking down small gasps of air that never seem to reach your lungs.

You can’t stop.

Another canon goes off and you hear another body fall to the depths, following another grotesque crunch of bone and muscle on rock.

Nineteen left.

A metallic clatter fills the expansive cavern of the ravine, and you spare a fleeting glance above just as the netting of the Cornucopia plummets. Metal cases, weapons, backpacks, and other supplies become entangled in the tarp they had rested upon as debris falls. Cases shatter and clang on the many cliffs. You do your best to evade the sharp debris but aren’t fast enough as a blade slices across the back of your left leg. You’re brought to your knees by the searing pain but again force yourself up, barely remembering to grab the small blade and continue your descent. White hot pain shoots ribbons through your entire leg, but you keep moving, albeit slower than before. Two more canons.

Seventeen Tributes left.

Seven children already dead.

You could only hope your canon wouldn’t fire anytime soon.

Another canon, sixteen left.

You will not die.

{{ taglist }}

@emerald-09 @reader-bookling123 @finnickodaddy @thehairington86 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @avoxrising @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @whens-naptime @violettbae @the-lonely-abyss @secretsicanthideanymore

[too-many-rooks]

Slow Horses, S4, E2; A Stranger comes to town.

[limeandorange]

To burn is to desire 🔥

“Show me,” Eris said, stopping a few paces from her. His voice was calm, steady. Commanding.

Nesta frowned. “Show you what?”

“Your flame.”

Nesta tensed, her gaze flickering away. “It’s not that simple.”

Eris tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “Why not? You’ve used it before, haven’t you?”

Nesta’s eyes snapped back to him. “It doesn’t work like that. I can’t just summon it on command.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

The question hung between them, heavy with implication.

Nesta’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”

Eris stepped closer, his amber eyes gleaming in the lantern light. “Then make me understand. Show me.”

Nesta inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. She extended her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as she tried to summon her flame. The seconds stretched, but nothing happened. Her hands remained empty.

She opened her eyes, frustration darkening her features. “See? It’s not—”

“Again.”

Nesta glared at him. “It’s not working.”

Eris didn’t flinch. “Because you’re holding it in. You’re controlling it too tightly.”

Nesta crossed her arms over her chest. “I have to. If I don’t, someone gets hurt.”

“Who?” Eris’s voice softened, curiosity mingling with something deeper. “Who are you afraid of hurting?”

Nesta didn’t answer.

Eris sighed, stepping even closer. “Flames are connected to our emotions. They don’t respond to restraint. They respond to feeling. You need to let go.”

Nesta’s brows drew together in a fierce scowl. “I don’t need a lecture, Eris.”

“No?” Eris’s smirk returned, sharp as a blade. “Then why are you here, Beauty? Why did you ask for my help?”

🔗 Read the full story on AO3!

[vigilante24ish]

The Shadow Queen of Tywin Lannister

Summary:

After the death of his wife, Tywin Lannister knew he would never remarry. However, when the relationships between Targaryens & Lannisters are put into question, marriage seems to be the only choice left. To his surprise, it is himself that will get married to none other than the King’s younger sister.

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

Pairing: Fem!OC x Tywin Lannister Note: A mixture of Book, Show, & My Own Canon. It starts at the beginning of Areys II's reign and after. Romance will be slow & age proper. Chapter Warnings: Mentions of Teenage Pregnancy & Sibling Marriage.

Chapter 2: When a Lion & a dragon Meet, part 2

Chapter 1: When a Lion & a Dragon meet, part 1

The Targaryens had been ruling the 7 Kingdoms for almost 2 centuries now. Some with disgrace, others with respect and some were simply unworthy to even sit on the famous Throne made of swords.

However, the ones that would leave their mark in history would come later as a legacy to all those great Kings. It all started when love prevailed over arranged marriages, and King Aegon V found all 4 sons marrying purely who their hearts desired. As long as it was not incest, the old King did not hold back or argue with such a decision.

He was, though,  unaware of what fate awaited his dynasty and his house in the years that followed.

The Gods seemed to have plans for the realm, starting in 244 AC when Aerys the II was born to the family of Jeahaerys Targaryen himself. He also obtained a daughter 2 years prior, but it was his third child that the Gods seemed to favour in the upcoming future.

Visenya II Targaryen seemed to have been graced by the Old Valyrian Gods regarding beauty and talent. Despite her heritage, the moment the child opened her eyes, everyone knew whose reincarnation she seemed to be.

Jaehaerys gathered doubts in his heart, his body frail and his mind not as sharp. While still a prince, he found a woodwitch and asked for what awaited his children. In his eyes, his last daughter was a curse, just like her predecessor long before her.

Surprisingly, the witch never mentioned the baby child with the eyes of glowing flame. Instead, she mentioned the King Who Was Promised, a direct descendant of his lineage.

It was then that he decided the fate of his children. While he ignored his youngest, he focused on his two eldest, and despite his grandfather’s wishes, he married them, brother and sister, as their ancestors had done before them.

It was in 258 AC when his plans seemed to harbour fruit, for young Rhaella became pregnant and soon gave birth to Rhaegar Targaryen. Jaehaerys knew that he was the king who was promised for the same year he was crowned King of the 7 realms.

The true game of the gods officially started a few years later.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

 262 AC – King’s Landing, Crownlands - Seat of Power: Aerys II Targaryen

The realm celebrated as much as it could while many of the great houses of the rest of the 6 Kingdoms had second thoughts about the whole event. The Red Keep was bursting with life, the halls filled with royals and households from across the Western Lands.

All came to pay their respects and pledge their alliance to the new King of the 7 Kingdoms, Aerys II Targaryen, and his Queen Consort, Rhaella Targaryen.

While Aerys was just 18, there was life in his eyes, and his mind had yet to be corrupted by power as the future awaited him. He was young, already with an heir and a warrior, who fought for his grandfather in the War of the NinePenny Kings.

As a new King, Aerys needed to choose someone loyal to become his hand, a position of great value and influence. To the surprise of many, he chose a man he already knew and trusted despite their reputation.

Tywin Lannister, the Lion of Casterly Rock.

In the feast for his coronation, Aerys had moved around to greet all the lords while proudly showing his beautiful sister-wife Rhaella and his heir Rhaegar, the boy barely 5 years of age.

The feast was at its zenith, the music loud and the wine flowing like a wild river during a stormy night. Long had the dishes been removed by servants as the festive mood kept everyone busy, well, almost everyone.

Tywin did not share the mood for celebration like many others or the unnecessary coin waste to feed so many people, with half the food eventually being thrown away. His wife, Joanna Lannister, was back at Casterly Rock, for he did not wish to drag her into this madness; not yet, but he found her absence noticeable.

Considering the men he was surrounded by, many would find it understandable if they were in his place and shared his intelligent mind.

Excusing himself, he stood up and left the banquet room, needing some air. With a goblet filled with red wine in one hand, he started to walk away from the now-closed doors of that damn room.

He stopped himself walking halfway upon noticing he was not the only one wishing to remove themselves from the celebrations.

The hallway of the Red Keep was made of stones, but big arched glass-less windows were built to offer anyone a view of the gardens and even the city. Perched on one of those openings was a young girl, barely passing her 13th name day, based on her undeveloped body.

Tywin would have simply ignored her if he had not paid close attention to her attire and her hair. Her dress, a deep purple in colour, worked wonders as it contrasted with the pure white locks falling on the back.

There was only one family in Westeros with such hair, and only one had a child of such age present in the Red Keep.

As if sensing his gaze, the girl turned her head towards him. Instead of violet eyes, he was greeted by a combination of red and gold; a clear representation of the colours of flames when devouring the land.

“Princess,” he addressed her, recognising the child as the younger sister of the new King; Visenya II Targaryen.

“Lord Tywin Lannister I presume,” she greeted back with a small smile as she lifted her body.

Showing him her back was considered rude, and like the royalty she was tutored to be, she turned to face the older man, who stood a few feet away.

They had noticed each other during the Banquet and the feast, but no words had been exchanged so far. Their latest King was too busy enjoying the festivities in his name to fully introduce them.

That did not mean they did not know one another, at least when it came to names.

Only two Targaryen Children were present, Rhaegar and herself; a clear difference between them was evident without the need to note their high intelligence.

As for him, if one was foolish enough not to pay attention to the coronation; they would still have their chance for redemption upon noticing the pin on the man’s tunic.

“I should offer my congratulations for your brother, our new King,” Tywin said, breaking the small silence between them.

Out of courtesy, Visenya gave a small bow. “Thank you, my Lord. Allow me to congratulate you on your new position. If I am not mistaken, you are the youngest man to be titled Hand of the King.”

There was this twinkle in his eyes upon hearing her words and observing her bow. He could see that the Princess was a smart girl, educated and knowledgeable enough; perhaps more than her air-headed brother.

He knew he would have his hands full with him, but at least there was hope someone from his lineage had inherited more brains than exotic beauty.

Many might underestimate or dismiss her for her gender and age, but he could see intelligence and cunningness in those unique flaming orbs.

Their small moment was interrupted by the doors of the banquet hall opening as a tired Rhaella carried her firstborn in her arms. Upon noticing her, Tywin gave a small bow out of formality, but Visenya had other plans in mind.

“Sister, are you alright?” she asked with worry, having moved by the woman’s side with silent, quick steps.

The Young Queen smiled. Although her late teenage body had already changed after her first birth, her beauty remained. However, if one dared to look deep into her violet eyes, one would only see emptiness and loneliness.

“I am alright, a little bit tired and so is Rhaegar”  she explained, eyes falling on the future heir of the realm.

“Allow me to escort you back to your chambers,” Visenya said, her pre-teen body still offering a certain height that did not show much difference to the young queen. “Lord Hand,” she greeted him out of courtesy and then proceeded to walk side by side with her sister.

Tywin watched them leave, and he sipped the wine from his goblet. Unknown to him, this would not be the first time they would meet. No...it was the beginning of many as the threads of their lives were slowly pulled and twisted to braid with one another.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

266 AC – King’s Landing, Crownlands - Seat of Power: Aerys II Targaryen

King Aerys II had only been ruling for four years, and while he was still young, he had already made grievous mistakes. Often impulsive and looking after pleasure, his hand often dug into the coffers of his Kingdom, and even loans were said to have been taken from the famous Iron Bank.

Thankfully for him and the realm, Tywin Lannister was an intelligent man, and his family was quite rich. With proper investment and personal payment from the coffers of his own house in Casterly Rock, he made sure the crown owned no debt while also earning in return through proper investments.

At the same time, his wife had given birth to twins; a boy and a girl. Yet, he could not be with them, for he was busy running after the young King and ensuring he did not destroy the realm when no one was looking.

His council never truly helped, for many of the old ones had been replaced by younger men, many of whom would nod their heads to anything the King said and did. Sometimes, it was frustrating, but the famous Lion had to remain standing; he was not one to give up easily.

And he was not the only one in that case.

While everyone ran after the King and kept him busy with his responsibilities, Princess Visenya had the freedom of the world. No one dared to lift a hand on the Targaryen princess, fearful of the actions of her brother.

The same Brother who had been neglecting her ever since she had been born

He never paid much attention to her well-being, and neither tried to contain her in the walls of the Red Keep. This allowed Visenya to prove she carried the spirit of the woman she was named after.

Tywin often would cross the hallways of the Red Keep only to stare below him at the training grounds and see her there. While only 16, the young Princes had bloomed into a beautiful woman. Her white hair was not fully straight; the faintest curls could be seen at the end of her long locks.

Her body had matured, offering curves and a good bust. Her eyes kept having the same intelligence beneath them, her mind as sharp as her tongue. More than once, she had been the main gossip amongst the ladies about both her hobbies and the lack of a husband.

Rumours often spread like wildfire, and the teenage Princess did not truly help stop them either, nor did she seem to care.

For if she did, she would not be found in the Training Grounds alone or with her nephew. The Heir was still young and barely had his 8th name day passed, but he was interested in learning. His teachers became the loyal KingsGuard Ser Barristan Selmy and his beloved aunt.

The woman had a good handle of a sword, and her posture was always proper, but it was her skills with a bow and arrow that often drew the spotlight on her. Many claimed she had the eyesight of a dragon, capable of striking her target despite the distance or the obstacle.

If arrows were not available, she also trained with daggers, a fine choice for a refined woman, who was often under-estimated and risked having men approaching too close to her personal space.

While not favouring a woman in breaches and holding a sword, Tywin did nothing to stop him. His responsibilities lay with the King, and until Aerys himself brought up the subject, he would not bother with it.

It was a usual night and Tywin had found himself leaving his chambers and instead moving towards the Royal Library, a simple candle illuminating his way. The Targaryens took pride in the endless records and books they possessed, some daring far back to Aegon the Conqueror and the time of Dragons.

When he needed to clear his head, the Hand of the King would often visit the library and borrow a book. Sometimes, answers to his troubles could be found in the old Yellow Pages or even inspire him with some solution that he quickly needed.

Upon entering the big circular room, he was not surprised to find the torches already lit and a candle placed on one of the wooden round tables lying amongst chairs and couches. Only a few visited that room, truly interested in the treasures it held, but those two have never truly encountered one another there...until now.

“Princess,” Tywin addressed the teenager, who had her back turned and her eyes locked on a certain self filled with books.

Upon hearing him, she turned slowly and graced him with a small smile and a courteous bow. “Lord Hand,” she greeted and then turned to look at the self again, deep in thought.

Tywin studied her for a moment too long as he slowly walked into the room. While not always a good idea for an unmarried woman to be found with a man and no escort, their case was different.

The Royal Library was of limited access and the time of the Owl had reached them, leading many into a deep slumber. In addition, no one would truly dare to spread gossip of the mighty Hand of the King and the Princess; too fearful of what would happen to them if they did.

Placing the candle on one of the free tables, he turned to face a different section of the library as his eyes scanned the titles; searching for a specific book he already had in mind.

“What would you suggest?” he heard Visenya ask him, making him stop his hand halfway from grabbing the book he wanted.

“Pardon me, princess?” he exclaimed as he turned to face her, having not heard her question fully.

The teenager glanced at him with the tip of her eye but did not take her focus from the self of books she had been staring at for at least 5 minutes.

“I am looking for a book on war strategies of my ancestors and perhaps other great leaders of their time”, she explained, drawing his interest. “I have read many of them, but there are a few suggested to me by the Maesters. However, I do believe your opinion on them would be better justified.”

Tywin let his hand fall to his side, his full attention on her. He walked her way with confident, slow steps, not planning to intimidate her but not fully cowering in fear due to her title. His green eyes had specs of gold within them, glowing with intelligence and danger as the shadows of the torches were illuminated across his face.

He came to a halt three feet away from her and placed his hands behind his back, his posture straight and his gaze unyielding. “And do tell me why my opinion matters to you, Princess?”

[moonshine-nightlight]

Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Thirty-One

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding  that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing’s Wrong with Dale Chapter 31

[Part One][Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5][Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten]  [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve]  [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two][Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four][Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] Part Thirty-One [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

You walk back to your ready chambers as quickly as you can without drawing notice, ducking to hide the smile on your face when you pass a couple of servants. You open the doors to your dressing room and almost jump when you recall the number of those waiting anxiously for your return. Steward Bilmont is still there too, collapsed in a chair looking quietly morose while the maids hover in an anxious group near the fireplace. All turn to stare at you when you return. 

You try to pull your expression back to something resembling neutrality as you stride over to your seat in front of your vanity. “All is well,” you say. “There will be no further confusion regarding the wedding.”

“Truly?” Bilmont asks, hope and disbelief in his voice. The maids seem similarly skeptical, but get back to work without a word. Luckily, it looks as though they had been making progress while you were gone—two additional trunks were packed. 

“Yes,” you reply, “there was a misunderstanding.” Which was certainly an understatement, but the most honest explanation you could provide with others present. “It has been straightened out. The wedding is going forward as planned.”

Bilmont threw his hands up. “Thank the light! I didn’t know what—” He cut himself off before he said anything further, merely shaking his head in unarticulated dismay.

You allow him the moment to gather himself, occupying yourself with the lace Miss Adir is laying out for you. However, he continues to linger and so after a look from Mrs Dearden, you turn back to the steward. “I’m sure you have other duties to return to, Steward Bilmont.”

Bilmont meets your eyes, blinking as if suddenly realizing where he is. Hastily he gets to his feet. “Yes, my lady, of course.”

You shake your head in amusement as he hurries out the door before turning back to the mirror and letting your maids finish dressing you. It’s mostly flourishes now, lace cuffs and collar mantle, the jewelry your mother provided. The veil re-purposed from Dale’s mother’s is still carefully arranged on a form, you’ll put that on last.

You still feel somewhat in shock, happy shock, but shock nevertheless. Dale didn’t know you knew what he was, but he does now. He wants to marry you. He’d said you were one of the reasons he stayed here, as Dale. He called you ‘exemplary’. And to think only an hour ago you’d been convinced everything had fallen to pieces. Instead you’re finally, finally, on the same page.

With that reassurance, more of your nerves have melted away, leaving you feeling eager anticipation for the beginning this wedding truly is.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Miss Adir asks tentatively as she helps to make sure the lace insert is sitting correctly over your collarbones. No doubt she must have questions about what happened and what sort of confrontation there might have been, even if she is too professional to ask.

“Hm?” You blink yourself back to the present moment. “Oh yes.” You feel a smile grow on your face, unable to be contained. You can find little reason to try to contain it. “I’m very well indeed.”

-/-

Some of those nerves return as you wait in the small ready room to make your entrance into the main hall of the monsacrin, where the spiritual ceremony will take place prior to the legal one. You’re dreading this one more as it involves the most pageantry and the most people. Certainly all guests will be at the wedding luncheon, but you will not be on display in the same manner. 

Even the buoyancy of your conversation with Dale had lent you is diminishing as you imagine all the ways in which you might make a fool of yourself. Your fears for Dale too are not insubstantial. You had been pushing those concerns to the side because there wasn’t much you could do to help—the wedding had to take place here, but how would the sacred affect him? He’d been fine during the rehearsal and the few common ceremonies you’d attended over the last few weeks, but…

You’d seen a sanctif nearly reveal him, not to mention Grandfather’s holy water attempt. He is certainly capable of being hurt by it. But to what degree? Both Sanctif Ellon and Dr. Louisa proved detection methods could be used successfully upon him, although not perfectly. Especially if he was forewarned and able to prepare as you’d seen with the sanctif. Hopefully, with the ceremony so straightforwardly laid out over the past few days, Dale will have prepared himself. Right?

Of course, he’d called off the wedding. He’d spent at least part of today thinking it wasn’t happening. How long had he been planning that? He’d been acting a bit strangely over the past few days, but ultimately the decision had seemed impulsive to you. He’d seemed as if leaving Northridge was his next move and yet, he’d clearly not been packed beyond for your wedding trip. The box he’d been filling with books and other items in his study had obviously been items he wanted with him, but would have been sent ahead to your next destination and so we’re prepared.

The swell of music, woodwinds and strings, interrupted your thoughts to let you know Dale had likely entered the monsacrin. He’d come from the right to walk to the middle. You’ve heard some merchant and peasant families had those who were to be wed enter at the same time given family status didn’t have the hold it had on the nobility. However, since you were joining the Northridge family, you’d enter second to stand with him instead of the reverse. 

Miss Adir hands you your bouquet as the melody changes. The door in front of you opens, letting in the brilliant morning sunlight. Your practice of the ceremony was all that prevented you from squinting in the face of all that light. Light was the most important aspect of Solennity and monsacrins had as much glass as they could and stay standing. It was traditional for weddings to take place in morning light, to signify new beginnings, and were held in the eastern hall accordingly. Sunlight streamed in, half blinding you as you walked down the left aisle, which cut at a diagonal through the seated guests to the dias against that eastern wall of glass. 

Once your eyes adjust, you keep them focused on the center altar, with its backing of colorful stained glass since its easier to look at, and where Dale waits for you. Gone is the more casual red waistcoat he had on in the study. Instead, the luxurious dark blue velvet that he’d selected nearly a month ago has been turned into a lovely suit. His overcoat is rich and plush, embroidered with detailed gold designs that are similar to those on his waistcoat. His trousers are the same color and disappear into polished black boots. The white of his shirt contrasts well and helps lighten the outfit. Even his hair ribbon is white, holding back his dark hair, except those styled in the front. He looks beautiful.

You try not to think about all the guests staring at you and focus only on Dale, only on being careful not to step on the hem of your dress or drop your flowers. The music swells appropriately until you’re stepping up the single step to where you’ll start the ceremony, next to Dale. 

Now that you’re closer and not so dazzled by the light, you can make out more of his expression. He looks down at you with a sort of proud awe that you admire given he’s already seen your dress and even your hair more than half done only an hour or so ago. Perhaps you haven’t been giving him enough credit for his ability to act. He is right in that no one else, beyond a few servants, knows over his nature. You smile up at him, more in relief and out of nerves than much else, but there’s also some awe, that you’re really here, that he’s really here—that it's all happening.

As the final notes play out, you carefully lean forward to place your bouquet in the vase to your side, the flowers a gift to the monsacrin and so your hands can be free for the rest of the ceremony. 

The sanctif walks up, giving the opening prayer for a wedding. He stands between you on the next step up and his apprentice joins him, her movements as smooth as in rehearsal earlier in the week. She hands the sanctif the ribbon chosen—blue and gold braided together—and he starts the prayer of unity.

“Today we join together these two humble petitioners who seek to unify their lives in marriage,” he proclaims. That is your cue, and Dale’s, and you both remove a glove—your right and his left. The apprentice sanctif takes your gloves while the sanctif continues, “As such endeavors are not to be taken lightly given their grave importance and profound influence on the times ahead, we so bind them.” 

You both reach out and carefully entwine your fingers together in a tight handclasp. The sanctif continues to speak as he winds the braided ribbon around your hands, but you barely hear his words. Instead your focus is on the steadiness of Dale’s hand, the moderate temperature of his skin, the way your arms overlap in order to keep your hands securely together. Your sleeves are short, but his are not. The sensation of the luscious velvet brushing against your skin is lovely. You can’t help but look up to see his eyes—only two at the moment, thank the stars—to find them already fixed upon you.

His gaze seems cautious until yours meets it, at which point his eyes crinkle in their corners to reflect the smile that blooms so naturally. Without thought, you mirror the gesture.

The music swells as the sanctif proclaims and you focus yourself back onto the ceremony itself, so you do not embarrass yourself by being caught unawares. You accept the candle holder from the attendant easily, the gold quickly warming in your hands. It’s simple white taper is unlit. Dale accepts an identical one as the sanctif recalls the story of humanity’s ascent from unintelligent darkness to enlightenment.

He paces the half-circle step, speaking to you and the audience, before he climbs to his place behind the elevated altar. He holds his hands up, supplicating, and begins to recite the marital prompts. “Do you approach this altar of light deliberately and of sound mind, willing and able, to join in sacred commitment to one another?”

“I do,” you chorus with Dale. He’d said with you for balance, he’d not need his cane, and yet the first step up makes you nervous that you’ll both fall, as if you’ve never climbed a set of stairs before.

“You may approach,” the sanctif replies.

You and Dale advance, you careful given your skirts and Dale careful given his balance. You reach the step with little difficulty, feeling almost foolish over how nervous you are, but the reminder of the low level of actual challenge doesn’t help.

“Do you approach this altar of light with honesty, loyalty, and fidelity in your hearts?”

“I do.” Perhaps that vow was what had started Dale on his doubts. The first rehearsal had been the day you returned to Northridge and you’d each gotten pamphlets explaining the ceremony, for all your responses were minimal and repetitive. 

“Do you approach this altar of light for the purpose of commitment, of unity, of harmony?”

“I do.” this is the vow you’re unsure if you would have meant with the original Dale. It would have been hard to reach any sort of harmony with him. You don’t have any such fears with Dale.

“Do you approach this altar of light with full faith in the enduring union you seek to forge, with no intention of end or fragility, with confidence and perseverance?”

“I do.” With your conversation this morning, you have no reservations or worries with your reply here either. Still, the sound of Dale’s deep voice in concert with you helps reassure you of his words, as does the feeling of his now-warm hand in yours, his body next to you. He’s not going anywhere.

You’ve both reached the altar and the sanctif smiles at you reassuringly, before he looks past you to those gathered behind you. His voice goes out to them, imploring, “Do any here know what might prevent this union? Do any here have any reason to disbelieve the proclamations made by those who seek to join together?”

There is a pause after his voice fades out in which you find it immensely hard to breathe, before the collective response comes, “We do not.”

“As your humble delegate, I implore the light to bless these two with the union they seek.” The sanctif turns from the altar to the fire behind him, which every monsacrin has lit at all times. Carefully, he lit the oak rod in his hand from its flames and with that, lit the large candle on the altar. 

The sanctif speaks on the virtues of marriage while he prepares the sacred cup, announcing the virtue of each herb he adds to the holy water held in its vessel above the candle. Truly, the fire was not enough to heat the drink by much, but it was symbolic of using light and heat to purify. You hope that Dale can drink it with ease. You’d taken note of the herbs at the last rehearsal and found most to be either without cause for worry or with little information to rely on. What flexibility there was with the recipe you took advantage of, except for juniper, which had to be included—and the book had specifically recommended that for purification.

“Drink from this holy vessel,” the sanctif says, carefully lifting the overlarge cup, truly more of a bowl, for you. “As is internal, so may be external. Light within, light without.” 

You’d practiced this too. Dale drinks first, as the higher partner so to speak. As he leans down, he’s careful not to drop his candle nor your hand.

Your eyes are intent on his face in what you hope is common attention for your fiance, but he seems no worse for wear. His mild grimace easily attributed to what you know to be the bitter flavor of the drink. Once he straightens, you mirror him, leaning down to take a drink yourself. At least the ceremonial cup closer to you height—the sanctif can only lean so far over the altar with it. Bitter, tart, and herbal, the flavors coat your mouth and the water flows quickly down your throat. You’re grateful to have tasted it before so you don’t cough.

Gentle windwood instruments play at odds with the powerful taste in your mouth. They swell around you as everyone sings a verse of gratitude. The sanctif uses his sprinklers, dunking them in the ceremonial cup now that you had each taken a drink. He hands the bigger one to his apprentice for the group below. With another prayer, he sprinkles holy water over yourself and Dale. Your eyes dart to Dale and notice the way his head is bowed in imitation of piety keeps his face at an angle that lessens the chance of holy water hitting it. He already drank it, but on impulse you turn over your hands, arms only slightly more awkwardly placed, so that your clasped hand is up and his is below.

Dale gives your hand a grateful squeeze as you see a few drops land on the back of your hand. Luckily, the sanctif’s blessing over you does not last long and he carefully puts the vessel away while his apprentice continues with the crowd.

“Blessed and enlightened in our souls, I bid you now to light the symbol of your devotion,” he intones. Dutifully you and Dale light your candles from the larger one simultaneously. 

Now comes the more difficult part: carrying the lit candles back down and turning with your hands still bound. You don’t care if you’re not as elegant as some you’ve seen in the past at the very few weddings you’ve attended. You keep your gaze firmly on your feet and Dale as the sanctif at last bids you to turn to away from the altar. “Do you depart this altar of light with determination to face life's hardships together?”

Your hold on Dale’s hand tightens as you turn your head, nerves and fear lancing through you unbidden by the crowd and the height. Dale takes the extra strain easily, skillfully stepping down and to the side with enough deliberate slowness you are able to follow him and remember your official response. “We do.”

Your voice is shaky, but Dale’s is clear and the sanctif does not ask you to repeat yourself. You’ve heard tell of sanctifs who demanded repetitions or even those who required a sentence response, re-framing the question. You are so very thankful you’re able to follow the simpler pattern.

“Do you depart this altar of light with persistence in the face of afflictions of the body?”

“We do.” You take another step down, allowing the floor of the step above to keep your hemline free of your shoes. At the very first wedding you attended, this was the vow you were convinced no one would be able to pledge to you.

“Do you depart this altar of light with compassion for the tumultuous emotions of the heart?”

Another oath that you would not have believed coming from the original Dale. His compassion was lacking and his tolerance for others emotions was minimal to say the least. This Dale surprises you still with his attention to your comfort and happiness. “We do.”

“Do you depart this altar of light with steadfastness against the complications of the mind?”

You chance a glance straight ahead this time, as you are meant to be doing the entire descent, and regret it. So many people staring at you as you walk down steep steps while holding fire. Whoever designed this wedding ceremony had best ascended far far away. You hastily look back down. “We do.”

“Do you depart this altar of light to serve your community and your kin with the attention duty and obligation require?”

“We do.” You are now back on the proper floor of the hall, lower than where you started on the first step. You’ve never been so grateful to the ground before. Why had it been so much worse than rehearsals?

“Do you, the gathered community, accept these vows made here in the light?”

Perhaps it was the audience, who again need an additional second to respond that makes your knuckles lighten as your grip tightens with anticipation. “We do.”

The stringed instruments join the lighter and quieter wood-winds, a masterful solo that allows you to regain your breath, for all you’d not been exerting yourself physically. You catch Callalily’s eyes in the second row and she smiles encouragingly.

When the music dies down again, the sanctif speaks, “Reward this faith in you with the gift of your abundance and illumination.”

You cross the stone floor to the first line of benches with perfect synchronicity, Dale shortening his long strides to match your own.

You light Grandmother and Grandfather’s candles with Dale. Grandmother’s eyes are misty as she smiles at you with joy. Grandfather’s smile is more tinged with relief when he looks at you both. Soon they turn to light the candles of the ones around them, who will turn to do the same. Once all the candles in the first row of benches are light, you and Dale blow out each other’s candles. 

The music speeds up as the light spreads to everyone’s far smaller candles and soon reaches the cue for everyone who’s candle is lit to kneel. The wave of people kneeling continues until all are knelt, anyone too young to hold a candle pulled down by attentive parents. 

You turn back to the sanctif, who’s descended to be only a step above the main floor. Dale guides your turn and approach until it is your turn to kneel as well, your concentration on how you do so in your more elaborate than usual skirt given your lack of free hands.

The sanctif’s speech on marriage is well-enough, he’d given you an overview earlier in the week, but you can’t focus much on his words. You can’t even ruminate on the marriage you are about to begin, the future that is starting now. You can only focus on Dale. You’d think with him pressed so close you’d grow used to the feeling of his arm, his body, against yours, but you don’t. You only crave to have his arms wrapped firmly around you like they had those two precious times before. To feel his lips against yours for a more satisfying kiss. You hope the light and heat can be blamed for any heat in your cheeks as you try to keep your mind on the present and the ceremony.

Soon enough, the sanctif prompts you to present your candles, the holders careful designed to catch and flow the cooling wax. The sanctif dips his finger into the cooling wax of your candle and Dale’s simultaneously. Then he presses a dot of wax to the back of each of your hands, still bound together. “I now pronounce you wed. You may seal the union with a kiss.”

You turn back to Dale, his eyes lit by more than the many candles and the sunlight streaming through the windows. Luckily, you don’t think anyone else will even notice as he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

Don’t go, you can’t help but lament in your mind as you try with your will to keep him close to you. Dale remembers your audience at least. As he straightens, pulling away from you, he lifts your joined hands in to signify the sealed union. It feels more like a victory salute to you. Victory to have gotten here, to have this ceremony complete, to have Dale joined to you. To be together.

After a final blessing with holy water sprinkled over your heads, you carefully get back to your feet. While the rest of the attendees join the instruments in song, they keep their candles lit so that the center aisle you depart down is lit from all sides. 

It’s considered back luck to undo the ribbon until out of the hall. You and Dale depart down the center aisle, hands still bound together.

[Part Thirty-Two]